2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

I have a confession to make: I’m in Ohio right now with limited access to the Internet. As such, I’m not able to share each day’s prompt on social media sites like I usually do. Soooo… I’m asking a favor: Could you share today’s prompt (and the rest of the prompts this month) on your social media profiles (if you have one)? It would really help keep others engaged and motivated. Thanks in advance!

For today’s prompt, take a poem from earlier in the challenge (that you’ve written) and remix it. You could take a free verse poem and re-work it into a villanelle or shadorma. You could re-work multiple poems into a new one. You could take a line from one of the poems and write a response poem to it. Or you can take it in an entirely different direction.

Also, before I get to my example, I’d like to share that I’m currently running a remix challenge for poems in my debut collection, Solving the World’s Problems (click here to read about the challenge). It’s free to enter, and the winner will receive a $500 prize. Be sure to check it out.

Here’s my attempt at a Remix Poem:


I left just before they started
running. I watched them watch. Sometimes
intent trumps technology. He

beat a woman with a hammer.
Take it like a man. I’ve felt death
at my elbow. I remember

your hands, your words. Every time,
a gun is fired. In every
large city and small town, there is

so much beauty it hurts to look
too close. Children play, their parents
talk, and databases collect

us all. You didn’t know me, but
I heard shots and wondered before
leaving, and I’ll never return.


Learn the Fundamentals of Poetry. Click to learn more.


Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and took the remix approach of lifting lines from multiple poems he wrote during the first 24 days of the challenge. Not every poem had something to offer, but it was a fun exercise. Robert is the author of Solving the World’s Problems and married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helped show him new ways to attack the process of revision. He can be followed on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


Check out more poetic posts here:

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

119 thoughts on “2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

  1. JRSimmang


    Though I, on the surface,
    remain a still glass,
    you are able to see
    the tumultuous waves
    and spinning cyclone.
    So, while you say I am
    you can see that
    I breed volatility.

    -JR Simmang

  2. Yolee

    Phrases From November’s Poems

    The day packs her harvest, and Maria
    picks up the old oval mirror.
    Silence, and dust gauze over her
    reflection. Memories blow inside
    the opened window of her heart.
    Rain tinkles in the cup her mom
    drank from a year ago when Maria
    brought water to her dry lips.

    The end came unexpectedly
    like a mystery from a floating
    plan. Darkness stretches across
    the length of the wood floor like
    it is warming up to exercise
    on Maria’s survival. The soup can,
    filled with sharpened #2 pencils
    is the only object in the room
    lit by the almond extract
    of emerging moonlight.

    Mom was a gorgeous summer
    stuck to the bone of warm days.
    But her body and soul had to
    part. That which does not,
    is testing things Maria needs
    to say. Her mind is a nightstand
    where flat opened onion pages
    have check marks in self-help

    Mom was her favorite lullaby
    who transcended words, and opened
    a portal to a new knowing.

    She’s Maria’s home sickness,
    coming and cooking- now her mom
    is a flyer among autumn leaves.

    Thin ice cozies up to the window.
    A chill wrestles under her Old Navy
    sweatshirt. Life assigns, and Maria
    must tackle home work.

    A rustling wind taps the pane
    as if it to remind Maria
    that the invisible
    is present none-the-less.

    Nothing prepares a person
    to live with a time of death.
    Maria stares at the strange
    face through the thin veil
    of dust. She feels divided
    like an orphan leaning
    on a big sheet of glass
    vividly exposing something
    warm on the other side.

    November’s license will soon expire.
    Winter will soak in this room.
    Maria rolls out of bed, and leaves
    the mirror on top of her mom’s
    orange comforter with pale white
    roses. Her heart is on the hook;
    the doorbell has been crying out.

  3. BezBawni

    of Earth and Plant

    Your skin is rough against my touch.
    New life will still fight its way through
    and offer tender malachite stalks
    to lacing whips of raging sky.

    New life will elbow its way through:
    you raise it well, you turn your back
    to lacing lips of raging sky,
    drink up the pain. New life is strong.

    You raise it well, you stretch your back
    towards the sun until it’s down.
    Drink up the rain – new life is strong.
    The water seeps into the air

    towards the moon until it’s down;
    you welcome flames of rising fire,
    the water dies into the air –
    alive again on waking leaves.

    ~(Pantoum remix of “Elemental song”: http://keinerschertsich.blogspot.ru/2013/11/november-pad-chapbook-challenge-17.html)~

  4. seingraham

    Using lines from my own November challenge poems (1st line from Nov.1st, 2nd line from Nov.2nd, 3rd line from Nov. 3rd and so on) – I’ve loosely followed the instructions to create a cross between a Dadaist poem and one that would meet with the prerequisites of one of Bernadette Mayer’s experiments (in this case, limiting the number of words in a line to no more than 5 words) It’s an interesting exercise and one I’ve done before but never using my own words…(strictly speaking, the Dada should use printed matter like a newspaper..The links are so others can see how these forms work if interested…thanks to Al Filreis and ModPo/Coursera at University of Pennsylvania for the information and knowledge!


    Then Back Out They Go

    Everyone commented
    words overly harsh
    too drunk to…
    I wonder

    Ah, here come the rest
    that much prettier
    the trees

    It’s not that we
    finally made it,
    leaving a
    baby with croup

    He gets asked
    now and then
    and wonders
    at the size

    The most banal
    thoughts, like pigs
    in a blanket

    If you can imagine
    not well lets me
    easily check
    leads me
    to New York

    And if, snake-like tongues
    my main secret
    is the buried cities…
    I stare at shades
    of shattered stars

    My life is warmed
    like babies in sleepers
    for what feels like hours
    and melted like snow
    It shimmers over dusk
    like warmed oak

  5. Jezzie

    Ladies who Lunch (remix)

    We Ladies who Lunch have a good natter
    (when you live alone there’s not much chatter).
    We talk on every subject matter
    over our pub’s cut-price lunchtime platter.

    We girls love to come here once in a while,
    we do not drink much, but we dine in style.
    Our waitress greets us with a cheery smile,
    and when we leave we make it worth her while.

  6. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    The House Remixed (twice)
    from ekphrastic poem day 11


    I dream of a house
    on a cliff above the sea,
    forest at its back
    and green grass all around it.
    I dream it waits for me there.

    (My own invention: 3 lines, 3 rhymes, 8 syllables per line.)

    The house above the sea is old.
    Its big windows gaze from the cliff
    and the forest rises behind.

    I wonder has the house been told
    that I’m the one it waits for; if
    it knows that it is mine to find?

    I dreamed of it always: the gold
    sunlight, the breeze a little stiff,
    the sea shining … time out of mind.

  7. Cameron Steele

    Months After Morning

    (Remixing “Milling for Morning”)

    It was a mistake to meet that boy
    in Badger. A girl always knows
    when something is going to go wrong
    when she can’t meet her own eye
    her momma’s mirror.

    I spent hours in front of
    fingerprinted silver, tracing
    my neckline, marveling over
    the pearls at the hollow
    of my throat, and steadfastly
    ignoring my own gaze,

    unwilling to be hooked
    like a fish by the knowledge
    I’d see there. The boy by
    the windmill is not my
    husband. But that’s my
    mistake to overlook.

    Still I never bargained for
    a soft stomach and the
    way panic replaced the pearls
    when I discovered a roll
    on hard ground meant that
    sometime soon I’d have to
    look my husband in the eye
    when I told him the truth.


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.