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2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 8

Categories: Poetry Challenge 2013, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

We’re eight days into this challenge now, and I’m actually starting to feel more energized about what I’m going to write next. I hope you’re feeling the same way.

For today’s prompt, write an inanimate object poem. Obviously, you could write an objective poem about an inanimate object, or you can write from the perspective of the inanimate object. If you can think of a third option, have at it.

Here’s my attempt at an inanimate object poem:


I’ll start a fire when I strike steel.
I’ll start a fire until you feel

the spark of fire that burns in me,
that spark of fire no one can see.

A star on fire into the night,
I’ll start a fire; I’ll start a fight.


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Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems, a poetry collection that deals with everything from child abuse to global warming. As a long-time resident of Dayton, Ohio, he usually pays attention to lists for the most violent cities (Dayton often makes these lists)–so he’s aware that Flint, Michigan, has been near the top for a few years now. Safely tucked away in Duluth, Georgia, now, Robert is married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helps him keep track of his five little poets (four boys and one princess). Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

257 Responses to 2013 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 8

  1. dandelionwine says:


    As far as Dad was concerned, we’d said
    goodnight long enough, nearly as long
    as that old, worn crack stretched gaping
    in the walkway. So he chose that late
    hour, by lamplight, to spread cement
    with a trowel at our feet in silence.

  2. The Tiger On My Bed

    The tiger on my bed
    never sleeps.
    His bright, dark eyes
    are always watching me,
    and watching the room.

    His white whiskers
    are thin and frayed,
    his stripes have faded, and
    his pink nose is rough,
    the surface worn away.

    When he first arrived
    I used to hug him tight.
    I took him everywhere.
    Now he rests on my pillow
    and guards the room all day.

    At night
    he lies on a chair.
    I have a real cat now
    who sleeps with me
    on the bed.

    She purrs loudly.
    He says nothing
    though his glass eyes stare.
    I won’t throw him away though,
    my old tiger.

  3. mjdills says:

    The moon
    A crescent
    Rolled over on its back
    You could toss your hat in the air
    Land it on the chin of that moon
    To say hello to me

  4. foodpoet says:

    Stone Bed

    Tais to Arakesh

    War is waiting
    Walk to sleep
    Watch for a new stonebed to
    Ward off scorpions.
    We sleep on stone
    Watch the sky while
    War is waiting

  5. bjzeimer says:

    An Object Poem Nov 7

    My Mama Doll

    That year, my parents didn’t have
    much money,
    the Old Farmer’s Almanac

    forecasting a hard winter.
    Mommy took Daddy’s paycheck
    went to the IGA store
    in West Jefferson,

    where beautiful dolls
    lined a shelf over the groceries.
    But Mommy could only afford one
    for my sister and I to share.

    She was dressed in a pink
    and white dress
    and bonnet, white shoes and socks,
    and when you turned her over

    she cried “Mama!”
    Soon my sibling and I would start
    to squabble over her,
    and she, who liked to paint

    and being older than I,
    took the doll away from me,
    hid her in the root cellar.
    My mama doll in that dank, dark cellar

    with her hair torn off,
    her head painted with shoe polish
    as I became the mama doll,
    as I cried “Mama!”

    No More Sugar

    You know you are drinking
    too much soda
    when you drink one cola after another
    to pick you up
    savoring every swallow—
    how it feels good on your throat
    wets your dry mouth
    that just becomes drier
    while you get thirstier.
    Then, your dentist tells you
    you have several new cavities
    this time, reminds you of
    missed appointments—
    and you know its
    because you don’t have enough
    energy to keep them.
    So you go for your annual checkup
    to see what’s wrong
    after which your doctor calls
    and tells you your sugar is elevated.
    “What do I do?” I said.
    No more sugar, he said, while handing
    you a glucose monitor with two vials
    of ten strips, and a diet—
    No more sugar pick you up.

  6. BezBawni says:

    Breath of Wind

    I dry your tears with autumn leaves.
    I dry your tears with autumn leaves.
    My lips are made of air and cold.
    My lips are made of air and cold.
    Leaves and your lips are dry and I
    made air cold with tears of my autumn.

    I cradle you in golden light,
    I cradle you in golden light,
    breathe songs of hope that give you peace,
    breathe songs of hope that give you peace.
    Songs of peace give light that you breathe in
    you cradle hope, I golden.

    I promise I won’t long and cry.
    I promise I won’t long and cry.
    Feel my last touch before you go.
    Feel my last touch before you go.
    My touch and promise won’t last long:
    I feel you go before I cry.

    I cry and tears touch my lips,
    I feel cold air made of light
    and hope your songs won’t go dry
    in golden cradle of autumn leaves.
    I give you peace with my last promise
    and before long you breathe that you are I.

  7. jenreyneri says:

    published here

    Open me up
    turn me on

  8. Jezzie says:


    Huh! She’s bought a new red laptop, I see,
    now she’s practically abandoned me
    after I served her faithfully each day
    from morning ’til night as she typed away.
    Okay, so now and again I would crash
    just because I needed to clear my cache,
    but she worked me hard, would not take a break
    so my own decision I had to make.
    Now I sit in the corner, all alone
    she uses me less than she does her phone.
    She only wants me when she needs a photo
    but I’ll scupper that – I’ll refuse to go!

  9. rdpater says:

    Testicles, spectacles… wallet?

    The fucking ticking bitch
    on my wrist.
    What do you need!?
    Want some more attention?
    Need me to stroke you on the stroke of every hour and hold your hand every minute?
    Damn it for the last time I never forget you and I always miss you when your gone.
    Actually I feel naked and I look for the reason why.
    I miss you always.
    Usually reminded by a strangers question or when I’m waiting longer than I should.

  10. mrvanessarose says:

    You Surrender

    Dig and
    Poke again

    A new territory you claimed
    As if you have the right
    A life-long pissing contest
    With your equally naïve neighbor

    Who got here first?
    Who will get here last?
    I’m not yours to mark
    Yet you marked me just the same

    You’ve abused the laws of nature
    In the name of science
    Under the guise of learning
    Hidden beneath? only pride

    Not of me, of your prowess
    Your technology
    Your balls
    Balls to break a code

    Now your markers stand white

    Surrendered like you did
    To the respect of what’s
    Not yours to touch
    Not yours to claim

  11. shanezie says:

    Mug Shot

    Fill me. Give me some sugar, baby.
    Let me taste your milk. Oh, watch me steam
    while you wait for me to be touchable. Don’t tease
    too long or I’ll cool. You know you want me; you
    chose me to be your vessel. Oh,
    hold me close, wrap your hands around
    and let me warm you. Kiss my rim with timid lips,
    afraid that I may burn you.
    Let me burn you. Let our first kiss linger
    long after the fire in your fingers
    fades and you have left my stained self
    until you clean me. Let me wait behind the door
    until the next tomorrow. Every morning we share
    I am whole for you. Smoke while I steam
    and stare over me to the sunrise.
    Let me wake you with kisses
    as you drain me. Let me take
    what you’ve given
    and pour myself into you.
    Let me fill you.

  12. seingraham says:


    I am fire, I am flicker
    I am yesterday’s rock show icon
    No longer cool, I languish,
    left behind now,
    a flea market relic
    a collectible find…
    A smart-phone app
    if you can imagine — easily
    duplicated and safe as babies
    Now a thousand phones are waved
    To the beat of Bon Jovi, Bruno Mars
    —anyone that plays the arenas—
    I used to be in evidence – not anymore
    And of course, for the few smokers
    that dare to pull out their coffin nails
    - some of them still own me, their originals
    most of them…we were built to last
    All of you of a certain age… can you recall
    the sound?
    The flick, then the rasp of the wheel
    as it hits the flint and sparks the flame…

    • seingraham says:

      Have to comment on your excellent poem after the fact Robert…and tell you, it’s a complete coincidence that ours have some similarity…I didn’t read any of the poems until after I’d posted mine…I must say, I really like the varieties you’ve imbued “Flint” with…

  13. DWong says:

    Mouse’s Life

    Cocooned, I moved from shelf to box
    to shelf again.
    Spent days and nights beside the locks
    and keyboards. Then

    swiped across a blinding light and
    dropped in blackness.
    I feared my future, where I’d land.
    Froze by sadness.

    I woke up, feeling fresh and new.
    Excitement in
    my body tingled all the way through.
    I’d never been

    filled inside, filled outsiden too;
    warm tenderness
    moved me up, down, side to side, too;
    danced with firmness.

    For hours and for days I would spend
    motionless breath
    the annoying tingle never would end
    I wished its death

    I came to the point I dreaded
    the warm motion dance.
    It sometimes meant I was headed
    into a trance

    to avoid the pounding beating
    and screams all ’round
    those days I wished I were retreating
    to the backness
    where once I was found.

  14. Broofee says:

    Orange notebook

    It sits on the desk
    Next to the empty green bottle
    And few random red and grey pens
    An orange notebook.

    I stare at it daily
    I stare at it right now
    It’s time for me
    To start writing

  15. Linda Hatton says:

    Heart-Shaped Necklace

    Oh brittle heart, the hand
    that shaped you, jagged,
    flawed, once part drink
    and shell, where pearls bloomed
    from sand and friction, you embody
    lover’s loyalty through lifetimes,
    memory loss, meetings anew,
    the heart placed in man-
    made holder to be embraced
    upon a throbbing chest, the one
    he loved best, or so he swore,
    for one minute stretched
    beyond her mind past
    infinity of time. Oh brittle
    heart, you’re out of order now,
    imperfections brought you down
    sold the heart from love’s
    weightless words, now just
    a broken chain, forgotten
    inside dusty drawer.


  16. Glory says:


    I wore you like a bruise
    proudly with my head high
    not caring what others thought
    certain of my love for you.

    I wore you like a bruise
    wanting to show the world
    my obsession, always
    you, no other would do.

    I wear you like a bruise
    although older, wiser,
    knowing each bruise fades
    and despite all – love lives on.

  17. Yolee says:

    Dress Down

    Inside the consignment shop
    she browses through bright couture,
    spots my Godiva-brown makeup –
    comes for me. She’s the one.

    Another owned me, but I was sewn
    for her willowy body. She caresses –
    antes up on a girl’s cruel game,
    heads for the dressing room.

    I go from eye-catching to disarming
    as my v-dip bodice with the sheen
    of thinning ice cozies to her
    breasts. My a-line skirt of taffeta

    swells above her red cowboy boots.
    The inclined mirror is at ease
    with graceful return.
    From inside the mirror,

    I whisper: take me.
    She unzips, steps out, and
    places me on the “unwanted” hook –
    leaving an outline of angst

    that draws us both in. She
    prolongs the affair for weeks.
    I’m an extravagance
    she cannot trim to reason.

    I heard from some silver
    bangle bracelets she
    came for me. But to her utter
    disappointment I was gone.


    I wave to all
    lifting my prayers
    up into the heavens
    prayers of peace
    of thanksgiving
    of hope
    I wave for all
    carrying their prayers
    up into the beyond
    for forgiveness
    for healing
    for joy

  19. rosross says:


    Stone has one and ten and son,
    and ton and nest inside,
    and also no, a tiny word,
    but one which can provide,
    a settled world, within the word,
    which tumbles on the earth,
    reminding all that much is said,
    when brevity gives birth.

  20. julie e. says:

    Home. Made.

    you with memories
    you touch my fading silk
    and drift off in
    those days you were a child
    My fabrics
    once your fav’rite clothes
    and gowns to dress up in
    were saved by gramma’s
    special touch
    she pieced them into me
    A patchwork
    of your childhood
    reminding you of when
    she’d wrap
    you in her loving arms
    and you’d feel safe

  21. cholder says:

    The Necklace

    The key to my heart
    Capturing the light
    Dreams drumming
    In staccato bursts
    Promises insinuated
    As the chain tightens
    Around my neck
    A silver noose
    In a blue box
    With a white bow

  22. shann says:

    American Housewife Haiku 8 (inanimate object)

    Carved from cast-off planks,
    found, re-purposed, the poet
    writes a simple spoon.

    to Ma5tthew Nienow

  23. Julieann says:

    Worm Fiddling

    Pick me, pick me, hoped
    The stick lying under the tree
    Pick him, pick him, my friend
    Over there, he can help me

    It takes us both to do the job
    Hammer me into damp, cool ground
    Saw him like a bow, across my middle
    Into the earth goes the sound

    Earthworms flee the din and vibration
    Searching for quiet, finding safety
    In an old tin can, before they become
    Bait on a hook, cast out to sea

  24. Sara McNulty says:

    Dear Person

    If you would write an itemized list
    of what you need
    from the pantry,
    you would be quicker
    to start cooking,
    instead of looking at recipes over and over,
    twisting, turning me, pulling on my face–
    lovely stainless steel–
    with your egged,
    floured, or oily hands,
    spoiling a nice shine.
    If only you would learn to itemize,
    you would save my face, and your time.

    (The Doorknob)

  25. bjholmes says:

    On. Tie.
    Run. Walk.
    Untie. Off.
    Every day
    no matter
    the weather.
    On. Tie.
    Run. Walk.
    Untie. Off.
    Every day
    the same.
    On. Tie.
    Run. Walk.
    A shove and a tug.

  26. Phileejo says:

    Three cinquains!


    X marks the spot.
    Great riches await you.
    Catch? Just follow me and never
    Lose faith.


    I am
    Many things, a
    Tool of war and music,
    Parter of waters and of hair.
    You choose.


    You found
    Me, I was lost.
    In return, I will lead
    You to the door of destiny.
    Turn me.

  27. Bruce Niedt says:

    Magic Mud

    Ever since poor old Chapman got beaned,
    they’d been looking for something
    to take the sheen off the ball,
    so it wouldn’t slip dangerously,
    even fatally, from the pitcher’s hand.
    Then in ’38, Lena Blackburn of the A’s
    found me in his favorite fishing hole
    across the Delaware, I was the perfect agent:
    smooth enough to buff the white to gray,
    yet not harsh enough to scratch the leather.
    Lena and his successor sent cans of me
    to all the major league teams, and ever since,
    every baseball has had my imprint.
    I was there for Lou Gehrig’s last hit,
    and Jackie Robinson’s first, Don Larsen’s
    perfect game, and Hammerin’ Hank’s
    714th homer. I was there for Halladay’s
    two no-hitters, and Jeter’s 3000th hit.
    I’m part of the pregame ritual,
    giving each ball a mud bath and a rub-down.
    I’m a proud South Jersey native,
    one without equal, never duplicated,
    scooped up from a secret sweet spot
    near the river, strained, cured and canned,
    and sent to thirty teams who would never
    start the game without me.

  28. Cin5456 says:

    Just A Machine

    This window to the world has no eyes.
    It has no hands, or mouth, or ears.
    Yet, through its attachments I heard the
    world scream against injustice, cry for
    an abandoned pup, and sing for the joy
    of one saved from loneliness. This window
    let me see intolerance and its aftermath
    of horror. This unfeeling machine shows
    the mayhem committed yesterday, while I
    protest the mayhem committed last year.
    This window lets me see a boy dancing for joy,
    a girl dancing for love, and a people dancing
    for democracy. Though this window has no eyes,
    it shows the depth of our perspective.
    Though this window has no hands,
    it lets me reach out to others like myself.
    Though this window has no heart, it stops
    my heartbeat when I see harm justified.
    Though this window has no mouth, it gives
    my voice distance, and strength I would not
    otherwise have. There are dances, and singing
    I would not have known without this means.
    I know that gay people hug each other
    the same way straight people do,
    and poverty stricken mothers in Haiti
    cuddle their newborn babies the same way
    my mother cuddled me. This machine
    we rail against, and blame for many ills,
    is also the machine that brought the world
    into my home. As a child, I thought
    the evil of the world was concentrated
    in one location, the far, far distant
    Soviet Union. Now I know evil is
    balanced by good all the world over,
    as much next door, where three women
    were held captive for ten years,
    as in the next block, where The Rainbow
    House was painted to end bigotry.

  29. julie e. says:

    (Cinquain by syllable)

    My brain
    holds hopes and dreams
    gripping filing finding
    memories electronically

  30. julie e. says:

    (word cinquain possibly)

    holding memories
    hopes and dreams
    much longer than my

  31. De Jackson says:


    this one’s got no
    heart, no
    soul, no
    mind of its own.

    penned without
    breath, it holds
    no threat or thread
    or shred of truth,

    just cold word stones
    of un
    -living proof.


  32. carolecole66 says:


    It’s the same moon,
    knife-edged bright,
    impossible arc of quarter moon,
    always the same one.
    Only we change, grow tall or short
    stand sideways to it
    see it upside down.
    Indifference glows from its sharp points.
    You, in your separate country
    across the sea living in a different time,
    dreaming in a foreign tongue,
    cannot see it, cannot see
    the way I do.

  33. Hannah says:

    I’ll Be Your Guide (and then some)
    I live to shed light on things.
    I take glory in stories created,
    shadow-magic dogs and rabbits.
    I thrill in the star-wars sabre sword fights
    and the late night giggle fests,
    I illuminate and transform-
    when lit from within with my light,
    children’s cheeks turn to bright pink
    (not to mention noses and fingertips, too).
    Yes, these all bring me great joy
    and I find that I’m swiftly reminded
    when I’m lifted in emergencies
    to look in the bottom of an abandoned well;
    I try not to let my ego swell
    but my importance grows proportionally then
    and when I’m employed as an extra measure of caution
    on your teenaged daughter’s walk home from practice.
    Fact is, I could go on and on
    and on about how required my presence is-
    I’m hesitant to do so-I like to hold a humble status;
    truth is being the bearer of light is a blessing
    being the bringer of bright is indeed a privilege.
    I zing through the shrouded evenings
    when the sun has slipped to sleep
    and the moon is hidden and deep,
    yes, beyond the flickering flame of the campfire
    when you need to pee you can count on me;
    I’ll assist you in the dark misty forested night.
    Sight will be yours with the flick of a switch,
    rich radiance you’ll claim with one button push;
    shush the littles and assure them with my presence.
    Oh, one minor detail though
    you must remember this:
    Please, carry a stash of double AA batteries my friend.
    I hate to admit it
    I’m not much of a flash light without them.
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

  34. A glass reflects.

    I am empty now,
    waiting for you to fill me
    use me and drain me.

    Michele Brenton 8th November 2013

  35. bethwk says:


    Sentinel upon the rooftop,
    proud in his green patina,
    in his view of the valley’s upper story.

    We make up stories about a rooster
    who challenged the sun and the wind
    with his shiny feathers
    and powerful crow, the poor boaster
    doomed to tell the changeable mood
    of the wind for eternity, screeching
    from E to N, to south, to west.

  36. Getting a late start this year … but better late than never, right?


    Inanimate: not endowed with life or spirit (an inanimate object)

    chambers in my chest
    with blood that cannot
    back what’s been lost.

  37. cbwentworth says:

    Worthless stone,
    dull and grey
    No one’s pearl,
    left to lie

    Washed ashore,
    saved by one
    Round and smooth,
    precious gem

  38. the bone key:

    she dug a hole in the ground outside
    her north carolina cabin
    surrounded by the blue whispers of
    sugar maples and hickories
    while the crows watched her hands press the dirt.

    the moon promised to keep her secret
    when she looked up with questions
    and stars in her eyes.
    it’s seen worse in these dark forests
    tales of ghosts and wild things
    lost children reaching out in the night
    for the brush of a hand.

    she picks the stones aside
    the mud soft and welcoming.
    she hits something hard, something piercing
    sticking up
    and reveals
    the bones of a stag
    laid out as though it once had walked.

    its antlers spoke of strength
    tied like tree roots to the earth
    sifting strong and lifting high
    like towers in the distance.
    in its skull, the teeth were true
    the sockets deep and black
    never to speak of what they’d seen.

    skeletal, colossal, the head of dragon’s bane
    this beast within the wood
    left hooves and half behind
    its muscles sewn into the skin
    of earth’s new winter coat.
    she knew his battle scars
    weren’t dug within the grave
    but still she felt them
    here, and here
    where his magic ran out
    his chase gave way
    and he laid down
    one last time.

    sitting back upon her knees
    she drew her hands across his ribs
    she said her prayers
    and in his heart, she found a key.

  39. iPhone

    You used to use me
    to reach out across
    all the roads you couldn’t
    afford to travel to be with the boy
    you loved.
    I remember the nights
    you laid in bed, pressing your
    face against mine
    while I let his voice
    kiss your ear.
    And the days in school
    when you hid me in your lap,
    touching my screen with hot
    fingertips while I read you his love letters.
    All the hours I spent beside
    you in the car, mic’d up so
    I could sing words you
    wished you’d come up
    with yourself.

    Now you never want me
    to play you music or
    keep your dreams
    safe under a pillow
    when you sleep. You
    only need me every morning:
    loud and angry so you’ll
    feel justified in slapping me
    before you fall back against
    the sheets, your face on
    his chest.

  40. Margie Fuston says:

    The Road’s Call

    Come with me,
    I’ll keep you between the lines
    as you drive by your ex’s house
    one too many times,
    searching for silhouettes
    against the light from the bedside lamp
    you bought.
    I’ll let you tread on me
    as you make your way to the bar
    where you had your first date.
    I’ll wait outside
    while you lean too far over
    in your low-cut shirt,
    pretending to have connections
    with strangers.
    Come back to me,
    after you’ve had five drinks
    too many
    and I’ll catch your body
    when it cracks through your windshield
    and cradle your broken limbs
    until the ambulance comes.

  41. The Life of a Stone

    Here I lay
    Stoically weighted
    Hugging the archaic crust of the earth
    Clinging dust clouds my greyed frame

    A clique of falcons balk from above
    Soaring in the weightlessness of the sky
    Jeering at my low estate
    In the open expanse of heaven

    I lay motionless
    Sullen and slaty
    Maintaining my spot on the earth
    Hoping no one stumbles at my hardness and maybe one day sprout wings

  42. DanielAri says:

    I’m snared and fascinated in the world of forms,
    peeling a pomegranate while playing Scrabble.
    The constant interplay between what’s familiar
    as fingers but so surprising—variables
    that make the mind collect and name its families.

    I’m doing okay in the world of forms, able
    to walk past the tonsured man in the train station
    who today says his monologue out loud. Is that
    the babble-fuzz at the end of the transmission?
    I wish he could go and live on my bright app farm

    where you pay for pies with diamonds, and crops thrive on
    time alone. How shall I arrange my form? My wife
    flickers like a triple-wicked candle in a sconce.
    Siren. Chartreuse. Cinnamon. Laryngitis. Life.
    Layered patterns in each pomegranate bubble.

    He looked at me today, and somehow I felt safe
    in the world’s soil, root ball, trunk, branch, sun, bud, fruit, leaf.



    I once thought of giving this relic away.
    I could only imagine what daddy might say
    if his record player was no longer here.
    Possessions were few, and he held this one dear.

    The turntable warped to a slight degree,
    the needle not sharp like it used to be.
    But there it sits proudly, polished and dusted
    reviving a yesterday partially rusted.

    I look through the records he used to play
    by Crosby, Sinatra and Robert Goulet.
    At one time, not really my own cup of tea
    but something quite magical happened to me.

    Watching the vinyl gracefully turn,
    tears start to well, my heart starts to burn.
    Enjoying a gift that no Christmas could bring,
    with eyes closed, I listen to my daddy sing.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  44. PKP says:

    There sitting on the table
    Smiling up at me with glowing
    Apps grinning
    You think you’re so so

  45. MichelleMcEwen says:

    Cherry Jubilee Lipstick

    I remember
    cherry jubilee


    on the bathroom counter—
    mama’s color.

    Whenever she wore it,
    everybody knew

    she could do
    way better than daddy.

    Cherry jubilee

    the best thing
    out the Avon book—

    the right red
    for mama’s brown.

  46. Amanda Oaks says:


    She tried to wipe the time from her hands
    before reaching for the knob to open the door
    to carry me inside.

    I was born in a room just like this.

    There were just as many of us
    staring each other down.

    Ceiling to floor, we cover
    every inch of this room.

    The only difference between where I was born
    & here, is that it’s so damn quiet here

    until the only clock that hangs on the ceiling
    looks down at us & strikes thirteen.

    That’s when I hear it,
    pressed in-between her chimes,
    she’s singing a sad love song
    that only we can read,

    pointing out that the girl
    has been collecting broken clocks
    since she was seven years old.

    That she’s fascinated by
    anything that exists
    without serving
    its purpose.

  47. Missy McEwen says:


    Hector’s car

    the streets
    with bass heavy beats

    turns every block
    into a block party.

  48. Amy says:

    Piano Lessons

    The piano anchors an otherwise empty room.
    Murmurs of its bygone splendor float along
    and nudge the quiet frames upon the walls.

    A layer of dust hides lustrous keys, strung
    like pearls with obsidian interludes,
    conductors of their own accord.

    I sit on the bench, aching to set hands
    upon the cold plane; to caress ivorine
    with trembling fingers. Eyes and ears

    covet a symphony that no longer exists;
    an age-old chill has crept through the halls.
    The piano anchors an otherwise empty room.

  49. DJphotowriter says:

    Lament from a Dishwasher

    Broken, and no one notices.
    I gave you a sign through the crack in the floor,
    But days go by, months, and no one notices.

    You took me out,
    You saw the damage,
    But you brushed it off and went on ignoring.

    You focused on making everything pretty.
    So the Jones’ would see,
    All the while, neglecting me.

    I just sat,
    Crying out,
    The damaging was mounting,

    And when you finally saw how I was broken ,
    Your kitchen was ruined,
    And you had to start all over!

  50. Jane Shlensky says:


    Where are my glasses when I’m blind
    and groping every table top,
    in pockets, purses, just to find
    a means to make the blurring stop?
    Exhausted, lying on my bed,
    I find my glasses on my head.

  51. Jane Shlensky says:

    Faith in a Nutshell

    I found you in a market stall
    among statues and tourist fare,
    but you were dusty from the road,
    small Buddha in a walnut shell.
    A tiny door lets us look in
    where you are praying, kneeling down,
    but all around the nut you are
    carved into shell, disciples near,
    believers shyly gathered there—
    Buddha, it seems you’re everywhere.

    A lotus blooms atop your roof,
    a banyan tree touches the clouds,
    so many details crowded in,
    pulled from a pilgrim heart and hand.
    Somewhere an artisan with skill
    but few materials about
    sought beauty in the smallest thing.
    Perhaps he used the skills he knows
    to work out his repentance, worth.
    Looking into the nut of faith,
    he found Buddha like meat within.

    That nutshell looks just like a brain—
    how is it I’ve not noticed that
    until I saw you dwelling there?
    And I found you where faiths combine,
    bought you and brought you to a shine.
    And so I pet you, passing by,
    reminding me that in small things
    wonder and peace surely reside,
    that faith the size of a walnut
    is beautiful and will abide.


    There you lay
    dog-eared, torn, pages
    missing and worn.Salinger’s
    great tome outside the home
    in upheaval. A bible of sorts
    of Caulfield wanna-bes and cohorts,
    and one, a coward’s rage seething
    as the legend dies bleeding.
    Calmly your owner sits, waiting -
    celebrating his new found fame,
    his instant karma. Swarms of police
    cars and ambulances on the odd chance
    there would be more carnage to be had.
    A sad December, hard to remember
    a day less feeling dealing with a loss.
    At what cost peace?

  53. Hubonics says:

    by Shane Hubbard

    Lost in the daylight, the time is high noon,
    And the starless skies, save the sun, are clear,
    Yet the brilliant rays from that flaming sphere
    Are as bright to me as the darkened moon.
    My compass, damaged from constant abuse,
    Is no longer able to fitly steer,
    And obstinate feet that willfully veer
    Find a working compass of little use .

    My weary eyes stray from the compass face—
    One look, a second, a third, then a fourth;
    The needle spins freely as I give chase,
    This way and that in the foolish man’s race.
    Madly I run, to and fro, back and forth,
    No longer caring to locate true north.

  54. Tracy Davidson says:

    through the telescope
    he watches the moon rising…
    bare buttocks gleaming

  55. elishevasmom says:

    The Need to Knead

    When I was at my mother’s elbow,
    learning the ins and outs,
    the dos and don’ts of the kitchen,
    a Very Big Don’t was not

    to use a “box cake”. Ever.
    The reasoning behind this
    decree was flawless.
    Back then, if you baked a

    cake whose ingredients came
    in a box, the cake ended up
    tasting more like box than cake.
    Mom said they were for

    women who couldn’t boil water.
    Okay, I admit my mother was a
    bit of a kitchen snob. (Something
    else I picked up at her elbow.)

    It’s a little scary to admit how
    long ago that was, so I’m not
    going to. But at least we had
    electricity and an electric mixer.

    Suffice it to say that I grew
    up with “make it from scratch”
    deeply rooted in my kitchen
    psyche. Then, I kept a Kosher

    kitchen for years. In a culture
    where “Sit. Eat.”, is a common
    welcome, offering anything but
    your best is not an option.

    In fact, it was at this time in
    my life where I understood
    what it must be like to be God,
    (at least just a little bit).

    There are two must-haves on
    any Sabbat or Holiday table.
    The first is wine, to be blessed
    by the head-of-household,

    then passed around, a sip to
    each person at the table.
    The second is Challah, two
    loaves of braided bread,

    the blessing over which begins
    the meal. In no way to be-little
    the women who use store-bought
    challah, I must confess to more

    than a little pride when it comes
    to my challah. (Remember that
    kitchen snobbery I mentioned)?
    Over the years,

    I have had countless guests
    (and family members) ask for
    my recipe. And then I get a
    phone call, “I made it just like

    you instructed, but it
    didn’t taste like yours.”
    I guess maybe my secret
    ingredient is love.

    You see, first you have to
    mix everything together
    in a large bowl (mine is a
    stainless steel number—holds

    36 cups). Then you start the
    kneading process. This involves
    rolling the dough over on itself,
    letting the sticky parts pick up

    flour as needed, this is where
    a big bowl comes in really handy.
    Then you get into this nice,
    rocking back and forth—push, pick up

    and twist, push—kind of rhythm.
    You know the dough is done when
    it springs back from a gentle
    poke by your finger.

    Or, when you pat and it feels
    like a baby’s tush—remember
    that nice rocking back and
    forth rhythm? Almost like creating, no?

    And I should share this act of
    creation, turning inanimate items
    into a living thing, with a
    bread machine? Not in this lifetime.

    Ellen Knight 11.8.13
    write an “inanimate object” poem for PAD 11.13

  56. Tracy Davidson says:


    silver photo frame
    I swear my mother’s portrait
    smiles and winks at me

  57. Clae says:


    Sit like a block, dust collector
    Lifeless, useless, ugly and dense
    Until I plug you in, turn you on, then
    Spring to life with a vocal whirr
    Functional now, provide access
    To the entire universe from my desk

  58. hohlwein says:

    Black Spot

    Still there
    in three dimensions

    Inanimate black spot

    There, still, in the corner of my eye.
    Just a bit lower than when I first saw you.

    I guess I have to say I’m sorry.
    It was an impulse. It happened fast.

    The truth is I am sorry.
    You are a marvel and had travelled far.

    Maybe from the east coast.
    Maybe from the garage.

    I think you lived in the philosophy section.
    Near “The Critique of Practical Reason”
    which now is on my desk and has a leg or two
    just above the barcode.

    And you
    Black Spot

    Seem to be waving for help
    There, still, in the corner of my vision
    with one of your remaining legs.

    Help won’t come.
    Couldn’t anyway.

    There is no bringing you back.
    All your efforts have come to this.

    If it helps,
    one day too

    Something a thousand times bigger than me
    Out of nowhere will just end it

    And I will get hit hard with something, fast
    that I’d have no way, anyway, of beginning to comprehend.

  59. Mywordwall says:

    My response is posted in my blog. http://mywordwall.wordpress.com/2013/11/08/the-porcelain-teapot/

    It is inspired by list poetry and Googling. :-)

  60. Rosemarie Keenan says:

    The torrent of trivial gripes galls
    A customer rep fielding phone calls
    She swings Newton’s cradle
    (more fun than a dreidel)
    And pictures their heads as the steel balls

  61. JRSimmang says:


    The difference between
    animation and stillness
    is perspective.

    -JR Simmang

    “Your package is scheduled for delivery today by 8:00 pm”

    Is it wrong to be nearing sixty
    and be as giddy as a five year old?
    So I’ve been told, but I don’t really care
    because somewhere out there is a package
    for me and I can’t manage my excitement.
    Inside will be a world of delight
    with places to write, to read, to play
    and all of them only a finger away.

    I hear that it’s already on the truck.
    With my luck, the truck will break down,
    a crestfallen frown eclipsing my smile.
    I’ve been waiting a while for the UPS man
    to end my distress with one little box.
    But clocks move too slowly.
    This unholy waiting is driving me mad.
    Just where in the heck is my new iPad?

    © Susan Schoeffield

  63. Domino says:


    Like the doll I used to love.
    I poured my secrets into her uncaring ears
    and loved her with an affection
    incomprehensible to me now.
    She was inanimate, but a child needs something to love,
    something unjudging, never angry, always there.
    Even if it’s just a friend she made up.

    My children were the same,
    one had a bunny,
    one a duck,
    one a lion,
    each of them loved into oblivion
    like the Velveteen Rabbit.
    They carried their friend with them
    wherever they went, playing games
    that seemed quite real.
    But children need something to love,
    something unjudging, never angry, always there.
    Even if it’s just a friend they made up.

    At the end of our,
    should I call it, marriage?
    At the end I could see I’d been loving
    an inanimate object, an imaginary friend,
    all along.

    The whispered secrets fell on deaf
    (uncaring?) ears.
    The love and affection lavished
    for what seemed good reason
    at the time.
    The games we played were unreal.
    But a woman needs someone to love,
    someone unjudging, never angry, always there.
    Even if it’s just someone she made up.

  64. JRSimmang says:


    Winter comes early and stays late
    ’round these parts. Wish I could say
    I greeted it with a firm handshake,
    and we spent all night wondering why
    these days the weather tells us it’s
    coming in our knees and knuckles
    and the last game of the World Series.

    The winter didn’t take a hint though,
    and when we finally got tired of its company, it raged on,
    insecure and angry.

    Mid-December, the heat went out, and my girl found her old bear.
    It was a hand-me-down, torn and tattered like all them kid’s books bears.
    I can’t remember where it came from, because
    I think,
    when I got it,
    it was a hand-me-down too.
    She snuggled him up close around her neck when the
    chill seeped under the window and waged war on the fire.

    That thing would dance in the morning with her,
    both in their jammies,

    eat with her at lunch,
    (their favorite was mac ‘n’ cheese)

    listen to her secrets,
    hold on to her secrets,
    squeeze her hand as hard as she squeezed his.
    Close enough to be a friend,
    real enough to breathe.

    It sang her to sleep, and I could hear their duets through the walls,
    holding my wife close, because they were stronger than I.

    When school arrived in January,
    her bear received an education
    and made friends with our neighbor’s little boy’s bear,
    almost as old as hers,
    though they said it wasn’t age, it was wisdom,
    like they heard me repeat several times over.

    The thing about being a dad, is that the world freezes,
    and your kid perpetually sits in your lap, breathing steady,
    until you pick her up and lay her down to sleep.
    You kiss her on the forehead, and say a prayer over her
    and the world stays perfect.

    And then one day,
    that bear doesn’t move any more.
    I always wonder, when I see it on her old bed,
    if it’s just as confused as I am
    that she’s suddenly a woman.

    -JR Simmang

  65. Linda Goin says:

    The Breadbox

    I. In Service

    I served this family in the pantry,
    that thin long room that sometimes reeked
    like rotten eggs when winds blew east
    from the paper mill. I sat, silent, venting
    only to save bread from mold, to hold
    ginger cookies large as mountains, swelling
    larger in young stomachs, smelling
    better than any perfume on any whore down
    at the railroad tracks. I was in a position
    to reflect on women’s majestic buttocks,
    their equally proud pregnant bellies,
    their children’s faces as they grimaced
    (your face will freeze like that!)
    reaching eager to twist a black knob
    that opened my mouth, revealing sweets
    or sour candies to stave off hunger
    until women set the table for dinners
    created with things from shelves in this room.
    Jars, boxes, pickled this and that, other
    metal boxes that served as holding rooms
    for sugar, coffee, flour, the epic basics
    that humans suck down daily. That thin
    long room, where women packed like sardines
    to laugh, gossip, wash dishes dirtied
    by a legion of related hands and mouths.
    I thought I’d be here forever, serving.

    II. Interlude I

    The boys served this country, leaving the girls
    to serve more meals, sometimes smelling
    rotten eggs, reaching into me, using me
    as they always have. Thelmor died, Bessie died,
    the music from the piano died, and pieces
    of this house went here and there.
    I went with a woman who took me places,
    and I savored being filled with anything
    other than bread and cookies. She stuffed me
    with jewelry, music, papers and bills.
    My compatriots, labeled sugar, coffee,
    and flour, joined me as we traveled to Alabama,
    Georgia, Colorado and Chicago. I landed
    in Kentucky, where I was told
    that I was too large for the kitchen counter.
    That’s a bunch of crap, because this kitchen
    is twice the size of that Rose Street pantry.
    I don’t know where I’ll go from here,
    but I’m waiting, undaunted, unsullied, silent,
    reflecting on chaos and smelling stale,
    valued more for my age
    than my service.

  66. LeAnneM says:


    He gazes at the dashboard
    For hours
    He can draw it from memory
    She talks about the odometer
    And the fuel gauge, the speedometer

    He can’t ask
    But his whole body listens
    When she explains

    He wants to know

    They sit in the car
    Twice a day, routinely
    Because it’s peaceful there
    He’s peaceful there

  67. barbara_y says:


    The cashier with the pity-me look
    and the felty white-boy dreads weighs
    my few lifeless sweet potatoes and bulk pecans
    and scans the canned green beans. Cammie’s
    tugging. Be still. I say automatically. Soon.
    She pouts like classic Harlow. I pretend
    I’m not amused. Like I don’t know that face
    from Mom, and the mirror. Pity-Me scans
    two dozen free-range eggs and the ridiculous
    expense of Benton’s bacon, weighs a cantelope.
    When–Cammie starts the
    whine. I use the eyebrow,
    but I’m fretful and excited, too. Next up we stop
    to buy scones and mini-pastries. By then
    Alexandra and the apples will be here, and Patsy
    and Aunt Pauline with their home-grown wine.
    And the little round jar of lemon curd
    escapes Pity-Me’s hand in a bounce
    of anticipation. Be still,
    Cammie says, and wrinkles
    her face into Mom. Soon.

  68. elishevasmom says:

    The Garden
    (A View of Alzheimer’s)

    Technically the earth, that is
    the dirt, Terra Firma, is
    inanimate. It is not alive.
    It doesn’t breathe.
    It doesn’t think.

    And yet, for the first few
    years that my dad was sick,
    the garden is where he spent
    most of his time.
    He grew up as a farmer’s son,

    so his connection with,
    knowledge of and respect for
    the earth was with him from
    the start.
    There is no judgment from

    a garden. It welcomes you
    back whenever you want to
    visit. Daddy could put his
    hands in the soil to plant
    a flower, or dig up weeds.

    There was no pressure to do
    things faster, or better,
    or now, for that matter.
    It was like shaking
    hands with an old friend.

    He didn’t need to remember
    what he had just said, or
    what he had just done. He
    could just go out to the garden
    and do.

    That’s a lot of activity and
    therapeutic power for
    something inanimate. But now,
    that phase in his life is over.
    With the ever-encroaching

    nature of his disease, and
    with my folks’ advanced ages,
    they have moved to an
    assisted living facility. Which
    is a good thing.

    My mom is at a place in her life
    where she needs to be caregiver
    to one person only. Her. But, it does
    represent a very different lifestyle
    than either has lived before.

    It will be the first time in Daddy’s
    life (excluding his time aboard an
    aircraft carrier during WWII)
    that he will not be able to just go
    outside and putter around.

    Who could imagine the loss of
    something inanimate could
    cost so much—to no longer
    have a place where he can go,
    and just be comfortable being there.

    Ellen Knight 11.8.13
    write an “inanimate” poem for PAD 11.13

  69. Misky says:

    A Pencil Is What It Is

    A pencil is -
    a pencil is a mouse,
    is made,
    is seven
    is all you need
    A Pencil is mightier
    is a handy tool
    is often bored

    A pencil is pencillus,
    a pencil is here
    is green and yellow
    is 7 inches long.
    A pencil is mine,
    is graphite and clay,
    is pushed,
    but sometimes not.

    A pencil can write for 35-miles
    and comes in 16 degrees of hardness
    A pencil is what it is,
    but I’m not sure that a pencil
    is a mouse.

    (list form based on Google search of Pencil)

  70. bartonsmock says:


    a man my mother knows
    only in passing
    is reading a library book
    in the dugout
    of his dead
    while his wife
    rounds the bases
    a stray dog
    in a grocery cart.

    at the dinner table
    father says
    we’re fasting
    in a world
    of spirits.

  71. priyajane says:

    My breakfast table
    A solid, deep foundation of prudent, dark wood
    Carvings that spin stories of reviving childhood
    A round table top, with continuous beginnings
    Transparency, lingering, encrypting its trimmings

    It caught my eye as it lazed in the store
    And I knew, this was EXACTLY, what I was, looking for
    It has greeted my mornings with tea-doused panorama
    And enhanced my waistline with eclectic diorama!!

    But most of all, it’s brought family-n- friends
    And good times of cheer as we sat thro some bends
    Its circular motion has renewed lost ties
    And added some warmth to reluctant goodbyes

    In its grain are provisions for memories and visions
    And a smooth soft texture that can smile at tough missions
    It can breathe in a rhythm that goes with the flow
    With seasonal toppings and colors that glow—-

    This breakfast table is so much more
    How do I put this in a storage door!?

  72. Lori P says:


    A mark of my identity
    a tool of my trade
    a link from me to you
    validating my presence in your room
    giving me permission to touch you
    to listen to the sounds of you
    that mean you’re alive and beating
    a rhythm of lub dub woosh rumble rumble woosh
    my tool goes back on my neck
    I’ve established my baseline
    vital signs and more vital relationship
    It’s done its job

    a Bragi

    This, fixed in memory’s frame:
    the house next door ablaze one night.
    A child could hardly comprehend the grief
    of neighbors standing homeless on their reef
    of ash. Salvaged: one metal knight,
    chess-piece without its game.

    That childhood memory lurking like a thief –
    and, after years, the blaze of light
    engulfed her own house. Flame.
    What might she now reclaim
    from ash, cinder, decades-old fright?
    One iron teapot brews survivors-leaf.

  74. laurie kolp says:

    St. Francis Statue

    St. Francis sits on the window ledge
    watching over you, messenger of peace
    with heartfelt prayer, undying faith.

    A statue I recall as a young girl
    adorning my grandparent’s bureau,
    St. Francis sits on the window ledge.

    I brought it from your bedroom,
    something familiar to cheer up the place
    watching over you, a harbinger of peace

    like Pawpaw, your father, named Francis, too;
    in our eyes, he was a saint. Now he waits
    with heartfelt prayer, undying faith.

  75. Dare says:

    Street Lamp

    Fallen leaves twirl by
    Golden cone
    Spotlighting their dance

  76. alanasherman says:

    #8 inanimate object

    A Stone

    Looking at a small rock
    I am lost in thought—
    How many I’ve already
    removed from this soil—
    Rippled and gray, its jagged shape
    clunks against my wedding ring.
    Could it have been
    an arrowhead I wonder
    as I scrape the ground,
    readying it for arugula and onions.
    Across the field my husband, going gray,
    digs holes for saplings. We will say
    a name in memory of someone we loved
    as each slim tree is planted.
    And each year, when we see it growing
    tall and strong, we will think
    of Douglas and Sarah, of Muriel and Anne
    hope they know
    they are thought of and remembered.
    It’s strange to hold such a thing,
    to speculate, even though some mornings
    we have no answer for anything.


  77. PressOn says:

    Robert, Your poem stays with me. I love the sounds, not just the end rhymes but the steamrollering starts and sparks, and the star.

  78. Misky says:

    As Long as a Length of Thread

    This pencil,
    this vocal cane that smudges lead
    on dusty, crusty words
    I’ve said.
    This treasured yellow poke,
    this pleasured golden joke 

    a wand with a rubbered cap,
I chew,
I gnaw,
I grasp
    this pencil that I’ve scribbled
    and fiddled words you’ve read -
    I’ve followed steps,
    whose fallow paths I’ve tread,
    and this pencil tells without regret
    of a journey — as long
    as a length of thread.

    Lyric by Walter J. Wojtanik

    So you ain’t twenty-twenty,
    but girl that ain’t no shame,
    ’cause the truth of it, Honey,
    is I’ve learned to play the game.
    Seeing is believing,
    and girl I see it clear,
    looks can be deceiving,
    come and sit yourself right here…

         I think you’re so damn pretty
         and I love your big blue eyes,
         but living in the city
         has you wearing this “disguise”.
         And those guys aren’t seeing
         the beauty that you do,
         the way that they’re being
         you’d think it might be true…

    They say men don’t make passes
    at girls wearing horn-rimmed glasses,
    but maybe the masses just
    don’t know what they’ve been missin’
    Brothers, I’ll be kissin’ them
    and steaming up their lenses,
    the difference ‘tween them girls is
    while yours is cleaning contact lenses
    I’ll be making contact friends
    with the girl, with the girl, with the girl
    with the horn-rimmed glasses.

         So don’t fret a thing dear
         for you know they aren’t too bright
         when we’re doin’ our thing dear
         they’ll be home alone at night.
         Yes, seeing is believing
         and I believe I’ve won the prize,
         your sighs are so relieving
         seeing you with my own four-eyes…

    They say men don’t make passes
    at girls wearing horn-rimmed glasses,
    but maybe the masses just
    don’t know what they’ve been missin’
    Brothers, I’ll be kissin’ them
    and steaming up their lenses,
    the difference ‘tween them girls is
    while yours is cleaning contact lenses
    I’ll be making contact friends,
    with the girl, with the girl, with the girl
    with the horn-rimmed glasses.

    Making eyes with the girl
    in the horn-rimmed glasses.

  80. RJ Clarken says:

    Memory Book

    am a
    You found me in a book of photographs
    and small billets doux full of faded ink.
    Open me
    to find


  81. Michelle Hed says:

    A Book

    Inanimate you may be
    for you do not move
    that we can see
    but we know the truth –
    you move us with your words
    and the pictures you paint,
    you’re really quite creative
    sometimes you’re a saint.

    You take us on adventures
    and leave us cringing in fear
    or fighting back an escaping tear.
    You often make us laugh
    or smirk within our mind,
    for something that’s inanimate
    you really give us a good time.

    You may change your appearance
    but your words are always true.
    You bring life to those around you
    in everything you do.

  82. Ashes

    They’re burning leaves today, great clouds of nostalgia
    rising in the air, just like they were in 1941, those last
    days of innocence, in the darkening of the skies

    you’ve lived a life under cinder skies, with duty framed
    by passion, faith fighting shadows always on the wall,
    your father, and his father, always the low countries, never Italy.

    the wind jumps up and slaps my face, just as it did
    at Headingly, huddled over plastic flasks, patient
    for dour men to rouse the crowd – faith, patience, The Ashes

    Always it comes back to ashes. And immortality. For flip’s sake
    Keith Richards snorted his own father’s ashes, mixed with
    cocaine. Communion or confusion, I doubt he could tell you.

    and I’m out buying a table to stretch my spine, thinking
    about your dad at the hands of charlatans and quacks
    in his final years, “hanging himself” in the closet.

    And suddenly I start laughing – at Keith snorting his dad,
    at your dad hanging his problems, at you fighting the
    in crowd, at me walking out on the Anabaptist Vision

    and Steve, with flowers ranged around his ragged body
    one finger serenely raised in salute to convention,
    all of us struggling to be ourselves, to love our fathers.

    Seventy two years on, you survived Pearl Harbor, the
    Miners’ Strike, and the Pelagian Controversy. Me.
    You rose above your own ashes. I love you.

  83. Earl Parsons says:

    My Dartboard

    Sharply pierced thousands of times
    Small wounds dot its face
    Prickly signs of aims amiss
    Around, over and under
    Many have taken a shot or three
    Hurling metal hunks well sharpened
    Flights that help a true delivery
    At targets more often missed
    One to twenty, triples and doubles
    The bull the prize for most
    Hours of challenging fun awaits
    Toe the line, take aim, and shoot

  84. writinglife16 says:


    I come in different sizes, shapes, colors,
    levels of firmness and materials.
    I put up with a lot.
    You throw me in corners,
    Put me on floors
    And prop your feet on me.
    That’s not the greatest indignity though.
    I know my purpose, but night after night,
    you put your heavy head on me and
    I go flat.

  85. Michelle Hed says:

    Cell Phone

    In my pocket
    is my friend –
    he knows all my favorite games
    and who I like to call.
    He keeps me up to date on news
    and never talks back at all.

    He’s very easy going,
    fun to have around.
    He keeps me on schedule
    and helps me about the town.

    He keeps my list handy
    and tells me weather news
    and sings to me in little chirps
    when friends and family look my way.
    My friend is in my pocket
    but he seldom makes my day.

  86. Earl Parsons says:

    Un Fair Way

    They set in the corner of my office
    Waiting for me to pay attention
    Just a glance
    Just a touch
    Just a moment of longing
    Is all that they are asking for
    But I ignore them
    As best I can
    No time
    No money
    No one to partner with
    And it’s no fun alone

    Their counterparts rest on the shelf
    Not more than a few feet away
    Stacked neatly in their practice cup
    They call to me
    Their dimpled beauty cries
    They long to be free
    Free to fly
    Free to roll in the grass
    And free to fly again

    But I have work to do
    Bills to pay
    No time to play
    No time to play
    No time to play
    Oh, dear
    What can I do

    I am broken
    I look
    I grab
    I walk out
    And now I’m on
    The first tee


  87. annell says:

    The Blank Sheet
    I lie before you
    I am your surface
    I accept the scratches
    Of your pen
    The strokes of your brush
    Together we create

  88. A window
    is a metaphor
    to see
    because outside and inside
    are essentially one
    and the same
    and we all need a space
    to check on the weather,
    to regulate the temperature,
    a way to sneak
    out at night
    without letting too
    many bugs
    back in

  89. PatNEO says:

    Robert — I love your poem today. The last line sounds really familiar; seems similar to the lyrics of a song that I can’t remember.

    Here’s mine……..

    Strong Thing

    You took the hit:
    side crumpled,
    windows smashed,
    wheels bent.
    But your steel skeleton proved strong;
    your airbags exploded
    in violent protective response.
    I animated you,
    and you kept me animate.
    Thank you, Honda CR-V.
    You moved me.

  90. QWERTY

    Feel me.
    My tactile meandering
    across your surfaces provides me
    a voice. It is my choice to say
    what is splayed out on the page,
    Each sweep across your keys
    is pleasing, for it releases these thoughts
    to roam the galaxy to touch hearts and
    moments. You help express
    what my heart suggests. With each word,
    with each loving passage, I massage
    you and your hard plastic softens and melts
    and it is felt in the heat that your sweet letters
    offer. My coffers are full and until I complete
    my idea, you are my willing pawn. I can bring you
    from yawn to fiery passion, fashion a deeply rooted
    love story in all its glory, a mournful montage;
    a collage of wonderfully worded worlds awaits
    at the tips of my fingers. Emotions linger
    until a new blank page returns. You yearn for my
    touch. It expresses so much. Feel me.

  91. Nancy Posey says:


    Almost like the forced savings
    of a Christmas club account,
    as I move my summer clothes–
    white shoes and seersucker
    unworn since Labor Day,
    thin blouses, cropped pants,
    flip flops, sandals–upstairs
    then lug my heavy sweaters
    wools, knitted scarfs
    and corduroys down
    to my closet, I resist
    the urge to search them
    like a truant officer
    or angry mom, instant
    gratification delay until
    one at a time,
    as I pull on a jacket
    not worn in months
    or a warm pair of slacks,
    I finger the pockets,
    finding folded dollar bills,
    a favorite pen, the white pick
    I favor when I play, long lost.

  92. PressOn says:


    It hangs at the ready, from the limb of a tree,
    made of cypress and brass, plain as can be,
    and waits in the silence of night, patiently.

    When the sky starts to grey and the breeze starts to stir,
    I can see its dim shape, but the seed is a blur.
    Still it waits, twisting slowly, its bounty to confer.

    With the coming of light it is alive, surrounded by life.

  93. MLundstedt says:


    Even if that penny won’t buy squat,
    You can always give it for a thought.
    And while it’s not like picking up a buck,
    If it’s heads up, then it’s good luck!
    And if you like your loafer retro-style,
    A penny on the top will get a smile.
    Who goes first when you play ball?
    Well, heads or tails makes the call!
    And remember!—for your wish to count,
    Throw your penny in that magic fount.
    So, your penny has some worth indeed,
    It just may not buy you what you need.

  94. Totem Pole

    Many crafted faces
    Speaking of the ages
    Exuding mystery
    Marking history

  95. “My Morning Tea”

    I imagine the flavor
    to be jasmine
    as I shuffle through
    the leaves,
    pale yellow yesterday,
    the morning rain
    has darkened them a shade.
    The next block
    smells of cranberry,
    if only in my mind,
    the deep reds of the oak
    temp me with a spectrum
    running amaranth near the trunk
    to amber further out.
    I carefully select a pile,
    scooping them into a puddle
    where I stand
    until the water
    permeates my shoes.
    I squish away.

  96. bxpoetlover says:

    The Pen

    It is said I am mightier than the sword
    A stroke from me means peace or war

    Or validates the marriage vow,
    records the past, or what is now.

    So hold me firmly and let it out!
    Your words can cry or they can shout!

    For you I bleed blue, red, or black!
    But lend me out, I don’t come back.

  97. bxpoetlover says:

    The Pen

    It is said I am mightier than the sword
    A stroke from me means peace or war

    Or validates the marriage vow,
    records the past, or what is now.

    So hold me firmly and let it out!
    Your words can cry or they can shout!

    For you I bleed blue, red, or black!
    But lend me out, I don’t come back.

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