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2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 1

Categories: Poetry Challenge 2014, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

Here we are. It’s been less than a month since the initial guidelines post for the 7th annual Poetic Asides April PAD (Poem-A-Day) Challenge, but it feels like years. I’ve been so excited to get poeming. Let’s do it!

As luck would have it, today is a Tuesday, which means we’re facing a “Two-for-Tuesday” prompt. For folks new to the challenge, you can choose one prompt, write to both, or try to mix them together in one poem. Here are the prompts:

  1. Write a beginning poem. Today is the beginning of this challenge. It’s also the beginning of April. But there are so many other beginnings: Beginning of a relationship, beginning of school, beginning of the rest of your life, and so on. Pick a beginning to write about.
  2. Write an ending poem. Often, though not always, beginnings come as the result of an ending. Sometimes endings are cause for disappointment, heartbreak, or numbness. Other times, endings are celebrated. Capture an ending today.


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Learn how to begin getting published by ending those dark days in which you did not own a copy of the 2014 Poet’s Market! This guide is loaded with the information poets need to get published, including hundreds of listings for book publishers, magazines, contests, and more.

In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry. Plus, new poems, poet interviews, organizations, and more.

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Here’s my attempt at a beginning or ending poem:


even beginnings
have a beginning
of the beginning

she tells me how quarks
are never observed
in isolation

how they combine to
form protons neutrons
and other matter

unnoticed alone
together they make
beginnings happen


Today’s Guest Judge Is…

Traci Brimhall

Traci Brimhall

Traci Brimhall

Traci is the author of Our Lady of the Ruins (W.W. Norton), selected by Carolyn Forché for the 2011 Barnard Women Poets Prize, and Rookery (Southern Illinois University Press), winner of the 2009 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award. Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, Slate, The Believer, The Kenyon Review, The New Republic, Ploughshares, and Best American Poetry 2013 & 2014.

She’s received fellowships from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, the King/Chávez/Parks Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts.

Learn more at tracibrimhall.com.


PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

Poems, Prompts & Room to Add Your Own for the 2014 April PAD Challenge!

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Click to continue.


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. He’s excited to start another April of poeming and can’t believe how much the challenge has grown. Learn more about him here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

1,136 Responses to 2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 1

  1. Heidi says:


    Finally, Sunday after Sunday
    It happened on that
    Revered day, May 4, 2014 that
    Samantha Brooke Contreras
    Took her first

    Communion—the body and blood as bread and wine
    Of our dear Lord and Savior Jesus
    Must have felt
    Marvelous to our sweet Samantha as she
    Understood the sacrifice Jesus paid with His blood
    Negating ALL of her sins.
    Instead of shame, Samantha is filled with the
    Outpouring of God’s Holy Spirit through the
    New birth that Jesus gave her in Him.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  2. IndiFox says:

    A Warm Farewell

    With your end
    I look back at memories
    Of you, my friend

    I’d see you every morning
    And over a cup
    I’d share stories

    You were always ready for me
    At the end of the long day
    There you’d be

    In any weather
    I could enjoy you
    On any day
    I could employ you

    You’re something out of a dream
    And I’ll miss you
    Coffee machine

  3. RuthieShev says:

    Hi everyone,
    Since I didn’t find the PAD challenge until April 18th, I am headed back some days and do some of the older challenges. Here is my idea of a beginning/ending poem for Day 1 Challenge:

    The Ending (Or Is It The Beginning?)

    Where is my Gramma where can she be
    I look everywhere but I cannot see
    I look all around
    But she can’t be found.
    Where is my Gramma where can she be

    She was sick and they took her one day
    To the hospital in a town far away
    We visited her there
    While she got good care
    And I waited for her to come back home to stay.

    Where is my Gramma where can she be
    I look everywhere but I cannot see
    I look all around
    But she can’t be found
    Where is my Gramma where can she be

    Then we went to see her in a new place
    When she saw me the joy lit up in her face
    We played games and talked and I saw her smile
    She hugged me good-bye and said see you in a while.

    Where is my Gramma where can she be
    I look everywhere but I cannot see
    I look all around
    But she can’t be found
    Where is my Gramma where can she be.

    We went to a room where people where crying
    And I saw my Gramma in a funny bed lying
    She was sleeping and when I gave her a shake
    I asked my momma why she wouldn’t wake

    Where is my Gramma where can she be
    I look everywhere but I cannot see
    I look all around
    But she can’t be found
    Where is my Gramma where can she be

    We went to the church and everyone looked so sad
    They were all crying, even my momma and dad.
    I smiled at them all and told them don’t cry
    Angels in Heaven took her up to the sky
    And I look all around though I cannot see
    My Gramma’s in Heaven watching over you and me

  4. Julieann says:

    Beginnings are Often the End

    It used to be Kindergarten began the years of learning
    While bringing to a close running barefoot through
    The woods and picking wild flowers to lace
    Through your hair

    Then College became the beginning of adulthood
    But still there were classes to attend and tests to take
    And parties wild and free of a kind you’d never partake
    While in high school

    So finally school has ended and everything you’ve studied
    For and yearned for and worked for is now beginning
    Such as a fabled career after finding a suitable mate
    And starting a family

    But wait, it’s the beginning of your children’s schooling
    And Mom and Dad need care as their days are waning
    And then your health is taking a nose dive all while
    Saving for retirement

    And now it’s time to settle back, to enjoy the fruits
    Of your labor, the school is done, the job is done,
    Mom and Dad are gone, retirement is reached
    There’s time to savor

    Alas, your end has come

  5. bookworm0341 says:

    I just noticed that my ending poem never posted… so here goes:

    “Let it Be”

    Had I known that there would be an end to our “we”
    I would remain, “she”
    And you would remain, “he”
    There would have never been a “we”
    Single and separate, you and me
    our friendship would still most probably be.
    I guess that prom night, I was forever right,
    And we should have just let it be.

    Jennifer M. Terry
    April 1, 2014

  6. bxpoetlover says:

    Beginning and Ending

    On April 19, 1969
    a woman from Queens married a man from Harlem

    they settled in the Bronx
    had two daughters
    that they read to/bought books for
    Christmas presents were under the tree each year
    pillow fights
    trips South
    Aretha records played on Sundays

    They sent the daughters away to college
    And watched them get their degrees

    The eldest had a son, the youngest a daughter
    the house was filled with laughter
    but the father liked to be out and about
    the wife did not
    and 32 years later it was over

    And five years later the father was dead.

    The wife should have gotten sapphire this year.


    Not much bigger than a postage stamp,
    some as slight as an apostrophe,
    they crowd below the surface like
    ingredients for a recipe of witches’ broth;
    like lemmings at the earthy brink.
    They’ll be crowned but not with laurel,
    in oblivion, until one day
    they burst out through the ages of dead
    leaves. No one knows their names.

  8. ToniBee3 says:



    loose teeth

    weird fashion

    dorm room
    stressed out



  9. ASperryConnors says:

    New Beginnings are…
    The unscrewing of a jar containing
    A syrupy glowing magic elixir.
    An elixir that contains
    An irresistible power of hope.
    A potent form of imagination
    Light years beyond the genius of nature.
    Yet beginnings are…

    The very essence of nature.

    They are the earth that rumbles and thaws,
    They are seeds and roots,
    They are stems and branches,
    Beginnings are the mating of bees.
    They are blossoms and berries that swells
    Swells of sweetness that ripen and glow,
    Then taken by the Great Hand…

    to be bitten, savored and digested.

    New beginnings are reached…
    With eyes fixed on the east.
    They are dream woven and drowsy
    Until the dawning of a jeweled light.
    An invitation, which beckons us to
    The cliff’s edge over-looking the sea.
    And there we wonder…is this the end?

    or just the budding line…of a new beginning?

  10. Freefredonia says:


    through the thrush a Canada goose (south of the border),
    a moorhen, some sort of sparrow
    endangered they tell me
    and gently spreading
    the landscape further beyond
    a hinterland
    gently revealing a viewscape
    time frozen and
    refreshing the breeze from the coast
    from behind and beyond the sprawl of the vast city
    where the cries of cargo trucks, stray cats and children carrying splinters
    also go mostly unheeded

  11. Tuere Allwood says:

    Hi, I am just finding out about this challenge – 16 days into it. But I guess it’s never too late, right? So I’d like to backtrack, and challenge myself to participate in as many days as I can, starting with Day 1 :-). So here goes, Day 1:


    Blind skies spread like eagles wings
    To breed a new sun,
    Dispensing drips of orange
    Mixed with oven warmth.

    Arresting the moon’s post.
    Arresting owl’s work.
    Arresting sleep.

  12. Snow Write says:

    I sit
    watching clouds pass below
    puffy white balls
    casting random shadows
    on the water farther down
    soon we will pass through
    descending back to earth
    to the urgency of life

  13. candy says:

    The caterpillar
    curls up inside a cocoon
    just to be transformed

  14. Snowqueen says:

    A Dietary supplement more like candy
    The attempt ended

    A weight loss group, everyone having better success
    The attempt ended

    A new year, a new motivation, a new product, a new idea
    They all ended

    I won’t give up! I can’t!
    I will be the hero in my own life story
    And so it is…..
    A new beginning

  15. grcran says:

    This haiku does not start
    By gpr crane

    Ended before it
    Began before it grew long
    After it ended

  16. mpchris1 says:


    On the cusp of monsoon
    What appeared a storm cloud
    Loomed orange in pollution’s sky

    Eclipsing the drowning sun
    Like a giant crown of maple
    On my way to the store for wine

    I walked furlong in it’s penumbra
    The entire way through twisted roads
    Of the desert’s neighborhood

    At my back a moist breath—
    Carried to destination
    By season’s virgin breeze

    When I got home and poured a glass
    I heard the sky break over my house
    Like a bag of liquid nails in celebration

    (by Marcus Christensen)

  17. Joseph Hesch says:

    A Rumor of Spring

    This last March night, I stand
    beneath a black ceiling of clouds
    as they break and flow
    across the sky, allowing a peek
    at the moon and she upon me.
    They’re heavenly echoes
    of the river ice, once a mass
    of winter rigidity, now cracking
    and whispering downstream
    certain secrets kept for too long.

    New whispers, a quietly
    cacophonous accompaniment,
    inform my reverie. They approach
    on the south wind, as new cloud-cracks
    reveal the silhouetted band
    marching northward across the sky.
    I shiver, not so much
    from the cold, but because
    this flapping pennant affirms
    the river’s rumor of spring.

  18. bookworm0341 says:

    “Beginning with Christopher”

    Out of the blue
    A situation
    Beyond our control.

    You lean
    I reach
    Drawing you in
    As a page turns.

    Following you
    To a place I have never been
    We travel together
    I would follow you anywhere.

    Side by side
    Breath by breath
    Hand in hand
    Beginning with you.

  19. KiManou says:

    In The Beginning…A Memory

    You came today, as you have on other days, in the form of a perfect memory
    I saw us, the way I enjoyed us to be
    In the beginning, when you desired me
    It was a sweet beginning when you cherished me; wanted to adore me
    when you opened heart and doors for me
    prepared bread and body for me
    anticipated the aura plus energy that summed me
    In the beginning you were prompted to love me
    In the beginning, you would not expire on me
    you diligently pursued me exclusively—gently
    forbidden fruit is so sweet when relished clandestinely
    In the beginning you gave words and sounds to me
    poured visions of the life you desired into me
    In the beginning I was a delight, a treasure kept from sight
    A marvel, I would be consumed
    There was no power enough to deny us room
    In the beginning I was the prize, the present was me
    Fine-tuning: it was always illusory
    For bittersweet granted became all of me
    You come to me in memory
    at times it is a hazelnut flavored reverie
    I aspired to go the way with you
    down so many paths
    when I am still, I think of you
    going through the math
    I kept faith in you
    Wonder if I am the subject matter on your lips
    would prefer you have the flavor between my hips
    Do words speak of me from your tongue
    …will never hear lyrics to songs sung
    When your memory comes to me—it is strong
    invokes me to poetic melody
    Your memory brings a knowing to me
    of living long gone and life to come
    In the beginning: this is past
    those things from our beginning: they didn’t last
    With each new beginning I gain with different day
    I real-eyes our ending was postponed by my fervent ways
    I realize I miss you—but will persist away
    I looking with clear eyes see the new beginning
    the memories of you that come to visit
    are passages of time that will soon be distant
    Knowing that my small hands orchestrate nothing
    I stand to believe God is up to something
    He created me to be a lover of you
    Buried deep in me a seed to grow true
    You did not exhaust the blooming in me,
    I did not depreciate, for His love encased me
    And the greater news, the harvest is yet to unfold from me
    Our beginning is not the ending of you…
    My memories are the making of you, the decaying of you
    Self-loyal ties bind me to a severing from you, digressing from you
    But as His child, still the sincere praying for you
    And admiringly, with more calendar time the slow steady fading of you
    from the beginning…


  20. Lana Walker says:

    The Rainbow

    Back and forth
    up and down
    her little head moves
    tracing the arc
    of the rainbow

    Staring intently
    at each side
    she cannot tell


    Where it begins
    or where it ends

  21. stepstep says:


    At birth life begins
    Full of vigor, promise, and passion
    Full of ups; full of downs
    Many opportunities to abound.

    Events and circumstances
    Shape us from the embryo to adulthood,
    Each cycle of life
    Propels us forward with it’s might.


  22. lionetravail says:

    by David M. Hoenig

    My eyes are limpid pools of eternity,
    if eternity is gray-blue-green mood eyes,
    which chameleon to whatever I’m wearing.

    Fortunately, my light brown hair hides infiltrating grays,
    and has eschewed absenteeism. On the down side, it has
    also staged a too-successful rally on my upper back.

    My nose is strong, fine, and noble, at least
    according to my wife; broken into that kind regard
    no less than five times, from Karate to paddleball.

    Most days I feel quite a bit more young
    than the moon, though occasionally
    knees and feet voice dissenting opinions.

    Overall I’m fit, and fighting for fighting-trim.
    I make sure of my daily dose of iron
    will, and yoga keeps the radiocarbon-daters at bay.

    Perhaps it is enough to say that I have
    a portrait on my wall at home, which, despite
    fervent hopes, has depressingly not aged at all.


    ladies start the week leafing through
    King James Bibles, talking about Jesus
    at the dirty tables of a Dunkin’ Donuts.
    With an arsenal of scriptures and pink
    highlighters, they’ll study the sermon.

    Down the street, the Reformed Church’s
    5 story spire glows in the floodlights and
    flags whip in the cool winds of early spring,
    Worries are a terrible substitute for prayer
    and A Call to Worship fill up the sign board.

    But I don’t go to church, I just sit here on
    Monday nights with a butternut doughnut
    and a coffee, absorbing the enthusiasm for
    John 3:16, their newly found insights into
    the apostle Paul and the Book of Revelations.

  24. If
    (by Rodrigo Aleixo)

    And only if
    I could know myself,
    as I had known before…
    After all, one day I
    was sure that I knew
    myself so well,
    indeed, that it
    could only be
    stupidity of

    But, oh well
    As I said, if could
    know myself that well…
    I say “could”, because,
    as much as I (do) know
    myself, I haven’t
    had the displeasure
    of not surprising
    myself in random

    Dorky me,
    parroting around pre-
    scattered advices for fools…
    Yes, fools! For listening
    to myself, see? What wise-
    man quotes advices like
    that, out of context,
    out of control?
    It’s game over, baby
    it’s done.

    I’m no wise man nor could I ever be.
    I surprise myself in random doses…
    As when I catch myself eating popcorn,
    “crunch-crunch”, because it feels good to chew
    on something when you have a distant focus.
    It’s even a little rural, I think,
    like ruminating, sparing myself of thoughts,
    passive-like, in front of a dream box.
    But as I was saying; had I known myself…

    (An adaptation of a prose-poem of mine, translated into English)

  25. expresscoach says:

    The End
    He left a note
    The sheer thought of what was written made her shiver
    The note read take our babies next door
    Inside she knew this was the end
    As directed she took her babes to the neighbor
    Hugged them all and said with tears in her eyes mama will be back in a little while
    Upon arriving home she fell to her knees
    She knew in her heart that he was gone
    Gathering all her courage she could find
    She opened the door
    Her heart sank to the floor
    She found her love hanging from ceiling
    He had wrapped a cord around his neck
    And kicked a chair out from under his feet
    On the floor below him were pictures
    Pictures of his babies and wife
    He had chosen to end his life
    She walked over to his limp body
    She knew this was the end
    It was the end of their dreams together
    The end of their hearts beating as one
    His life was done
    How would she go on when so much was ended
    What would she tell their babies
    So many questions were flooding her mind
    How could he end what had just began
    How would she survive his end

  26. Mickie Lynn says:

    Beginning at the End

    It has been too late for a while now.
    He says that he regrets and wants me back.
    The kids are all right.
    I date, I travel, and I do well at work.
    I find that not only can I afford to live,
    I am better at handling the finances.
    I am all right.
    I learn about my inner child and she shows me how to be kinder,
    but more importantly, how to truly love myself.
    I had not been aware of the vicious messages at constant play in my mind.
    This changes my life.
    I learn to treat myself with the same respect and kindness
    that I would to a good friend.
    It makes me feel, not constantly happy, but more balanced, which is a great comfort.
    The psychiatrist prescribes Prozac.
    I cry at random times.
    When I finally fall asleep, it is shallow, and by morning I am exhausted.
    I have never been down so deep.
    I used to laugh and say how I wished I lost my appetite when I got stressed or sad,
    because at least I’d be stressed, sad, and skinny.
    I am so numb that hunger disappears.
    Something inside me dies and I accept the end.
    He says that all he feels is relief.
    In one last feeble attempt, I ask if it feels weird to end things after all the years.
    I deliver the divorce papers personally.
    I have never been so afraid.
    My kids.
    How will I afford it?
    How will I live?
    As I’m driving on the freeway;
    the stone knot of terror is heavy and consuming my gut.
    I get a lawyer to protect myself.
    Going straight to divorce will save me time and money.
    Mom listens and advises that I at least consider a legal separation.
    “He’s leaving me,” I blurt incoherently through tears.
    I take my cell phone outside and sit in the driveway to call my mom.
    He says that it is a risk he is willing to take.
    I say that if he does this, he will regret it for the rest of his life.
    He coldly rejects me.
    I’m crying and desperate.
    He says that it’s too late for any of that.
    Can’t we try counseling?
    Can’t we work it out?
    He says that he has to do this.
    I am literally on my knees begging him to stay.

  27. I’m playing catch-up, but here we go:


    The snow geese hurled themselves into the heavens
    Carrying her love with them,
    Never to return.

    After seeing the family to their borrowed beds,
    She settled her granddaughter under the patchwork quilt
    She had shared with him,
    Clinging together for warmth.
    The tender child lay awake long into the night,
    Patting the woman’s grief stained cheek.
    “Its OK, gramma. It will be all right.”

    And eventually it was, somehow.

    Now a middle-aged woman dries her own tears
    As she holds the old woman’s hand,
    Patting the transparent skin shrouding brittle bones.
    “It’s OK, grandma,” she says. “It will be all right.”
    But she wonders who will be there to pat her cheek
    As the snow geese take flight.

  28. mbramucci says:

    You look at me with
    Eyes of desperate wanting; Now
    My cup is empty.

  29. dsborden says:

    The Beginning
    by D. S. Borden

    What is this?
    Blur and
    an elephant spot
    in the groping dark

  30. Aberdeen Lane says:

    the end is the beginning is the end

    clandestine hodgepodge
    triangulating tangents
    on a vacuous whim
    predisposed to musing
    phantom geometric acology
    cerulean prisms of alacrity
    circumstantial iridescence
    abounding and quixotic
    flickers in quantum yote
    pouring down bucolic vertices

    then into nefarious inquests
    syllogisms of synods
    xerotic anachronism
    coterminous with
    delirious narcissism
    disseminated and
    molting into autarkic automatons
    embarking on esoteric laterals
    to triangulate tangents
    into clandestine hodgepodge

  31. Accusation

    It didn’t cost you anything
    not a dime, not a second,
    not a heartbeat, not a crumb

    or a fraction or a fracture—
    to part your lips and speak and
    leave me dissolved, like a slick

    of salt on your indiscriminate
    tongue, with your cutting
    words and killing tone, that

    biting expression I hate.
    Let’s be honest: all you had
    to do was show up and

    say my name to ruin my life.
    What cost you nothing, not
    even a bead of your own red

    blood, will cost me my life,
    and everything else, if I let it.
    What you don’t know is that

    I’m learning how to breathe,
    for once, without you. Your
    ending is my new beginning.

  32. Julie Morrison says:

    Ok so I tweaked my Day 1 poem after I posted it on here then I read that the moderator won’t delete poems so here is the updated version :D

    A New Beginning

    Shards of glass fell into place
    On the window of my soul
    The moment You came and touched my heart
    You began to make me whole

    A hue of intimate colours
    Peaked up on that first sunrise
    It all came together before me
    Seeing now through brand new eyes

    The darkness of night so distant
    Looking out so clearly I see
    I can’t stop staring at this beauty
    That leads us to eternity

    By Julie Morrison
    April 5, 2014

  33. Julie Morrison says:

    Wowee there is alot of beautiful poets out there :)
    I just heard about this yesterday and so I decided to start on Day 1 – hope it’s ok. I wrote this at 3 am this morning :D It’s one of the very shortest poems I’ve ever written. Hope you like it :)

    My New beginning

    Shards of glass fell into place
    In the windows of my soul
    That moment You came and touched my heart
    And began to make me whole

    A hue of intimate colors
    Peaked up on that first sunrise
    The clarity so overwhelming
    Seen now through brand new eyes

    The darkness of night so distant
    Looking out so clearly I see
    I can’t stop starting at this beauty
    That will lead me to eternity

    By Julie Morrison

  34. WCWiley says:

    Making Rounds

    Can’t have beginnings without endings
    Sometimes we miss the connection
    Everyday starts afresh
    Then the day progresses
    What was becomes something new
    Tied together tip to tip
    Finally coming to a close

  35. JayGee2711 says:

    On a Friday Afternoon in May

    On a Friday afternoon in May
    You bring home a tree from first grade
    A seedling no bigger than your thumb
    We plant it by the birdbath in the yard.

    You bring home a tree from first grade
    We kneel in the grass, the sun on our backs
    We plant it by the birdbath in the yard
    Sit back and wait for it to grow.

    We kneel in the grass, the sun on our backs
    The tree in the warm spring earth
    Sit back and wait for it to grow
    Wait for the tree to outgrow us all.

    The tree in the warm spring earth
    I wish we could hold it forever
    Wait for the tree to outgrow us all
    Hold it in our hands like a memory.

    I wish we could hold on forever
    To a Friday afternoon in May
    Hold it in our hands like a memory
    A seedling no bigger than your thumb.

    Julie Germain

  36. qwert says:


    Today is the beginning
    of a life
    I had long dreamed of

    A day where
    I can lift my wings
    in the open air
    and fly

    Today is the end
    of dire times
    of memories
    I will fain forget
    but things like these
    will not
    leave you

    Today is the day
    where I do as I please
    where no one
    can herd me
    or treat me
    like an untamed animal

    Because today is the day I’m free.

  37. PatsC says:


    White drift,
    Grey clouds,
    Clear ice,

    Barren branches,
    Hard ground,
    Dirty slush.

    Green shoots,
    Purple crocus,
    Gold finch,

    Bright skies,
    Sloppy mud,
    Warming sun.

  38. jean2dubois says:

    by Jean Dubois

    in the beginning
    God created the world
    that is a given
    we all know that it says that
    black and white in the Good Book

    so we must assume
    that he also created
    the State of Washington
    its mountains and valleys
    the gray mist it calls the sky

    what on earth did they do
    to piss off the Almighty
    to this extent yes
    to bring down Armageddon
    here here rather than in some more

    appropriate place
    New Jersey or Nevada
    Manhattan maybe
    their cities flooded their air
    besmirched their water lethal

    now as the earth ends
    I need enlightenment to
    know what really is
    to disentangle the good
    from the bad for sure for how

    else can a woman
    like me who stood at Notre Dame
    with other lovers
    of stone watching at sunset
    as the statues came to life

    who stood within the
    circle at Stonehenge who
    watched lava flow on
    the island of Hawaii
    eagles return to the Platte

    how can I now at
    eighty-some well eighty-a-lot
    live trapped in my head
    like the eighteenth-century French
    distracted by enlightenment?

    the mechanic who keeps
    my plane aloft a dour-faced man
    who seldom laughs
    posts enlightenments on the walls
    of his office end-time lore

    hints on how to land
    a plane keep its engine clean
    a wonderful warning:
    I am the mechanic your
    mother warned you about and

    just at the exit
    on your right as you go out
    Mike Altshuler’s words:
    the bad news is time flies
    the good news is you’re the pilot

    I am the pilot?
    looking down at Armageddon
    I at seventy-three
    the age I claim to be I
    am back in charge? good news indeed

    I’m in charge again
    headed for Washington State
    for Fort Hood maybe
    not trapped in my head after all
    I’m back at the throttle again

  39. Friendships End

    Of course relief passed over me
    when I heard Diago was still alive.

    But then he called and got upset
    when I could not “just show up”

    at his Mom’s house. Not anymore.
    He laughed, but nothing

    was funny. Sooner than planned
    I stopped by to see him

    after work. He had me drive him
    to his other friend’s house

    who was not home. We got out
    of the car and wandered around

    the neglected grounds
    as if waiting for him to return.

    Lets start a philosophy study group
    he says, unprompted.

    I don’t think you can, I say.
    What do you mean? He laughs.

    Earlier, you showed me a picture
    of your half-naked girlfriend

    holding a TEC-9 and called her
    your “enforcer.”

    You said you had to leave
    the West Coast because people might

    be after you. And you
    want to get together and ruminate

    over the Critique of Pure Reason?
    Actually, he says, probably wouldn’t

    interest you, but I’ve been wanting to delve
    deeper into A Thousand Plateaus.

  40. jean says:

    Begin! Ding!
    The bell sounds
    The stopwatch starts
    Time evaporates
    Not enough, not enough
    Never enough
    It’s gone
    And gone again
    It’s done
    And done in.
    Big ending.

  41. shellcook says:

    Just a beginning, she said.
    While I, wild eyed and frozen still,
    Look for the angels she sees at will.
    Just these three she says to me,
    Unable to hide her fragile human smile.
    Can you see? They are here for me.
    Waiting and watching, they gather around.
    Do not put me in this cold ground,
    But take me to the mountains once the end has come.
    I long for home, when I am done.
    And if I wake to start again, I’ll be there until the end.

  42. Darling,
    They say that everything has a beginning
    and maybe this is the beginning of the end.
    Maybe this is Earth falling apart
    or gravity pulling us too close to the sun
    because with the way I feel for you
    it’s as if I am burning alive.
    It is useless to fight gravity.
    With the force that holds me to you,
    We are molded into one.
    Like the ocean and the shore,
    I cannot tell where you and I meet and break apart.
    I was made for your body
    to crash against me over and over again.
    I push you away
    just so you can pull me close.
    We always run away just to come crashing back together.
    I swear the way we collide into each other,
    we could form our own galaxy
    with the stars that sit on your lips
    and the constellations you draw on my body.
    So if this is the beginning of an end
    then let it be the end of me
    for the beginning of us.
    -Jaleese Nicole

    had to re-post it because of errors in the last one, sorry.

  43. rhiain30 says:

    Sorry, I’m playing catch-up here!

    “a speck of dust
    is lost in your depths
    in less than a second
    enveloped in ice
    threatened in all directions
    by the endless void
    I wonder if this is what
    it was like
    when nothing but
    a speck of dust

  44. Andrea Z says:


    it started when I was sixteen –
    we met while reading “Night”
    in tenth grade English;
    we became fast friends,
    did what teenage girls
    usually do at sixteen,
    obsessing over whichever “boy band”
    happened to be popular,
    complaining about the popular clique
    that always turned their noses up at us.

    High school came to an end,
    and our friendship continued;
    we had our first alcoholic drink
    in the back of a mustang,
    and went to night clubs
    with the notion that we could meet
    a decent guy – oh, were we wrong about that!

    We got older, college took over my life
    and the friendship we had
    was never the same;
    I slowly started to see
    a different person;
    we stopped hanging out
    and I started finding out
    things you’d said
    and never told me.

    We stopped talking six years ago –
    seven years of friendship
    dashed to pieces,
    and I am not sad.
    It is over, really over,
    and I am glad.

  45. elliewrites says:

    Crowing Older

    Little did we know
    The rhythm or the rhyme.
    Little did we grow
    Until the waning time.

    beginning poem by Emme Zann

    I was god
    basking in your nakedness

    molding the man
    I wanted you to be

    as I breathed life
    into a dying man

  47. suddenleigh says:

    Here goes:

    Spring Cleaning
    by Stephanie Reardon

    Less than a month,
    When items were
    returned in trash bags:
    The stragglers, the extras,
    The after thoughts
    Of an ending
    Of a romance gone wrong.

    “Do you want to get food?”
    The trash bag sat heavily in her lap
    Like an ugly dog,
    Lumpy and beaten by an unloving owner.

    She shrugged as an answer, and
    The car lurched forward
    Past piles of turned over trash cans
    Straggling people
    Grimy train stops
    Into a parking lot
    Lit by tiny white bulbs around the trees.

    The tabletop was
    smooth, clean, and reflective
    platters of brightly colored sushi
    spread like a celebratory feast.
    He insisted on paying.

  48. Reynard says:

    It began the way all of life begins
    With a seed
    Life with its breathing and growing
    After all, Isn’t that what writing is?
    Letters breathing , growing into words
    Words growing into whole sentences
    Sentences reproducing rapidly
    Into a story or poem or novel or essay….
    It ended the way all of life ends
    With decay
    It fell apart as rapidly as it started
    The introduction only half finished
    The body falling apart midway
    And the conclusion nothing but emptiness
    I’ll probably start a new one
    Yes I decide, a new one
    This time I will finish

  49. Reynard says:

    In the End

    In the beginning
    We stared into each other’s eyes
    Straight into the depths of souls
    We were perfect for each other
    From the moment we said go
    We could not be apart
    To see him walk out that door
    Just to go to work
    Just to go to the store
    Was like flesh ripped from bones
    Then it wasn’t so hard
    He went to work- he came home
    Every night in my bed
    Every day thoughts of him-
    He started to work more – away
    At first it was hard
    The empty, lonely bed
    The way I couldn’t smell him-
    All of the time
    But there were phone calls-
    All of the time
    Thoughts still shared
    Words forward and backwards
    Hours into the night
    And he was home
    After every few weeks
    Each time he left
    Was like my heart
    Ripped form my chest
    But then it got easier
    When he pulled away
    Just a peck on the cheek
    A simple goodbye-
    Then not even a hug
    Or a kiss
    Just a see you next time
    Life no longer orbited around our love
    But at least there were a few days
    In each month
    When we were together
    Our souls as one
    Then it was his house
    Far away
    To stay in for months
    At first it was okay
    We still had the phone calls
    But then they grew less
    Nothing to say
    Moments of silence
    Make our goodbyes without hurting
    We progressed
    Our lives- going on away from each other
    Turns out life didn’t stop
    Our love wasn’t the force that made the earth spin
    Or the sun to shine
    Moments no longer felt like a lifetime
    I call it mine now
    My house
    My bed
    My life
    The only thing left for us together:
    Our marriage
    But what is left of that?

  50. I wrote these on the first, but forgot to post them. I don’t know if they will qualify for the contest, but I thought I’d share them anyway.

    The Beginning of Her Life
    by Ashley Marie Egan
    She thought she would never find it,
    The beginning of her life,
    She thought she lost herself,
    Looking for the starting line,
    She didn’t know it was a part of her,
    Hiding like a shadow in the night,
    But once she found it,
    It shined like a star in the sky,
    It guided her to the beginning of her life.

    The End of Darkness
    by Ashley Marie Egan
    Her heart was like a black hole,
    Made from imploding stars,
    Whose light had faded from the universe long ago,
    She felt as if dark matter was made of sorrow,
    It passed through every molecule of her being,
    She was made of darkness,
    And darkness was made of her,
    Until a spark emerged,
    On the edge of a few words,
    Then she could feel a change,
    Her insides felt like clouds,
    With birds flapping around,
    And she knew the darkness was ending.

  51. 1-Beginning Poem

    By Janet Kay Gallagher

    I was asked to lead The Writing Class.
    Nicholas had to leave for a full time job.
    He wanted this group to continue.
    I agreed,
    Soon I knew I had to learn more
    To share with our writers.
    The night before 2009 OZARKS
    CONFERENCE they held
    a Book Signing at Border’s
    Book Store to meet the
    Speakers for their event.
    My son took me there.
    I meet many authors
    and was invited to all
    the area writer’s groups.
    I joined them all. Learned
    Things to share with my group.
    What a great beginning.


    By Janet Kay Gallagher

    When I stand before Jesus
    My goal is to hear
    “Well done, good and faithful servant”
    I hope all my family and friends will hear it too.
    What a great ending that will be.

    Day One PAD Challenge 2014

  52. bbjzmn says:

    day 1
    This is the first morning after the last day I will have with him, and I don’t know what to do.

    his existence in my life had become second nature to me,

    in essence he was a fixture, in practice he was a stranger.

    how do you erase the stain of someone eles’s being from your ground floor?
    I suppose I could use clorox

    for now sitting here figuring out whether its how to begin or how to end that I need to re-learn seems like the right thing to do.

  53. truckpoetry says:

    Where to begin
    It’s always confusing,
    knowing where to start
    “Start at the beginning” they always say
    like that helps you identify it.

    The truth is, where to start
    is often less important than
    when to start. And that’s clear:
    right now.


  54. jadetney says:

    The sky is black and red,
    the sea reflecting back
    the blackness of the sky,
    the red blot on the horizon.

    I am standing at the edge
    my toes are curled over the precipice,
    or ready to spring?

    People linger,
    observing the crossing of the sun,
    waiting for the shift from seeing to feeling,
    from the change from eyes to skin.
    They are waiting
    to leave their daytime shells
    and crawl out into the freedom of dark,
    their naked forms
    brushing, pressing, seeking
    each other
    and the world.

    I rely on neither sight nor touch.
    I am a hunter;
    I listen for the soft rustle of skin against air
    and seek the scent of sweat and breath.

    When the red has slid from the sky
    and the world is black and sightless,
    I will step away from the edge
    and find one quivering being,
    one freshly molted being that
    feels through the vastness of the world,
    discovering texture and temperature.

    And I will devour the soft nighttime figure
    and I will devour others that I find,
    writhing nearby in blind sensation.

    After a time,
    when the redness returns to the sky,
    then amber, white and blue,
    the discarded twilight skins will rise,
    will stretch and yawn and put themselves right.
    I will watch them,
    hundreds of empty shells,
    walking towards their homes.

  55. Daniel Steyn says:


    I had come here, to my little bench

    to sit at the shore and think

    and be alone and find answers

    but I was not alone

    for soon the tide rose and brought

    company with it:

    the steady to-and-fro

    of her large lungs

    expanding to my feet

    she kissed me softly, then



    and then i felt you at my shoulder

    but you were not there

    only some brief memory

    a fleeting moment

    a conscience remained

    and so, with the sea at my feet

    and you on my shoulder

    I was burdened

    and still the tide rose

    and she joined me

    on my little bench

    she kissed me on my side

    to tempt me

    and oh how tempted I was to lower myself

    from my little bench and sit in her water

    and kiss her softly

    and wash my shoulder

    from your memory

    and I would sit there

    free from heavy burden

    and worry and grief

    woe and sin

    and I would stay there

    until she has enough

    and kisses me finally

    and retreats


    and I would leave here a changed man

    but I did not do it

    i could not

    for her touch was too cold

    her heart the tempest

    and would not welcome me

    for long

    and so I left

    no more than the man

    that came here to sit

    and be alone

    and find answers

    I breathed in and she out

    without answers without happiness

    and with you on my shoulder

    I tore myself from her

    black black heart

    I stood to leave my little bench

    and stayed afoot for a fleeting moment

    and then I turned to leave

    her sea of discontent

    and behind me i heard her

    she retreated


  56. GirlGriot says:

    I didn’t discover this challenge until day 2, but I’m going to post the poem I wrote on Monday all the same because, as a beginning poem, it fits the prompt. I guess it’s a little bit of a no-brainer that many of us would have started the month with a beginning poem … maybe especially people like me who only venture into poetry the one time during the year!

    held by fear.
    But start, despite
    these shadow roadblocks,
    despite fogged windows
    and padlocked doors.
    Only move forward.
    both hands
    wide open –
    reaching, ready –
    heart stripped naked, clean.

  57. Jezzie says:

    Starting a “Little Job”

    It all started with the garden.
    I needed an easier one,
    so I called in a gardener
    to get the hard landscaping done.

    But before the job was over
    I went out looking for a shed
    but found a kitchen company
    and bought a new kitchen instead.

    Then before the men could fit it
    a brand new window was required,
    so I had my house double glazed
    as my windows were looking tired.

    Now the new kitchen is fitted,
    the new tiled floor has me smiling
    But the hall and cloakroom flooring
    don’t match so will need re-tiling.

    Then my cloakroom fittings and taps
    will also be needing mending.
    The “little job” that was started
    I doubt will ever be ending!

  58. Toss me a rope
    So that I might join you
    Hovering over the crevasse
    Peering down in to its great depth
    Measuring its vast width
    While the landscape shifts
    And you stand on one side resolute and firm
    And I kneel here questioning everything
    As the ice cracks around us.

  59. Scott Jacobson says:


    In the beginning god laid his head between two blank sheets of paper
    and let the poetry bugs crawl out of his ears.
    First came the army ant nouns and the tape worm verbs.
    Naming everything and going places.
    Then the adverb centipedes and the adjective cockroaches
    creeped around to make all the English teachers squirm.
    The simile bees buzzed like a Mozart string quartet around the bedroom.
    And the butterflies were love in its many colorful disguises.
    The prepositional phrase flies took to the air before landing
    on the paper, getting stuck on the glue, and dying between the maggot punctuation
    – all in under thirty minutes.
    When the god finally lifted his head from between the pages
    he was surprised to find that not even a god’s imagination
    had the power to leave a word or even a mark

  60. Winter-Rose says:

    He stopped on the threshold and glanced back into the apartment, had he remembered to close the boys eyes?

  61. joanne.elizabeth says:


    Was it yesterday
    beginning breaths
    calming coos?

    Was it yesterday
    colic calmed
    tooth-bumps numbed?

    Was it yesterday
    training-wheels tossed
    volleying balls?

    Was it yesterday
    dramatic dances
    suitable suitors?

    Is it tomorrow
    prompt pomp
    proper pride?

    Is it tomorrow
    lively festivity

    Is it tomorrow
    on your own?
    Job well-done.

    Joanne Edgington Henning

  62. azkbc says:

    A New Beginning

    The back door opened.
    Mommy carried
    the blanketed bundle
    into the living room.
    The only child
    ran to welcome
    the upheaval to his world
    his baby brother.

  63. Holly Lynae says:


    A Beginning:

    When your fingers
    seized my skin
    I forgot how badly
    I longed for someone else’s

    I let you hold on to me
    the way cigarette smoke clings
    to the fabric of my shell
    & for each moment
    you set sail
    on the slopes of my body
    I didn’t feel
    so alone

    An End:

    When you kissed me
    I felt empty
    when I slept with you
    I was screaming inside

    your embrace was a chain
    that imprisoned my body
    & stifled my heart

    you had the wrong face
    the wrong voice
    the wrong smell

    it was impossible
    to love you
    because I spent
    every moment with you
    you were someone else

  64. whitewrite says:

    Here is my attempt at an ending poem

    Each time my lover speaks I die a thousand tiny deaths.
    When love is ending, once sweet words cut to the quick and turn to threats.
    Bleeding my self-esteem, my dignity, my essence like so much invisible blood ,
    Seeping out in a slow painful flood
    The distance between us is like a chasm that can’t be breached.
    Like a bright summer day from which all the colour, the spark has leached.
    My smiles have lost their radiance, my eyes their shine,
    I am dying, truly dying, a tiny little bit at a time.
    I feel myself slipping away and I can’t seem to care.
    I am alive, my heart beats but everything that made me, me is no longer there.

    Robertha White-Morgan

  65. whitewrite says:

    Here is my attempt at a beginning poem:

    The Rains
    The rains have come, soaking the soil of my heart
    flooding the gutters of my mind,
    washing away the filth of innumerable years.
    The slow pitter-patter quickly coalesces into a steady, persistent, torrent-
    drenching my parched spirit with life anew;
    flushing fresh thoughts from long dead places.
    The overflow creates new pathways, new beds in which the seeds of greatness may be planted and nourished.
    I am full of hope, pregnant with expectation of the dazzling creature to be born from this downpour.
    The rains have come…
    I turn my face to the heavens rejoicing for the me that is to be.

    Robertha White-Morgan

  66. bynks says:

    I hope it’s still not too late for me to start:

    A beginning:
    Clouded by nothingness
    Muddied by the filth of the past
    Veiled by the mistakes of the elders
    This burden is too much

    Inkling of hope lingers
    Mocked by the fearful
    Stalked by the faithful
    Desired by the courageous

    Gleaming with anticipation
    Polished beyond the stars in the bleak sky
    Glistening with desire
    Commencing a blank page to be written.


    for An ending:

    It began
    It went on
    And on
    And on
    And on
    Never stopping
    Never latent
    Never quiescent
    Never ever lazing.
    Still it went on
    And on
    And on
    And on
    Until it stood still
    Finally came to a rest
    Not faltering
    Not stumbling
    Never uncertain
    Just stopped

  67. amaranthe says:

    Fossil Soul

    In the beginning I was mud.
    Malleable, unobtrusive.
    Feet sunk in;
    Left deep intrusions upon my soul.
    Packed down and hard now
    Strong enough
    To not let others sink in.
    Petrified mud in the end.

  68. I know I’m a day late, but better late than never! I am VERY new at this… be kind.

    Every Beginning, An End

    The final sentence foreshadows a new chapter,
    a new story.
    The final mile opens the road to a new turn,
    a new adventure.

    Beginnings without ends, never start at all.
    If the first sun didn’t set, no stars would light the sky.
    If the first cloud never formed, not a single garden would grow.
    If the first step was never taken, there would be no stories to tell.

    The first is only first,
    because the last has come and gone.
    The first light erased the darkness,
    The first flower painted the land.
    The first laugh ended the silence.

    No start without a finish.
    No first without a last.
    Beginnings without endings,
    lose their power and their worth.

  69. Other Mary says:

    I did write and post this yesterday, but didn’t get here until April 2. Hope it’s still ok.

    Would you know all my secrets?
    Like a frog dissected;
    pinned, slit, opened.
    You probe
    lungs, liver, spleen
    leaving nothing unknown

    nothing unseen.

    And when you finish,
    I am ruined
    and you are repulsed
    at the mess.

  70. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    The Elusive Beginning

    In the unknown silence of time,
    A quiet presence,
    Waited to know itself,
    Patiently emerging from,
    Hidden depths of wonder,
    Into the light,
    Of action,
    Where a new awareness,
    Born into movement,
    Tests itself against any emptiness,
    Anything apparent, perhaps missing,
    Never having experienced words,
    Or heart felt moving expression,
    To finally, first hand, feel the joy,
    Of simply being alive,
    Into a unknown world,
    Where its very presence,
    Once fully awakened,
    Will never end,
    Because once known,
    Life itself will be continual,
    And, in constant motion,
    Just as love itself,
    Cannot stop,
    In its evolution to become life . . .


  71. viclopab says:

    PAD Day 1:

    The Flower Boat is about to set sail… everyone on board!


    April is poetry month and this year I’ll keep the PAD challenge running, setting to music one poem every day. Last year I got burnt out on day 12 so I’ve been working since February and have, at least, 13 songs to offer, from Shakespeare to Estellés, with a detour on Grande, Storni, Vallejo, Sor Juana, Larkin, Lezama Lima and Sabines, among others. Send me your poems or suggestions, especially women poets and poems in English.

  72. Mr. Walker says:

    Begin your day
    with a breath.
    You begin it.
    It didn’t begin
    when you turned
    off your alarm.

    Now, breathe deeply.
    Invite the day.
    Breathe the air.
    Give up control.
    Let your breath
    breathe itself now.

    Tonight, when you
    climb into bed,
    take a breath.
    A conscious breath.
    Then, give up
    control and sleep.

  73. Jay Sizemore says:

    Be gin

    be something so volatile
    it refuses to be frozen,
    a drink that parches the throat
    like liquid desert,
    a pleasurable pain.

    be best served with a spritz of lime.
    something that must be diluted
    with soda water to sparkle.
    be poison with health benefits.

    tell Eli Whitney to rename his device,
    there are enough bloody fingerprints
    in every pair of jeans,
    and a beverage need not suffer
    from word association of the damned.

    be drunk, always be drunk
    on whatever gets you drunk these days,
    on yourself, on the moon, on bottles
    that keep you in,
    until they’re smashed in the street
    by those you love.

  74. MELenns says:

    From Before The Beginning and Till After The End

    Within the realm of existence
    Resides the eternal infinite void
    Which contains the eidolon of
    Apparent circumstantially evident solipsistic reality
    Perceived as the energy/matter
    Space/time, life/mind paradigm
    Where I am, know I am
    And know that I know.


  75. Writing Love Poems in Chalk
    (tanka string)

    I wrote
    a sidewalk poem for you
    one cloudy day . . .
    turning the old coat of leaves
    into the chalk dust of our passion

    in chalk
    I spun my heart
    on each mandala flower petal . . .
    the search for true love
    became the search for myself

    and how have you loved me
    in so many ways–
    tell me then, lover, the ways
    you could someday break me
    into pieces of chalk

    sometimes forgiveness
    is like the rain . . .
    the words we regret saying
    become the colored chalk
    swirling in puddle after puddle

  76. Shrewd-Knavish says:

    “The Miracle He Made Himself”

    I saw him all shimmer and sparkle
    reborn on a rug covered rot wooden stage
    stained by rose and red lights all gimme-that-old-time-religion.
    Paper confetti stuck to his feet with sweat.
    He stripped his old clothes down like some kind of divine happening
    He danced like leaves dare to twist in the middle of a busy street
    He breathed his first breath of cigarette and summer air
    god you shoulda been there
    Satin glove umbilical cord he pulled off his own fingertips
    shed plasma goo hot glue gunned silver and gold sequins
    thick black brows and pale clown makeup refused to sweat
    i never saw such a devilish boy grin
    than the one that he grinned
    More so than the miracle of his birth
    Was the miracle he made himself
    when he was born again

  77. Mywordwall says:

    Here is my late response:


    There were words. Then silence
    fell like snow around them
    and froze forgiveness
    in their lips.

    Silence grew
    heavy and thick,
    a knife could slice through it.
    Their hearts withdrew
    into its walls
    to nurse
    their hurts and wounds.

    And silence grew
    and swallowed them whole
    along with gifts
    that senses bestowed.

    They may walk the same path
    or be in the same room
    and to each other
    they might as well be a phantom.

    Love died a slow death,
    left no trace.

  78. Lucy

    She was born long
    everything started
    cutting time.
    No need calling her
    from a
    corner of my heart
    I do
    I love
    the sound of

  79. ehorowitz says:

    April Fool

    There are many fools we entertain
    who mock kings or struck dumb
    in the middle of tragedy which Woody Allen defined
    as comedy plus time, must make us laugh
    at their lack of gray matter and before day’s end reveal
    some truths more central to the action then at first understood.
    Why not stir things up and be who we are able -
    After all, are we so smart we do not suffer
    our own foolishness as if to paraphrase another great,
    I tells it as I sees it- exploding the pretension,
    a whoopee cushion slipped while the fool views the passing show
    from the wings, He’s sad and touched – a subtle jester
    who tickles and cajoles supposed betters
    into truth or something akin.

  80. Geoffrey says:

    All things end.
    Don’t cry.
    We always knew–
    right from the beginning,
    we knew.
    We just didn’t know, then,
    or when.
    But we knew
    it was inevitable

    There is a fate
    that comes to all.
    beyond our entreaties
    beyond our desires

    All things end.
    Of course we cry.

  81. PenConnor says:

    Turning Pages

    The first page slips by quickly-
    I miss the street name
    where the yellow house sits
    middle of the little road.

    I miss the name of the sister,
    pressing nose against the window,
    as rain is washing the glass.

    My damp fingers
    flip back
    check again,
    wave hello
    to Diane
    at 239 Cincinnati

    But the last page shimmers,
    suspended on the horizon-
    a late summer sunset turning
    each new page
    the color of honey.

    sounds and smells and sights
    are richer-
    sweeter, as night falls,

    I slow my pace to savor,
    watch it set
    and light the story ablaze

    The night air is thick
    with sugary wisps of smoke,
    words slowly burning out
    at the end of the book.

  82. madeline40 says:

    I Will Miss You Never

    It began with a tirade –
    we don’t support our son’s chosen field enough,
    or acknowledge his brilliance
    A spewing of venom –
    we threw away a baby
    So ferocious and vicious –
    calling Bob a prick and a dickhead
    without looking him in the eye.
    We sat cowed in our chairs
    in disbelief
    that this once loving woman
    had turned so crazy
    and delusional –
    She sees and feels and knows
    the truth of everything.
    It comes from within her being.
    We tried to return
    her jabs – after all
    she started the war,
    but she wouldn’t listen
    to our truth.

    So it ended
    as she walked out the door,
    vowing never to see us again

    Goodbye, daughter-in-law.
    I will miss you never.

  83. JamesW says:

    The Start

    I stuttered at the start
    Stared at her startling self
    And stood there singularly stupefied
    Outwardly stolid, inwardly storming
    Stalling, then speaking stiltedly
    She stopped, stooped, and stylishly smiled
    My breath stilled, body stiffened
    You could say star-struck!

    Would I dare my heart to bare?
    Could she care, to pair?
    Or would she tear it without a care
    I repair to chair, ponder unaware
    That pointless despair did me ensnare
    That my prayer, a care to share
    With a damsel fair beyond compare
    She did share, did declare

    I thawed, through and through
    Thought faster, thirstily talked
    Enthused, a thousand sweet things
    Thirst of a lifetime thoroughly slaked
    Thankful thief me, stole her thirsty heart
    Thoughts and theories thrust into the open!
    Thirty days throttled together, ran as one
    Threw our every care, love was our theme

  84. Jenn Todd Lavanish says:

    Inside the Color Green

    Winter’s goodbye waves in the branches of deciduous skeletons.
    Her fractured shadows dance across my dew wet yard.
    Scrambled egg annual sprouts turn their sunny faces,
    Toward a soft south breeze in Spring’s hello.

  85. Evelyn Philipp says:

    First try and thankful for the opportunity. Poetry is not for sissies!

    Traffic rushes past
    out on the road
    And I am angry at the injustice
    of moving cars, when
    My world has stopped.
    Parked here, under a canopy.
    Surrounded. The smell of dirt.
    A flag-draped box.

    In quiet defense of a working man’s life:
    The long days spent
    building roads, with a little rest
    parked there, under a canopy.
    The smell of dirt. “The Rest of the Story”
    as we ate lunch packed in coolers.

    That is ended, now.

    A shadow rushes past with the wind,
    and the anger
    cools and softens
    into something like gratitude
    for the canopy you gave, surrounding,
    and for the smell of dirt.

  86. kimberleetm says:

    Commerce Comes to Camner Ave.

    No water came out of the tap.
    Apocalyptic, if
    it weren’t for the road
    being paved outside.
    The machines chew up
    a new spring day,
    planting a path
    where nothing will grow.
    The floods come more
    often now, impervious
    ground cover is our
    new angry god. We build
    and we cry

  87. I’m doing Japanese short form poetry for the month and my first poem is part of a haiga I’m not sure if I can put the image in the comments or not but I will try. Here’s the poem:

    end of winter
    warming up
    to all the possibilities

    Here’s the link to see the haiga:

  88. Beginnings.
    I reach for the promise
    Hold the moment-

  89. ChristineA says:

    April 1, 2014

    Today is your birthday. The first birthday since you’ve been gone.

    For the past 63 years you celebrated this day with family and friends, with cake and ice cream, with music and dancing, with food and laughter, and all the pomp and circumstance you applied to everything you did.

    On your 64th birthday, your home is quiet. There will be no phone calls from well-wishers, parties to plan and celebratory dinners to attend.

    But we celebrated you.

    We wrote messages to you this evening, tied them to red balloons, and sent them off to heaven.
    Your granddaughter wrote, “I love you. I hope you feel better. You are beautiful.”
    Your grandson’s said, “I love you. I wish you could be at my house. PS I went to IHOP.”

    I hope they reach you soon.

    the sun sets on your
    birthday as the red balloons
    rise up to meet you

    Christine Ahmed

  90. Shhhh. . .

    Do you ever feel
    the thought of taking
    that first step
    haunting your dreams
    crashing into your day
    flirting with your
    carefully laid plans

    me neither.

    In fact –
    it’s best to never
    ever ever ever
    I mean it –
    never speak of it
    ever again.

    It might hear us.

  91. Shhhh. . .

    Do you ever feel
    the thought of taking
    that first step
    haunting your dreams
    crashing into your day
    flirting with your
    carefully laid plans

    me neither.

    In fact –
    it’s best to never
    ever ever ever
    I mean it –
    never speak of it
    ever again.

    It might hear us.

  92. ina says:

    The train lumbers through the dregs of
    the day, the shriek of
    city rails replaced by this fitful
    trek through the prairie grass,
    so unlike the dignified parade
    of elephants through the savannah.
    We have lost our way, you and I,
    facing each other from the
    blue canvas seats, though the end
    must exist, living as smudged
    place-name on the pair of tickets that
    show that we are going one way.
    This is the moment
    of waiting for a shift in the weight
    of the car, a curve in the track,
    the first glimpse of the
    hanging moon and the cool
    gold light that turns the wires
    into trees dotted with sleeping
    birds, the shorn corn fields into
    the low bushes where lions
    stretch their nocturnal eyes wide,
    the dry finished day into a new beginning.

    –Ina Roy-Faderman

  93. acctgdr says:

    The walk
    Out the door, Down the walk,
    What awaits in the little box?

    The wind hits my face, blows my hair,
    The smell of honeysuckle wafts in the air.
    Breathing deeply, I walk on.

    Faithful vessel, unmoved by storm or wind
    My willing and able friend,
    Accepting all adventures that are placed within.

    I approach, step by step, all the way,
    What distant voices will reach me today?
    Anticipation is the height of the adventure.

    Arriving. Journey’s end, or just a beginning?
    All depending,
    On what I find awaiting in the little box at the end of the walk.

  94. acctgdr says:

    The walk
    Out the door, Down the walk,
    What awaits in the little box?
    The wind hits my face, blows my hair,
    The smell of honeysuckle wafts in the air.
    Breathing deeply, I walk on.
    Faithful vessel, unmoved by storm or wind
    My willing and able friend,
    Accepting all adventures that are placed within.
    I approach, step by step, all the way,
    What distant voices will reach me today?
    Anticipation is the height of the adventure.

    Arriving. Journey’s end, or just a beginning?
    All depending,
    On what I find awaiting in the little box at the end of the walk.

  95. shelaghart@yahoo.com says:

    A Birth Haiku – Reluctant to End:

    Promise of new life
    Moist Earth brings forth God’s bounty
    My April birth-day

    Start of my journey
    Pass across years, miles, tears, smiles –
    Unending April

  96. Debbie says:


    Do you have a moment
    Can you spare a dime
    Would you tell yourself
    You have run out of time

    Are you always sad
    Won’t you keep that smile
    If you have the chance
    will you reconcile

    Have you given up again
    See what you have done
    Things have gotten worse
    You have all but won

    Sorry to inform you
    You can try no more
    All moments have vanished
    You may close the door.

  97. Goldnerd says:

    After the ending
    and before the beginning.
    This place is someplace.

  98. Chinks.14 says:

    When tears fall

    Before you slipped away from my life
    little did I know about strong emotions.
    And then you departed like a train,
    even though I was not late
    still i couldn’t travel my life with you.

    I don’t know what was missing
    May be I couldn’t buy tickets of love,
    to enter your world of amazing stations
    you just left me on an alienated place
    where only lively things were emotions.

  99. Autumn Aloeswood says:

    Sorry I’m late with Day One. I fell asleep before I could post it. I’ve never done anything like this before. I am happy to be here. ~Autumn Aloeswood

    The Truth of the Matter

    The prompt is to write
    about beginnings at
    the beginning of the day,
    on behalf of the daydream,
    for the endeavor of the daylight
    you begin to write about
    the behavior of beginnings.

    But the TV is too loud,
    loneliness billows in on
    your beliefs, and beginnings
    end before they’re begun.

    Autumn Aloeswood

  100. rferrier says:


    We met by happenstance.
    Pure luck.

    Yet WE didn’t begin,
    didn’t become a “WE,”
    until years later.

    Until I had married.
    Had a child.

    Until you had married.

    We both endured many beginnings and endings
    Before we became a WE.

    And now our beginning as a WE.
    As an US.
    Is better, more complete, than any beginning I’ve had.

    Except, perhaps, the beginning of my daughter’s life.

    And now…
    Now, I’m ready to say good-bye to endings.

    Are you?

  101. Nanamaxtwo says:

    To Begin A Poem

    Snap the first line
    like a clean towel fresh
    from outside
    full of unseen pollen
    gathered in fluffy pile;
    and as you seek to match
    corner to corner,
    sleek edge to edge,
    your hands press essence,
    smooth the fold lines,
    a bird song escapes:
    truth on a flattened wrinkle.

  102. Pamela says:


    A meeting of two hearts
    Two sweaty bodies entwining
    Millions racing for a single prize
    Hark! A new life is beginning.

    Years pass, life makes it way
    Childhood, youth come and go
    Ravages of time work silently
    And suddenly falls the blow.

    Withered cheeks, sunken eyes
    A broken husk, bereft of health
    A body that is old and greying
    Waiting for the finality of death

  103. jsmadge says:

    Aerobic Exercise Leads to Demise

    When compost turns
    into a conundrum
    of nitrogen’s percentages
    and how to measure the viscosity of lettuce
    and the relative humidity of blood orange peels –
    Please remember:
    Death and decay?
    They’re just dirt.

    Jo Steigerwald

  104. anneemcwilliams says:


    Mother’s always found virtue in order:
    we set our clothes out the night before
    Monday was wash hairbrush and nail cut day
    Tuesday cleaned light switches, doorknobs and telephones
    Sunday’s reward was a roast, butter moist and aromatic.
    Every night we ate dinner together, polished our shoes
    and replaced the strings before bed

    This need-for-order theme became a trait
    I am her little red hen prototype
    A concept my brother took to. It missed
    my sister completely.

    Our imprinting plays out today as I
    rake winter debris from around her foundation.
    Tomorrow we tackle the cupboards. Then
    the basement.

    How few years we have left together
    to sort ourselves into piles, discard some,
    polish the rest, and set all to order.

    Where I used to dread this ritual, now I fear
    that final separation of treasures
    which will leave me to dust up the remainders
    then let things settle where they fall.

    first draft 04/01/2014


    The idea of starting over doesn’t frighten her now
    She’s practiced indifference but wonders how to cope
    With the strong aura left from scrubbing chagrin
    She smells its wild scent all day on her hands

    She’s practiced indifference toward a hard future
    It’s strange how her rhythm threads into the past
    Such pleasure one needs to take for one’s ego
    A rustling in the woods could simply be wind

    Time closes in with every decision
    Sometimes we’re best when lost in confusion
    A rustling in whispers continues approaching
    The thought of living wild appeals to her now

    first draft 04/01/2014

  105. TheFlawlessWord says:

    The End of Keystroking

    Ladybug lays claim to my desk
    As her personal gymnasium.
    Tiny legs tickling computer screen,
    She awakens its touchiness.

  106. Mokosh28 says:

    Cora Jones

    Cora Jones at 96 turns
    back from the Light in order
    to discover
    down her long shadow
    the only true

  107. 4-1-2014

    Write a beginning or ending poem.


    an idea,
    a child,
    a relationship,
    cutting to the wick of a plant that appears

    Over a year ago,
    a grandmother was born,
    and the melon of her life
    drips with sweetness.

  108. kswiberg says:

    Some Things That Stay

    Is this the beginning of the end—or
    did we already miss that?
    We take for granted the weight of two worlds.
    I wanted to lose a few pounds,
    but that wasn’t what I meant.
    We must bear it—undignified
    discussion of lumps and disfigurement.
    We must bare it—undignified
    exposure to cold gel and needles.
    Then, on that day, we bare it and bear it once more.
    After, we come home to photos and flowers
    and vases waiting to be filled.

    –Karin Wiberg (http://karinwiberg.wordpress.com/)

  109. dustinbrookshire says:

    The First Intervention

    happened on the Monday before the ice storm.
    when we realized $30,000 rose to $40,000—
    more money than some of my friends make in a year
    wasted on Lortab and Xanax. Father thought
    he was going to pay off the house
    and save the remainder for retirement.

    It happened with father going in before us.
    Mother rushing out of the bedroom
    telling me and brother to leave.
    Yelling, It’s none of your damn business.
    We wouldn’t leave our father, not yet.
    We sat around the bed begging and pleading
    and crying for her to go to rehab.
    When she grabbed her phone to call 911,
    I snatched it from her hand, warned
    she’d never survive jail. She threatened
    to shoot me—the first time my mother
    ever threatened me. I thought
    I got off light compared to my brother—
    mother yelled every detail from his divorce.
    Father cried, I want to retire
    and travel with you. Retire and travel.

    A broken record we couldn’t stop.

    For the first time, I yelled at her—
    You’re selfish. You’re going to kill yourself.
    So tell us, Linda. You want roses.
    What else do you want for your funeral?

    She rolled her eyes—
    Anyone of you could die before me.

  110. RebekahJ says:


    To begin again, she’ll have to crack the scab’s dark wax
    And dive, miniaturized, into the swiftly opening fjord

    She’ll have to hear the currents in the cerebellum folds
    Resting warm within the opened bone

    Often she’ll stand blinking at the empty window
    Molecules slipstreaming past their docks

    As wind cells travel through her hollows to the poles
    Plum-cherry pulse will slowly sweeten flesh

    And just beneath the desiccated linen
    Thick microbes’ pili lead the way to life

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  111. drwasy says:

    It Comes to This

    I lie here
    slung in the hammock
    wrecked from the hospital.

    The sun beats me.

    I realize then
    In my red-lidded half-sleep
    it comes to this:
    one pale orb.

    To gild your tongue.
    To save you from the start
    of your slide into the great abyss
    or your silvered flight
    to the sun.

    Your choice.

    And I, powerless,
    cannot fix
    your decision.

  112. emmaisan0wl says:

    Learning Italian (A Beginning)
    “I. 38,000 feet above the alps
    with the weight of him lifting from my chest
    I first learned the meaning
    of ‘volare’.
    II. with barely a word in common
    you taught me ‘benvenuto’;
    and for the first time in years
    I felt at home.

    III. you encompass ‘insegnante’
    by making me actually want
    to get out of bed
    in the morning.

    IV. that first weekend together
    between bottles of red wine
    you taught me ‘ubriaco’
    and I don’t regret it.

    V. under the 3am florentine stars
    surrounded by cigarette smoke
    I learned ‘baciare’ from your
    jägermeister lips.

    VI. when I told you that here
    833 miles from home
    I finally understood ‘libertà’
    I meant it.”

  113. emmaisan0wl says:

    You Lied When I Left You
    “even after all the times
    we threw each other overboard
    to save our own lives, somehow
    you still didn’t seem to understand
    when I said we weren’t working.
    you still didn’t seem to understand
    when I told you
    that we were both so broken
    and that instead of being each others’ glue
    we had dug our fingers into the cracks
    and were slowly ripping
    each other

  114. Jaywig says:


    The casserole
    A bottle of wine


    The casserole
    The touch of hands


    Today it is the latter.
    Too far to carry
    the burden of casserole

    I cut back
    the foliage burnt black
    in summer’s heat.

    I drink red wine
    I touch the keys
    and sing Gospel.


    Other times
    I have read diaries
    and understood.

    I missed cues
    failed to imagine.
    Anger dried tears.

    Suicide: a gift of life
    handed back
    to its creator.

  115. poetrycurator says:

    This should prove to be an interesting writing challenge. Following is my ending and beginning Haiku.


    Move to Florida
    Retire to Paradise
    To meet the snowbirds

  116. vickyherbert says:

    And so I rise up from the flame,
    Don’t want to feel like this again.
    Searching for a new beginning,
    Fed up of losing, never winning.
    I banish the dark and choose the light,
    Do all I can to make it right,
    Leave the shadows in the past,
    And learn to live again at last.

  117. antoniabryanblue says:

    Be still
    Tis the beginning

    Shine thy shoes
    With the kindness
    The earth permits

    Cross thy fingers
    In the light
    Of glory

    Bow thy head
    Give thanks
    In the name of harmony

    It’s the beginning
    Of the end

    Shoes get dirty
    Fingers are forced
    To be unlaced
    In the face
    Of lies
    And deceit

    That is why
    Thou bow thy head
    At the start
    To give thanks
    For the coming
    After beginning
    And the next
    That follows
    The very end

  118. Nimue says:

    Accept what is,
    Without bias,
    Without fear.

    Think it as
    A beginning
    Of new reality

    Or maybe
    It will end
    All that is dear.

    Accept yourself
    Just the way you are
    Uniquely flawed,

    This could be
    The very end
    Of all masks

    Or the birth
    Of someone
    You better hide.

    Accept the challenge
    To explore
    And question

    End the silence
    That makes
    Most noise n head,

    Let the music play
    A new you.A new way.

  119. Jaleese says:

    They say that everything has a beginning
    and maybe this is the beginning of the end.
    Maybe this is Earth falling apart
    or gravity pulling us too close to the sun
    because with the way I feel for you
    it’s as if I am burning alive.
    It is useless to fight gravity.
    With the force that holds me to you,
    We are molded into one.
    Like the ocean and the shore,
    I cannot tell where you and I meet and break apart.
    I was made for your body
    to crash against mine over and over again.
    I push you away
    just so you can pull me close.
    We always run away just to come crashing back together.
    I swear the way collide into each other,
    we could form our own galaxy
    with the stars that sit on your slips
    and the constellations you draw on my body.
    So if this is the beginning of an end
    then let it be the end of me
    and the beginning of us.
    -Jaleese Nicole

  120. Jaleese says:

    They say that everything has a beginning
    and maybe this is the beginning of the end.
    Maybe this is Earth falling apart
    or gravity pulling us too close to the sun
    because the way I feel for you
    it’s as if I am burning alive.
    It is useless to fight gravity.
    With the force that holds me to you,
    We are molded into one.
    Like the ocean and the shore,
    I cannot tell where you and I meet and break apart.
    I was made for your body
    to crash against me over and over again.
    I push you away
    just so you can pull me close.
    We always run away just to come crashing back together.
    I swear the way collide into each other,
    we could form our own galaxy
    with the stars that sit on your slips
    and the constellations you draw on my body.
    So if this is the beginning of an end
    then let it be the end of me
    and the beginning of us.
    -Jaleese Nicole, Beginning

  121. dimitria.vl says:

    It begins
    with a fury and a hunger
    carried on a rushing wind
    Gathering speed over an open plain
    Hurricane of crackling static
    Heralding the arrival
    Of WHAT?!
    Something’s on it’s way -
    I can smell it!
    My hair rises off my shoulders in the electric air
    A spark-
    just one -
    is all I need.

  122. donnellyk says:

    “At The Farmer’s Market”
    by Kimberleigh Donnelly

    Off they go though she is slow, she lets them take the lead
    It’s early and the fresh Sunday scrubbed boys, rosy
    Carry them in for her now, strong and able

    Her gifts precariously tilting over cobblestones
    The rough hewn carts and she, wet with dew
    Lurch against rock to spill themselves upon a clothed table

    She stands goddess over her only children, these
    Tissue bound blooms lush, twine gathered in double bows
    As her shiny ponytail thin, her face is a flower but wilting

    Vibrant they, she arranges them with paper skinned hands, lovingly patting
    Soft petal bouquets, a perfumed air swirls all around her
    This last dance, as she offers her gift of coaxing colors out of dirt

    As the color fades from her skin and the bright blue of her eyes dim
    She hands the last bundle to the outstretched arms of a young child
    Who loves flowers

  123. lionmother says:

    I have read as many poems as possible for one sitting and decided to write an ending poem.

    For Cheryl

    In one instant Fate chose your end
    Not the end of the physical you
    for that is still here
    Not the end of the history of you
    for that will never change
    The instant your foot touched the step
    and the unbalancing became
    a careening down the sharp steps
    down, down to the bottom
    The instant your well coifed head
    touched the floor you had chosen
    so many years ago with glee
    Those steps where you moved
    freely doing chores and greeting guests
    down to the bottom where the
    red blossom surrounded your head
    it erased you and you slipped into

  124. Endings and Beginnings

    Morning in the Caldera
    is mist and warbling magpies
    this time of year,
    as summer softens to autumn.

    The mountains are clear,
    you can see every detail;
    and there’s just a slight coolness
    in the early, after-dawn air.

    I go out into the advancing day,
    meet an old friend and a new.
    One, custodian of ancient land,
    will leave it as the other comes in.

    One opened portals, sank a bore,
    kept the ground chemical-free.
    The other plans to create a peace farm
    to teach adults and nurture children.

    When the day began, I did not know
    the Universe would use me this way
    to connect these two, who until today
    knew nothing at all of each other.

    By day’s end I am home alone,
    a good day’s work done.
    Coolness returns as the sun falls
    gradually down past the horizon.

    I watch our mountains turn darker blue,
    and say my prayers of gratitude.
    I too was a guardian of that land, briefly.
    This transfer of energy matters deeply.

  125. Margie Fuston says:

    One More Ending

    And they lived
    happily ever after.
    The end.
    Until the car broke down.
    Checks bounced.
    The baby cried
    straight through the night.
    He lost his tie
    in the back seat
    of his assistant’s car.
    She lost her desire
    to the chiseled men
    on daytime soaps.
    And they both started dreaming
    of another
    happily ever after.
    The end.
    Maybe the second one
    would be the trick.

  126. verniedee says:

    I woke up today
    Feeling way too blue.
    With eyes still closed,
    I reached out to you

    I felt nothing.
    Nothing, but emptiness.

    The curves you left
    Were no longer there.
    Your pillow,
    No longer carried your scent.

    I can smell the morning breeze
    I can feel the sunshine on my forehead
    I can taste the brand new day,
    But I can’t see ahead.

    -V. Del Mundo

  127. Khara House says:

    Flesh of my flesh

    How do we return
    to the what was
    start fresh of us?

    Looking back and knowing
    that nobody
    not a one
    can make it alone—

    I’ll trade my your blood mine
    for your in my bones.

    We were once
    a single was—
    once a lonely one

    with lonely bones and blood
    tucked tight in lonely nights.
    You came into my life
    when I crept into your womb.

    I’ll trade my teeth and tear of you
    for your my disentomb.

    Here’s a secret
    I’ll whisper
    to the embers of you in the air.

    There’s a moan blooming
    in the loneness of your loss—trees
    willow and break beneath your wake,
    the roar of when you quit this land.

    I’ll trade you my your part of me
    for once more take your hand.

  128. Ciel_ says:

    You are my first
    His hoarse voice whispered
    Against her neck

    It’s been so long
    He cooed

    I’m done trying to be good
    Like they say
    Like they
    Know me at all

    You are my first
    He said as he wrapped
    His fingers around her neck

    But not my last
    He held her tightly
    And brought her closer

    He sealed his mouth
    Over hers
    Lifted her up
    And drank her in
    And let her consume him

    - Ciel Haven

  129. bclay says:

    The Blue Album

    Halfway through the show,
    I bought the shirt with the
    blue album cover art, in xxl,
    because during their opening number
    -”My Name is Jonas”-
    you were at home with the tubes
    and needles, with morphine intravenous,
    easing the pain of stage 4.

  130. C.Lilli says:


    Over Easy

    Sun, warm on my face
    Beats me to my clock.
    The ring is late, and jaded.

    The air is musky;
    You’ve already left.
    The pot is warm, but half full.

    Bitterness greets me,
    Bold and barely warm.
    I weaken it heavily.

    Shells are everywhere,
    Fragile and destroyed.
    And crumbs are all that are left.
    -2014 CarisaLK

  131. Shell says:

    The beauty of today has sprung sweetness and joy,

    lavishing intoxicating nectar amuck.

    A startling beginning valued worth the golden sun while binding the earth to the sky,

    perfection in unity dares not compare as holy angels rejoice.

    Vast grandeur encompasses through and through,

    accountable protection settles softly for adjustment is great.

    Significant celebrations in all of heaven welcomes home one gone too long,

    beginning new time assumed lost forever.

    Healed is the saddened heart,

    perception dances on clouds forging wind to strew the wealth of light leading to pure absolute love.

    Woes left behind whereas passing higher destined for the kingdom into his infallible caress,

    acceptance into heaven without adieu begins existence rooted forever in perfection.

    Allowable glance for goodbye’s sake,

    conscious of dear ones anguished by loss at this righteous beginning.

    ~ Sadness quickens those left behind incapable of understanding the occasion to celebrate,

    crippled beliefs of a broken heart unable to see truths smiling in the twinkle of the stars.

    Acceptance of an exhausted host time ended too soon,

    stealing moments hidden in shadows of the unknown.

    Simply to end,

    is the only way to begin.

  132. Day 1 – first attempt.

    I began my life out West
    In California came to rest
    Daughter of a teen-age mom
    Sent around from home to farm
    Next beginning came too soon
    Adopted to a Texan’s room
    Just one child raised all alone
    Till they were gone and I left home
    Began again and then with child
    Surviving life a little wild
    Many years have passed away
    Followed my child to SF Bay
    Texas left behind, did I belong?
    Never really learned that song.
    But California knows me not.
    Must I change again? To What?

  133. FaerieTalePoet says:


    Blank page
    filled with words
    poetry was life.
    My breath was words
    and I breathed everyday
    especially Tuesdays
    when microphone brought
    page to stage
    years pass

    First girlfriend
    son in hospital
    ink runs dry
    muse mute
    blank page
    remains blank
    lungs fill with ashes
    years pass.

    Today, April 1st
    known as Fool’s Day
    to the masses
    means something
    different to me
    poem a day
    blank page
    fills quickly
    I am breathing

  134. tbell says:


    She worked
    hardest at

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  135. brandonspeck says:

    My Time With the Black-Hole Kids pt. II

    Death has been hanging around
    us Black-hole kids lately

    We live in absence.
    We live in absence together.

    It’s not as simple
    as an end being where a beginning starts.
    It’s not as simple
    as absence being where together can fit,

    it’s that we live in the space between
    where entire galaxies are destroyed
    and infinite stars are about to be born.

    It is infinite death
    and infinite birth
    all at the same time.

    //brandon speck

  136. …and again. (Two for Tuesday after all, right? This is the “ending poem”.)

    (after Mark Strand)

    Ashes make silver spit up the narrow of my tongue.
    The paste reminds me of scorched sugar.
    I have eaten the little black book.

    The names and numbers in its directory dissolve.
    They leave faint echoes:
    area codes between teeth, surnames ejected with a cough.

    Old lovers end up lost.
    I will not call.
    Eager birds begin to gather on the midden heap.

    Their eyes shine with sexless history,
    their wings semi-circle like fans of money.
    The names and numbers catch in my practiced throat.

    I take a tablespoon of honey.
    When I let it slide those ashes the rest of the way,
    they fizz and pop.

    I am no longer a man.
    I am once more a ravenish boy.
    Old lovers end up lost in my carrion joy.

  137. Somehow I let myself get talked into this again…


    You swallow two blue skittles and start to fry. The walls
    become wonderlands, little by little. The framed kinetic art

    writhes and twists, you say. I become Aquarius, bottle
    by bottle, watch the work of your jaw and twitching wrists

    for warning signs as you trip down the basement stairs.
    Laser light dices the air into nets full of parallel lines.

    Someone slips you a purple heart. You find half a gimlet
    and chase the tab with it. There is blood on your lower lip

    from where you’ve been chewing. I will make a career
    out of grounding this fear of doing what you’ve been doing.

    The beat swells you like a balloon, down your body into
    the club’s foundations. I’m checking your pulse. Soon,

    floor and ceiling blend like a late Monet, and you demand
    your return to untilted land. I become Capricorn, I say

    yes, it’s long past time to go. I stagger you out as you tug
    at me, your first-time anchor, uncertainly your last.

  138. JMethot says:

    After pain and sweat
    and panting and gasping,
    a sudden relief
    a new cry,

  139. ianchandler says:

    This Is Summer

    It seems to be so much more than what it is.
    The ashes are almost decorative,
    dull in the sun.
    Beams in beams and the shadows of smoke and wood,
    columns and columns
    and columns.

    Loose picture frames, demure ringlets in the grass.
    Your childhood is now burnt and strewn.
    Avaricious Cheetos had their way with it.

    They told you you could catch your breath,
    but you saw it floating away like a drone
    scared to complete its mission.

  140. mattdalton says:

    Treble Hooking While Approaching 39

    trouble, tremble & try. ever the enders my April and I

    trouble town. trouble down. trouble up at dawn. trouble gone. trouble is what you get
    what you don’t
    no trouble
    heart, stop standing up, he’s bigger than you and he’s got nothing to lose.

    tremble. quiver little shake shake shake.
    little fear-swallowed fear of future’s fall-on-ass-ness.
    full-on-shiver-to-death-son-of-bitch it’s cold out here.
    body you cannot remain. cease and desist these futile attempts at immortality

    try. try more. try less. try force try rest. try waiting to see if anyone sees. try please. try beg. try luck try pluck try break a leg. try telling yourself you don’t need it anyway.
    try pretending it’s already here
    dear brains, you think you got it all figured don’t cha?
    don’t cha?

    this year I’m going to.
    this year I’m gonna stop.
    this year I’m gonna start.
    this year I’ll be a better.
    this year I’m gonna lose the.
    this year I’ll.

    this year will end.

  141. EmeraldResonance says:

    A Modern Blessing

    May you never start humbly,
    may you never stutter,
    may you always be so full of promise
    that you strike the crowd dumb
    with the glory of your potential.
    May you never slow,
    may you never reconsider,
    may you never change your mind,
    may you never admit you were wrong.
    May your dreams always gleam in the light,
    may you always have the flash,
    and may you gain the substance without trying.
    May your credentials be always longer than your few short years,
    may you have the quickest smile
    and the loudest laugh
    and the never-ending impulse to win.
    May you never stop running,
    may you never question the goal,
    but may you outrun them all
    in reaching it.

  142. tbell says:


    Bag lady wandering
    nowhere in particular
    somewhere, anywhere
    other than where
    I started

    robe and collar
    dragging in the dirt
    of hypocrisy

    restlessly sleeping, huddled
    numb in unfamiliar corners
    of disbelief

    between church
    and a hard

    pulpit to pauper

    prophetic word turned tentative
    guesses, belief blowing through
    my soul made barren by a dare
    to question the powers
    and principalities

    pulling back confessional curtains
    secrets and lies known
    not spoken

    until they were, blasphemy

    and the place I found
    my Calling made of me

    a vacant lot

    between once standing
    strong cathedrals
    of certainty.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  143. BezBawni says:


    Beginning to feel old,
    letting yourself go
    while holding on to life,
    feeling an urge to sew (sow?),
    shunning the drafts and cold,
    searching for things to die for,
    desperately, in frenzy,
    coining new words like ‘friendsy’,
    talking to your TV,
    scarfing the letter ‘V’,
    stacking up things to mend,
    rolling your eyes at clocks,
    buying a larger box,
    thinking, this is the end.
    But it’s not.

    by Lucretia Amstell

  144. Dinoshaman says:

    Up Till Now

    Up till now
    I loved you
    But couldn’t commit

    I chased after many
    Believing each held the key
    To my happiness

    But once my heart began
    Visiting you daily
    In meditation

    I realized it was you I sought
    All along
    Up till now

  145. cmbhx4 says:

    The Road Before Us
    By: Caetlin Witbrod

    The boxes have been packed.
    The truck is already loaded.

    I take one last look…
    Then I turn the knob
    sealing this part of our life
    as the frame and the door unite.

    I am going to miss this home,
    Our first together,
    filled with so many memories,
    so much laughter, and love.

    The car bumps along the road.
    The truck trails after.
    It seems impossible that this part of our lives
    can be contained within these boxes…

    I am going to miss this home,
    but I am looking forward to the next.
    I smile as an understanding washes over me,
    filling me with a pleasant calmness.

    Our life together is not merely contained
    within these boxes.
    These boxes are filled with objects,
    but we carry the memories in our hearts.

    It is not the final ending.
    It is only the next chapter.

    We will miss our home,
    but as the days continue
    we will form it anew.

    We will unpack the boxes.
    We will create new memories.
    And these memories will fill the next chapter
    of the best book either one of us has ever read.

  146. otterblossom says:

    empty pages stand
    a barricade to my muse
    beginning again
    battling against the demons
    every post a new skirmish

  147. beachanny says:

    Beginning Again

    At each of life’s new stages — new starts.
    each one complex, each stage requires new skills.

    As I approach the last new stage, old age, I balk,
    retreat into denial too. I know

    I can maintain my former pace, construct
    new work, make music too; breeze through my chores.

    Each time I don’t succeed, I feel depressed.
    I get that ache that came with low test grades.

    So I believe I must approach this change
    in a new way. I must accept this late start.

    If walking slow, then I must note surprise
    events or things I would have missed before.

    I’ll learn new walks, appreciate degrees
    of taste, the essence of the wind’s bouquets.

    I want to savor what rich time is left
    enjoy the zest, each drop of this quick life.

  148. LaraEckener says:

    When your domesticated coyote
    asks you about the stars, show her.
    Make a gift of them.
    Take her to the desert at night
    and watch as the restless creature
    pacing inside her stills on its haunches.
    She will think for the first time:
    maybe it’s not blood that I’m looking for,
    but this. She’ll be grateful.

    If there is no desert and you need her
    gratitude in a pinch you can:
    shoot her from a cannon,
    hit her with an anvil, gently
    place a leaden black ball of TNT in her hands
    and stand back,
    push her off the roof of your apartment.
    The numb elation will be the same
    right up until that sudden stop.

    This necessary gore shouldn’t give you pause.
    She’ll snag the center of the moment
    as she rushes by, pulling it so that
    it divides in two, over and over,
    studying the infinite space she finds there,
    tinting her future to preserve this gift and its giver.
    But be wary of the desert’s empty horizons.
    As the stars fade she’ll think:
    maybe it was blood I wanted after all.

  149. stargypsy says:

    New Beginnings
    Looking back on
    all the endings
    in my life

    Some good…
    Some bad…
    Some necessary…
    Some heart breaking…

    I realized that
    regardless of the
    happy or sad
    those endings
    are a part of me
    Made me who I am
    Shaped my
    My worldview

    Leading to…

    New Beginnings…

    Sometime a
    new adventure…
    new challenge…
    new invitation…
    that will teach me…
    create a new version of
    who and what I am
    and will become


    Make me a
    better person
    letting me move
    into new things
    through past
    to hopefully
    avoid any new


    Copyright © 2014 Annie – Original Poetry
    Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
    As Ever, Annie


  150. LeighSpencer says:


    Did she even wear a bridal veil,
    I wonder?

    When she married my grandfather
    in a group ceremony
    in the Lodz ghetto
    as a matter of propriety
    so she could live with his family
    when hers was taken?

    Was there even a need
    for that moment?

    Glorious anticipation
    the rosy face
    of a hopeful virgin
    kissing her new husband
    who was just yesterday a neighbor
    that she did not
    and still does not

    They made it out
    in the end

    I mean
    that’s how I came to be
    an unveiling that was
    maybe happier

    This week
    they will unveil
    the engraved granite slab
    that seals your vault

    Home now for a year

    We’ve had this time
    to roll the taste of your absence
    around on our tongues
    Salty, bitter, and sweet

    As is the custom
    our formal grieving
    ends here

    But where to begin?

    This new day
    this first step
    truly without you

    is a ceremonial term
    a formality bearing
    no silks
    no anticipation
    just a necessary reality

    As before

    Standing in for the rosy virgin,
    my shaking finger
    traces the lines
    of a beautiful name
    and a terrible date
    etched in stone

  151. Melahlah says:

    I’m Beginning To See

    I’m beginning to understand
    that I don’t understand
    much at all.
    I thought I knew it all.
    Boy was I ever wrong.
    I believed this meant this
    and that meant that,
    but I find it often depends
    on where this & that are at.
    There are divine absolutes,
    I absolutely agree,
    but some things more human,
    well, between you and me,
    depend on knowing what’s meant
    more than hearing what’s said
    and whatever is done
    is often misled
    by what’s believed.
    Believe you me,
    I begin to see
    that I repeatedly miss
    what’s right in front of me.
    I’m beginning to see.

  152. yyulia says:

    “Every End is a New Beginning”

    Moving to a different country,
    Leaving behind sparks, and moods, rains and laughs…

    Missing every second of home
    The home which stays so far and so lonely without me there.

    Missing multiple cells of cozy lights of apartment buildings.
    Lights of a big city which stays so far and so lonely without me there.

    Missing a shadow of a river which hides in white nights
    Of my love which stay so far and so lonely without me there.

    Is it the end of my hope and dreams
    That I planted and grew at home?

    Will I be able to move them to the new home and new garden?
    Is it even possible in most bold dreams?

    I sit in the car, going to Ikea to look for some furniture
    To buy for the new half-empty house.

    I am reading an Ikea catalog and listening to songs in my language.
    At the last page of the catalog I read a sign

    “Every end is a new beginning”.
    I stare at the sign, I mumble this phrase to myself.

    “Every end is a new beginning”.
    I am thinking of taking this simple phrase

    Of the advertising catalog as a slogan to follow.
    Will I be able to? Is it even possible?

  153. Kit Cooley says:

    The Red Road

    One year ago,
    the treatments ended,
    leaving me to heal,
    as best I could.
    Scars and burns remained
    in the aftermath of medicine’s
    heroic effort, in a battle
    I refused to see as such.

    I walked the fine line,
    between dark and light,
    dancing with the shadow
    on the edge of the woods,
    asking for the blessings
    from the sacred plants,
    nourished by root and leaf,
    flower and seed, grateful
    for each good thought sent
    my way. Beginning the day
    with a sigh, feeling for the nerve
    endings rubbed raw, waiting
    for the next test result,
    only certain that no one is.

    No pink-ribbon poster girl,
    I know there is no cure,
    and I prefer the red road
    of living well, and I do not
    fear the end.

    – Kit Cooley

  154. MaryAnn1067 says:

    Day to Night

    because there is no other choice
    the daily resurrection occurs
    like clockwork, the minutes clacking
    past, wheels on iron through the
    thick folds of brain coiled tightly
    around the brainstem, ivory
    mottled by bloodspecks, the
    malevolence sighted under the
    glass, the round screwed
    down hard upon the plates,
    scrutinizing the replication of
    the viral chains linking, one
    to another, banded worms roiling
    in their own world, microscopic

    on to scald the pot, the
    tongue, held in check only
    for as long as it takes
    to swallow the liquid, nut
    brown, only lightly acquainted
    with milk

    the arc of the day: spent in
    removing foreign fibres, stringing
    letters together, mixing matter
    thickly with a spoon and
    pouring it into the pan

    until night falls, the black of it
    a dull sheen of carbon paper–
    she washes the soil of the
    day from her hands, the
    day done and ended

  155. Sarlet72 says:

    A perfect beginning to a devastating end…

    My heart was open wipe, ready to love
    Then the storm came in
    with threatening, high winds
    scary, loud thunder
    that ultimately ripped my heart into

    sorry this was suppose to be a post but I couldn’t figure it out last minute, hopefully I will tomorrow. Traci

  156. aphotic soul says:

    A Blank Notebook
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    In this world, we are given one life,
    It starts out pearled, clean from strife,
    Much like a notebook, bought off the shelf,
    But the seal we unhook, in an attempt to better our self,
    And as we grow, ink stains the pages,
    At first it doesn’t show, but then war starts and rages,
    The more we know, the more our mind ages,
    Seeping to a new low, when all we live life for are wages,
    As the ink seeps in, the pages become tainted,
    Never as good as when we begin, with death we become acquainted,
    And as we run out of pages, they start to resemble the midnight sky,
    As if we’re all trapped in cages, and just waiting ’til we die,
    When this dream ceases, the writing gets worn,
    We’ll reflect on what life teaches, as our pages get torn,
    But the chaplain still preaches, and our loved ones still mourn,
    Giving false speeches, rather than ridiculing with scorn,
    For we have had our shot at life, a notebook of our own,
    Whether it’s ended early with a knife, or simply by how old we’ve grown,
    Why feel sadness or sorrow, about a dreamless slumber?
    For you still have a tomorrow, before Death gets your number,
    So rather than selling yourself like a whore, or wasting your life as a bore,
    Find something in which your heart you can pour, something that you will always adore,
    Stop praying to an existent-less god for something more, and make this life more than just a chore,
    Don’t leave it in silence but rather with a roar, so the echoes will ripple on tomorrow’s ocean shore.

  157. clcediting says:

    The Morning

    Sunlight slants through half-closed blinds.
    Pale light, barely there,
    struggling past the clouds.
    It creeps across the carpet;
    an ugly green, she insisted
    was jade.

    The light climbs slowly
    up her arm,
    flickering over freckles.
    And gaining intensity as it
    reaches her shoulder.

    Muffled protests precede
    a great wave of motion.
    Turning away from the window,
    she pulls cast off covers
    over tangled hair;
    and hides from the cheery sun.

    Her clock tic, tic, ticks
    marking minutes until her alarm
    will yank her from slumber.
    But right now she hoards
    every second of sleep.

    The sun doesn’t care
    for her dreams.
    It shines all the brighter
    sending tendrils to the far corners
    of her room.
    Illuminating “robin egg blue”
    and a white dress
    waiting to be worn.

  158. pcm says:


    At the end of the bridge
    there stood a road
    that met the edge of
    a snow-covered apple orchard
    at the end of which there was a wall
    of stones in front of a line of poplars that led
    to a chapel where you laid in waxy peace
    and a white robe, hair
    unruffled by the wind or
    the way you would toss your head
    back with an Italian full of spaghetti laugh.
    Your big old feet that kept time in worn shoes
    tapping as you played descending guitar riffs
    were tucked under a white sheet at the foot of
    the coffin as though you were a little
    boy tucked in for beddy-bye when you were
    always the last man standing, the sentry
    Papa bear checking on all the cubs at days’ end.
    We went shivering and slattering over the ice—
    you would have skated and cheered up your honey
    taking her by the arm, a rosy-cheeked pair team—
    or maybe gazed at the geese flying in a jagged V
    across the grey sky above the tombstones and
    brought our posse into sacred wonder at nature’s beauty.
    We stood and listened as the preacher read
    about good-byes and a priest said his dust-to-dusts
    while I felt the winter sun warm my face and you
    standing right there with a knowing grin and instead
    of Amen, I said, “Hello Bruce,” as they said good-bye.

  159. SestinaNia says:

    Wow–what a great response! I haven’t posted since the first year, but I’m a bit rusty, poetry-wise, and figured this would be the kick in the pants that could get me going again.

    Movement Through Spacetime

    It takes one nanosecond
    for the vibration of your voice
    to penetrate the dura and strike
    one waiting neuron,
    setting off a spiral
    of synapses, charging
    the dendrites into
    a frantic storm.
    And within that fraction
    of a moment, the star
    I have orbited
    collapses beneath the weight
    of the embrace of gravity,
    pulling me towards
    the event horizon—
    and yet it takes an eternity
    for me to send the message
    from neurons to muscle
    that tell my body
    to take a step

    –Sara Doyle

  160. peacegirlout says:

    In the beginning
    a woman loving
    another woman
    they promised to kiss
    they laughed
    and cried
    they were woman lovers
    In the end the became
    two women in love

  161. SuziBwritin says:


    She was an angel
    with kinky hair
    smoothed-down by
    sweet-smelling gel
    A voice that rasped like
    grinding gears
    When a novice drives a stick shift
    She could spot
    the promise
    the talent
    the passion
    the desire
    she nurtured it by fanning her wings
    and pushing the nestlings into the air
    for their first flights

    Don’t throw my ashes off the mountain
    over the desert
    in a river or a lake,
    or even the ocean which I love so dearly
    Don’t lay on food and sing songs
    celebrating the person I used to be
    And especially
    don’t lay me in a cushy casket
    And surround me with the aroma of
    those sticky sweet funeral blossoms
    no speeches
    no parades
    no weeping
    just let me go as though
    it’s the most ordinary thing
    to pass from one room to the next

  162. The Turn

    Your smile terrifies me
    Like no other instinct
    It comes upon me when we speak

    Your lips flash red to see
    Words spoken without a wink
    Romance ancient memory weak

    Your mouth curses sweetly
    Always draw me in to think
    Hostile with a glossy sheen

    Your words fall at my feet
    Tattooed in invisible ink
    Caressed by your careless cheek

    I’m lost in this sad hilarity
    Enjoy this last anniversary

  163. Sara Mendes says:


    Beginning usually means ending
    and ending usually means beginning.

    Today it will be different;
    and so it will tomorrow
    and when tomorrow comes
    I hope you have what you want.

    Because changing never ends.
    And if it ends; it’s a start.

    — Sara Mendes

  164. Deri says:

    Love Phoenix

    Circle back
    to that place
    where spring blooms
    in winter.
    Where every laugh
    is a child’s glee
    and no sad songs
    mourn you through
    tinny car speakers.

    Circle back
    to that first bloom
    of innocence
    and trust.
    Forget lies
    and fear
    and pain.
    You think
    you can do it.

    From the ashes
    still smoldering
    you hope, despite
    all the tear-soaked pillows,
    the rock-hard ache
    behind your breastbone,
    the days, weeks, months
    of hollow certainty –
    that was the end.

    One day, a stranger smiles
    and you begin again.

  165. Today I went looking for remnants of my life before loving you
    Bits and pieces scattered throughout the rooms of our house
    Covered with dust and cobwebs
    Stashed in to corners behind closed wooden doors
    Buried deep within faded boxes
    Tucked under beds laden with heavy blankets that graze the floor.

    It was just a thing of curiosity really wondering if my heart would pause or skip
    Moments of time to recall the spaces and places and faces of my forty years
    Old love letters, postcards and poems of fading ink read and read again
    Gentle caress of forgotten tarnished trinkets of silver and bronze and even gold
    Dried rose petals that spill out of a metal trunk
    One-eyed worn and torn stuffed animals staring resolutely back at me.

    To crack open aging spines of yellowed photo albums
    Pages that tightly bind the secrets of ghosts long since remembered
    Pets and parents, siblings and friends, family and strangers and all in between
    Former lovers whose blue, brown, gray, green eyes hold me in quiet regard
    Distant voices that echo laugher and tears and promises kept and dismissed
    Skinned knees, broken heart, blue ribbon stapled to a story and the blush of my first kiss.

    Stashed in to the bodice of music box ballerinas that adorn sun-draped window ledges
    Buried deep within the jubilant cartwheel of my long lost innocence
    Bright pink candy ribbons dipped in brown sugar and vanilla frosting coated recollections
    Sweet like cotton candy clouds that are at first a bear and then a bunny and then your face
    Tucked just behind my fluttering heart, whispered memories on a clear cool night
    Beginnings and endings scattered throughout the rooms of my heart.

  166. berkeleypoet says:

    My heart still aches for her sometimes. But hers doesn’t ache for me.

    It’s time to unclasp the grasp.

    And allow new love unfolding

  167. Aubade

    I look to you, your two horns
    of snot, your leaning into me as if
    I am relief. Your hands undulate
    like fins catching sunlight. Your breath crackles
    like the waking coffee maker, and
    you bob against my shoulder, nose slick,
    searching for words you know: milk,
    mama, hi. If I ask you for a kiss, you offer me
    your slobbery, open mouth, your teeth
    clacking against my chin. I am dizzy
    with the pleasure of this, your knowing kiss
    means mouth and mouth means pleasure—
    you are proud, you crow—means love.

  168. BDP says:

    “If I had known when I was shot down that I would be there more than seven years, I would have died of despondency, of despair.… But I didn’t. It was one minute at a time, one hour, one week, one year and so on. If you look at it like that, anybody can do anything.”

    –Admiral Denton’s reflection on his survival as a P.O.W

    Anybody Can Do Anything

    Ten minutes into first hellos, she told
    us of her brother on the Bataan March.
    Lost. Said he would’ve still been handsome old.
    “And Somebody Gives a Damn,” the book much
    ignored, please read. Hours are Morse code, some short,
    some stretch to points beyond all torture, snap
    back, forth. He’d have stayed kind. But she aborts
    her anger daily, and feels seconds passed
    since seeing him leave years ago. She’s learned
    this truth: endurance crawls against the clock.
    The rub’s just that: there’s start, and there’s an end.
    There’s do once more. Fresh horror, lives forgot.
    What was meant for him bled through time, she warned.
    We think we’ve changed, surprise, and we have not.

    –Barb Peters

    Nice to be back and to see you all! Have fun throughout April.

  169. toujourskari says:


    I’m wishing for it again
    I wish on stars, on stray eyelashes,
    When the clock reads 11:11 or 5:55.
    The first to take a scoop out of the new peanut butter gets a wish-
    At least that’s what my sister said when I was five and I believe her.

    I close my eyes and squeeze my will
    into a little tiny ball of resolution
    Casting it into the fiery sky
    Urging it to come forth,
    to bear witness to my desire.

    I form it into being in my mind but never my heart.
    The clasp of my necklace slides to the front.
    I kiss it invoking the wish again,
    sliding it dreamily to the back of my neck where your teeth were last night.

    Yesterday I thought the wish had materialized
    because it had been seven days.
    Seven seems like a finality-
    the number of completion, a biblical end.
    But then you came and started the clock again.
    There you were with your teeth and your claws and your voice of silk.
    And there I was wishing again.
    And here I am wishing again
    but only
    my mind.

    My heart is endless.

  170. AC Leming says:


    The last time I moved out,
    I knew the relationship was over
    because I started fantasizing
    about the unconditional love of a dog.
    The sticky fingered love of a boy
    who sought a mother-figure
    lost out to the yellow gaze of a Weimeraner
    once upon a century ago.
    The current man drapes himself across me,
    a kudzu vine who strangles it’s host.

    I begged for years for respite,
    for a neutral third party
    to whom we could both trust
    our secret resentments.
    I hoped for a safe place
    where we could shed our armor
    and rediscover our amour.
    A mentor to call “Bullshit”
    when we offered it up in self-defense.

    We now tread the path
    towards the dead-end
    of his parents’ relationship,
    the unhappy nuclear families
    caught in his brother’s wake.

    Divorce me, I said before we ever married,
    divorce me if we can’t see
    past the pile of resentments built up
    and left untouched, unspoken, unhealed.

    Let me go, I now ask
    as I stare into ambivalent blue eyes.
    Divorce me and let us both
    start our lives over.

  171. ShannyCakes says:


    I see it now,
    As we turn ‘round the bend,
    That our smooth sailing
    Is beginning to end.

    The waters were deep,
    Fill with laughter and love-
    But now they seem shallow,
    Looking down from above.

    If something has changed,
    It is possibly so-
    Now that it is over
    We will never know.

    The times that we shared
    Were so bitter and sweet-
    And now that we part, I ask,
    Why did we meet?

    It’s something, again,
    We may never find out-
    It’s something that implants
    The slightest of doubt.

    But now as I look
    Deeply into your eyes,
    I only see one thing-
    And that is goodbye.

    -Shannon Joy Anderson

  172. Sky says:

    Today I found a thing I want to try:
    to write a poem each and every day,
    beginning now that March has passed us by
    and ending just before the start of May.
    The prompt provided two ideas to use.
    To write of a beginning was the first.
    The second took an ending as its muse,
    and option three was both, for best or worst.
    I chose the last, to see what it would hold,
    and found them both quite eager to appear,
    describing how the challenge will unfold
    and leading to these very words right here.
    As for the sonnet form, it’s simply fun.
    And thus has ended poem number one.

  173. christinamcphee says:

    Satiated light flames the morning wick
    Lapping away night shades
    opening the sky
    rousing bird song lifting its wing
    Expanding moments
    that are measured as time
    Notched in contained minds
    Impatient hunger flows
    Springing the labor forward
    Depleted. Unwilling to savor
    timeless rhythm peaking their hour glass

  174. Megaparsec says:

    The Beginning of an Idea

    Something in my mind unfolds.
    Sparks fly, bright and bold.
    Ordinary things meet lofty thoughts.
    My brain works hard to connect the dots.

    Possibilities open doors.
    Each one grander than before,
    Till finally one breaks the cords.
    Only then can I put it into words.

  175. tunesmiff says:

    G. Smith
    It breaks my heart,
    The way I’m sure that I broke yours
    So long ago,
    When you tried to help me set my course.
    But I was bound
    To travel my own way,
    And it’s that journey,
    That brings me back to you today.

    It breaks my heart,
    The way I’m sure that I broke yours,
    To see your road,
    To see your slowly closing doors.
    Yet through it all,
    I have only one regret:
    Those things you can’t remember
    Are the the things I can’t forget.

  176. AC Leming says:

    Bite Marks

    I lean over and bite
    the nape of his neck in retaliation
    for a suggestion I’m not sure is a joke,
    that I rub both his scalp and his crotch.
    After all, I have two hands which could be kept busy
    on the hour-plus trip home.
    His sly smile offers no hint
    and I’m too mellow to get pissed.

    He tastes salty from the two hours
    of volleyball he’s just played
    as I photographed him. And his team.
    I want to use his perfect body
    for my own, artistic ends.

    Part of me wants to keep up the physical play,
    to soothe the bite mark with my tongue.
    But I promised
    I wouldn’t put him in that position,
    where his marriage could implode,
    like mine has.
    So I tamp down the urge
    to lick his wounded flesh
    and retreat back to my side of the car.
    Chastise him gently for his crude words
    but keep rubbing the velvet softness
    of his crew cut, as pleasurable
    to my hands as it is to his head.

    “I always want to rub against the grain
    when I see a man with this hair cut.
    It feels so good under my palm,”
    I say into our companionable silence.

    “You can rub my head any time you want,”
    is his tongue in cheek reply.
    And I think, “Yes I will.”

  177. REBECCA MARSH says:

    Just a short time ago
    others wanted to be
    In a relationship
    so perfect
    As you and me.
    Things swirled out if control
    Our love
    our strength
    There’s nothing left
    of you and me.

  178. Rebirth

    This is your life
    This is your time
    Throw away the

    But do not
    forget. Remember
    the struggle that
    got you here.

    But don’t let it weigh
    you down. This is
    your beginning. This
    is your now.


    This is you now.

    This is you deciding
    to let go. This is you
    releasing the hate.

    This is you with
    a free heart. This
    is you with a smile.

    This is you saying
    goodbye of what
    was and saying hello
    to what can be.

    Destiny Williams

  179. kingac says:

    Heisenberg Reanimated

    All new synthetic flesh,
    sealed for freshness –
    mass produced
    under FDA regulations.

    Integration implementation
    effective immediately.
    No more segregation
    between living and undead.

    Android Senators mingle
    with Cyborg Congressmen;
    circuit boards igniting
    a Second World Treatise.

    Militia line the streets,
    passing out religion and candy –
    as children in gas masks
    double-dutch in penance.

    A black cat sits pensive;
    watching a bug –
    contemplating whether
    to pounce or nap.

    -John Pupo

  180. Shennon says:

    Up with the rooster
    Up with the sun
    Up to accomplish
    All that I’ve begun.

    Laden with ambition
    Unencumbered greed
    Falling short of expectations
    Not getting what I need.

    Down for the evening
    Down for the count
    Down with untold hopes and dreams
    My courage never to surmount.

  181. Jolly2 says:

    Beginning Poem
    by John Yeo

    What will the future hold for you?
    So small, so petite so, vulnerable,
    We waited for your arrival with bated breath
    With highs and lows and loving care
    We counted the minutes in silent prayer.

    A tiny heart beats in your tiny body
    Our blood flows through your veins
    You will grow up in a world ever changing
    The future is yours as you grow stronger
    We will always be with you as long as we can
    Our life with you is our new beginning.

    Copyright © Written by John Yeo~All rights reserved

  182. LCaramanna says:


    Tequila sunrise,
    orange wisps in a periwinkle sky,
    room service eggs
    easy over whole wheat toast,
    parfait strawberries in whipped cream
    clouds drift beyond our
    Tequila sun

    behind drawn shades of Saturday sunbeams
    in silky satin sheets,
    pillows pleasure
    sweet daydream slumbers.

    Tequila sunset,
    whipped cream clouds in a mango tango sky,
    decadent denouement.

  183. L. says:

    Beginning one summer,
    I found my home.
    I wanted to stay,
    But I couldn’t.
    It was a good thing,
    And all good things come to an end.

  184. heather138 says:


    Her eyes glean and shine
    A lioness ready to pounce
    I, her victim, unaware.

    We dance, we sway
    Between rain drops and wind storms.
    We laugh, we hug
    Her heat chills my blood.
    I hunger for more.

    Like Icarus, ambition melted.
    I too, scalded by darkness,
    The utter absence of love.

    – Heather Lynn Atwood

  185. Grey_Ay says:

    A Wave, Beginning

    There is a wave, beginning
    I can hear it from this sand
    the sun, blinding in the distance
    watches, all it can

    The wave, it rises, building
    higher and higher it grows
    and I am breathing, being
    all I can with eyes closed

    It is closer now, ready
    the water about to break
    and I am running, needing
    drowning in its wake

    Only an echo sounds, softly
    and the moon commands this tide
    the water pulling from me, feeding
    another wave to rise.

    -A. Ault-

  186. Beth Rodgers says:

    Glad to be back this year! Here’s my day one poem:


    We all know the ‘beginning of the end’
    The moment when everything turns on its head
    And creativity energizes what lies ahead.

    What about the ‘end of the beginning’
    Since that’s when the going gets tough
    Yet motivation runs high.

    The stakes rise
    The middle seems closer
    Sense gets made out of preliminary details
    Understanding becomes greater.

    The ‘end of the beginning’
    Forces the issue
    Enveloping us in a worthier grasp
    Of how the big picture matters.

  187. acele says:

    specs of dust

    I bought a new vacuum
    It really sucks!
    I gathered all the cobwebs and the dust
    I shook them out
    They flew away
    one last somewhat rainy day.

    I set up a table,
    a place to pray
    To cleanse all my cares and my worries away.
    A whisper of hope
    for a soul made new
    And strength to reknow my love for you

    With a digital quill,
    an empty space
    and a back arrow button, with which to erase,
    I wrestle word roots
    And tendons of doubt
    as If pulling the stones of my past out

    What is the danger
    on this new road?
    What radical poetic loss of control?
    Words can’t tell the end,
    nor the dawn of life’s riddle
    but rather attempt to gather what’s in the middle

    History, prophesy,
    fiction and truth,
    hypotheses, ideologies, direction, reproof
    words to define,
    build up and tear down,
    words that are lost and words that are found

    and so I search
    to end this first day
    words, like specs of dust to shake away

  188. Mariejoy says:

    “Day ends in …”

    a sleep translucent like jellyfish,
    that shyly tinted sensation of sea,
    not reaching out for white specks that float by
    for my limbs have turned mellow.
    A yogic hum is in my throat
    promising me voice in the morning.
    I am unafraid of whispers from the depths.
    They contain only sand and a few things slothful and misshapen.
    My desire to lie very still protects me.
    I shall be grateful for views of coral.

  189. gdterrones says:


    Gooey red, splattered
    all over me
    my mother’s greatest masterpiece
    dies a nobody, to be immortalized
    by whom – she will leave me

    highly sensitive to women
    screaming I’m alive,
    ten fingers,
    ten toes, slash on fleshy rope
    I fall
    into becoming
    my own

    Washed out blanket
    envelops me
    traversing medicinal train cars
    a mechanical assembly line
    no longer in a body
    in her knotted arms

    Cradled in selfish nooks of elbows
    made for her, by her, in her
    signed myself over
    I knew my own name.

    A soul unaware of being made
    not wanting, never pleading
    for breath – no exchanges
    no policy for returning

    Once spat out, you owned me.
    I owed you.
    I did it on my own.

  190. Ahavah says:

    I thought it would be
    more exciting here
    at the end of the world
    where I’d dangle my legs
    over the edge of all where
    the waters fall
    into the black everything
    (or maybe turtle mouths)

    And I would:
    hold the ledge
    guard the harbor
    slay the monsters
    stand shining beacon
    for the lost

    But really each day
    I grow bored
    skipping rocks up
    a waterfall and grumbling
    about the
    missing echo

  191. pomodoro says:

    Union in Baxter, Arkansas

    They stand pinned upon coarse ground,
    the blunt-faced man and a hardscrabble girl,
    cleansed from regret,
    bonded to time,
    and stare at a sky white as old bones.

    She has no wildness in her,
    willfulness or lust,
    this young Maudie White Hopkins
    who put her childhood away
    for William Cantrell, a Grey Back,
    a brittle treasure from Pikeville,
    in front of the justice of the peace.

    William offers her his home,
    cold comfort in old furniture and mirrors turned to the wall,
    gravid cows in forsaken fields,
    and a mule named Kit
    if she will help him find relief
    from the flaws of his eighty-six years,
    if she will marry him and keep his life awake.

    She fears crude gossip
    but does what she has to,
    what she must,
    to survive.
    She pays her tithe of loss and gain,
    and at dawn’s scant light,
    drinks coffee and indifference.

    Maudie is nineteen,
    making a fried peach pie
    when William asks.
    She says
    Yes, Mr. C, I will.

  192. msmacs3m says:


    Endings – “It is done.”
    But wait! The tomb is empty.
    A new beginning.

    Sandy McCulloch

  193. Kwoody says:

    Unending Pain or An Ode to Batman, From Joker

    You’re the infected tooth I cannot exctract, but push
    With my heavy useless tongue against the throbbing,
    Dying nerve nestled in the back of my mouth.
    You can only be pulled out with a force I am unwilling to exert,
    unable to justify, incapable of leaving a greedy needy hole behind.

    You’re an itch I don’t want to scratch
    For fear of breaking the skin and bleeding you out,
    Leaving me with nails full of my own fetid, bleached skin
    And nothing.

    You’re my annoyance, my persistant and percussive
    Pain that lives deep in my hollow bones,
    I cannot numb you with analgesics or opiates coursing
    Through my tainted blood without blocking all feeling,
    Making me forget the dull ache of you deep within me
    Like a child forgets his night time boogeyman and all the terror that he wrought.

    I will not extract, itch, or numb you to make this last and last and last
    The way a hungry snake devours its own tail,
    Swallowing itself even when it can no longer choke on its cold, dead flesh.

  194. CJKulak says:

    As the day breaks, the weary grass begins to shed the late season snow.
    I step outside to re-begin the old routine,
    With this newold body of mine.
    I begin the familiar
    One step in front of the other
    Obeying new rules
    Stride length small
    Stride speed low
    Walk, don’t run.
    This newold body makes new rules.
    New rules that will take new patience to bend
    Without breaking.
    So I walk the new pace the new stride length
    Forget the old mile per minute
    Forget the old.
    At the end of the leash, the dog pauses,
    Looks back at me, and industriously
    Chomps down mouthfuls of new fallen snow,
    And waits.
    More impatient with the late spring
    Than he is with me.

  195. 1.) On the beginning of the end:

    “I’m fine” She says
    With a cracking careless grin,
    “We all make mistakes sometime.”
    And on tiptoes she kisses his cheek-
    While behind his back,
    Her honest hands
    Build a tower to his betrayal.

    2.) On beginning after an end:

    Said the eagle to the fish
    As he sped to splatter on a dinner-plate rock:
    “Close your mouth, skydiver-
    if you swallow a cloud, you’ll never come down.”

    “Rituals, smituals!” Rejoined the fish,
    “I am hooked on hope like you will never believe;
    even a fish can learn to soar.”

  196. Shortcake5 says:

    Dangling Metaphors

    They hung
    like spiderwebs in my mind
    those little collectives of alphabet letters-

    s e p a r a t e

    they were the food to my soul

    The first words were babbles,

    next came the emotion creators-
    love, mama, papa, hug

    then the words that broke free




    in my heart-
    the words of a story book,
    the magic healing of a garden
    overpowered the senses.

    “sparkling like the
    waters of some lovely bottomless lake,”
    was the key that opened up my imagination.

    Sounds flew off the page–
    The angry quick chirps of a robin;

    rippled laughter
    from an invalid
    the first time walking.

    Fragrances rambled
    of roses.

    Like a rainstorm on the moor,
    the “nice, fresh and damp [smell] of th’ good rich earth.”
    saturated through my skin.

    These words have never been

    my soul


    Phantom Spring

    I wore nothing but goosebumps
    on my legs and your arms
    around my small shoulders,
    letting brambles, dried-out
    soy crop and whispering
    milkgrass, catch against my
    dress. We didn’t talk much,
    except to imagine how
    others might imagine
    us in that moment –

    Maybe caught against some Impressionist
    landscape, and over there, on the other hill,
    Van Gogh has set up his easel
    to paint our black specks on the yellow earth.
    Or see the farmhouse across the road
    and its winking, uncurtained windows?
    There a little farmer is standing
    beside his old wife, watching us,
    kneading a thumb into her frail shoulder
    and waiting to see what we will do.

    – So we began to kiss in the wind,
    my arms around his neck, his hands on
    my back, our chins knocking.
    We kissed and then we stopped,
    resurfacing from the moment,
    glancing bashfully over each other’s bare shoulders,
    wondering how joy sometimes requires
    an extrapolated view from a faraway hill.

    The sun had softened the mud beneath
    our shoes. Looking back I don’t know
    why we didn’t take them off.
    On colder nights I stretch my feet
    beneath my sheets and pretend
    I’m squeezing Nebraska
    between my toes, dreaming of Spring,
wearing nothing on my skin except his kisses
    and the imploring gazes of a long-dead painter,
    a farmer and his small, arthritic wife.

    • BDP says:

      A thought to ponder: “wondering how joy sometimes requires an extrapolated view from a faraway hill.” You set the poem up nicely to come to this point, and then fade away from it.

  198. mshall says:

    The End of the Beginning

    In the beginning there was light
    God’s marvelous gift of sight.

    In the end there was a flash
    Entire cities turned to ash.

    Then the waters were separated by a mighty vault
    Cleaving sea from sky without a fault.

    The bomb cast a 3000 degree shroud
    A backdraft of dust reared up, the great mushroom cloud.

    Seed bearing plants bore fruit upon the land.
    That third day must have been grand.

    Seeds of plants and genes of man were twisted,
    Within seconds, a legacy of power double fisted.

    In the night the stars began to twinkle,
    The moon smiled, her face as yet without wrinkle.

    Moonless sank the noon-time darkness from a far
    The eyes of the beholders burned to a scar.

    Be fruitful and increase in number.
    Let the fertility of this earth never slumber.

    Let the stockpiles go forth and increase
    An arms race that will never cease.

    There was evening, and there was morning.
    God made Good, but gave not warning.

    There will be many a night and many a day
    Radiation may never go away.

    The Seventh Day was rest
    And then started the final test.
    Can mankind resist,
    A thousand suns, wielded by our fist?

  199. shellaysm says:


    To everything
    there is a beginning . . .
    and an end.
    Of these stops and starts,
    is timing truly random,
    seemingly unannounced?
    Or is each cyclic dance
    a mere stepping stone
    upon a life’s destiny?
    Subtle or profound,
    bitter or sweet?
    An ever teetering scale,
    the inevitable

    Michele K. Smith


    He fidgeted with his clipboard,
    clouds kept erasing the sky.
    My pup so eager in her traces,

    a falcon to be unfettered.
    Scent, invisible bird on the wind.
    Translate your dog, he said,

    his voice already trailing behind
    numbers on old spreadsheets.
    Hide-&-seek lurked in the teepee

    schoolkids built without a plan,
    cedarbark over dreams
    before they came to be tested.

    The man checked his clipboard.
    My puppy ran after sky,
    sparks of shadows turning

    morning to noon, to discover
    a child lost, the trail
    leading so fleetingly away.

  201. dandelionwine says:


    He presses winter in his hands
    shaving twenty years from her
    with careful aim. Rising, snow
    light and laughing, she takes off
    running, throwing the fallen sky
    from the old cold days, meeting
    him warm now in this young one.

    Sara Ramsdell

  202. Nancy Posey says:

    Abbey Road

    Over and over, more constant in those days
    than the pledge of allegiance or serenity prayer,
    I played side A, side B, and started again,
    four boys from Liverpool my muses,
    John and Paul, the poet laureates
    of my teenage years. I sang every word,
    every note, even knowing exactly
    when to stop on “She’s So Heavy,”
    then flipping over to the other side,
    relishing the irony I recognized
    even at sixteen that “The End”
    wasn’t .

  203. mrnor10 says:

    To understand;
    To see.
    We know it all
    Until we find out,
    We were wrong!
    Near the end,
    We begin
    To understand;
    We start
    To see
    A glimpse of
    What it all means,
    But it’s too late
    To share the secret.

  204. bethwk says:

    How the World Began
    Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    In the beginning, Spider
    launched herself into the spring breeze
    from a rattling stalk of dried nettle

    toward a skinny maple sapling.
    She missed the maple. Landed,
    light-foot, in a heap of leaves

    gathered ’round its base.
    A quick scuttle upward, launch again
    and through the breeze once more

    to nettle stalks this time, and
    the gossamer cord caught.
    Then launched herself once more

    into the gentle breath of wind
    until she’d spun herself a world,
    until she had encompassed all.

    In the end, Spider gathered strands
    and wove herself a spirit cloth of silver thread
    to catch the wandering dreams

    of mockingbirds and wild geese
    passing over the chilly meadow,
    following tomorrow’s sunrise.

  205. restonpoet says:

    Beginning an ending (title suggestions welcome)

    I have managed to avoid parenthood
    so far,
    circumstances now challenge
    my sense of order.
    Forcing me to assume management
    of another life – from a distance.
    We communicate through the anemia fog
    that robs you of the independence
    I’ve envied and tried to replicate all my life.
    Lifeblood mutating to transparent empty plasma
    I watch stop-gap measures across the void
    of our separate lives, wondering if I will be
    the one to take responsibility and call
    a beginning to your ending.
    So move from parenthood to orphan
    in a time I can’t imagine.

  206. P.A. Beyer says:

    She’ll Never Look Back

    Before lining up
    baton in hand
    waiting for the firing
    of the starting pistol

    Before launching past
    the goalie’s shoulder
    the winning kick
    in the playoff game

    Before careening over
    that first boulder
    of the month long expedition
    to conquer Denali

    Are tiny fingers
    fumbling to form
    rabbit ears
    out of pink shoelaces

  207. writeinVT says:

    It began Monday afternoon, March 31,
    the first twinges of your long-awaited birth.
    Who knew in those sun-filled hammock hours
    that your emergence would cost us both.
    Fifty-two hours of determination,
    yours to stay put, mine to hold you
    in my arms outside that swollen belly.
    It turned out you were nobody’s fool,
    wisely choosing April 2nd.

    This had to end, the giving of gifts
    a battle we were bound to engage
    endlessly. Our tangled tale must untie
    the warp of herstory – mine, mothered
    in Things to the despair of my heart;
    and yours, desiring what you truly want.
    From this 28th birthday forward,
    what we forge from deep in our hearts
    will be a new language of love, apart.

  208. jclenhardt says:

    Scraps of Paper

    There is a keeping;
    a collection of sorts,
    of small beginnings
    or ever-expanding
    ends. Sort of like
    a Universe,
    notated and categorized
    on small and folded
    scraps of paper
    kept in an old suitcase
    would take a lifetime
    or more to read,
    to discover
    every twist and turn
    there is to take,
    because not all roads
    have dead ends.

  209. ckays1967 says:

    Last firsts

    the normal progression of youth
    maturation reached and celebrated


    each time she succeeds in losing
    her babyhood, I mourn the quiet
    passing of my youngest baby

    no more:
    toddler clothes

    no more training wheels

    each week steals away pieces
    of her and leaves

    a girl, a human completely incomplete
    each week brims with another last first

  210. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    As it Happens

    Hanging in the chill,
    As chaotic breezes sway,
    Buds start the process.

    By fall, the stark winds,
    Usher in a silent cold,
    Signaling . . .

    their end.

  211. ivywriter says:

    April One – a poem

    Fools rush in
    Jokes abound
    Laughter comes
    Then someone
    Is embarrassed
    This month
    Full of rain showers
    Begins as a mystery laden
    Comedic driven
    Reality show
    Full of punchlines
    And shenanigans
    It’s a wonder any work gets done
    Perhaps the boss
    Will give us a day off
    To lolligag
    Roll on the floor and
    Take naps on a whim
    Daydreaming of beach filled days
    And extra long vacation days
    With pay

    April Fools

  212. rachela50@yahoo.com says:


    Sometimes I forget I have a future
    Lately my actions have felt more like conclusions
    Than introductions
    And I realize
    The thing that feels like it’s ending
    Is childhood

  213. EbenAt says:

    In the beginning was the word
    and that’s no lie.

    What truly separates us
    from the critters?

    The word.

    Truth be told,
    our actions
    don’t bear up.

    And as such
    our words
    bloody well better.

    In the end
    everything just spins away.

    From Big Bang
    to Final Fizzle.

    Be it us
    or this here universe,
    when The Big Curtain falls,
    wouldn’t you just love to know
    what’s up for the encore?

  214. ea12l says:

    She stares at the house ablaze
    Feels the heat even from this distance
    The neighbors have crowded to watch
    Having woken to the sounds of fire trucks

    The family all made it out alive
    Thank goodness, they say
    The fire contained; their concern melts in the night air

    It was only a matter of time before something like this happened, they whisper
    That family has been trouble since the day they’ve moved in
    The dad drinks too much. The mom too- and the way she dresses
    The two boys are maniacs- scaring the dogs and riding their bikes through our manicured lawns
    The girl, though, she’s good. Always has her head in a book
    Even now, she holds a hardcover in her hand
    The dustjacket gone, probably left inside

    She stares at the house ablaze
    Aware of all the people, talking about her and her family
    It was going to be a new beginning – this house
    They shouldn’t have even moved here. They didn’t belong.

    Fortunately, she had the good sense to know this and to do something about it
    She stayed in her room reading as the fire spread
    Until it got too hot and she needed to join her family

    She sees them crying
    Like this is a bad thing
    Some sort of an ending
    But she knows better

    This is the beginning they’ve been waiting for

    She can’t wait to get back to her book

  215. duffyandrews says:

    Inner Voice

    If I step on that board,
    That rickety old board
    That covers the swollen stream,
    I just might find my way home.

    The board wobbles
    (Danger Will Robinson—
    This board is NOT safe)
    Should I? A toe test,
    Gradually a whole foot,
    But the thing bends.
    (Oh geez

    Then what?

    (The other side
    Might not be worth it
    Might not be gold
    Might not be)

    If I creep onto the board
    But don’t look down
    (Damn you, rain!)
    This stream is gushing rapids
    Crashing over my shoes.

    If I don’t look down
    If I just –
    (Now come along with me, you ludicrous lump, there’s much to be done.)

    One more step
    (Who the heck puts a board here anyway? )
    Because there’s much to be done
    Time to begin again
    And no time to be lost in space.

  216. Mustang Sal says:

    This Is How It Really Happened

    In the Big Inning God created the heavens and the earth.
    Without so much as a practice swing
    He strode up to the plate and hit one after another
    out of the park.

    Light – Bam
    Heaven – Bam
    Land – Bam
    Sun & Moon – Bam
    Fish & Birds – Bam
    Mankind – Bam

    At the end of the inning it was
    6 hits, 6 runs, and no errors.

    Then He took a victory lap around the bases.
    As the crowd roared, He tipped His hat
    to the people in the bleachers and sighed,
    “It is good.”

  217. sharon4 says:

    ~Sharon Fagan McDermott

    If on a spring night, the moon splits its thin grin
    between a last rose glow and the first star,
    who’s to say it’s not a new start? Someone yells

    from inside Joe’s Bar on the corner, first pitch, first out!
    the grassy field beside is matted, brown, still beaten
    down by months of ice and heavy boots. This old weight

    pumps like a heart, and not a forsythia bloom in sight.
    The 61-B exhales its passengers and smokes into the
    dusk. Heady, this not quite, this precipice, this tease,

    and all along the sidewalks– voices, though the shouts
    of children have quieted behind the screen doors
    slightly open to the breezes. Once my child

    spent whole evenings on the floor, mapping
    make believe cities, the wiggly blue line of rivers,
    the inverted brown “V’s” of mountain tops,

    the whole scripted continent situated squarely
    by his drawing hand. It was probably not yet spring then, too,
    Crescent moon and sleepy dog curled upon the fireplace tile.

    I knew enough, even then–new mother that I was—
    to risk desire, to risk greed, to want to hold it all within my hand
    and apologize to no one for this:

    cartography of the long march, the time passed, the grown, the moved on.

    • BDP says:

      This poem’s beginning is wonderful–”If on a spring night, the moon splits its thin grin between a last rose glow and the first star, who’s to say it’s not a new start?” I like the segue into baseball, appropriate for April. The child cartography is nice, too.

  218. Lasts and Firsts

    The nearer the end becomes
    The larger each last looms-
    Lasts already past,
    Like the never ending apple harvest
    I never dreamed would be the last;
    Lasts that lie ahead,
    Like locking doors and leaving keys behind
    To things I love and leave with dread.

    But beginnings will flourish
    With firsts to fill each gap-
    Long awaited firsts,
    Like celebrations grand and small with tots
    For whom this wayfarer’s heart bursts;
    Firsts that flabbergast,
    Like blossoms found where none were thought to thrive-
    Familiar ones with roots to past.

  219. Dennis W says:

    What are two triplets without a third?

    The Trouble With Life

    I know not how we are to end
    we seem to choose fire over wind
    and heat, do not remember when

    we lived beneath the earth so deep
    and seem now to want to repeat
    our mouse like lives and mouse like feet

    that scurry beneath the weeds, the weeds,
    that grow above and take the lead
    from the trouble with life we seed.

    Dennis Wright, April 1, 2014

  220. Erica says:


    As if you know what it feels like.

    Cheeks flushed with rebellious emotions,
    butterflies fleeing through your throat.
    It shows itself to you, truly:
    inhaling by the fistful,
    exhaling in apologies.
    Touch so electrically charged you finally understand how defibrillators work.
    Yearning and grief wound tightly around your chest to the point where you can’t tell the difference anymore.
    Everything hurts, but you like it.

    As if you know what you’re in for.

    Proverbial world collapsing, loss of appetite and general sense of self.
    It kisses you on the mouth, suffocating:
    Gorgeous, dressed up lies shed like snakes, and you beg,
    you plead for it’s venom to free you from something you can’t see.
    Your sky contains both Sun and Moon, clouds and stars
    Because what is time when they never call.
    Nothing hurts, but you wish it did.

  221. flood says:

    Close To The Earth

    Five or six nights had passed
    before the first winged thing realized
    it no longer had to stay huddled fat,
    close to the earth.
    It felt fear. It scampered.
    And then, suddenly, its feet were
    no longer touching anything
    and this, too, inspired fear.
    This fear was different.
    This fear was freedom.
    This fear was hollow-boned
    and slickly feathered.
    This fear was parallel to earth
    and headed for the trees.

  222. Angela Kidd says:

    In the End

    My words find no one
    But there’s a seed in me
    Growing, budding, molting
    It has wings like ashes
    Persistent in snow and ice

    I write more vacant words
    Cold, hard stares spit on them
    I shred my notebooks
    Scatter my thoughts in the wind
    But the seed is thumping
    Up against my chest
    Demanding my deepest sorrows
    In exchange for fresh words

    I jingle my new leaves
    Like a tambourine player
    Penny for a poem but
    Nobody wants one of those
    My blossoms burst into flames
    I continue skyward in smoke

    When my colors change and I
    No longer want the fame
    Everyone shows up for a look
    I let go of all my creations
    They become a rainbow as they fall
    I have only one word left


  223. Alfonso Kuchinski says:


    Deleting these photographs
    I erased your image,
    There weren’t even any
    torn up little pieces,
    for my drunken self
    to hopelessly piece back together,
    this senseless pursuit 
    of mutually shared puzzles. 
    for good,
    not only from proximity,
    but from memory too.  

    Now I’m searching for fragments 
    some trigger,
    I’ve lost any traces,
    Pointing back to novel possibilities.
    So understand 
    my discretion,
    that even binary signals
    unbreakable codes -
    hint behind some track.

  224. Ravyne says:

    Beginnings and Endings

    I was bone-white and hollow
    when we began — a new vessel
    you filled with lies so sweet
    I lost teeth over you –
    You taught me to sashay my hips
    to lift my chest up to the sun
    and smiles so fake my face broke
    You wanted them all jealous
    old and young — I was starved
    I ate and ate and ate
    ’til my belly was bloated
    and then I spat you out

    I was bone-weary and empty
    when she found me — rock solid
    that she picked away at day by day
    ’til I slowly opened up to her
    She taught me to thrust out my hips
    to lift my head high to the sun
    and smiles so confidant my face glowed
    No longer starved, I learned to savor
    to let time melt on desert sands
    I lingered, lingered
    ’til her blood was my lifeblood
    and then I sucked her in

    Copyright 2014
    Lori Carlson

  225. rturner says:

    In this telling

    the girl-woman wears
    a man’s faded plaid flannel.

    She wears black leggings ripped
    across generous thighs,

    short shorts and muck boots,
    metallic ink blue.

    She is beginning again.

    In this telling
    she has kept the crown of flowers—

    ditching daisies for Crow Poison delicate
    and wild. She wears their dark name

    against her dark hair heavy with heat and intention.
    She slides on her thick eyeglasses.

    In this telling
    she’s left the old gossamer getup down in some long ago riverbed.

    Let it pool there between stones and shimmer awhile
    into the last of the day’s late light.

  226. Mustang Sal says:

    Reading Sue Grafton

    Some like to skip ahead to the last page,
    trying to be like God or the author,
    knowing the end from the beginning.

    But I like to go page by page, suspended
    by cliffhangers, unraveling as I go,
    hoping I can say at the end,
    “I knew it all along!”

  227. inkysolace says:


    My hands are cupped
    under the teardrop trickle
    of the faucet, my fingernails
    submerged in suds.
    A suitcase leans against the staircase.
    We are leaving once I’m ready.

    I have put lipstick kisses on the mirror
    that watches me push soap around the sink basin
    and ignore my hair. The walls have felt
    my hurry in its burnt out light bulb,
    in the falter in my step where the tile
    turns into carpet. I have pushed footprints
    into the cushion of this hallway, slower
    than reluctance but faster than dread.

    The handle turns with a squeak
    like the meeting of pencil and paper,
    touching on the shoulder as they
    leave and rejoin, more than friends
    but too alone
    to know how to do more.

    I stand with the towel cradling my fingertips.
    I am two steps from leaving,
    and still you have time for me.

  228. hohlwein says:


    I am beginning to see it
    myself on a sheet of ice
    how I will look around myself, horizontally,
    as if that is how one best looks around oneself,
    but, even in thinking of it,
    I know there will be other metrices.

    It will be my job to internalize those.
    Or to externalize those.

    To assess new things anew
    and make a mark
    Like every other mark

    That will never last
    nor matter

    but will have been.

    I begin to see how the arctic wind
    will blow snow
    over where
    in the future

    I will once have fallen.
    And, also, gotten up.
    and looked around
    and found myself

    still somewhere.

  229. Elizabeth Koch says:

    First Ride

    Hold on, I’m tipping
    I cannot do this alone
    Never ride this bike

    Oh, you let me go
    I feel like I am flying
    Mom, I don’t need you

    And there my boy goes
    My pride and my pain compete
    First snip of the cord

  230. Linda Voit says:

    The Power of What Portends

    After his wife’s funeral he tells me
    the best day of his life was not his wedding day
    but the day she said yes to his proposal,
    that the worst was not this day
    or even the day she died, but the day
    the doctor told them she had cancer.
    Even knowing he took pills
    in a hotel room in her later days,
    until I recall this conversation a week later
    and picture him looking ahead
    from the staircase in their empty home,
    I am shocked
    he hanged himself.

    Linda Voit

  231. Jacqui says:

    One sparkle, in the sand

    We talk about the beginnings
    and the endings
    but not a lot about the
    messy, wade-in-and-wade-out
    stuck in the middle
    of this thing called life

    There are two steps backwards
    two steps forward
    a never-ending cycle of bad behaviors
    and repeated decisions
    a blip of something magical
    followed by a long flat road of
    laundry, dishes, work and duldrums.

    We tell ourselves to live in the moment
    stop and smell the roses
    be in the now
    but we do that while looking over our shoulder
    at where we’ve been
    and thinking what we need to buy
    tomorrow at the grocery store.

    It’s human nature
    to try to attain better
    to say “this is the first day in the rest of my life.”
    and then to drown our sorrows
    when we inevitably fail.

    Here’s a thought
    that happened right now
    not 5 seconds ago
    and not two hours in the future

    What if we stopped to listen
    to that song that’s playing
    rather than skipping ahead on our smartphones
    stopped looking at our calendars
    thinking of life in Insta-moments
    goal setting and list making
    Because we can’t change what tomorrow will bring

    Today, I’m choosing to stay
    right here.

  232. Poetess says:

    The Rising

    Sing to me this day
    I hear you in this moment
    You are here let me rhyme
    For you my love a poem

    Today I arrive sweet song
    The melody your birds
    Sing for me your passion
    For you my love the words

    Your window lights me up
    I feel you in this moment
    The day’s flame gazing
    For you my love a poem

    Serenade me this night
    Give way sweet moon
    I hear you from afar
    Whispering my tune

    Tonight in this moment
    The beginning has no end
    My sun my moon finds me
    The rising rhymes again

  233. alimathis says:

    the beginnings the endings
    it is all the same

    • Ariadne says:

      Starts as a yolk-smudged
      dollop of pale buttercup
      follicles collaring
      tendrils of wine-dark twine
      An inside-out tadpole
      whose unfolding origami
      wimple to lungs, antenna, the ins and outs of diaphragm

      Angelfish ever after will gloat over
      the latex shine of ghostly lashes

      heralding a confetti of eyes. Lie back till scent pulls in

      the cross-ties of notice
      to capture the wet and the dry: nets
      to be surprised and crucified by
      asterisk of a mummy’s eye.

  234. deirdrep says:


    Things end
    All things have endings
    Endings end.

    To all the endings
    End like this
    With a silent wave

  235. miaokuancha says:

    With thanks to everyone who is making this challenge possible, and to dear fellow participants.

    April 1, 2014

    Prompts: Beginnings, Endings, Two for Tuesday


    They meet in darkness.
    Swallow each other.
    Masquerade of crescents
    vanished and yet to appear.
    All the storms
    are born of clinging.
    and dividing.
    and dividing,
    We meet in darkness.
    Swallow each other.

    “Between Moons”

    ~ miaokuancha

  236. youarehome says:

    -first date-

    i go on a date with a pretty boy
    who doesn’t look like you. i’m trying to remember
    what beginnings feel like. remember the new
    house on damen street, how cold it was before we started
    painting, how the white door was streaked
    with braille from your nervous hands? remember how every word
    it spelled left us on the floor? but

    before that. do you remember the walls?
    the carpet looked like a blank page, and the quiet
    was the uncertainty before the next song started. maybe
    this is possibility, but i’d rather be covered
    in eraser marks than silence. anyway,

    that’s what he felt like when he sat down across
    from me. i tried to find a poem in his laugh, but
    it sounded like mangoes. this should be a good thing,
    should remind me of
    suntans and postcards and paradise, this should be a good thing.
    but i’ve never liked mangoes, i know i should.

    he says all the right things. he doesn’t stumble
    across words like they’re just in the way, and he’s not afraid
    to have a conversation about the weather. we are not struggling
    at small talk because nothing
    about this is small. i never thought
    i’d miss awkward silences.

    he asks me what i write about, and i say,
    endings. i don’t tell him that they smell like night.
    i don’t tell him that every poem ends with this:

    there are as many sunflowers as there are stars
    in your backyard in the middle of august. you get out
    of the car while it’s still running. you’re not wearing
    a shirt, and i swear your back is holding
    up the sky, but you only pick one flower, and it’s small.
    you hand it to me through the dark, and then i know
    what endings are.

    he smiles at me before he leaves. this should be a good thing,
    but i’ve never liked beginnings.

    i know i should.

  237. Opening Day—

    Game on!
    Every year the office plays hooky.
    Even the ones who profess no allegiance
    to sports are giddy to get out of the office.

    The weather is not always the best.
    We’ve become accustomed to
    overcast skies and dress accordingly.
    If we get warm and lucky
    we’ll peel back a layer or two.

    From the stands we watch BP
    and warm ups— getting there early
    is like a part of the tradition itself.

    Out front of us players and doing stretches
    and squats in their bright clean unies.
    A couple of the office gals titter—
    saying they’ve never seen such good use
    made of polyester.

    We become reacquainted with smells
    dormant all winter… the nachos, hot dogs,
    smell of fresh cut grass all merge before us.

    It’s all about beginnings. Starting over.
    All the teams on paper are the same today
    pennant winners and cellar teams are all tied.

    Hope will never mean quite what it means
    before the first pitch is thrown. Hope will come
    and it will go, sometimes returning for a time
    but today everyone owns a piece of it the same size.

    Michael A. Wells

  238. poppyherrin says:

    A Cinquain

    sees my night end
    while your day’s end begins
    on the other side of Earth at

  239. poetrox says:

    Haiku Beginning

    what to write about
    trying to get a good start
    I hope I did it

    Haiku Ending

    time to enter this
    the brief end to my short start
    I need some good luck

  240. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:

    I am beginning to see
    Another side to inviting you in

    With your boxes,
    Bills, bedroom furniture

    We’re not just to each other
    Our dreaming and spirits

    But the everyday world
    Our discussions ignored

    Like needle, thread, and the button
    You ask if I’m willing to fix

  241. cdanne02 says:


    When the silk hardens:
    the last translucent strand
    gone: Does the caterpillar
    blink to itself in darkness
    and think about endings?

    Last time I emerged from a chrysalis
    was last week one day after lunch.
    I didn’t give myself a new name this time.
    Didn’t think about beginnings, either.
    Just kicked the grey husk away, and flew.

  242. Tara says:

    It starts with a stroke
    pen on paper
    ideas flowing
    from the head
    down the arm
    through the hand
    translating thought
    into words and
    ends as ink
    on paper
    expressing the spark
    that began it

  243. Dennis W says:

    I begin as Robert has, with a Tercet.

    How we Began

    We began as mouse like creatures
    with small bodies and furry features
    that made living under dirt so super

    that the big heat above the ground
    could not boil us like raptors found
    when the meteor knocked them straight down.

    Down, down, down we began
    to then become woman and man,
    then the trouble with life began.

    Dennis Wright, April 1, 2014

  244. DanielR says:

    Silence defined her world
    birthing pity-filled stares
    and covering her in self-doubt.
    Her acrobatic hands tumbling
    in the empty space in front of her,
    speaking volumes to anyone listening.
    The rhythm caressed her body
    and she swayed from side to side
    in the cold, isolation of her room.
    The cuckoo was quiet at midnight,
    her own laughter echoed mute,
    void of excitement and joy.
    But when she was forty-one,
    white-caped magicians came,
    performing incomprehensible tricks.
    Her endless quiet broken
    by her son’s simple word “Mom”
    the beautiful origin of sound.

    Daniel Roessler

  245. carolecole66 says:

    Pulling Out

    File drawers, desk drawers, book shelves,
    accumulated detritus of decades, it’s slow
    going sorting all this out. In one box, my graduate career
    in labeled folders, one per class: exams,
    seminar papers, class notes. It’s all tossed in the trash
    and history is gone in a flick. “The past
    is a pile of ashes,” someone said
    but mine is a heap of shreds
    sent to the recycle bin. I feel alone,
    scanning the shelves. They look
    like books, not a life, yellowed
    and dusty, and truly without value.
    “The past is never dead,” Faulkner said
    And this book speaks, and that and that.
    I hear the voices, dim and growing dimmer.
    I cannot bear to touch them.


  246. veronica_gurlie says:

    The End of Our Love.

    It was stale,
    and spoiled,
    and just running out,
    and finally going right down the drain.
    But as I looked deep within,
    I saw it squirming, and chocking to death, in the dark somewhere,
    like an really ugly, forgotten part of my past.

    • veronica_gurlie says:

      I didn’t realized that my spell checked put the wrong word in.
      PLEASE USE THIS ONE. thank you.

      The End of Our Love.

      It was stale,
      and spoiled,
      and just running out,
      and finally going right down the drain.
      But as I looked deep within,
      I saw it squirming and choking to death, in the dark somewhere,
      like a really ugly, forgotten part of my past.

  247. encrerouge says:

    Fight or Flight

    This string has pulled me away
    from the stardust wallflowers
    hugging my waist and making the legs stretch
    away, away blows the horn
    movement follows the flight
    Am I a kite?

    The wind rushes, dances out pour in sweat
    farewell to you stager, harm me no more
    those notes that copied the stars
    entrust them to biographical reviews
    and hope for a tree in their place
    Was this a maze?

    state is no longer of this thread
    each piece braiding truths with lies
    paper will not subside between
    destiny and choices….

    While the soul wonders off
    make sure to convince the heartbeats,
    of this trip a lariat will dissolve.

  248. Youth

    The end was all blue—
    My aura. My tears. My skin.
    He unmade the brown girl
    Who knew better, thought

    She’d seen enough as a child,
    Never expected to file away
    Such hurt in the chambers of her heart.
    She did not know loving an artist could be

    So hard. He pounded out all the spice rack
    Colors and painted her the shade of the waters
    She called home. Dark waters. Almost grey—
    Not like the beach

    That held her grandfather’s bones
    On some island. This man made her
    Dark like Miami — polluted, murky.
    She couldn’t see down to her toes

    Even if a hawk lent her its eyes.
    She didn’t try to see. Only hoped
    The beginning would come alive
    Again and this love wouldn’t end

    So messy.

  249. laurie kolp says:

    From November’s PAD to April’s PAD

    This poem’s just for fun,
    not a serious one

    unless you consider the topic–
    a death, which was so quick

    that in November’s poem-a-day
    Mom’s demise seemed far away

    the news as fresh as homemade bread,
    6 months max– her death, they said.

    I tried my best to meet Mom’s needs
    immersed myself in helpful deeds

    poemed about the cancer in her lungs
    that travelled to her brain too young

    to lose a mom, but that I did
    right before this April spread

    of writing poems. As I compare
    then to now—Mom’s not here

    but these prompts on Poetic Asides
    are therapeutic as words collide.

    Thank you.

  250. LizaMac says:

    Beginning and Ending

    Trapped, paralyzed, suspended;
    Stretched in breath-taking fear
    Over the chasm between
    Beginning and Ending.

    Helpless, blind panic swivels
    My gaze from side to side,
    Doubting the solidity paths once
    Promised on either side.

    Now, disorientation means
    I can no longer tell
    If Ending is Beginning,
    Or to begin means to end.

    Leave me alone in this void
    Clutching quietly to my fear,
    Brooding in the dark womb between
    Beginning and ending;

    Cocooned, safe from unknown pain,
    Unbearable memory

  251. k_weber says:


    We start as friends
    who want to rub each other’s knees
    so we sit closer and quieter
    until our legs touch. We are moments
    from blossoming as hot, blue flames
    but we just miss the electric instant.

    Then we are lovers
    whose skin whispers in a secret tongue
    and we are free with pillows and hands
    in the exploration of half-sleep
    and dizzy longing. There are countless, unbridled pearls
    of sweat as we let go, together.

    - k weber

  252. End of the Golden Age

    “Verily I say unto you,
    This generation shall not pass,
    till all these things be fulfilled.
    Heaven and earth shall pass away…”
    - Matthew 24:34-35

    Jesus was 2000 years ahead of his time
    But the gods of the apocalypse
    Will not bring justice for anyone
    Poseidon will swallow seaside cities
    Thor will hammer the flatland with tornadoes
    Shiva will burn the rest

    We’ve had a great run
    Accomplishments both gory and glorious
    We’ve flung our fellow men to the moon
    And our robots to the stars
    We’ve tamed the wilderness
    And consumed it whole

    We’ve trashed our hotel room
    Like the rock stars we are
    Now let’s slip into nothingness
    Naked on the toilet
    Gasoline overdose
    Still in our veins

    And like an abused groupie
    Maiden Earth will be fine someday
    Sure we left a few bruises
    And plenty of DNA evidence
    For future forensic archaeologists
    But she will heal and forget

  253. Starts

    Spring a closer of sorts
    heralding winter’s end
    with robin trills and daffodils.
    While dormant yellows brighten
    to tiny shoots of green.
    Lusterless frost turns to dew
    tiny buds turn to blooms.

    From the mound
    a pitch is thrown
    Cheers rain down
    a diamond field.
    Pop flies and Cracker Jacks
    it’s Opening Day.

  254. bonniejj says:

    Unfinished (a Self Portrait)

    She is beguiled
    by blank pages,

    enchanted by the
    empty canvas,

    captivated by the prospect of
    unformed clay

    seduced by sirens who sing

    “begin again!”

    Bonnie J. Vesely, 2014

  255. Sharon Ann says:

    Remembering Summer

    Sunshine and beach
    warm, moist lake air.
    Summer dawns quietly
    with breezes that whisper
    of the midday sun.
    Shoulders are brown.
    Lips drying, hair flying,
    glare off the water.

    Wind off the lake cools,
    sun masked by gray.
    Summer ends quietly as
    leaves turn, colors change.
    Brown shoulders are gone.
    Sweaters pulled tight to the wind.
    Pink noses, bright cheeks,
    white caps on the water.

  256. Brian Slusher says:


    It’s the time of year I try to decide
    If the broken peach is more dead than alive

    Its trunk half-snapped from the root
    But still half-anchored to the earth

    So it rests on it limbs, prostrate to the road
    Dangling its blossoms just over the curb

    And each bud looks like the high-spiked crown
    That might adorn a French king’s brow

    Yet the other fork of its bole upswings inert
    Like barren lightning striking the sky

    And I can’t decide if it cannot die or
    Will not try to live much more than

    Just enough for summer, to release
    A few sweet gems that drop to the street

    To feed the gathered, greedy yellow jackets

  257. Marjory MT says:

    slips in,
    new day begins

    choice of
    ights and sounds;

    buds, first
    hint of spring.

    soft note
    he robin sings.

    chorus loud
    from sheltered spring.

    green sprouts
    from napping bulbs.

    arrow from
    cupid’s hidden bow

    hearts experience
    a new glow.

    promises ‘tween
    he and she.

    a date,
    troth to pledge,

    ocean cruse
    just up ahead.

    slips in,
    new life begins.

  258. bonniejj says:

    Husky’s Spring Grooming

    Chilie is uncharmed
    by the notion of cold, naked nestlings
    cradled and warmed in his cast-off winter coat.
    He squirms at the caress of the comb,
    growls and pounces and mouths
    our hands and comb away, the imp,
    heat of last summer
    dim memory to a dog
    who has suffered through only one
    sweltering season.

    The year before, he’d tangled and tussled
    with his litter-mates,
    nested and hairless himself,
    a nursing pup, barely aware.
    So perhaps he believes last summer’s heat a
    one-time event,
    not to be repeated?

    More likely, he believes in nothing at all
    before this spring day,
    stirring scents on the breeze,
    these strange, furless new litter-mates
    pinning him and
    ready to wrestle.

    Bonnie J. Vesely, 2014

  259. toujourskari says:

    In the Beginning

    Chaos, formlessness awaiting the spark
    Cold, barren, void of life
    I hold my not-yet-breathing breath
    Waiting to receive
    Waiting to conceive
    Waiting for the spark to ignite an inferno

    My raw senses sound the alarm
    Anticipation of first contact
    Your touch lights the match
    Spreading wildfire through my being
    My skin, my flesh, my bones
    Being consumed, wanting to consume
    As the flames melt the years of desolation
    the years of nothingness
    the years of sorrow
    into tiny innocuous puddles
    reflecting nothing

    We blaze until we’re reduced to ashes
    Until we burn each other to the ground
    Fertilizing the fallow soil
    Bringing life to my once empty land
    The smoldering embers quietly testify
    To the creation of my world
    And the genesis of my heart

    The dawn of my soul begins

  260. cbwentworth says:

    Kissed by wings,
    taking flight
    Feathered drop,
    seasoned ground
    Drink the sun,
    touch the rain
    Down they dig,
    rooted deep
    Life begins,
    veins unfurled
    Reaching up,
    leafy limbs
    Nestling buds,
    blushing blooms
    Wilted green,
    withered stalk
    Shorter days,
    longer moons
    Darkness dreams,
    of gold wings

  261. veronica_gurlie says:

    At the End of My Marriage.

    Our smiles were all brassy and really gold
    but when the curtains fell,
    in the darkest part of our minds,
    there was our collection of kind words
    crushed and thrown up into deep space,
    and catching fire as they came down.
    There was our cold glassy stares tangoing,
    and a little bit of light, and the truth rising naked.
    There was our retreat to a hall in our own hearts- echoing,
    with the last somber note, of an old an violin.

    • veronica_gurlie says:


      Please use this one. thank you.

      At the End of My Marriage.

      Our smiles were all brassy and really gold
      but when the curtains fell,
      in the darkest part of our minds,
      there was our collection of kind words
      being crushed and thrown up into deep space,
      and catching fire as they came down.
      There was our cold glassy stares tangoing,
      and a little bit of light, and the truth rising naked.
      There was our retreat to a hall in our own hearts- echoing,
      with the last somber note, of an old violin.

  262. MMC says:

    And So It Begins

    She begins this day as she always does:
    rises from her single bed, washes face, brushes teeth,
    dresses, then heads down the hallway
    to join the others. At her table, one of many,
    everyone nods, says “Good morning.”
    She’s lucky: despite various infirmities
    of age, they know who they are
    and who she is. As always, coffee, toast, eggs,
    await her. But today, they bring her a cupcake
    with caramel icing and a single blue candle on top.
    Today, they sing to her with smiles on their faces.
    Today is her 99th birthday. Today she begins
    the hundredth year of her life on this earth.

  263. gmagrady says:


    Though I feel a shadow
    unaware of where I’m headed
    undecided, hesitant

    Robert taps my shoulder—
    “You’ve been standing here long enough;
    it’s time, my dear, to walk.”

    swaying like the tree limbs
    new mom at 3 a.m.
    a pendulum
    time ticking
    standing still
    I sway

    Jack stumbles into me—
    “Burn, sweetheart, burn;
    you’re mad to travel, to be, to talk.”

    Silence behind
    lips quiver
    branches crack
    with no words
    for numbness.

    Still mute
    Still solo

    Bruce urges me on
    to a promised land
    if I just take his hand

    and I want to be led
    hunger to be fed
    life to rise from the dead

    “Are you coming?” I call out

    as I step out,
    not knowing the shadow’s whereabouts,
    either way,
    no longer…

  264. kimdorfman says:

    I Am Not Now

    I am not now who I will be
    Come the end of summer, when they leave.

    I am not now, this April of college envelopes,
    And the very last of each annual event,
    Who I was before they came,
    Seventeen years ago, roughshod and early,
    Tearing me tight,
    Reshaping my every shift of breath.

    For me, it has all been joy upon joy,
    Even the hard parts.

    Because I had lived all that time before them, waiting,
    For my life to begin.’

    Slowly, I begin to remember focus,
    And how it works,
    As I must.

    Yet, who will I be, come autumn?
    That season after they leave,
    So abrupt,
    Same as they came into my life,

  265. beale.alexis says:

    Reposting because the spelling error in my last post bothered me.

    “Mother Nature”

    My father carved a heart on your base
    with his name inside.
    I want you to blossom.
    Use your roots
    to soak up every ounce of goodness
    left in me. It’s yours.
    Your leaves have given me shade
    and nectar all my life.
    You never swatted or smacked away
    the sound of me buzzing by your ear.
    You stood stalk still like a tree,
    indifferent to my annoyance.
    Other humans can’t stand the sight of me.
    You motherly instinct forced you to stretch
    out your branches and
    give me a home full of honey.
    Even when the butchers came
    and chopped you down
    with mental disorder and death,
    you made sure I survived.
    Your beautiful bark is full of lashings
    and desperation. I understand
    the need for escape and freedom.
    Forever enslaved by my queen,
    I have not yet been able to fly free
    or taste the honey of my choice.
    I’m sorry for what you have become
    Thirty-seven feet of wisdom
    but unable to share yourself with the world
    or anybody, really.
    I am no one,
    but if I had a say
    you would leave this middle ground
    and start
    a new.

  266. JoCam says:


    Their stalks straining taut eastward from the stone-filled pot
    in the dusty bay window, dim from a late snow flurry,
    the hothouse jonquils press their trumpets
    anxiously against the glass.

    Is it warm? Is it safe? Is it spring?

    Eager to escape the fluorescent bulbs above them,
    impatient to exit the ceramic pot’s confines,
    so they can wriggle their roots among welcoming
    and trumpet their fanfares upward into
    the sunlight.

    Jo Cameron, 4/1/14

  267. beale.alexis says:

    “Mother Nature”

    My father carved a heart on your base
    with his name inside.
    I want you to blossom.
    Use your roots
    to soak up every ounce of goodness
    left in me. It’s yours.
    Your leaves have given me shade
    and nectar all my life.
    You never swatted or smacked away
    the sound of me buzzing by your ear.
    You stood stalk still like a tree,
    indifferent to my annoyance.
    Other humans can’t stand the sight of me.
    You motherly instinct forced you to stretch
    out your branches and
    gave me a home full of honey.
    Even when the butchers came
    and chopped you down
    with mental disorder and death,
    you made sure I survived.
    Your beautiful bark is full of lashings
    and desperation. I understand
    the need for escape and freedom.
    Forever enslaved by my queen,
    I have not yet been able to fly free
    or taste the honey of my choice.
    I’m sorry for what you have become
    Thirty-seven feet of wisdom
    but unable to share yourself with the world
    or anybody, really.
    I am no one,
    but if I had a say
    you would leave this middle ground
    and start
    a new.

  268. susanjer says:

    Taking Turns: a Phone Book Advocacy Program

    Aardvark Plumbing has been first
    ever since “A” assumed alphabetic ascendancy.

    And no one, not the ACLU, the BBB or even Bob’s
    24-hour Plumbing has complained about the impact

    of alphabetic dominance on the bottom line
    of businesses, small and large. In this era of legislated

    fairness, I advocate that each letter, all 26, get top
    billing on a rotating basis. I’m not a numbers

    person, but, hey, I can divide 52 by 26. Even
    if you consider numerology poppycock,

    you have to (a reasonable person would) admit
    there is a pre-ordained sense that my plan could

    bring harmony to the alphabetically disadvantaged.
    Imagine how “X” might expand during its two-

    week reign at the head of the line. Given that most
    of us now consult a digital directory, it would

    just be a matter each two weeks of advancing a letter
    to first place. No one would have to change their

    stationary. Period. No one would need new
    business cards. Period. With all transparency,

    glitches are likely in the rollout. Would it be legal,
    say, for a business to change its name bi-weekly to rise

    to the lead position? I don’t know. No one does.
    Here’s the good news, the GAO has estimated

    the Alphabetic Adjustment Act will not cost a fat
    dime and could result in an uptick of the GNP.

  269. Deborah Hare says:

    Brand New Day

    Sweet swelling song, outside-
    Soft velvet warm , inside-
    The world explodes,
    into a brand new day,

  270. Golden Rule says:


    Every beginning has an end
    and every end is a welcome
    mat inviting a new beginning.
    Just as birth begins with pain
    and ends with beauty…
    welcoming life that births
    the sun giving off light.
    So shine! Shine like you’re
    eyes and the wold is blind
    so they can see that though
    there is darkness the sun and
    the moon never cease to shine.
    So imitate! Be the sun and the moon
    say’s simon and never cease to shine.


    Inspiration turns to perspiration

    And yet,

    I woke this morning
    in the same bed,
    to the same man.
    I put on shoes that know me well.
    I drove to work in the same old car,
    to the same daily grind.

    It’s a new day.

    (I announced to the world today that I am opening a new book store next month. I’m currently part owner of Prospero’s Parkside Books. As of today, April 1st, the beginning of a new tax quarter, and according to state and federal to whom it concerns’, it is “The Inklings’ Books & Coffee Shoppe, LLC. We are moving to a new building in May. Call me crazy for trying to participate in the April PAD, too. Day One is done. )

  272. DCR1986 says:


    Good Morning April!
    March in with winds of eagerness,
    Sprinkle your showers of new beginnings.
    Please, I say,
    Apply no foolery this way!
    Sow my soul with seeds of ardor
    Then caress me at the roots
    As the world turns,
    Pinky promise of comfort to recycle her green,
    Bed me dandelions for my brown nose
    To sniff,
    Lips to whisper florets away,
    As I twirl at another before the ending of the day.

  273. kirakar says:

    I wake up and
    look at these surroundings wanting to be this one the first time
    to discover each book in our small library
    and not to know their pages
    and not to not see the highlights and scribbles on the margins
    I then will appreciate the spices in the kitchen
    and think about the places
    we could go
    to be us
    to be again that beginning that is now our past
    to be a first today
    a never before
    a happily ever after without an epilogue
    or notes at the end
    just empty pages on the journal
    waiting for me to be imprinted anew
    alluring in black ink
    in a fast pace handwriting
    on the white
    longing for you

  274. dwalker8508 says:

    In The Beginning

    I was a good Christian boy.
    I sipped grape juice from plastic
    thimbles and ate stale communion
    crackers handed from older men
    bending low to my outstretched palm.

    But eventually I had more questions
    than old men to ask, and I can’t
    decide whether I’ve found answers
    somewhere inside myself or I’ve just
    grown tired of my own voice.

  275. Anita Murphy says:


    The dishes are washed,
    the laundry is done
    and damn,
    it’s my house.

    The children have left,
    my mother has moved
    and damn,
    it’s my house.

    My friends will come,
    my dates will stay
    and damn,
    it’s my house.

    Beginnings and ends,
    alone at sixty
    and damn,
    it’s quiet in my house,

  276. Roderick Bates says:


    Having just turned 65,
    I’m a lot closer to the ending
    than I am to the beginning.

    However, I am now eligible for
    (and just bought)
    a permanent hunting
    and fishing license
    (thank you, Vermont!),
    although I appreciate
    the irony of calling anything
    permanent at this point.

    And the snow is leaving
    my western hillside,
    every downhill wrinkle
    running with melt.

    I am planting seeds
    and hanging lights
    over the green pots
    of peppers, tomatoes.

    So, yes, I am ending,
    but I am also beginning,
    and with luck will begin again,
    another dozen times or more.

    The beginning of mud season
    may not be the best of starts,
    but it is a beginning,
    and I will take it.

  277. Me and Neil

    “I Am, I Said” echoes off the walls
    Of a nearly-barren apartment,
    The half-filled cartons
    Packed with the trappings
    Of a broken life,
    Mementos carefully sanitized
    Of your presence…
    If only memories
    Were so easily cleansed.

    No one is there in the emptiness,
    Only me and Neil.
    I close my eyes and see
    The ratty green recliner
    Leftover from your frat boy days,
    Your tattered Elway jersey
    Draped across the arm,
    Photographs of laughing faces
    Untouched by the taint of betrayal,
    The calloused hands
    That used to dry my tears.
    Those tears fall freely
    In this soon-to-be vacant place,
    Yet another failed attempt
    To build a world without you.

    Neil understands my pain,
    The loneliness that hangs
    Like tattered curtains
    In a low-rent room,
    The need to keep moving on,
    Not knowing if I’m running
    Away from heartache
    Or straight toward it.
    I tell myself that the next town
    Will perhaps be a bit less empty,
    But no one is there to believe my lies.
    No one is listening.
    Not you.
    Not Neil.
    Not even the chair.

  278. Blaise says:


    Unlike the heat of the struggle,
    cast of recurring characters
    pounding across my stage,
    refusing to go, pictures thrown,
    refusing to just do what is required,
    lamps kicked over, a door slammed
    not really meaning an exit,

    Unlike my efforts to direct this chaos,
    ducking and shuffling, whining and raging,
    to assert myself at the loudest pitch,
    with hope to prevail,

    Unlike the dramatic resolution,
    sweeping up the pieces,
    sending the roses – red, white or black,
    pasting the reviews in my mind,

    Unlike all this action,
    a beginning
    sneaks invisibly, unannounced,
    impossibly quiet yet born from all that noise,
    no name, no shape,
    no color, no deadline,
    so subtle I cannot mark the moment it entered.

    Only years from now
    in the midst of some new plot
    can I pinpoint the instant
    this future afterglow begins -
    my suddenly empty mind
    reveling in a radiant blank page.

  279. Paoos69 says:

    The End of a Beginning or the Beginning of an End

    The western sky now lost in grey
    Its rosy tinge gone for another day
    The lake too now made of steel

    I arise from deep slumber
    The clock crying in alarming dismay
    Start of another day

    Lunches made, sheets all straight
    The morning storm temporarily abates
    The end of a beginning in a way

    The empty house echoes within
    As I turn to that abandoned chore
    That can wait alas no more

    Work hours hold a different charm
    A strange mix of chaos and calm
    Fun, longing, nostalgia

    The evening a rush
    An amalgam of taxi service, cooking a walk and design
    Wish the whole day could be mine

    The rosiness is setting in
    A sparkle amidst the din
    Bringing on the end of a beginning.

  280. friEND

    I called you this
    and didn’t mean it.
    This word, like secrets I can’t keep.
    This word, no longer in my vocabulary.
    I count them in my fingers now
    and have digits to spare.

  281. shethra77 says:


    The ice thaws.
    Overhead, a dozen vees of
    crying swans turn
    sharply at the river,

    heading home.

    Turning sharply away, we flee
    our river’s edge, trains’ rumbling fast freight roar,
    this house no longer home, and
    fly to the new.

  282. Hayley says:

    “Between The End And Beginning”

    Between two points is the beginning of the end
    of the end of the beginning:

    a middle of possibilities,
    an infinity of letters,
    of points between A and B;

    a galaxy of an alphabet
    that forms no words,
    and that no language keeps,

    yet which is meaningful, in the way
    that silent letters speak.

  283. MaryP says:

    Typing the Slide

    I never see anything but a slight film anymore.
    I wipe my glasses, wipe them again, fingers cramp
    and drop, and I’m squinting at the middle ground…
    Suddenly I am 93 and choking.
    Choking on not-voicelessness,
    hum held in the throat,
    nose stopped up with trill,
    word song clogging, slogging like mud around
    palsied ankles and shakes that I can’t clean.
    Deceitful joints, deceitful, and agonizing
    words, too many in the mouth,
    too many thought but stopped at the tongue,
    caught in the craw, trapped in the crux,
    hand flapping frantically to disaffected orderlies,
    buzzing the high wire whine of almost…
    And I’m back, squinting at the screen,
    fumbling frames onto face,
    43 and full of voice,
    but still
    gumming them over like a fine mush.

    – Mary Pascual

  284. beale.alexis says:


    I’m no white moon
    Horror struck and weeping for eons
    Forever in this final state, exposing my true self ever so often

    Forget me not
    I am strawberry season, ripe at the vine
    Luscious red and plump
    I watered myself into this state and
    You say I’m poison on your tongue
    Unappreciative of my juices
    Why –
    For once I am my own flavor, not yours

  285. matthew says:

    Mass Production
    In the beginning someone messes up
    We are all human and it happens
    More often than not
    There are 1,100 channels
    And nothing on
    A hundred buttons to push
    On an automated trim press
    It only takes eight to start it up
    Hit the wrong one maybe
    Nothing happens
    Maybe 400 tons crushes
    The aluminum arms of the automation

    Thank the heavens
    It was only the robot

    Patience and practice
    Keep the machine humming along

    In the beginning even the engineers
    Got it wrong and crashed the machine
    It was going too fast
    The rising up and crashing down
    Shook the automated arms
    And cracked every bolt

    Picture this
    20 average toothpicks
    Holding up a jogging giraffe

    Well in the end
    They had to slow it down
    Patience and practice
    Keep the machine humming along

  286. SRK027 says:

    To start anew is sad, too:
    My desk has photos of my mother, cards for my birthday.
    Thinking of taking the tacks from my bulletin board
    and emptying my desk makes me cringe
    just as much
    as the thought of staying put.

  287. Andrea says:

    dumb numbness

    It was a dumb numbness
    that muscled in on her heart,

    stole a craving for
    center of a cinnamon roll love
    that spiraled sweet and sticky

    Struck with
    an arrhythmia that can’t dance,
    she learned the Bed-slipper Shuffle
    and how to overeat

    She breathed crumbs
    at the right-side memory foam shell
    without impact, without heartbeat

    without the bread-man
    the ants carried away

  288. Alpha1 says:

    Material Matters

    In theory
    The universe began big
    With a bang
    A mass of celestial
    Objects hurtling through space
    That cosmic micro-wave
    Heating up
    Always expanding
    Speeding towards
    A collision course
    With itself

  289. anloebick says:

    Fleeting Moment

    A rain of petals
    Scatters across my porch,
    Tumbling in the breeze.
    A graceful chaos
    Signals the beginning of Spring

    White on brown,
    A delicate silk,
    Like soft, warm snow.
    A fleeting tableau–
    Intangible moments of Spring.

    Drifting sinuously,
    Below the clouds,
    Maroon leaves spawn
    From balding stems.
    Spring fades to Summer in the South.

  290. Angie5804 says:

    The Atlantic

    It began with sandcastles and climbing rocks
    And floating on rented rafts
    This love for the ocean
    It became music, suntan oil, body surfing and bikinis
    Then back to sandcastles and picnics with babies

    It still soothes
    This language of forever waves crashing
    Shadows from seagulls overhead
    Sand between my toes
    I will miss this landscape of my life
    The background of dreams
    An anchor in a shifting world

  291. In the beginning,
    there were sweet smiles,
    gentle laughs,
    and strength in our bones.

    In the beginning,
    we carried the weight
    of our hearts
    right on our sleeves.

    In the beginning,
    we couldn’t be held
    by any fear that invaded
    when we looked at each other.

    But this isn’t the beginning.
    We have felt it ending
    for years even as we
    held on and on.

    So this is the ending,
    where we are older
    and maybe wiser.

    This is the ending,
    with a jade tint where
    we used to see roses.

    This is the ending,
    that we’ve avoided
    but know carrying on
    won’t be the same.

    -S. Monahan
    All rights reserved.

  292. Beewrite says:

    Choose Hello
    By Michelle Starks Murrish

    It’s so hard to say goodbye
    Or so we’ve all been told,
    Yet, the true villain isn’t the end
    But rather, the beginning.
    Forcing our heart to open once more,
    Setting us up for the sadness yet to come.
    The end is a fact
    While the beginning is a mystery.
    But we do it for the middle
    For the part that fills our lives
    With such joy and sadness.
    The highest of highs
    And the lowest of lows.
    Offering just enough hope
    To keep us coming back for more.
    We all say goodbye,
    But the brave say hello.

  293. James Rodgers says:

    Tim is Leaving

    Tim is leaving.
    He broke the news to us
    this morning
    that he’s been accepted
    into a graduate program
    in New Zealand.
    And while we are
    happy for him,
    wanting the best for him,
    wishing him good luck,
    mixed with that happiness
    is a cup of sadness
    that he will be gone,
    frustrated he won’t be around,
    and worry over
    what it will be like
    without him.

    Tim is leaving.
    I’ve written it twice now,
    said it a half dozen times,
    but I don’t want to believe it.
    I know we shouldn’t
    take it personally,
    but he did choose a program
    clear on the opposite side
    of the planet
    from here.

    Tim is leaving.
    I’ve written it a third time,
    and while it’s not getting
    any easier to accept,
    accept it we will.
    Until then, we must
    enjoy his time with us,
    his unbridled
    enthusiasm for life,
    his compassion for others,
    his joy for a fine IPA,
    and a clever joke.
    We may only have
    a handful of days,
    but we will siphon
    every second of happiness
    we can with him here,
    because soon,
    too soon,
    it will no longer be
    Tim is leaving.
    The door will close,
    the silence will be
    almost unbearable,
    and Tim will be gone.

  294. Cati Porter says:

    Taking My Time

    Woke up to the sound of rain. Two eggs on toast
    And a cup of coffee, a cat napping
    On the news. In my robe on a Tuesday morning,
    The sound of the rain like typing on lawn.

    The coughing starts early today, each hitch,
    Each hiccup, a jolt. In an hour I will be in the office
    Of my GP, going over the radiology results.
    But for now, I can imagine the outcome

    Any way I like. Sunny-side up. Early sounds
    Of traffic whir, tires splashing up oily waves
    At the curb. I can still pretend that I have not already
    Read the report. If I sit still and quiet the coughing

    Subsides. If I drink the coffee, slowly. If I take care
    Not to wake the children. The dishes in the kitchen wait.

  295. James Rodgers says:

    How You Came To Be (For Sage Marie)

    Now listen close my darling
    For I have a tale for you
    It may sound a bit far-fetched
    But I promise that it’s true

    This here is the story
    Of just how you came to be
    How you joined your Mom and Dad
    And became one big family

    Some say babies are brought by storks
    While some say owls or another bird
    And this could possibly be true
    But to me it all sounds a bit absurd

    When your Mom and Dad decided
    That they wanted to have a child
    They did not go into the cities
    They went camping in the wild

    They climbed a real tall mountain
    To meet the wisest of the sages
    And they knew he was the smartest one
    As he’d been up there for ages

    And the wise man spoke so quietly
    His words were softer than the wind
    But they listened very carefully
    And then their adventures did begin

    While five miles in on a forest walk
    They found the color of your hair
    And on the back of a mountain trail
    The color of your eyes was there

    In a field where they were camping
    Or so the story goes
    They found the cutest little mushroom
    And that became your nose

    In the embrace of other countries
    Was where your arms were grabbed
    Then while hiking on the PCT
    Was where your legs were nabbed
    But deep inside your Mom and Dad
    They found their most important find
    It was a combination of each of them
    That gave you your heart and mind

    And what I’ve heard about your parents
    What I’ve seen and what I know
    Your heart and mind are very strong
    And will continually grow

    They have travelled all around this place
    From mountain high to ocean blue
    Finding treasures near and far
    But their greatest discovery was you

    So it is time to go to sleep
    It is time to rest your eyes
    It is time to dream a dream
    It is time to let out restful sighs

    For not tonight but very soon
    You will travel with your Father and Mother
    Go searching across this land of ours
    And heaven forbid find you a brother

  296. Margot Suydam says:

    Trees are sacraments of peace.
    They teach me the difficult art of patience,

    —from “MYSTICISM OF THE TREE” by Armando Rojas Guardia (translated by Guillermo Parra)

    All begins and ends with a need
    to at least try
    on patience, to size it up

    like I would a tree fallen
    in my path. I study
    the fiber of its age-old bark

    prepare myself to climb
    over its husk, simply
    to glimpse at greener fields

    Not lean on my horn
    loudly honk In traffic
    like I like

    to do, but breath
    in the air, and out
    my smog-cluttered days.

  297. Sara McNulty says:


    Prelude to dinner appeared
    as a spring greens salad,
    tossed with honeyed pecans,
    and sliced pears. Strips
    of parmesan criss-crossed
    the top. I could barely wait
    to savor the next course.



    She waited, wineglass in hand,
    for the finale, grand finish
    of the season. Oh no. What was
    happening? This was not headed
    in a good direction. She peeked
    through fingers, slatted like
    popsicle sticks. Wait! wait!,
    she cried in her head. It cannot
    end this way. She dabbed
    at her eyes, and kept telling
    herself, they are only actors
    in a television show.
    None of this is real.

  298. Kevin D Young says:


    I spit in my hand once
    too often and now I have
    a frog in my throat. Gran
    says this is the beginning
    of wisdom, that I will learn
    many things this way. Many things.

    When she was young (an
    impenetrable picture, snowed
    over by light, gauzy hair
    and a spoon that never leaves
    her fingers), Gran rode the horse
    that bucked Johnny Ringer

    onto his wide flat ass, that sent
    Mick Amberg to the hospital twice
    in one week and broke Buddy
    Blalock’s fingers by way of a two
    hundred fifty pound bookie
    with the primped up name of Glory.

    REally, Gran? Really. What
    happened did you fall were
    you hurt did you ride again
    where was Grandad is this
    true? She spit into the spoon
    and cleared her throat.

  299. lshannon says:

    Mornings start slowly.
    Offhanded glances at the clock and
    bottomless cups of tea.

    The dog sighs
    and burrows under a patchwork
    of flannel and cotton.

    Spring weather
    has not quite chased away
    the winter habits.

    A slow warm awakening

    -Lauren Shannon

  300. julie e. says:


    My ipad keyboard won’t respond
    my laptop bit the dust
    and of course it wasn’t
    properly backed up
    i once put pen to paper and
    will again if i must
    Do i own an actual thesaurus
    without a virtual one at my touch?

    Am i beginning again,
    learning again,
    starting all over again?
    is the loss of the old data
    also known as “my life”
    The. End.
    or the start of
    a new old way
    to see–pen to paper,
    old thoughts
    with new insight?


    • lshannon says:

      Love this, captures what we risk and gain with technology and analog hand in hand

    • lshannon says:

      this is my “endings one”

      4/1 Endings

      I closed the doors
      on a dream partially realized
      If I go this path again it needs to be
      more considered
      more perfected
      more celebrated
      more my own.

      I can no longer accept
      less planned
      less from my dream
      less execution and passion
      less of myself.

      It is an end
      leading to some beginning
      as yet unclear and unknown
      but it will be more.

      -Lauren Shannon

  301. Erynn says:

    Our time began with a single kiss
    You looked into my soul
    And fell in love

    I was to shy to ask your name
    You were too afraid of rejection
    But our hearts knew better

    We started out slowly
    Breathing each other in
    Learning the ropes

    We grew together
    Intertwining like vines
    Reaching for the heavens

    Now we are one
    Bound by love and devotion
    Relishing each moment

    But grey skies hover above us
    Threatening our love
    Can we weather this storm

    Lightning splits us in two
    Our love disintegrates in the heat
    Our moment is done

    We no longer ache with love
    Our vines are untangled
    Charring in the flames

    • Bucky Ignatius says:

      Hello Erynn–I can find no way to comment. I am registered, and had a comment appear a week ago, but all the ‘comment’ button does is show me the other poems. I’ve tagged mine to yours–help!


      There is a magic hour
      in summer, when poems
      bite before the lure is cast.

      It starts when afternoon
      slanted sun casts bronze
      light on the garden beds;

      ends in the gloaming
      when mosquitoes rule.
      But an April day like

      this, after a winter
      that didn’t know
      when to leave—

      when poetry lurks
      under molded leaves,
      when lizards dance

      on the rocks, the eyes reel:
      where on earth to start,
      how in hell to stop?

      Bucky Ignatius

  302. SugarMagnolia says:


    What makes a beginning so special?
    The anticipation of new feelings
    A fresher outlook, perhaps
    The beginning of looking forward
    Refusing to look back
    Or hold onto the pain you carried so long
    Beginning to feel the happy
    You realize you deserve
    After much too long of going without
    For you finally start beginning to see
    After years and years
    That sometimes it takes an ending

  303. DanielAri says:


    now if you visit me at work, I’ll make you a latte,
    even do a skull and crossbones in the cinnamon
    and milk foam. Before you couldn’t visit me at all
    unless you were also heading east on I-40, say,
    and we radioed to catch a breakfast at some
    Waffle House. You see, Lil needed to be picked up
    directly after school, every day, with no chance
    to malinger with the sort who’d already gotten her
    busted once for shoplifting, once for Robitussin,
    and many times for truancy. I put in for some
    inviolate off-duty hours during each week, but
    Perry, the boss, still and ever the new guy said,
    “It’s company policy. It would be fine, far as I’m
    concerned, but there’s not much I can do.” I yelled
    bullshit with every part of me except tongue and
    vocal chords, but he smiled sadly, and that was
    the end of our talk. I couldn’t sleep for a week and
    my BM turned black. Alice helped me write a letter.
    I brought it into his office, cleared my throat and
    read, “I am disheartened by the inflexibility of
    company policy that’s more loyal to its own letter
    than to the people it was written to serve. If
    policy (emphasis added vocally) makes me choose
    between my family and this job, I’m sure you, Perry,
    can see what I have to do.” That sad smile, lips
    wrinkling up, eyes like one of those cartoon ponies.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, not as an apology. I kept my
    middle fingers balled into my palms and those
    inside my pockets. The place had been getting
    toxic for years. Only Eric was around, so he got
    the proxy hug for the crew. I left the yard and
    the greens, blues and yellows of the world washed
    over me like only happens after a particularly strong
    a.m. orgasm with Alice. I always was handy with
    an espresso maker. All I needed was to get new,
    hipper clothes; and now I’m grandpa, or more like
    great uncle, to all the punkers and digital painters,
    all the coffee addicts, in the neighborhood.


  304. brightstack says:

    thank you

    it’s been twelve days since you left
    the door open for me;
    i step into
    the sunlight that
    emerges from the tops of distant mountains
    and feel warm
    for the first time in years

    i felt like all good things were forever over
    until opportunity
    overwhelmed my empty room
    flooded every hollow corner
    illuminated the darkest hiding places
    and called to me,
    “it’s your time now”

  305. There Are No (Simple) Happy Endings

    Every fairy tale requires the absence of mother.
    Possibly the presence of stepmother. But where
    did the mother go? Dead in fever-dream, my dear?
    Lips burning prayers to Jesus, your tiny palm
    pinning a cool cloth to her forehead?
    This is a different story. The Tale
    of the Mother Who Left.

    Every day the same. Putting the food in,
    cleaning up what comes out. A child
    is a type of worm in its infancy.
    But a worm everyone seems to adore.
    Strange larva, always wanting more.

    And it is this always-wanting-always-touching
    that blurs the border between
    But which escape to plan?

    There is the crying-crying-won’t-stop-crying
    melon-thud of head into wall. Ohmigod, I’m so
    sorry, Ohmigod I’m so sorry. But then the stunned
    beauty of silence. The calm call to the police.
    Waiting in the sun and fresh air of the new world
    outside of the screaming—

    Or petal bloom of blood
    underwater. Crush-metal of car into concrete.
    All the mother ever wants is silence. All she
    wants to be is alone. To drown in the river
    or whisky, to marry the knife or the pills. To free-
    fall eight stories, but with or without
    the baby?

    And this is where we learn
    The Mother Who Left is hero/not monster.
    To walk away, board the bus, step up
    into the cab of the big rig, telling the trucker
    Thank you. I’ve just got to get out of here
    is the same story as giving the child love.

  306. Rolf Erickson says:

    I Forgot

    I forgot
    that today was
    supposed to be

    the beginning until
    the sky broke open

    and what used to be
    the Sun solemnly
    introduced itself

    as the one who
    habitually had
    called himself Me.

    There were no more
    wonderings or
    accusations of

    love or hate or
    cruelest of all

    All that was over
    now and looking
    back I see that all

    that was nothing more
    than clouds passing
    somewhere between

    what is and always
    was which gratefully
    always was

    nothing other
    ever than
    the Sun and Me.

  307. geraldbarr says:

    It All Begins



    begins with
    a letter
    a sound

    begins with
    a smile

  308. Daybreak

    A gentle breeze has highjacked branches
    Nodding up and down
    Quail scout bobbing as he prances
    Cheepers peck the ground

    Shadows, soft in waning moon
    Before the day arrives
    bats fly home as mountains loom
    the sun begins to rise

    Clouds appear in pastel hues
    promising pinks and pearls
    Birds awaken, chirping news
    A new day has unfurled!

    diedre Knight

  309. Monique says:

    Funny enough, I have a poem entitled Endings and Beginnings. Here goes!

    Endings and Beginnings

    I approach the end of a path
    Alongside a friend who has to go a different way
    The path I’m on continues for a bit longer
    But the end is within my sight
    I have to leave this familiar path
    And go about a different way
    But leaving my friend breaks my heart
    I know that wherever I go
    Someone new will be waiting
    But the memory of the first friend will always stay behind
    Until the memory turns into a ghost
    The end is in sight
    And something’s pushing me on
    Even though all I want to do is stop
    But I get nowhere in this desert, staying where I am
    So today I continue to walk to the end of my path
    Where the threshold to a new life
    Awaits for me

  310. Pat Walsh says:

    Here’s my attempt at ‘mashing up’ today’s two prompts into one modest little lyric:

    Beginning And End
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    At the start there were trails of stars
    in skies so dark
    the wishes once visited upon them
    had coalesced into
    seeds of cold stone

    Even then, in the longest evening
    I could weave no way
    for her to fly

    Today there is the gray rim of sky
    at the thin edge of the field
    the clover once sewn with fortune
    now burnt brown
    in lazy strains of mulch

    And finally now, in the brief cast of day
    I can thread no tether
    for her to hold

  311. dianemdavis says:

    GOODBYE (from Leaving for Lowell: a mill girl story)

    “Don’t cry,”
    I whisper in Alicia’s ear,
    hugging her so close
    she groans
    before I set her free.

    She chews her bottom lip,
    then reaches into
    her apron pocket
    and tucks a hard, smooth object
    into my hand–

    a horse chestnut
    shaped like a heart
    and polished so fine
    I can see my reflection.
    Tiny lines, scratched
    through the surface
    spell Alicia
    on one side, and Manny
    on the other.

    I press that nut
    close to my heart–
    more precious than
    all the coins
    I’ll make in Lowell,
    and smile through tears
    I’d vowed
    to leave behind.

  312. Yolee says:

    September 1966

    My heart flapped opened like shutters
    during an early Autumn storm. The first
    glimpse I got of my baby brother- he
    was wailing, pink face, undamaged
    and waved impossibly soft looking
    fists up to heaven getting a jumpstart
    on a twisted affair with God. The mustard
    and cherry leaves were restless.

  313. The End

    The stars are exploding
    sending a hot crash of rock to earth
    no water to cushion the blow

    sink holes and earthquakes abound
    what water is left is stolen
    blasted deep into the earth
    yet we keep driving

    keep killing all the coral reefs and fish
    give all the grain to the cows
    so at least we can eat
    at McDonalds

  314. Mark Conroy says:

    “I Built a Dream—Once”
    I built a dream once—several times over
    This one would work
    It seemed inspired to me
    A no fail proposition
    Things would work out—this time I knew what I needed to do
    Everything was so clear
    There were steps to be taken—one at a time
    Each of them had a little hitch
    To be overtaken
    Someone else was always in the way
    Though they didn’t plan to be there
    But I depended on them and couldn’t go around
    If only they had listen—and followed thru
    I needed their help to believe in me-they said they could—but never did
    For a day—a week—a month—a season or two—I waited.
    Then the dream died in me Mark Conroy

  315. 1. The Closet

    The wrinkles in our summer quilt
    are the welcoming smiles
    of a stranger.

    2. The Closet

    We lay flat the Navajo wool,
    its tassels hang over the
    shelf like neon.

  316. And, Again

    I miss the life I was starting to have
    I threw out
    to the internet the other evening
    feeling in a funk
    of self-defeat, of quitting
    before I’d ever got going.
    This life of crime I needed
    to leave behind. I had
    to stop leaving the best
    of myself to catch dust in the corner
    while the dishes got done
    while the husband, the kids,
    everyone else lived.

  317. each point a geometrical
    start to myriad hypothetical

    each line an infinite
    trajectory to a finite

    I stand my rocket, light its fuse,
    and fire my life along its unique

  318. catlover says:

    Beginning today
    I must end the parade
    of waltzing elephants
    on my chest

    Beginning now
    I need to find out how
    to end the lone cricket
    in my mind

    Beginning this minute
    I will find a way to win it
    The battle within
    That has no end

  319. Let it grow

    I fertilized with distance;
    pulling I miss you’s
    from the soil of my lips.
    Letting the sun’s smile
    beam through me,
    while the rain
    lightly drizzled
    in tears.

    My heart
    never needed you;
    not to grow love.
    Uprooted and replanted,
    away from your wants,
    I could finally see it.
    A new bud.

    -Iris Lebron

  320. My Shadow

    My shadow follows me
    faint under the hooked moon,
    and the stars,
    the stars that shed specks of light,
    that trace their rays around me
    an outline,
    as my shadow follows me

    tip-toeing behind
    as furtive as a feline.
    I turn around—he’s gone
    I call for him—
    hoping he hears me over
    the chorus of crickets,
    hoping my shadow finds me.

    I listen for his voice
    in the dark haze
    of a silent moment.
    I take slow, deep breaths,
    taste the air—
    the air that breathes deep, slow—
    when my shadow finds me.

    His paws dance
    through whispering grass.
    Hushed time slows,
    ticks past thick clouds
    erasing our footprints:
    and my shadow’s.

    Tired echoes parch the air.
    Wind shudders in the leaves
    waking their green dreams.
    I struggle
    with too much peace,
    wishing I could bottle some—
    save some with my shadow

    to use later in the week
    when heavy clouds
    block out the light
    of the last grasping star
    whose tears fall
    and splash across the wet sky,
    soaking me and my shadow.

    I climb thick branches
    And swing onto the roof
    where he sits next to me—
    soaking up summer’s heat—
    listening to my plans,
    my hope, my future,
    where I forget about my shadow.

    I go, I travel, I search;
    he stays behind
    casting in familiar rooms,
    for my thoughts,
    for me to wind around myself,
    to see my shadow black and long

    fading and steady at the same time.
    Then an empty night
    I search for him
    in the familiarity of a soft, blue bedroom.
    I look for him, but he is not there.
    In the black of light’s absence,
    my shadow dies.

    Alone in a moonless night
    sitting on a shag carpet
    I wait without a shadow, but
    how he dipped through shafts of light
    as I searched the dust of the garage,
    followed by my shadow.

  321. The Beautiful Carnival is on the Way

    The mountains are driving.
    I cannot name one thing
    that might induce the day
    to prepare a different portrait.

    All around is haze.
    The song has gone bad.
    in its middle part.

    A cloud in the shape
    of a question mark.
    A bird with many questions.
    The rain heads this way.

    When it begins pouring
    the father addresses his past.
    Or is that the careful music of sons?
    Later we shall speak of desire.

    —-Ian Randall Wilson

  322. First Spring Day

    I wore nothing but goosebumps
    on my legs and your arms
    around my small shoulders,
    letting brambles, dried-out
    soy crop and whispering
    milkgrass, catch against my
    polyester dress. We didn’t talk much
    except to imagine how
    others might imagine
    us in that moment –

    We are in an Impressionist landscape,
    and over there, on the other hill,
    Van Gogh has set up his easel
    to paint us as black specks amidst the yellow earth.
    Or see the farmhouse across the road
    and the uncurtained windows winking
    at us? There a little farmer is standing
    beside his old wife, watching us
    and waiting to see what we will do.

    – So we began to kiss in the wind,
    my arms around his neck, his hands against
    my bumpy skin. We kissed and then we stopped,
    resurfacing from the moment,
    glancing bashfully over each other’s shoulders,
    wondering at the way joy sometimes requires
    an extrapolated view from a faraway hill.

    The sun had softened the mud beneath
    our shoes. Looking back,
    I don’t know why we didn’t take them off.
    Now on cold nights,
    I stretch my feet beneath my sheets
    and pretend I’m squeezing Nebraska
    between my toes, wearing nothing
    on my skin except your kisses
    and the imploring gazes of a long-dead painter,
    a farmer and his arthritic wife.

  323. adjoyce says:

    Into the void

    This is the event horizon.
    There is no time,
    there is no looking back
    at the waterless moons
    or the stars that follow me,
    their light nearly gone.
    I end to begin
    and there is no fear
    as gravity squeezes me
    tight in its arms,
    carries me home
    across the dawn,
    where nothing
    feels like
    everything again.

    ©A.D. Joyce 2014

  324. The Time You Were Borne

    In the beginning,
    there was now.

    It was never long ago 
    when you think you were born.
    When you soared,
    through dawn,
    over hills, past

    pastures new.

    Now is never down the road
    past the fork
    around the bend
    when you think you will die
    at the day’s end.

    The stork never let you go.

  325. Zeenie says:

    (not) the end

    Last night, I thought about how
    I could end – if I closed my eyes
    hard enough, I’d see an exit
    in the frenetic swirls of my inside-eyelids.

    But I don’t write poems about ending,
    not even this one, because nothing
    ends, even if we bury it.

    I’ve thought about the sound
    of a heart-stop and realized
    there is no humor in lifeless skin.
    I promised you I’d always be here.

  326. jakkels says:

    sewer putrid stains of shame
    marked my page of scribbled verse
    a tribute to a fair Goddess
    spurned in public pantomime  
    shame and pain and anger boiled  
    birthed a poem of caustic distain
    lazer images of falseness and pant
    portrayed her plainness, common descent
    Farsical sketches of false frendliness
    Turned princess to poodle In the turn of a pen
    Such was it’s power and scintillating wit
    On twitter it bacame an instant hit.

  327. lethejerome says:

    “Between Death and Life”
    Jérôme Melançon

    In the morning, things will be clear. In this warning,
    Blind for good to the arrival of the morning,

    He’ll regret the dilatation and the numbness.
    Our hearts and pasts pounding in you our new lightness,

    He’ll see her mobile still in the bed, a picture
    Arms and blankets in a single act of seizure,

    Already in morning, the erasure of reins.
    You can see already that our waiting remains,

  328. maxie409 says:

    Circling Around

    It’s all about
    those doors closing
    and other ones opening
    and how endings are
    really new beginnings
    and how everything
    happens for a reason
    and the reason
    is always for your good
    even if you don’t know it.
    But wouldn’t it be nice
    if you could remember that
    when he’s walking
    out the door.

  329. Taylor Mali says:

    I cannot begin to tell you

    is what people always say
    before they begin to tell you
    anyway, the same way they

    might say I could write a book
    about my childhood and how
    my parents did their best

    to love each other, then me
    when they could not. It’s true.
    I could write a book, they say,

    but then never do.

  330. pjs says:

    I don’t think this took the first time. Here goes again. This is my first April PAD challenge, though I know quite a few of the poets here. Happy poeming to all!

    “Scathing Sorceress” April 1, 2014

    Concentration consumption,
    owls bereave her breast,
    in heartless year-long yardsticks
    or a painted stick hung ever forward
    merciless in subjection depressed.

    She looks over the wall
    she never sees,
    what silvers in silence
    dethroned in this lee.

    Matriarchs dare where the wind stops to play
    in a shelterless moray of trifled mêlée
    as I stand by her subtly
    unwanted, impure.

    She sings of my future;
    oblique and demure.

  331. Taylor Emily Copeland says:

    The host frees herself

    You crept up into me like an invader,
    an unwanted parasite from the remnants
    of a drunken mistake. I dismissed you,
    I shunned you from my already torn
    insides – another heart attack,
    another leech to be scraped from me,
    another wagging finger from my mother,
    another slow shake of the head from
    my disapproving best friends. You ended
    the minute you began. I’m not sorry to
    be rid of you, not ashamed of my selfish
    need to preserve this vessel. There are
    only so many stretch marks I can take,
    only so much strain I can bear.

  332. De Jackson says:

    Holy cow! So fun to see so many playing with poems today!
    I shall never have time to read all. Welcome to any newbies to the site. You’re gonna like it here. ;)

  333. pjs says:

    I haven’t been here for the April challenge, only the November chapbook challenge, but I saw that “an ending” absolutely fits the piece I wrote. Happy poeming to all!

    “Scathing Sorceress” April 1, 2014

    Concentration consumption,
    owls bereave her breast,
    in heartless year-long yardsticks
    or a painted stick hung ever forward
    merciless in subjection depressed.

    She looks over the wall
    she never sees,
    what silvers in silence
    dethroned in this lee.

    Matriarchs dare where the wind stops to play
    in a shelterless moray of trifled mêlée
    as I stand by her subtly
    unwanted, impure.

    She sings of my future;
    oblique and demure.


  334. lionetravail says:

    Start to Finish
    by David M. Hoenig

    tiny fraction
    springing to action
    bringing the hammer down
    forceful crash of merciless reaction
    cold physics’ equation of unsubtle subtraction
    Cain’ and Abel’s ancient transaction
    step closer to ghost-town
    lessened by fraction
    grave infraction

  335. DamonZ says:

    “The Way it is”

    At first sight, you looked so promising.
    Perfection in packaging,
    So attractive outside,
    So sharp inside.

    I could not wait to get you home.
    Spend some time, just us alone.
    You were so soft on my face,
    So easy to handle, easy to embrace.

    Things were great for awhile.
    But it was all a denial.
    Soon your touch would burn.
    Fore long It became a major concern.

    So when our encounters began to cut,
    I realized this is becoming a rut.
    You became, “of no use to me”.
    It just wasn’t meant to be.

    Heartless, I tossed you away.
    I replaced you without delay.
    Save face, your replacement is a savior.
    I love opening a brand new razor.

  336. DanielAri says:

    “This Morning”

    Nothing spills like coffee spills,
    careering into gray grout.
    It wakes you up, even all
    over the tiles, cabinets,
    stove. When I get to work, I’ll

    have a cup and get to work;
    now I’m kneeling on the slate.
    Sop, drip, rinse, wring, breathe, repeat.
    My daughter reads fairy tales.
    “Make your bed for the millionth

    time—or feed your fish, at least.
    Morning’s not the time for that.”
    I pour out the stale water
    as she stumps off in a pout.
    I join The Frog Prince, laid flat

    on the wood with the skylight
    raining on us. She returns,
    sighs by my head. “I made it.”
    I reach up and squeeze her arms
    to her sides, then lift and steal

    gravity from the floorboards.
    As she hovers, we perk up.

  337. Poetic_line says:

    Start with a Recipe

    It starts with an eggplant
    and purple prose
    as a Santuko knife
    slices down the middle
    of line too long.

    The recipe forgets
    to state oven temperature
    and the tomato, I dice
    instead of slice
    leaves too many words
    on the cutting board.

    Panko crumbs listen
    from their container
    how the cheese squeals
    when its wrapper’s removed
    and the name is slashed in half.

    The olive oil laughs
    like the cow on the moon
    till it hits the frying pan.

  338. Amirae Garcia says:

    The Story of Us: Our Beginning, Our End – Amirae Garcia

    The beginning was an accident.
    It was a bloody knee and scraped palms mixed with a dash of your smile and my shy way of hiding my face behind my hair.
    We were a recipe all on our own, and we were delicious.
    One cup of hello and a teaspoon of your voice, I was hooked.
    Kisses smeared across our necks and chins like we were the only source of oxygen for each other, like all this time we weren’t even breathing.
    Sometimes I tried to eat you up; I admit it, I tried to consume your lips.
    Oh, I wanted you; how I wanted you.
    I think you knew.
    I knew you wouldn’t mind.

    The ending was unholy.
    It was full of cries from our bellies and outstretched arms towards each other.
    We were like the books in our favorite antique shops,
    our spines were tattered and we had no idea what kept us together any more.
    We tried to save each other. I begged you not to go and you sobbed a river of “stays” onto my skin. We tried, didn’t we?
    I heard that some things have no answer to the question of ‘Why?’
    I wish I could stop leaving a chorus of why’s on your machine.
    I spend my nights reading the why’s in your letters.

    The beginnings and ends come crashing through the doors at every moment.
    They linger in hopes of swallowing us whole.
    They lick our remains from their fingers and call this mercy,
    like it’s going to save us from destroying each other.

    I would chose the end of us again again and again
    if it meant I could keep the memory of our beginning.
    I would forsake all possible beginnings again again and again
    if I had a shot at one last ending with you.
    I’d do it right this time.
    I swear, I would do it right.

  339. acctgdr says:

    Silence, hushed
    Like breath held.
    A pulse, a wave, down, over, across, and up,
    Softly now, it comes
    Hear it, low, humming, a moan,
    Joined by others, it builds, taking spirit with it
    Then, awakened with bluster of higher, stronger rush
    And throbs of clashing forces
    I am lost in the music until the waving stops and the arms fall
    Exhausted to the sides. I can breathe again.

  340. geetakshi says:

    Shattered Beginnings

    A broken bottle tries to reflect
    one of the countless stars above,
    half-shattered on hard, cold concrete,
    It seeks to breathe in some fire;
    Resistant to the soundless sighs
    of a torn piece of paper,
    its faded ink now blurred ,
    like a dream lost in half-consciousness,
    or a thought half-forgotten;
    Trapped like a fish,
    gazed at and ignored:
    Lovers walk by
    under the bright starlight,
    ignoring broken bottles,
    and their resilient pride.

    ©Geetakshi Arora
    April 1, 2014

  341. In Utero

    It begins with the rhythm of fists
    against ice from the wrong
    side up.

    We kick our feet in unison
    like mamma when she sings
    the blues.

    I am drifting to the deep end
    where the membrane is
    too strong.

    Somewhere a whistle blows
    and the silhouette of feet fade
    to blue.

  342. bonbear says:

    my father’s daughter
    by jenny chen

    10 o’clock. the curtains on the storefront windows have fallen.
    my fingers beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel,
    as i take my careful pick of the gap-toothed spaces in the parking lot
    Kelly Clarkson is telling me keep your head up, nothing lasts
    while electronics beats escalate to a sugar high behind her.

    my car is the only new thing he’s bought for me but still, i forget
    that he didn’t have to. i can picture him in his uniform of corduroy pants
    and collared shirt like he has for the last 20 years of my life.
    he didn’t like being at home.

    i stop, pull up the handbrake and lean back. a shadow comes out to dump
    their trash in the dumpster, then disappeared again like an usher
    come out to sweep up the programs fallen between the seats.

    to my father, this isn’t the end. get out of my house is a reflex for him.
    he says it like when we cuss when no other word has enough force.
    he says it when he wants to feel like fire because everyone is afraid of fire, because
    how could a 22 year old college graduate respond except please i have nowhere

    to go. he says it when his wife tells him he is only good for knocking test tubes about in a laboratory.
    about in a lab and so that my mother can feel the heat of those words.

    my mother is calling me, wanting to know where i am. i let her go
    to voicemail. maybe this is the perfect exit for me.

    leave and don’t come back.
    i put my keys back into the ignition.

  343. carolemt87 says:


    Separated in creaky twin beds,
    between addresses, snoring parents,
    between states. Barely two
    months married. One afternoon
    we escape the thick chenille
    of your parent’s tiny house.

    Warm waves shimmer above
    rasping cornstalks. Cicadas
    shriek in the walnut tree
    and our shoes quicken over
    the dusty gravel path.

    Arms, waists entwine.
    A garter snake skitters
    out beneath the barn door as
    lips part to wild plum tongues.

    August sun dapples planks of gold
    over the square hay bales and
    discarded clothes. The afternoon
    melts into hungry skin
    and the scratch of straw.

  344. robinamelia says:


    So dive
    into newness
    shimmering just
    under layers of dirty
    same old same old crusty
    crumbs of been there done that

    Imagine it sparkles
    like this first April day
    warm enough to bare arms
    this never gets old

    I do

    and surely will
    and surely will die
    but even then perhaps shimmering
    surface of new never opened
    mint condition Present
    will invite rippling

    Robin Amelia Morris

  345. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    And it is time . . . welcome to another PAD! Onward, Up Word and it is good!


    She flipped open the familiar calendar,
    Planning almost effortless,
    Her adult children arriving,
    To the beach,
    Closest to her,
    For warming up, sharing time,
    Catching up on the days,
    Since Christmas!
    Her enthusiasm and joy,
    Beginning with their time,
    Plenty of possibilities ahead,
    Each moment, such potential,
    Exuberance, every chance a wonder,
    Magical glimpse of a much loved past,
    When they once needed her,
    Reaching for her affectionate hand,
    Just in case it steadied them.
    Yet somewhere in the middle,
    In this sacred stretch of time,
    She stood still in gratitude,
    Just happy they were all there,
    In one place,
    Near her,
    Holding that moment,
    A cherished opportunity,
    Silent stillness in her heart,
    Knowing well,
    As the precious weekend was ending,
    All plans and conclusions,
    Treasured each time,
    In a place in her,
    Where love . . .

    Remains the same!

  346. LGordon says:

    The Truth Itself Takes Care to Make Eyes

    When the secret note in lemon juice
    is revealed under the iron’s crimp,
    dim the lights and touch the text. Look
    at your husband on the couch, his head rented,
    his mouth slit like an envelope, look
    at the skull floating inside the skin
    then burn the paper in effigy. After
    you have talked about Heidegger
    for the last time, go back to being. His hand
    will startle yours later that night, a sleeping gesture
    of parchment. Feel your own face stretch.

  347. Inception of B

    You were a Norman Rockwell painting,
    your parents lingering in the background
    with brushstroke smiles while you read.
    You were just a teen -
    your long, dark hair a wave against
    the coffeehouse lights and the wail
    of the espresso machine.

    This is where you first made me sit up.

    Then later, in the back room of bake shop,
    your legs crossed, your foot nervously
    swinging, swinging, expecting judgment.
    I never told you that I was the skittish
    one, afraid of being boring, afraid of
    lingering too long on the curve of your
    calf, on the ring on your toe.

    Afterwards, we talked on and on over
    the hard backdrop of train tracks
    and commerce, a walking distance from your
    house, where you kept the rest of your words
    hidden from me.

  348. Danielle Wong says:

    Carry Forward

    It’s the last year
    of studying
    this subject and
    that and learning
    extra, never

    The end is near,
    yet there is a
    bright universe
    calling out to
    you to come and
    open your mind,

    You need to clear
    your mind and see
    what is there and
    why it screams your
    name over and

    Look deep, my dear.
    It was meant for
    you. It’s in your
    blood, heart, and soul.
    Follow the call,
    my sweet.

    It’s the last year,
    but only for
    this place. Next year
    holds the presents
    you will get to

  349. Danielle Wong says:

    New Job

    Muscles shimmering
    on this, the first day
    of the beginning
    of a new career
    with the excited
    thoughts of new friendships,
    adventures for all,
    teamwork, and focus
    on products wanted.

    Months turn into weeks.
    Weeks turn into days.
    Days become the night,
    blended for the sole
    purpose of deadlines
    impossible to
    be proud of or meet,
    with no quality
    left in the picture.

    Office parties come
    to soften the shock
    we are all used to,
    the lay-offs two by
    two followed by the
    smiling walk outs who
    felt their names being
    written on the list
    of who’s next to go.

    Nothing delivered
    angers customers,
    and all the new ones
    anxiously believe
    they have a system
    completely tested
    when nothing has been
    built yet by the few
    left behind to work.

    More and more this start
    is an upcoming
    end to a promised
    idea that never
    could fly from the lies,
    the mishandled games.
    Every small blunder,
    every missed pay check,
    days turn into tears.

    • Poetic_line says:

      Start with a Recipe

      It starts with an eggplant
      and purple prose
      as a Santuko knife
      slices down the middle
      of line too long.

      The recipe forgets
      to state oven temperature
      and the tomato I dice
      instead of slice
      leaves too many words
      on the cutting board.

      Panko crumbs listen
      from their container
      how the cheese squeals
      when its wrapper’s removed
      and the name is slashed in half.

      The olive oil laughs
      like the cow on the moon
      till it hits the frying pan.

    • Poetic_line says:

      Sorry I stuck my poem in the reply section. I got confused where to put it. I finally figured it out and posted again.

      On the other hand, I enjoyed your poem very much. Good luck.

  350. hammack71 says:


    cries of loss
    cries of pain
    without your face
    to see again

    Never fear the
    miracle abide
    outpouring of emotion
    the rolling tide

    It’s not the hurt from
    the sudden, sick or old
    sadness because
    angels too far to hold

  351. keepkeepingmesane says:


    I thirst for air un-breathed
    in cold flavors.
    For brightness unparalleled
    and longer spaces
    in which to unravel.
    Umbilical memories dissolve
    in the murk of my incubation.
    And through fissures
    Claws first
    From one dark swam
    to the next…
    I hatch.

  352. lionmother says:

    My day begins

    The day begins with a phone call
    From the other resident of this room
    Whose voice sounds scratchy and sick
    As he calls from his hospital bed
    And I remember other mornings when his voice
    Warm and soft awakened me while I slid onto his body
    And we connected like the two puzzle
    Pieces we were

    He calls now and I visit this version of him
    The hospital bound one
    Never knowing how he will be and
    Hoping we will once again be together
    Home with our life
    I had thought so mundane with its sameness
    Wishing we can spend aimless days sitting together
    Watching old movies on TCM or
    In nice weather on the balcony feeling the sweet
    Air on our faces

    Wishing he will be free of the yoke of this pneumonia
    Canceling his strength and keeping him in hospitals
    Leaching all from him and we play this game
    Of hospital rehab ping pong hoping finally this time
    He will be cured.

  353. End of Days

    Tribulation walks the land,
    Our broken spirits braced
    For the next catastrophe,
    The land mine waiting
    To shatter our fragile illusions.
    Do not linger in those sorrows,
    For what seems to be
    The beginning of the end
    Is often just
    The end of the beginning.

  354. skanet says:

    The closer we get to the finish line
    The harder each step comes
    The fire where we began
    Was left untended

    The closer we get to finishing
    To complete what we’ve begun
    Feels like an uphill battle
    Never ended

    I‘d love to hide, to be unseen
    To leave that fire where it lies
    And start another, to see that light again

    But the only way out
    Is all the way through
    And the only relief there is
    Is to know what it is
    To finish

  355. payal26 says:

    “Mind’s Dawn to Dusk”

    With the beginning of a day lightly dank,
    innumerable feelings yet so blank,
    early morning and refreshing thoughts unintentionally intersect,
    presumptive of the dawn close to perfect.

    With the passage of time,
    millions of emotion traps the mind,
    despite the energy drives the soul to perpetuate morning’s will,
    the surrendered brain washes away all the thrill.

    With the dusk approaching so nearly,
    sweetness of thoughts turn sour severely,
    every determined idea begins to fade away,
    and another April 1 just passes away.

  356. cholder says:


    each morning I don this suit
    brush its silken hair
    paint perfect lips
    into a convincing smile
    sheep do not detect a wolf
    wearing their cloth
    I take the stage
    lift my hands to the heavens
    all rise and kneel before me

    I Am the Alpha
    I Am the Omega
    I Am

    Chi Holder

  357. Here we go again – my beginning poem: Alternatively, you can read it here: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2014/04/not-for-cowards.html

    Not for Cowards

    Are you sure you want this?
    Things have changed, you know.
    You can’t leave a girl abandoned
    in the forest
    and expect things to be the same
    a year later.
    A lot can happen
    to a girl
    alone in the forest.
    She has to do things
    if she is to last.
    Things you don’t talk about
    in polite society.
    A girl has to eat, for example.
    I’d rather not go into details.
    Your stomach was never too strong.
    You say you still want to follow
    wherever I decide to go.
    Are you sure that is safe?
    You will see things.
    There will be nightmares.
    You will have to do
    whatever I tell you to do.
    And what if you find out
    you like it?
    Don’t come crying to me
    This forest is not
    for cowards.

  358. dolsz35 says:

    Love at First Soul

    It’s hard to explain what I feel for you
    Every time I try I end up talking in loops
    But here we go
    I’m going to try once more…

    From the first moment I met you,
    I fell in love with your soul.
    Your inner light reflected unto mine as if I was a mirror and it made us both… shine.
    You remember that parking spot you took me to for the first time?

    It was dark
    but you and I
    we cast a light so bright
    that caused all natural elements around us to come alive.
    It caused the breathless grass underneath our feet to ignite.
    Didn’t you feel that spark too?
    Didn’t it creep up on you and electrocute you
    at the tip of your toe to the strands of your hair?
    Didn’t you feel me all around you in the air?

    You remember the first time you ever kissed me goodnight?
    I finally understood the purpose of my lips
    They were made to meet yours and
    crash into them like waves unto a shore

    I was meant to be your harbor
    You were meant to be my ship
    We could’ve sailed away together
    We could’ve built a life for each other

    I remember having to say goodbye to you
    I remember wishing I had said I loved you
    My devoid heart would’ve liked me to

    But we both knew what we had to do
    We had to move on
    To continue

    We had to share our light with someone else’s darkness
    Like moving the sun to shine in dark places

    We are the proof
    That light can shine in the dark
    That warmth can save a heart
    That love does conquer it all
    And time
    Time breaks the fall

    Each year we live 365 lives
    I spent 14 of those lives loving you with all my soul
    And in that moment it felt like forever
    Tomorrow didn’t matter
    Right here, right now
    That was all it was ever about
    You and me
    Me and you
    In our little world
    With our little crew of two

    But all that is gone now
    The beautiful feelings
    The unforgettable memories
    The love we shared for 14 lives
    Has died.

    This is my poem so that you and I
    Can wish it goodbye
    And say thank you
    And say you’re welcome
    And say I’m sorry
    And say it’s okay
    And you’ll say let’s be friends
    And I’ll say let’s pretend
    And you’ll say I like you
    And I’ll say I loved you
    And we’ll look in each other’s eyes
    And probably do it all over again.


    Copyright 2014
    Darshana Mahtani
    All rights reserved

  359. JRSimmang says:


    It was silent,
    it was, it was,
    when they came to wrest my chains.

    They were silent,
    they were, they were,
    and answered none of my questions.

    My body was sore,
    it was, it was,
    from sitting in lost forgetfulness.

    And I stood,
    I did, I did,
    for I knew not what else to do.

    My steps were as a newborn,
    they were, they were,
    stumbling pure and uncertain.

    My feet tore echoes,
    they did, they did,
    upon this untrod ground.

    The past was dark,
    it was, it was,
    and wound through many bends.

    And fast my heart,
    it beat, it beat,
    still faster to the end.

    The light, they said,
    it would, it would,
    fracture my new sight.

    That my eyes,
    they would, they would,
    burn, and burn, and burn.

    When it was,
    it was, it was,
    I finally reached the last,

    the light became,
    it did, it did,
    an enemy and a friend.

    Bequeathed it did
    a brilliant flame,
    dousing wet upon my head;

    around me ws
    a landscape round,
    and shocked with saturation.

    The world I lived,
    once way back when,
    was hidden from my view.

    Was this the world,
    or heaven still,
    frightening, strange, and true?

    This water runs,
    the birds they sing,
    and I am more than new!

    How was it,
    kept it was, that
    this was here for me?

    And I, alone,
    inside my cave,
    never dreamt of more than thee?

    -JR Simmang

  360. veronica_gurlie says:

    It started like a Soap Opera.

    It started like a soap opera.
    In the beginning, they danced slow,
    and always in moon light,
    her body just melted into his, and suddenly snowflakes floated down on them.
    They would get closer than they ever been before,
    to the point that their hearts would beat in sync.
    And just as the snow touched the ground,
    he’d slide his hands up her long neck to her flushed cheeks
    and as he’d lean in to lock his lips with hers,
    my heart would stall or stagger in my chest,
    I’d unknowingly hold my breath, as if I was a gentlemen,
    waiting for my lover to say Yes– Yes.

  361. Heidi says:

    First Wash First Watch

    In the beginning, Arches cold press, a clean snow
    landscape, stretches to masking taped borders.

    I awake to the Voice.

    Water cascades upon the paper. I splash Phthalo
    Blue with daubs of Alizarin Crimson off a fat brush.

    Songs pierce the snares trapping my bare feet, beat
    the stone floor in staccato pulse.

    A clean swipe and reload with Aureolin. Sable bristles charge the still
    white tundra. Drips of light burst. A violent sun rises.

    I grab the Hand that holds the brush,
    desperate to feel His light heat my cheeks.

    Watercolors ride the cotton ridges in swirling creeks.
    Violets bloom amid ancient roses and ice shadows.

    He holds my back and hands in the palms of His Hands. A hurricane floods
    the deep, ironing into glass sheets the scattered sand on my heart’s floor.

    In the isolated dawn, leaf and blade wake up.

    I fall into amber prisms. I fear the storm is upon me. No. It is in me.

    As the wash rests, the paper sucks in the water, swelling stiff and dry.
    The wet luminosity fades. Now muted by pastels and stolen grays.

    Copious washes before these paintings speak.

  362. starrynight3 says:


    First there is the fall
    The stumbling stone
    Not meant for you, but
    Some other mortal,
    Too pleased with yourself, you

    Then there is the jolt
    Black descent
    Perhaps you find yourself
    Somewhere in Alaska or
    Chewing your arm off in a
    Utah canyon, you

    Finally, the void
    Nothing can prepare you
    Resignation and terror
    You no longer exist,
    That house has burned down,
    Occupants and all, then
    You begin.

  363. mcpeakke says:

    A world away the beginning beckons
    as through a portal of filtered light
    or the window of a sick room.

    Pushing away the past,
    the expectations;
    a wool cloak, out of style and season.
    It never fit.
    I shrug it off, suddenly brighter, younger, lighter.

    The beginning beckons.
    I make my way to reinvention
    through the portal I made.
    Dismissing a past that stayed too long.

  364. Jane Shlensky says:

    Sorry for the length. Some circles are bigger than others ;)


    I watch you stand with one hand pocketed,
    the other hanging limply at your side.
    A certain cant along your knees and hips
    suggests you will stand looking for a while.

    The task at hand was never our concern—
    a farm can break your back a thousand ways.
    A farm boy shoulders plenty as he grows,
    and he can pick his poison, as they say.

    From messy rooms to clean, dry hay to rake
    or finished bales to barn like stacking blocks,
    a garden task or new laid eggs to palm,
    tobacco‘s endless rows to hoe or prime—

    that one crop won’t provide a stopping place—
    or cows to milk and feed, the braying calves
    to pet and wean, or fishing to be done.
    A sea of choices made you cling to land,

    uneasy as you’d wade into the pond
    as slowly as an ibis stalking fish,
    but scared to drown in possibilities.
    “Just leap in and have fun!” we longed to shout.

    You’d think the milling dogs would nose you close
    to landing on a plan for work or play,
    but there you’d be, surveying, statuesque,
    one hand tucked with assurance, elbow bent,

    the other a limp hound’s ear at your wrist.
    Until that old man William came to stay
    I don’t know if we’d ever happen on
    the words to break your trance, give you a path.

    We weren’t ashamed of you, don’t start that now;
    we never were—you are a thoughtful boy—
    you made old people smile and pat your hand,
    and I saw how the young girls blushed and grinned

    all petal pink when you but turned their way.
    We simply ached to see what you’d begin,
    half sick that you could watch fellows your age
    do all the choosing, all the living too,

    while you stood watching with that pensive look.
    I’ll not lie, we were glad you liked your school;
    no parent wants to raise a ne’er-do-well
    and listen to unkindness to her own.

    “He’s a thinker,” your grandma liked to say.
    Her snicker lit a fire under your dad
    to break your daze and help you make a move.
    “What are you doing, son?” he’d start, but see

    the dearth of doing, like paralysis.
    “Looking for a place to start,” you’d say,
    distracted like you almost had a cure
    for worldly problems—now displaced.

    “It makes no matter where—you’re losing light,”
    he’d say impatient and you’d hang your head.
    Once you got going, you were hard to stop,
    a harder worker we won’t likely find.

    That William though was cut from your same cloth:
    he saw the world’s complexity and balked.
    Maybe, looking at you, he saw himself
    when he was young, before he found a path.

    We thought him easy-going to a fault,
    but he was kindly—educated too.
    He stood beside you ‘til we nearly screamed,
    creating kinship, finding how you think.

    “Life’s not a maze except within our heads
    It’s more a circle, so it seems to me,
    where ends feed into starts without a seam,”
    he said, leaned on a hoe. I won’t forget.

    “I’ve had some spiral days that pulled me down,
    but even falling helps you land somewhere
    you could have found by simply walking straight.
    Start at the end, there, son.” And you looked up

    and laughed like you’d been born to happy ways.
    He walked, his hoe in hand, to start a row.
    You followed laughing. “Steady as you go,”
    he said—you’ve said it all these years,

    remembering a language that you shared
    with him. I needn’t know all that you said
    as you worked side by side those summers through.
    I know that you revered him; we did too.

    I’m grateful that he took the time to leave
    his work, to stop and kindly guide your hand.
    You’re grown with nature’s fractals in your sight—
    don’t laugh; I learned new ways of seeing too.

    You’ll honor him by helping one like you
    to see that patterns need not do us harm.
    It’s time to circle back and do your part
    for someone in a maze, trying to start.

  365. payal26 says:

    With the beginning of a day lightly dank,
    Innumerable feelings yet so blank,
    Early morning and refreshing thoughts unintentionally intersect,
    Presumptive of the dawn close ti perfect.

    With the passage of time
    millions of emotion traps the mind,
    Yet the energy drives the soul hard to perpetuate morning’s will,
    but the surrendered brain washes away the thrill.

    With the dusk approaching so nearly,
    Sweetness of thoughts turns sour severely,
    Every determined idea begins to fade away,
    and another April 1st passes away.

  366. feywriter says:

    No More Running

    Feral growls chase me
    I duck through broken fence,
    only to find more dead ahead
    pouring from the house.

    I turn back, but the way is blocked;
    dirty torn fingernails reach through fence
    tear into my flesh–
    I stagger back
    with my own feral scream.

    Find shelter in an empty shed,
    hands pressed to my gut
    I sink to the floor
    back bracing the door.

    Tears and blood pour from me,
    Infection ripping
    through my veins,
    the pain a constant jab…

    Is this it? The end?
    No more stargazing
    or chocolate
    or kisses.
    In agony.

    With bloody fingers I clasp
    the key hanging from my neck
    until the teeth
    dig into my skin.

    The key to your heart…
    I drift away,
    remember our wedding day
    promises of love eternal.

    Horror snarls
    as the door cracks
    reminds me that death did us part.

    I sob,
    pain of body and heart
    too much to bear.

    Envious of the mindless moans,
    the painless existence of
    the once dead,
    I open the door.

    Welcome the horde.

  367. feywriter says:


    I open the door
    breathe in fresh spring air
    of a new day–
    My day
    to take as I please.

    I secure a pack to the bike,
    six string on my back
    no school, no job
    just me and the open road.
    A trip to nowhere and anywhere
    to find myself.

    Stop on a whim–
    barter for a bed or
    play for my supper,
    new faces and places
    shape my music.

    Each day a new adventure.

  368. JWLaviguer says:

    one life ends
    as another begins

    The path
    is wrought
    with choices

    And yet
    where does
    it begin?

    The way
    is paved
    with hope

    The end
    is blurry
    yet inevitable.

    JW Laviguer


    Once upon a time…

    In a far away land, a man
    of expressive heart
    and gilded tongue,
    had begun a quest
    to say all that his eyes
    refused to see. His heart
    would in all ways find
    the word or phrase
    to fill his days with verse.
    It could be worse,
    but his verbal scimitar
    he wields with such aplomb.
    Upon his steed, his ink
    bleeds across his virgin
    page until all sage words
    wreak havoc on its pristine
    papyrus. Though valley and dale
    poets prevail, leaving marks
    on pages of their own.
    Riding to rescue muses
    held captive by a strangled mind,
    to vanquish villains of verses
    left undone – all battles won
    by the strokes of his pen.
    We live the fairy tale
    writing without fail to assail
    what lives in our hearts in rhyme.
    Every happily ever after starts
    with once upon a time.

  370. Laurie G says:

    I’m building this poem with grease from last night’s dinner, dishes in the sink, crumbs on the floor.

    I’m leaving it all behind to begin this poem, and maybe you can understand, especially if you’re a woman.

    I’m leaving the salt shaker askew, listing like a drunk in the crevice between the range and the wall.

    The kitchen window, streaked with dirt, unholy ground kicked up from Sunday’s biblical rains,
    and yes, it’s there, a taunt to a woman like me, but I’m leaving behind the dirty glass for this poem,
    no windows scrubbed till this thing is out of me like a bawling baby girl.

    Why does the sun anoint neglect–the dust-coated table,
    the dry African violet I’m killing now with every word I write.

    No hope for white flowers.
    I can’t plead them back to life.

    This is no surprise.
    I’ve killed cacti. Aloe leaves, splitting and collapsing,
    this drama in dorm-room windows, office cubicles,
    all for the sake of a poem.
    I can’t keep the least thing alive.

    I’m building up this poem with dishes in the sink, crumbs on the floor.
    I’m polishing this poem with grease from last night’s dinner.

  371. AleathiaD says:

    You Don’t Get to Choose

    The day began
    fogged and slow
    the night’s dreams
    full of movement.

    You were there
    helping me chase
    myself down
    in a perpetual circle.

    I awoke to a thin line
    between states of consciousness,
    between worldly dimensions.

    I could not tell reality from fiction
    and your voice lingered close—
    “this is only the beginning….”

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014

    We’re All Fools in the End

    I pick up the phone
    wanting to hear your voice
    on the other end, wanting
    to childishly sing out of tune
    like I’ve done every year
    since leaving home.

    You would’ve been 57 today,
    marked with me serenading you
    Happy Birthday into the receiver,
    having forgotten to send a card,
    let alone a present, again this year.

    You’d have made small talk
    to make me feel better
    telling me to not waste my money
    and that you didn’t need anything,
    but I know you better than that.

    You collected shiny, pretty things
    in great quantity for days when
    there would be nothing. The lights
    that sparkled from them covered
    the holes in your heart
    we weren’t supposed to see.

    And now the lights
    are gone forever.

    I listen to the dial tone
    knowing it is all I’m getting
    of you this year.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014

  372. Anvanya says:


    It was eons ago, in our local galaxy,
    That chance brought us together on New Year Eve.
    Your Mom knew my Mom and she said: visit them
    When you’re on leave from Port Hueneme -
    Which brought you to our front door and
    Occasioned our first kiss. Great kiss!

    Two light years later, you were a seasoned
    World traveler and I was a seasoned college coed
    When we celebrated your twentieth birthday
    With a cake I baked, and you jetted off to the far north.
    Just how far I was to later learn.

    Kisses being few and really far between,
    I rode the Greyhound to see you: it was New Year
    At your folks’ place and I couldn’t get enough of
    Your wonderful smiles…until summer of ’64
    Brought you to Camp Pendleton and we
    Made plans to marry.

    Mysteriously, there followed no mail, no phone calls,
    No contact for too many ages. Finally a wedding invitation arrived –
    And blindsided is too kind a word for what I felt.
    I let you go.

    Two marriages and a widowhood later, one spring evening
    My telephone rang. The voice was yours, unmistakable,
    Across the solar system. I chose to pick up the threads
    Of our tattered years and together we shed
    The tears of blasted lives.
    We healed.

    We live in a world of rainy skies and winter snows,
    Kissing each other awake and goodnight,
    Picnicking in green parks and driving on Forest Service roads
    To get somewhere you’ve never been before.
    Which is where we are now in our lives –
    Looking toward the end of the Universe,

  373. senquist says:

    by Sarah Enquist

    The joy of your arrival overfilled my heart;
    Each day I held you and I imagined
    Great things and thought
    The joy I feel now, will never depart.

    Everyday I watched you grow
    To be bright and fun and loving;
    You talked and laughed and smiled
    But the future- how could I not know?

    The darkness came, and stole you away;
    You screamed and cried and hid
    From me- who loved you most…
    Where did you go today?

    I waited for you to return to me
    My child, who I loved so dear;
    Day after day I begin to realize
    That you were gone – no more to be.

    But then I saw in your pain filled eyes
    Asking for help, since words were gone;
    You were lost and needed me
    The darkness was only a disguise.

    Hope abound knowing you are here
    Hidden within yourself;
    I’ll fight for you each day
    Until the darkness disappears.

  374. j.ajabad says:

    Our Roots

    We can count the years on one hand
    since our journey began.
    We are like a pair of tulips,
    blooming and blushing
    since our leaves first touched.

    We have grown since
    scalling the trellises
    relentlessly throughout all these years,
    our hearts continue to bud
    even amidst the frigid temperatures of winter
    soon we shall be interwoven as one
    an everlasting blooming
    as our tu-lips mingle
    in the morning dew each day
    a new.

  375. veronica_gurlie says:

    At the End Of The Dream,

    At the end of the dream,
    I’m barely wearing any clothes,
    and I’m blinking but you can’t tell,
    my skin is shriveled up
    and my bones are ice cycles,
    I’m laying in a pool of urine,
    and they lose my heart some how.
    My family have no more worries,
    and I’m not asking for my dead husband,
    I’m not asking to go home anymore,
    cause I will be there- channel surfing, while drinking lady gray tea,
    and wishing they would visit more often.
    I will be waiting for them to come home,
    to look over to where I always sat,
    rocking my blues away, with a song in mind,
    and sigh.

    • veronica_gurlie says:

      sorry I thought I posted the one with the tenses changed and fixed up some things so you read it easier, at the end.
      Here you go.
      PLEASE USE THIS ONE:0). Thank you.


      At the end of the dream,
      I’m barely wearing any clothes,
      and I’m blinking but you can’t tell,
      my skin is shriveled up
      and my bones are ice cycles,
      I’m laying in a pool of urine,
      and they lose my heart some how.
      My family have no more worries,
      and I’m not asking for my dead husband anymore,
      I’m not asking to go home anymore,
      cause I am there- channel surfing
      and wishing they would visit more often.
      I’m waiting for them,to come home,
      to look over to where I always sat,
      rocking my blues away, (with a song in mind)
      and sigh.

  376. Falling in Love with April
    Lydia Flores

    April begins with a warm kiss on my eyelids
    and I awaken with the photograph of a memory.
    those eyes, like sun shinning so bright at me
    those lips, rays of light right into my mouth.
    This is where the morning begins. Unfurling…
    My bed sheets cling to me like your arms
    I breathe in deep and with an exhale you’re gone.
    Every morning begins with a memory leaving.

    The boots of March fade and the world
    shed it’s winter skin, its chrysalis cracked
    open by warm hands much like the ribcage
    inside you expose my heart. I am throbbing.
    My heart beats, out and open to the sun
    The beginning of being vulnerability.
    The flower buds peek from their soil beds
    and I can feel myself changing into petals.
    This is the beginning of love where the ocean
    crawls from the sand and wages war in waves.
    You are the white wolf teeth of the sea but
    you do not devour me for death, you pull me in
    with the fullness of rush. I am floating in your ocean.
    It ends with the beginning of shore reaching me again.

    Love begins with the morning in your eyes
    warm and inviting. It cracks you open and fills
    you, a vessel for it’s sea. You are a message in
    it’s bottle, a shipwreck from it’s war of waves
    but love always ends where it begins… At home.
    April awakens it’s sleep, hazy with memory
    squinting at her glory but I succumb.
    You break me open with your warm hands
    and I am petals opening to your touch…
    I am a butterfly with your love etched into
    my delicate wings and I spread them.
    ready for everything.

  377. Here is mine, I step in a little bit late :-) The worst thing today is that I hoped to be able to do some reading…. which I am not.

    April PAD, Day 01 – A Beginning Poem; An Ending Poem

    What I won’t miss
    is the clumsy lump
    blocking my throat
    in the beginning.

    What I expect is
    blessing for my nervousness
    springing from the timid
    welcomes of tomorrow
    and the weeks to come.

    What I get,
    is the sure ending
    or liberating me.

    I never know which to prefer
    So, I try not to.

    ©2014, soul mary

  378. “For the Record”

    The popping of a switch and the movement begins.
    Round and round and round in the quiet,
    Until trembling forefinger and thumb lift the cartridge and lay it down.
    Together, the black groove and needle dance
    Allowing the notes to escape incarceration.
    Lifted head, lowered lids,
    Breath and heartbeat synced.
    For an hour, here is paradise.
    Every end comes with the option to begin again.

    -Beverly M. Deirocini

  379. jenreyneri says:

    Sitting here- pondering
    To-dos, to-do lists and tenacity
    Articulations, admirations, anticipations
    Ruffled, rumpled rhymes- I’m ready.
    Today it begins.


    At some point we wonder. “Where did it all begin?”
    Such a no-win scenario is life, in that we all end
    up the same way. From the day of our birth,
    until we draw our last breath at death,
    it is clear that our origin
    is a mystery, as will be the circumstance of our demise.

    And is it any surprise
    that what comes between should be savored? We begin
    as slabs of clay: misshapen, raw, and undefined. Our origin
    is uncertain. In the course of our living we befriend
    those who will fill us precisely, quite nicely until death
    escorts us away from our days on earth.

    Those first moments after birth
    give us a chance to figure things out; to surmise
    what is expected if we elect to stay the course. Of course, death
    awaits all who choose to play. But, each day is a new beginning,
    a redirect to send us in the direction that will end
    in our achieving all we desire. We become original.

    Once we begin to be molded, we are folded like origami
    seeing what is possible from our blank page. In the birth
    of ideas, our pleas are heard in every word that we send
    for those who will hear them. Left unheeded, it will indeed lead to their demise.
    As it was in the beginning
    it will be until our final breath.

    But, there is no ending in death.
    It is a release from earthly bonds, but our imprint will mark our origin,
    And it is there that we begin
    to understand. No demands to be reincarnated; no rebirth
    would change the essence of each of us. We would be wise
    to work hard until our natural end.

    So consider this a commencement, friend.
    And live the life you’ve chosen until death
    takes your hand to stand before Him. Your demise
    will not be in vain. Your legacy is your lasting origin.
    Those who know will celebrate your birth
    and subsequent days. All we need do is begin.

    From beginning to end we strive to stay alive,
    so we live from birth to death.
    and every spent breath that originates from within will stave off our demise.

  381. laurie kolp says:

    Before the Beginning

    I chased your shadow as if I were IT and you
    were hiding somewhere behind me. A game
    of Duck Duck Goose just between the two of us.

    Sometimes a tug-a-war, our
    power struggle.
    I’m the mother here, I’d say.
    Stop feeding my kids junk.
    And your rebuttal
    a staring contest,
    your glare
    enough to spear my heart.

    I’d brace my bow,
    prepare to point an arrow
    at your face, but you
    were already gone.

  382. donaldillich says:

    The Start

    It started with cicadas
    carpeting the road, one living
    beard of night, as we fled
    to my house by the Metro.

    Had I dreamed this,
    the beginning of bugs, love,
    mixed together so her mouth
    buzzed under mine,
    and the ground beneath me
    was alive as her body.

    When we reached my driveway,
    I slid her near a passenger door,
    chewed on her neck
    like a wild beast.
    All around us we heard
    the swarm get louder,
    as if affection stimulated wings.

    Would we one day recall,
    when we were aged, in a home,
    how this start of locusts
    would end the uncertainty
    we had about each other?

    Or would this be a dead end,
    when the insects returned
    underground, and we sealed
    our relationships with others
    on different days,
    when the sky was not crazy
    with moon, and the clouds
    rested softly in our lives?

  383. briehuling says:

    please post this! the first version was accidentally submitted to blog!
    thanks (:

    Life in Shadow Box

    Who wouldn’t flush red at the sight of two bodies
    mounted, moving in rhythm, seen through cream
    colored window linens on the tree-lined street?

    These modest mirrors of observation–
    the peeking, peering, the body double dream–
    Crimson world, wild world, the emergency of closeness—
    the flame, the limbs, the heart screaming,
    it’s only the beginning here, again and again.

    Love might be the only socially acceptable form of insanity.
    The arrow, the shield, the eventual shattering of it all

    by brie

  384. Funkomatic says:

    The dark echo of mourning bells
    Vibrate the words “long departed”
    When he talks about the last occasion of
    Billie and Gerry at Queen Street Station

    More fair winds than squalls
    Close calls in the Roaring Forties
    Dry docked, quietly walking home
    Billie and Gerry at Queen Street Station

    Hungry summer in a shipyard town
    Sparks flare in the heat shimmer
    Maiden voyage into the Firth
    Billie and Gerry at Queen Street Station

  385. lionetravail says:

    “And Time Is Done”

    by David M. Hoenig

    Whipped to frantic movement by frenetic skirl,
    I’m abruptly caught in winter’s frigid breath
    which intrudes, rudely, on fall’s demise.

    Dry as death itself, I mutter
    and mumble with sisters and brothers,
    all caught in this chaotic kaleidoscope.

    We rest a moment, only to dash and twirl,
    no thought among us; waltzing with abandon
    to the wild, keening obsequise.

    I pace a fast circle, spiraling higher
    and higher in my exuberance,
    and suddenly I am alone and free!

    Cast, finally, in my own solo piece,
    life long gone, the dance is nearly done
    as I wander far from where once I fell.

    And now it is the world which falls
    away, as exhaled requiem spends its last,
    and I, like autumn, am gone, gone, gone.

  386. Srividya K says:


    When I saw him last
    On a hospital bed
    he rested, his head upright
    Among tubes and pinging machines
    the only proof he was still alive
    His skin an unearthly glow
    The yellow of sick and death

    Something happy I wanted to see
    Those memories of summer
    The spirited talks
    The juicy mangoes
    The letters he wrote
    Words of wisdom
    The walks together
    The time we shared

    What wiped them all
    Was a single image
    Of his bloated body
    Prodded and poked
    The holding of hands
    Wishing time would reverse
    If only to nudge him back to life
    For that was no way to live or die

    Another day, another bed
    The same story repeated
    He was gone
    I bid goodbye from afar
    I wanted to remember him
    Not the corpse that others see
    When he died his soul I saw
    He knew what he meant to me

    They were old
    Their young hearts I cherished
    From the day I was born
    Till the day they died
    I saved them this time
    Those childhood memories
    They will live in me
    Till I cease to be

    – Srividya Karthik

  387. sbpoet says:

    begin here

    this spring morning
    sunroom a glass of pale light
    geese barking in the blueing sky
    crows barking at the geese
    dogs barking out! out!

    so many springs behind you
    cast-off jackets
    mud in the entryway
    fish coming up from the bottom
    of the the pond

    you pull a silver hair
    from your sweater
    memories of long sweet throats
    thick curls, strong hands
    young men baring their arms

    the first warm day

    ~ sharon brogan

  388. jacquemlane says:

    Under the Bridge

    where the monsoon flows
    over desert river rock
    where nothing grows
    but from the red clay floor
    and the heart of a girl no more
    a wise Inukshuk rises.

    His steady hand pointing
    toward the rising sun
    his native soul sifted
    from the bones of
    whispered poems

    Sonia Sanchez on the wind
    my homegirls guiding
    chalk poems on the walls
    before flash flood and
    raging rivers

    left the beds dry

    Bring it
    big life
    Bring it!

  389. pmwanken says:

    (a shadorma)

    My life is
    changing; what once was,
    is no more.
    I want to
    stay wrapped in the familiar,
    yet…wings want to soar.

  390. briehuling says:

    Life in Shadow Box

    Who wouldn’t flush red at the sight of two bodies
    mounted, moving in rhythm seen through cream
    colored window linens on the tree-lined street?

    These modest mirrors of observation–
    the peeking, the peering, the wondering what’s next–
    Crimson world,, wild world, the danger of closeness—
    the flame, the limbs, the heart screaming,
    it’s only the beginning here, again.

    Love as the only socially acceptable form of insanity.
    The arrow, the shield, the shattering that eventually comes.

    by Brie Huling

  391. Amanda Oaks says:

    If Our Beginning & End Shared a One Bedroom Apartment

    The day they move in together the End will say,
    I know how ugly I must look to you, but baby,
    my entire existence is because of you & for so long,
    you didn’t even know that I was alive, but I,
    I watched you. I watched your lips
    like train whistles taking off their clothes
    so they could collide with everything
    that was in front of them, watched you
    Desert Storm your way into the thick Middle
    fencing us off from one another. I thought
    it was because you wanted to touch my face, trace
    full moon-shaped patterns around my navel, baby, you
    were the most beautiful when you wore your bravery
    like an open trench coat running across a packed stadium;

    & the Beginning, the Beginning will be terrified,
    her stomach will flip over on its back, she’ll feel
    like a welcome mat in front of the infirmary,
    & she’ll say nothing. She’ll say nothing
    because everything she ever believed to be true
    already crossed the great divide without her.
    The End will try so hard to get her to speak,
    will try to kiss the words out of her mouth,
    will whisper all the good stories that came
    between them into her ears but her lips
    will stay pressed together like two books
    on a shelf, like two frigid legs.

    Every morning, he’ll sit her up in bed,
    bring her a cup of tea to try & warm
    her hands hoping that she’ll lift it to her lips
    just once. He’ll get out the record player
    in the afternoons & dance around the bed
    like a brush on canvas trying to get her to
    bloom into him but there will be nothing
    but winter behind her eyes.

    Every night, he’ll settle down into the couch
    like a string of red balloons hanging off
    the arm of a tree, strung up & deflated,
    wavering in the wind & whispering
    over & over again, baby, please— please try
    to remember how much you loved yourself
    before you met me.

    Amanda Oaks

  392. ch060162 says:


    The day begins anew
    With so many things to do
    Shufflin here and there
    I barely get out the door
    When I realize the list of things
    I must get done before day’s end

    My mind moves quickly through each note
    I’ll be lucky if I make it through the day afloat
    I cross off one item
    Two more appear
    I manage to make it to store after store
    Only to wish the day’s end was near

    At last, I can breathe a sigh of relief
    The day’s list brought a lot grief
    But nothing can quench the accomplished feeling
    Nor the satisfaction of crossing things off
    At days end, there’s one last thing to ponder
    The next day begins again with a new list

  393. Linda Hatton says:

    End of His Game

    I beg innings of each baseball
    game to go smoothly for that eleven-
    year-old dancer in the outfield,
    remembering when he smiled
    and hip-hopped across a smooth
    spot-lit stage. Later he dives
    for second base, skins his knee,
    off in the distance sirens ring out
    over the oohs and aahs of spectators
    sucking and spitting out his bliss
    with their sunflower seed shells.

    –Linda G Hatton

  394. poetbeta154 says:

    Broken beginnings

    Every spill is a chance at poetry, to wipe away,
    To uncover what is. There, behind time
    Engrained on the floors’ fleshy bumps.

    When everyday is its own universe upon itself,
    Constantly expanding leaving fragments
    Which are carried onto oncoming generations.

    Onlookers are geocachers, social geographers
    Of moments that exist even if no one is left
    To read the wind as it winds through windows.

    There are glass shards, even when you expect plastic
    Stories to be found by the swiffer made if straw. It is
    A chance to explore what could have happened.

    A chance to find poetry amongst floating debris.

  395. seingraham says:


    As Jude
    is ushered
    into this place,
    the genesis
    of all things,
    at least
    on this day,
    I watch his
    older brothers,
    not so much older
    — only 2 and 4 years
    after all –
    sense the beginning
    of the end,
    or the end
    of things
    as they,
    know them
    crawl with
    dawning realization,
    a primitive knowledge,
    an ins