Editors Blog

2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 10

Quick note on selecting poems for the anthology: I plan to pull poems on average 5-7 days after the prompt is first posted. So I’ve pulled poems from days 1-3. Poets can keep sharing, but they won’t be considered for the anthology. Soon, I’ll pull day 4, and so it will proceed.

For today’s prompt, write a future poem. The future might mean robots and computer chips. The future might mean apocalyptic catastrophes. The future might mean peace and understanding. The future might mean 1,000 years into the future; it might mean tomorrow (or next month). I forecast several poems in the near future to be shared below.


Workshop Your Poetry!

Break out of a rut or jump start your revision process with the Advanced Poetry Course offered by Writer’s Digest University. This course involves workshopping poetry with an instructor and other poets of varying levels.

Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Future Poem:


you are going to die
that much is certain

also you will experience great joy
and tremendous sorrow in your life
before you eventually die

at times you will feel as if
everyone is out to get you
and that everything hits at once
then you will die

there will be other times
when the world feels designed
just for you and your happiness
though ultimately you’ll kick the bucket

you may wish to know when
and how and if there’s a way out
but that will cost you extra
and you’re still going to die


Today’s guest judge is…

Nate Pritts

Nate Pritts

Nate Pritts

Nate is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Right Now More Than Ever. His poems, and writings about poetry, can be found in American Poetry Review, Southern Review, Poets & Writers and the annual Poet’s Market.

He founded H_NGM_N, an online journal and small press, and continues to serve as Director. Nate lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York.

Learn more here: http://www.h-ngm-n.com/nate-pritts/


PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

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

Words Dance Publishing is offering 20% off pre-orders for the Poem Your Heart Out anthology until May 1st! If you’d like to learn a bit more about our vision for the book, when it will be published, among other details.

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 spent one summer working in the same car factory as his single mother, who put food on the table for three boys and still made it to nearly all their extracurricular activities. Learn more about him here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


Poetic posts to check out…in the future!


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667 thoughts on “2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 10

  1. stepstep


    Bring your dollar bills
    Her sign reads,
    I will read your future
    A subtle plead.

    I see your joy
    I see your pain,
    Some days are filled with sunshine
    Some days are filled with rain.

    No matter what I see tells me
    I seem to feel or know,
    That my future is uncertain
    That is how life will go.


  2. SugarMagnolia

    I remember when I was thirteen
    Listening to John Cougar Mellancamp sing “Jack and Diane”
    Hearing the lyrics, “Hold onto sixteen as long as you can”
    And thinking it would be so cool to be sixteen
    I couldn’t wait

    I remember when I was sixteen
    Watching one of my favorite movies, “St. Elmo’s Fire”
    The character Jules says, “I never thought I’d be so tired at twenty-two”
    I felt like twenty-two was another lifetime
    I was ok with waiting

    I remember when I was twenty
    I was watching “When Harry Met Sally”
    In a touching and silly scene Sally says she’s, “gonna be forty…someday”
    I couldn’t even imagine what life would be like at forty
    I felt like time started going a bit fast

    I have a file cabinet in my head now at forty-five
    Of all the movies and lyrics I’ve seen and heard
    How did the future get here so quickly?
    I want it to slow down

  3. IndiFox

    The Reaper

    “I don’t think about the future”
    He said, cutting into my flesh
    “I like to live in the now”
    He said, admiring my organs
    “What about you?”
    He questioned me
    As if expecting a response
    “Not talking eh?”
    He chuckled, and placed pliers to my ribs
    “Well just listen”
    “Because boy, have I got stories to tell”
    And with that he took out my heart

  4. bbjzmn

    day 10
    I swear my child tomorrow you will live

    you will scratch the earth and smell the sun

    you will kick and climb over, under, and through

    you will soar high and see far pass the horizon

    you will even discover everything you ever what to be is and is yours for the taking

    but for now please go to sleep so tomorrow can come

  5. Jaleese Nicole

    When I was younger
    My mother used to say there’s always tomorrow.
    Whenever something bad happened
    There was always tomorrow that things will be better.
    That things will change
    And maybe it won’t be this bad.
    So the first night you didn’t come home
    I said there always tomorrow.
    But today
    All I can think about is yesterday.
    All I can think about
    Is how it used to be
    When you were still here.
    You’ve been gone for so long
    That my memories don’t hold
    The image of your face anymore.
    I keep hoping that one day you’ll come back
    And I won’t have to hurt this much.
    But some days I think
    There’s always tomorrow
    That maybe I won’t love you anymore.
    Or maybe when tomorrow finally comes
    You’ll show up on my door step
    At 1 AM with the same old messy hair and wide eyes
    And I’ll welcome you back in
    Like it’s that easy.
    Because maybe it is.
    Because there’s always tomorrow to be angry.
    There is always tomorrow to ask why leaving was so easy for you.
    But I know that tomorrow
    After everything
    I will still love you.
    -Jaleese Nicole, Tomorrow

  6. ianchandler


    they told me my clothes would be left in the streets
    perhaps dangling from a chair I was sitting in
    or silently outstretched on my bed next to more clothes
    on a plain Sunday morning
    light and unaware

    they told me the neon would burst
    and we would be thrown-out matchsticks,
    faceless and bodiless,
    umber with the shadow of death

    they told me the skyline would flatline
    into a sinkhole greater than Bethlehem

    they told me my clothes wouldn’t be left in the streets

    they told me I would feel the tingle of fire at my feet
    the burn on my soles

    they told me I should be scared

  7. azkbc


    Gramps and I opened a 529 account last week
    to help pay for your college education.
    Every month from now on an electronic flash
    will add a few dollars to the account.
    I know, right now you just care about
    shoveling sand into the back of your dump truck
    and rolling it to the other side of the sandbox
    where you can dump it out, and going to day care
    where you are learning to count and to read,
    but perhaps there will be a day when you are
    filling out forms and getting ready for college
    and wonder about paying for the luxury of it
    and your Daddy and Mommy will tell you
    about this account and how much Gram and Gramps
    loved you (if we can’t tell you ourselves)
    and then maybe all of you will remember
    this month when it began. Today I entered
    the secret code words and looked at that account
    and saw that the balance is more today
    than it was last week.

  8. TuLife

    By: Tuere Aisha

    Love. Joy. Pain. Hate. Passion. Justice.
    Life never offers their absolute meanings.
    One moment, we’re living in pure bliss.
    The next, life circles endlessly in rotating rings
    taking us round and round,
    leading to no permanent destination.
    Feels like our lives are forever bound
    to eternal confusion and frustration.

    As unfair and unthinkable it may seem,
    people love to hate and hurt.
    Only others, we may deem,
    because what we do to ourselves is kept covert.
    It’s like life has no purpose
    if something isn’t going wrong.
    No wonder men have
    messed things up for so long.

    When settling matters of the heart,
    emotions differ for each individual.
    If we’re true to ourselves,
    the import of life becomes visible.
    Been hoping and thinking that
    at some point, everything becomes clear.
    It’s when our surroundings appear to be sinking
    that things make sense and we no longer fear.

    In the end
    there must be an explanation
    of the struggles we’ve had to contend
    before reaching our final destination.
    Looking forward to the day
    we can finally say
    that life is not a curse,
    but the only unfortunate way
    to enjoy it is by
    toughing the rough waters first.

    Whether times are depressing,
    loved ones are stressing,
    I hold true to one philosophy –
    That through it all, life is still a blessing.

  9. ASperryConnors

    The trees are your future food
    Don’t cut them down
    A child is your future brood
    Don’t cut them down
    In generations yet to come
    You will know my name
    Head the sorceress, the heated word
    Find no one else to blame.

  10. bxpoetlover

    On The News

    In ’96 i knew what was coming when i saw Dolly the Sheep.

    Today my back was turned to the television
    so i didn’t see the name of the scientist
    who announced that stem cells have been cloned.

    When he said
    that full human beings should not be cloned
    i was relieved

    i want cures for Alzheimer’s, diabetes, and sickle cell too
    but then i wondered
    how long before some corporation that specializes in human cloning
    buys enough politicians?
    Who will they clone and for what purpose?
    Will they ensure enough
    water, food, and jobs for the clones and
    for the millions of poor already here?

    What other genocidal solutions will be invented then?

  11. PenConnor

    Not Now (a Lai)

    Tomorrow I’ll smile,
    like it’s out of style.
    I vow.
    Though my heart breaks, I’ll
    be quite versatile,
    but how?
    Can’t I rest here, while
    tears proclaim my trial?
    Not now.

  12. kimberleetm

    When the Mortgage is Paid Off

    It will never be enough
    because there are still the taxes,
    and hey, this is NJ.
    When the mortgage is paid off,
    it will be long sunsets
    with highballs
    in hand.
    When the mortgage is paid off,
    the car will need an engine
    and the cat, surgery.
    It will be good
    It will be bad
    We will pay for it all
    Just like now.

  13. LCaramanna

    The National Book Museum est. 2155

    Books lined side by side
    organized by genre,
    in numerical order
    behind transparent armor,
    on display in the National Book Museum.

    Volumes of printed words
    situated on shelves,
    pages protected
    from hungry eyes and eager minds,
    on display in the National Book Museum.

    Manuscripts of masters
    stood straight and tall,
    leather bindings sheltered
    from abuse by human hands,
    on display in the National Book Museum.

    Treasures of bygone years,
    ancestral antiques,
    replaced long ago
    by electronic devices,
    on display in the National Book Museum.

    Children on a virtual tour
    of the National Book Museum
    stared at images on the screen,
    wondered why anyone
    would have bothered to read a book.

    Only the curator
    noticed the tear stained cheeks
    of Patience and Fortitude,
    the marble lion guardians
    of the National Book Museum,
    and understood the allure of books.
    Lorraine Caramanna

  14. madeline40

    You know, Ram Das says,
    be here now. We shouldn’t worry
    about the past, that’s dead and gone,
    or think about what the future holds.
    We should just live in the here and now.
    I try to do that,
    I’m here right now writing this poem
    I’m here right now with my seat in my chair
    and my hands on my computer keys.
    The next minute, hour, day, week, year
    don’t matter. Thinking about the future
    will take me away from right here,
    right now.

  15. Joseph Harker

    XV (The Devil)
    (from a gay tarot)

    The devil is drawn in all leather and chest hair,
    and not much else. Leashes lead to the collared
    necks of two men who are addiction and obsession.
    Given the kind of club we’re in, I begin to wonder
    if the reader has rigged the deck. But the devil
    grins– his fangs the card’s only brightness– whether
    or not he’s been dealt. There is always a rebound,
    a hate fuck, a manipulative ex. Or, the reader says,
    hand on mine, he represents the escape from
    himself. Each kneeling painted man has upturned
    the face of the agonized ecstatic. A little bit of self-
    can have the needed balancing effect.
    And you’re here, says the reader, looking for– what?–
    in the club’s darkened attic. The depicted trio is
    repeated round the velvet-curtained room, after all.
    Passion begins to trim the simmering edge of rage.
    In any reading, odds are one-to-seven the devil
    appears in the static. He shows his face, and I know
    I’m tired waiting for last year’s love to call. I am
    scissoring the ties that bind, mouth to the reader’s
    mouth, unlocking some as-yet-undiscovered cage.

  16. Joseph Harker

    Tales from Barcelona

    Waiting in line to ascend the helixes of Sagrada Familia, propping
    one flying buttress arm against the trunks, you tell me, here is
    a short tale
    : when old Gaudí teased Pyrenees doves out of the stone
    meant for a roof still undreamed-of, they asked, why would you put
    doves where no one will see?, and he said, God will see, and when

    he unthreaded pumpkin vines, plumped cabbages, with his worn
    pencils and chisel, they asked the same question, and he said, the birds
    need something to eat
    . This is what you tell me in halting English,
    warmed over Catalan heat, broken into pieces by the smile you save for
    strangers who rumpled your bed the night before, one of whom has now

    become the boy you lead with your copper hand– strong and burnished
    but flexible and kind– into the elevator, where our ears slowly pop
    and the cathedral unfolds beneath the window like a chemical reaction
    whose fumes go straight to the heart. Angels copulate dragonfly-style
    up and down delicate gutters, a Jacob’s ladder flamed with ivy, frozen

    gargoyle-still, while the crenellations pull loose like the skin which is
    burned loose in a fire until it sheds into black leaves, and there,
    poised on the roof’s wide bank, are those doves and their cabbages–
    cabbages, you ask, is right word?– who grant the privilege of themselves
    to us, to those clambering angels, to God. One time, you tell me, Gaudí

    built a primitive trampoline out of cords and thin leather, and had his staff
    launch him as high as they could, until he could rotate himself midair
    towards Las Ramblas, L’Eixample, El Raval, observing how they were
    softened and beloved, you say in your voice like the oboe’s most
    blessed note– you must’ve known this would be the way into me,

    telling tall tales as we ascend, then descend, approaching and then
    retreating from this stone salad atop the nave, which like this city
    has been beloved by the master architect, who knew how to draw in
    dreamers until they too feel their edges curl up and go floral, who are
    taken wholly, who lean in to see the details, lean back to discover
    the embrace.

  17. Yolee

    Ella Grace

    She slid her flip flops on swollen feet
    and decided not to change her clothes.
    Her husband’s white t-shirt and her blue
    jersey shorts were the most forgiving.
    She grabbed the faux suede bag
    he bought for her on their trip to Bali 6
    months ago. She checked inside for the keys
    but not before stopping by the calendar
    tacked to the mud room wall. She flipped
    to July and stared at the day highlighted
    in pink then then drove to Winn Dixie
    for watermelon, oyster crackers and bacon.

  18. Khara House


    Looking back they knew
    if the red barn was the wasteland
    the black birds were the omen—

    that the grass turned grey
    by the withering hoary sun
    was a memory of water quenching thirst.

    That the pale blue sky was a mere prelude
    to the lilac dawn, the russet mare
    a preface to the last of their hair going grey

    and waning with the ivory moon, itself a symbol—
    the last porcelain grin before autumn
    entered the mouth and unseasoned the smile.

    Hear now the whispering souls forewarn
    that age is a rainbow,
    the prologue to a night full of stars.

  19. schmads09

    “Be the Change That You Want to See”

    We live in a frightening time.
    Politicians today are more concerned
    About campaign contributions and lobbying efforts
    Than the true needs of their constituents.

    This “democracy” we live in is a fraud.
    The aspect of representation might be present,
    But who is certain exactly whose views they are representing?
    And I believe we as a society are to blame.

    The most important component of this style of government
    Is an educated and socially conscious public.
    And yet, despite all of our advances in so many fields,
    We remain apathetic to what is happening before our eyes.

    Neither party can or will fix this system.
    As long as the general public sits back
    And allows government agents to operate this way,
    They have no real reason to change, and it will only get worse.

    Forward thinking can be difficult to say the least,
    I sometimes don’t even know what I want to do later today.
    But we live in a time where it is critical to do so.
    Not only for ourselves, but for those down the road.

    With the sheer vastness of our technological capabilities,
    This has the potential to become the greatest period in history.
    But it is not possible without majority participation.
    Do it for yourself and the future that you want to be a part of.

  20. horselovernat

    Maybe One Day by Natalie Gasper

    Every week it’s the same old routine:
    school and work and chores and homework,
    never varying.

    Sometimes, if I’m caught up,
    I’ll let my thoughts wander
    in a world of waking dreams.

    Brilliant images dance before my eyes,
    of dragons and magic, leading grand armies,
    flying through a starry night sky.

    Slowly these fantasies fade to reality,
    into the things I want to be,
    the dreams I want to fulfill.

    In this secret world, I can be an actress!
    Or a cinematographer, set designer,
    Costumer, director, writer!

    Yes, there it is,
    The golden medal of all my hopes:
    Maybe one day, I will be a writer.

  21. jean

    A Sonnet about the future —

    “So, who is writing the future?” He asked.
    He questioned her idly, though pondering.
    “We all are,” she answered, “Yes, we’re all tasked.”
    Her confidence settled his wondering.
    After a few years, it came up again.
    He no longer thought she’d expressed the gestalt.
    Although she believed it still, he thought, “Then –
    Who made that our mission, minds to exalt?
    Observing the trends throughout history,
    He found a progression, a plan, a plot.
    Although mankind ignores the mystery
    We’ve tapped into something, manmade it’s not.
    “So, who is writing the future of late?
    Perhaps we should search for a Divine Gate?”

  22. Mariya Koleva

    April Poem-A-Day 10 – Future Poem

    When robots come to rule the Earth
    I hope big cats will have their say.
    If they are dull enough to stay,
    that is.

    Horizons of steel and nightly cold
    will conquer humanity’s endless survival
    to a bank of ludicrous endings.

    Together with the impossible personal dawn
    life will be determined at the stroke of a pendulum
    hanging useless in a workshop
    somewhere over the hill.

    Industrial dust collects in my view,
    where shadows don’t exist,
    giving way to brightness
    our souls don’t need.

    Inebriated by prospects,
    we hardly are.
    Seeking yesterday’s indulgence in forgetfulness
    and mellow gossip.

  23. foodpoet


    In the current day
    Memories fade
    More each day
    The past present future
    One long walk in fog.

    In the future
    When the fog has lifted
    I will still miss

    Megan McDonald

  24. Penny Henderson


    “Future” contracts: a diminishing
    portion of one’s likely lifespan.
    Time management becomes urgent
    as the body proves insurgent.
    Everything takes twice as long,
    even trying to sing a song.
    My voice wanders the scale,
    searching for the grail of perfect pitch,
    much the way my mind
    meanders the maze of memory.

  25. Autumn


    For so long, I was unsure of what my future would hold.
    For so long, I was confused.
    But now I know, that when I’m gray and old,
    I will look back feeling amused.

    I struggled and struggled so hard it hurt,
    For nothing at all in comparison.
    Because obviously I originated from dirt,
    And eventually I’ll be dirt again.

    So it doesn’t really matter
    Does it?

  26. gus

    Day 10: Fly Away

    I dream of the day
    When I will be able
    To fly far, far away.

    When I can finally leave
    This humdrum town,
    And learn to live on my own.

    I know that day
    Won’t be for a while,
    But one can surely dream

    About the day
    When I will be able
    To fly far, far away.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  27. BezBawni

    Crystal Clear

    It’s true, nobody knows for sure
    what lays ahead,
    but I have read
    my future in my mother’s wrinkles,
    her restless sleep, her salty sprinkles.
    I know what I’ve yet to endure.

    I live, caressing in anticipation
    the crystal ball of my imagination.
    by Lucretia Amstell

  28. cdonnelltx@yahoo.com

    Very raw adaption of a short story of mine.

    Anno Forestem Silva, The Poem

    The harp spoke.
    “Oh ancient ones”
    The chanters intoned
    Strum again
    This time, new key
    Answered again
    Together in rhythm
    And rhyme

    Holly and oak
    Covered the bier.
    The Grandmother
    Last Rememberer here
    Only she could tell
    When it all began
    Anno Forestem Silva
    The Year of the Outside Forest.

    Just a hundred years ago
    The sea rose up and tried to flood
    The world in one ravenous gulp
    Global Warming was the cry
    But few listened or even tried
    It will take a thousand years
    They said again and again
    But they were wrong

    The ice caps broke
    Split up, Spit out tidal waves
    Gave warning none
    Rivers followed
    Oceans’ rise
    From the Thames
    to Ganges wide
    Even Mississippi side

    Few islands left here and there
    The rest were buried
    Underneath vast seas of mire
    Rising waters brought disease,
    As if the poles had locked
    Earth’s plagues in ancient ice
    Waiting for the heat’s release
    Back into the world that day

    Great storms increased
    Insects swarms did not cease
    Cities wiped out
    In less time than
    It took to imagine
    Much less build
    The few survivors had to learn
    Return to old ways to survive

    Live in forests as long ago
    The Grandmother taught her best
    She hoped it was enough
    Now the future now lay
    In the children’s hands
    No Rememberers were left
    To guide the coming lives

    Strum . . . The harp it spoke again.
    “Oh ancient ones” the chanters sang
    “Great Grandmother, one most high
    Forgive us all and hear our cry.”
    Her spirit joined the swirling smoke
    It merged with song
    into a spire which rose
    Into the canopy of trees

    Arpeggios upon the strings
    Loud raps on the deerskin drum
    Announced with great clarity
    The final ceremonial rite
    Centennial Years of ten by ten
    Anno 100 at an end
    Anno Forestem Silva
    Year of the Outside Forest

    1. cdonnelltx@yahoo.com

      A revision

      Anno Forestem Silva – The Poem


      The harp spoke.
      “Oh ancient ones”
      The chanters intoned
      Strum again
      This time, new key
      Answered again
      Together in rhythm
      And rhyme

      Holly and oak
      Covered the bier.
      The Grandmother
      Last Rememberer here
      Only she could tell
      When it all began
      Anno Forestem Silva
      The Year of the Outside Forest.

      Just a hundred years ago
      The sea rose up and tried to flood
      The world in one ravenous gulp
      Global Warming was the cry
      But few listened or even tried
      It will take a thousand years
      They said again and again
      But they were wrong

      The ice caps broke
      Split up spit out tidal waves
      Gave warning none
      Rivers followed
      Oceans’ rise
      From the Thames
      to Ganges wide
      Even Mississippi side

      Few islands left here and there
      The rest were buried
      Underneath vast seas of mire
      Rising waters brought disease,
      As if the poles had locked
      Earth’s plagues in ancient ice
      Waiting for the heat’s release
      Back into the world that day

      Great storms increased
      Insects swarms did not cease
      Cities wiped out
      In less time than
      It took to imagine
      Much less build
      The few survivors had to learn
      Return to old ways to survive

      Live in forests as long ago
      The Grandmother taught her best
      She hoped it was enough
      Now the future now lay
      In the children’s hands
      No Rememberers were left
      To guide the coming lives

      Strum . . . The harp it spoke again.
      “Oh ancient ones” the chanters sang
      “Great Grandmother, one most high
      Forgive us all and hear our cry.”
      Her spirit joined the swirling smoke
      It merged with song
      and formed a spire which rose
      Into the canopy of trees

      Arpeggios upon the strings
      Loud raps on the deerskin drum
      Announced with great clarity
      The final ceremonial rite
      Centennial Years of ten by ten
      Anno 100 at an end
      Anno Forestem Silva
      Year of the Outside Forest

  29. PowerUnit

    I will, she will, we will
    When will it begin?
    When will it end?
    The endless life of marriage sounds so blissful, before
    The future arrives
    Before we get to really know each other
    The statistics scare us, make
    Us want to reconsider making this choice
    These choices
    Don’t let anybody convince you this is one action
    Kids, houses, cars, sports, band, church, and schools
    And this is just the big ticket list
    When you say you do
    Well, do is a big verb
    But don’t worry
    You’ll get it done
    We all do

  30. Alaska Christina

    Perhaps Tomorrow I’ll Love Me More

    Trust, it whispers
    let go, it urges –
    be still and know.

    You were
    you are –
    you always will be


    You knew
    you know –
    you have always known


    As the tide ebbs
    so does it flow –
    crashing waves leave treasures behind.

  31. rlmatt7

    Time through travel (Day 10- Future)

    Machines of adventure
    Machines of Time
    Time travellers
    Time fiction
    Fiction Stories
    Fiction people
    People transporters
    People, people galaxies
    Galaxies strange
    Galaxies unseen
    Unseen fantasy
    Unseen danger
    Danger of getting lost
    Danger of being found
    Found by foes
    Found by Aliens
    Aliens green
    Aliens Smiling
    Smiling twirling
    Smiling Wide
    Wide open space
    Wide new worlds
    Worlds purple, pink, yellow
    Worlds old, still, frozen
    Frozen in time
    Frozen space
    Space station spins
    Space disappears
    Disappears into wormholes
    Disappears to expand
    Expand into amoebas
    Expand into humans
    Humans gaze at stars
    Humans wonder
    Wonder of discovery
    Wonder of invention
    Invention of Atomic bomb
    Invention of Aqualung
    Aqualung breathes underwater
    Aqualung is self-contained
    Self-contained an aim
    Self-contained a myth?
    Myth propagates
    Myth grows
    Grows arms, legs, body
    Grows to travel
    Travel through time
    Travel through space

  32. lethejerome

    “In her, it”

    Don’t be concerned, I am
    only staring at your face
    to conjure
    what it conceals and what it will face.

    I place our wrinkles our sunshine
    on the weeks you might soon separate in inkless
    forced, eyes and fingers crossed,
    out of focus, swallowed into the back,
    the backlessness of a drop.

    After all.

    They would could reap, reel it in, retail it
    but between meals
    those who beget me didn’t know
    to vaccine to conjugate to deconstruct

    They barely knew how to sing

    or read economics reports
    or create rhymes and models
    of the limits to your growth.

    Jérôme Melançon

  33. sharon4

    To My Grandson, Almost Born

    You are in the world before the world, in utero,
    where laughter carries through the skin
    and your parents’ murmurs swell and burst and swell
    like bubbles in your forming ears. At night,
    when your beautiful mother tries to sleep,
    you tumble in your tight surrounds like a whelk
    in a moonlit tide, all the waters carry you
    and currents from such far-off lands—and moonlight!
    —you will hardly believe your eyes when you arrive! All the blues
    and greens, the brittle bend of maple leaf, which
    blazes scarlet in the fall, the winter’s feathered
    snow and how it capes the sharpest
    corners of your world, the ping of a spring shower
    on your skin, the heat you bathe in come July,
    your puppies’ silky fur, her cold wet nose,
    the delight of the whole length of you
    pressed into your father’s arms as he
    rocks you back to sleep. O how faces
    will come to mean the rising sun! And, oh new one,
    human voices, their rise and fall, such pitch
    and tones, will turn to song and lift you
    into the certainty of safety, love,
    the milk still warm upon your tongue.
    Sharon Fagan McDermott

  34. Rolf Erickson

    What If

    What if we could
    remember the future
    and forget the past?

    Every day so fresh
    and open and knowing
    just what to do.

    You wake up amazed
    to look in the mirror
    and discover a totally
    new embodiment.

    You hold the hand
    and so tenderly choose
    the simplest of words
    to express your love
    to the friend who
    on Wednesday
    will die.

    There would be
    no more secrets
    that you so deftly hide
    even from yourself.

    There would be
    no more shadows
    whispering how foolishly
    you may or may not
    have lived.

    What if it’s not all so real.
    What if it’s not a what if.
    What if it’s a choice.

  35. emsytraut

    I’m going to attempt my first Haiku here. Let’s see how it goes.

    2014 April PAD Challenge Day 10
    Prompt: Future

    “Our Future”

    Children learn more every day
    Often by themselves
    Know nothing is set in stone

  36. Delaina Miller

    Signs of the Future

    Doomsday believers
    with placards and cardboard signs
    that read:

    The End is Near!
    The End is Here!
    Jesus is Coming!

    The letters bold and red
    carry the weight of despair.
    No Hallelujahs to inspire lips
    starve the spirit.

    Around the corner
    draped over youthful shoulders
    her sign reads
    The Future is NOW!

    In that moment
    past, present, and future unite.
    It is now the future
    Let the signs read:

    Abundance Thrives!
    Gratitude Lives!
    We are, the saviors we need!

  37. JoCam


    By the next geological epoch
    whales will have taken over
    the seas, while elephants
    and bears will dominate
    the several continents

    The elephants will have perfected
    a legal system, joined in uneasy
    alliance with the bears
    but forming an entente cordiale
    with the whales, who rule
    where there is no competition

    Lions and other predators
    will be in charge of law enforcement

    The deer, gazelles, and other predatees
    will unionize, protest, and in the
    newly flourishing plains
    pledge Solidarity!
    They will form hollow squares

    Forgotten and despised
    pale primates will inhabit
    the back chambers of caves
    where they will paint on the walls
    scenes of violence
    drawn from their once heroic history
    and notify one another
    by means of covert carrier pigeons
    of their most recent gaming moves

  38. MMC

    Maybe It’s All the Same

    Surrender to the future
    as much as you can.
    Surround yourself with dreams
    of an unknown moment,
    one that ticks by soundlessly
    and takes its green worth
    from a vast cache of time
    that’s already died
    in some other universe.

  39. Jay Sizemore

    int hef uture

    then extw ordb eginsb
    eforet hef irstw orde nds.
    Selfiess tartt akingt hemselves.
    Neww ordsm ultiplyl ikeb acteriaa
    nds preadt hroughk isses,

    ad iarodemyi s a sexa ctp erformedo
    na blog. Fretsa ref riendsy ouo nlyk
    nowo nline. Thes kys mellsl ikes ulfur,
    ay ellowh azep ermeatest heh orizony
    oum ustw eara GPSr adioa ta llt imest
    ow arny ouo ff allings atellites.

    Mindsa ret ransferredt oc omputersb
    ute veryone’ss tilla fraidt od ie.
    Ac omputerd oesn’tk nowt
    hef eelingo fa firstu nlesss omeonep
    rogramsi tt oe volves pontaneity.
    Etc eteram eansl ifea sa circuitn ow.

    1. MMC

      brilliant! like a foreign language, only it makes so much sense as a thing of the future when we won’t have time to put words together as we do now — everything speeded up — great concept.

  40. LeighSpencer


    Tomorrow is my favorite day!

    It’s the one where
    gets done

    Painting the bathroom
    Finishing that novel
    Putting all those pictures into frames
    Making that gourmet 7-course meal
    in a spotless kitchen

    Was ever a day more hopeful
    and productive
    than tomorrow?

  41. emmaisan0wl

    A Map For Life
    “The only way to find the future
    is to rip your map
    to shreds. Tear
    it up, streets, contours,
    let the pieces scatter
    in the wind. Sketch out
    your horizons, my darling,
    doodle – but never
    use ink. Follow the lines on your
    palms, the roadmaps of your
    veins, and above all,
    above all,
    keep walking.”

  42. hohlwein

    Future Past

    I read that we never live in the present
    even if we are paying attention to it.
    By the time we notice it –
    as we notice it –
    we and it are in the past.

    A bird crows outside my window.
    Has crowed. A traffic sound fills
    – has filled – the place of that sound.

    The letters I type make their sound
    and stop. I guess in the past.

    So the near future must be the present.
    The near future must be the reading
    of this poem, which will only be
    present just before I read it.

    In any case, I will forget
    almost all of these days.

    I will have lived them
    so I will think I can know them.
    But I won’t.

    The crow was flying.

    It left no mark
    on the sky.

  43. Kimiko Martinez

    My grandpa died still broken-hearted from the betrayal he felt by his country. He was born in California, fought in WWII, and sent to the Midwest with the rest of the dirty Japs American had come to despise and fear. He met Grandma there, and they came back to California to make a pretty great future for themselves and their five kids. But he never forgot his time in those camps.


    Grandma stroked my hair
    as I lay in her lap,
    running her fingers through
    the thick black
    courseness passed down
    from our ancient samurai ancestors.

    She smiled and gazed
    off into the sky,
    staring at some long-forgotten
    landscape of her
    youth, murmuring more
    to herself than to me,
    “It will all be OK, child.”

    She had seen the stables
    of the camps, finely
    dressed women corralled like
    common livestock, chins
    held high, stubborn
    as mules clinging to their dignity.

    “It will all be OK, child,”
    her mama whispered
    into her ear under the gaze of guards
    who saw them as mere
    animals cluttering the barren landscape,
    forgetting their hearts still
    beat with samurai blood.

  44. Jezzie

    The Future

    I want to come back a hundred years from now
    to see what has happened to the world and how
    they have dealt with the rising population
    and never ending wars between each nation.

    I want to see if there are still pastures green,
    or if there’s just buildings with no space between.
    Will rich men have moved away to other stars
    and travel in space machines instead of cars?

    There is no future left for this world, I’m sure,
    unless scientists find a way to restore
    the ecological equilibrium
    for Man and beast, bird, fish and vegetation.

    I’m glad that my time here is nearly over.
    I’ve had the best of what has been on offer,
    but now that we have used our planet’s resource
    I fear there’s nothing left, ’til we change our course.

  45. PatsC

    Family History

    High myopia,
    Macular degeneration,

    Years of focus,
    Wrinkles etched,
    Thickness of lenses,,
    Wounded vanity.

    Gratitude for the blur,
    My husband’s face,
    My son’s curls,
    The blossoming of spring,

    Two conditions of four,
    The journey of vision,
    Seeks to allude,
    Scheduled blindness.

  46. ambermarie

    The Misty Cloak

    I shall be left with the marked impression of an earlier version of myself
    An ancient prototype
    Waking from a long nap
    In what appears to be a lush green valley

    There can’t be any hills,
    But with grasses just so crisp and bright
    It simply must be depressed below the sea to capture all that moisture
    Yes, indeed, there will be a wetness all around

    As I lift my head from my arm
    I am immediately impressed by the spots of dew marking my cloak —
    And perfect circles suspended in thin air by the long curls of my hair
    I can’t comprehend how they had all arrived in the infinite stillness that surrounds me

    From where had they come –
    And – more importantly,
    How long have I been sleeping here in this peaceful meadow?
    How much time has passed since I’ve been near to another soul?

    Violets and black crows surround me,
    Comforting me with their hypnotic fragrances and songs,
    But I can’t stop remembering that there is somewhere else to be
    Perhaps a path has been obscured by whatever mist left its mark on me

  47. Heidi


    The Chondrite Post
    at news stands now

    circulating poetry, art and
    down earth writing.

    Upload cryptic code
    to soul RAM

    hard drive through
    Gold Burst Zone and

    park at Wheel Within Wheel
    for interactive zip trips

    via Quadrant Wings
    to stellar greenhouses

    equipped with pottery classes
    on planet building basics.

    See holographic inserts on
    Jupiter’s Honey and

    antique footage on
    The Leashing of Leviathan.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  48. ina

    ]The Long Now

    The mountain is covered
    with dry grass that feels like saw palmetto underfoot.
    The grass will green again
    under a horizon that is long and round.
    In the mountain,
    the gears of the long clock will wind round.
    Once a year, a solemn tick will sound
    under the world,
    like the bass voice of elephant feet
    rumbling through the savannahs.
    Child, someday you and I
    will visit that mountain,
    so that the sound of our sneakers,
    and the sun’s heat on our hair,
    will move those gears
    towards that day 10,000 years from now
    where the last tick of that clock will sound.
    We will take the sound of our voices
    into that cave;
    we will move those great gears
    with the movement of the air as we climb.
    We will believe that someday someone will hear
    that last great tick and think,
    it’s time to build another long clock.
    We will take that leap of faith,
    the same one I took
    on that rainy April morning,
    when you came blue-breathing and wide-eyed
    into this round world.

    -Ina Roy-Faderman

  49. Deri

    No Regrets

    Those sunset days
    in rocking chairs
    my hope is that
    we never look back
    never long for the what-ifs
    never mourn the never-was
    in the now we must live
    as if those years won’t come
    kiss boys
    kiss girls
    kiss your dog on the nose
    jump out of planes
    and ride motorcycles
    with the wind in your hair
    climb mountains
    learn a language
    you will never use
    buy a stranger a drink
    or a cup of coffee
    or a sandwich
    wink at all the beautiful people
    but never look in mirrors
    for even through our wrinkles
    we must only look forward

  50. Reynard

    as I stand here
    looking across the water
    watching birds fly
    turtle sunbathe
    and waves wash ashore
    I know I need to
    journey back up the walk
    enter the house
    do something with
    my day

    and I think
    to myself
    the future is now

    and it will
    be again

  51. Melahlah

    Let me begin
    To make tomorrow better
    Now’s where I start
    To redirect where I’ve gone
    It’s my choice
    I won’t abuse it
    It’s my voice
    I’ll use it
    One decision at a time
    This is my life’s rhyme

  52. pamelaraw

    The tour of her fiancé’s house ends
    in the room filled with what’s familiar and hers–
    what I will name the piano room,
    what used to be the living room
    of the house where our friendship grew.

    I find comfort that the grands are here
    and the painted lamps still sit atop the dark
    wood side tables. We have our chat
    in the same checkered blue chairs,
    my hands, as always, cupped
    around a mug of after-dinner tea.

    The space for us is smaller, bounded
    by ceiling-to-floor windows and a loft
    by the door. Instead of the fireplace,
    we face the flat screen where I knew
    I had a Superbowl seat if I had no place
    else to go. I don’t remember

    how many times I sat in this comfy
    chair at the old house,
    feet curled up and bawling,
    tears vanishing into the fabric.
    I didn’t cry last night,
    but maybe, even here, I could.

    1. pamelaraw

      Sorry – wrong day
      The Future Looks Brown

      The climate will change as the clouds
      swollen with the megapixels of our digital
      lives can no longer hold everything apart.
      Photos from family reunions and weddings,
      chronicling generations bound by love and blood
      will overlay the negatives of fire-bombed streets
      and bodies in splints and bandages or wrapped
      in their country’s flag. All those images of National Geographic
      landscapes, satellite views from a light year’s distance,
      and children in remote villages dancing in sand will collage
      over the smoky haze of brush fires, the masses
      of mud sliding down mountainsides. Even those cliché
      shots of air-tossed graduation caps, bare feet
      at name-your-exotic-location, and baby’s first
      anything will overshadow the billions of horrors
      we’ve clicked and snapped as evidence of our existence,
      gather like a storm and rain down in sepia tones.

  53. k_weber

    What Lies Ahead

    I’ve seen the nations rise and fall
    I’ve heard their stories, heard them all
    but love’s the only engine of survival

    Your servant here, he has been told
    to say it clear, to say it cold:
    It’s over, it ain’t going any further

    And now the wheels of heaven stop
    You feel the devil’s riding crop
    Get ready for the future: it is murder

    – “The Future”, Leonard Cohen

    I envision myself
    foraging for berries
    and the berries are plump
    with poison. I am filled
    with toxins until my veins
    balloon. The balloon won’t
    burst. I am sick for years
    and I won’t die. I never
    sleep with you again.

    No one wants my poems; not
    even the ones I am clutching
    with paper-cut hands. All my
    favorite songs from the 1990s
    are playing on the oldies
    station. There are wrinkled
    tattooed bodies everywhere. Ears
    are stretched and hanging
    uncomfortably like the objects
    in a Dali painting.

    I would run into traffic
    but the cars fly. Finally. Just
    when I am deemed too old
    to drive. I am driven by
    the light that still barely
    nods acknowledgment from the sun
    and the moon.

    I continue to be depressed. Every-
    thing is treated but nothing
    is cured. My stomach hurts. I miss
    you. Everyone dies as the days
    slip off the calendar. It’s slippery
    stuff, this living. I live with grey
    skin and am every shade of illness
    for ages.

    I avoid love from all safe and sharp
    angles. Now everyone I know is gone.
    I keep living and finally experience
    a broken bone. My teeth are fixed
    and then they all fall out
    of my face. I live to be 182.

    – k weber

  54. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 10

    Write a future poem.

    In Twenty Years

    she’ll be twenty-one.
    If I live that long, I’ll be
    eighty-two. Her youthful beauty,
    at its prime, my wrinkles double what
    they are now, but I don’t care.

    If I could choose between watching helpless
    from Heaven and staying on this fallen earth,
    to influence today’s toddling granddaughter
    into that future woman of God,
    I would dig in my heels and grasp the roots
    of woodsy plants with hands as gnarled as they,
    loath to leave;
    I’d stay and be a lantern on the path into her future.

  55. bookworm0341

    “The future of our friendship[“

    I feel very insignificant.
    It’s as if whatever I do is wrong.
    If it’s not done her way
    It’s not done right.

    When she walks through the door,
    I must drop whatever I am doing,
    To tend to her every beckon call.
    It’s her way or the highway.

    It doesn’t matter what I want to eat,
    We have to eat what she wants.
    Do what she wants
    Listen to what she wants
    There is no me.

    She was my best friend
    We would laugh and
    Share our lives together
    Now all she does is demand.

    I miss my best friend,
    Being there for her-
    Talking to her,
    Sharing my life with her

    I hate the way things have been lately,
    The fights, the yelling,
    Feeling rejected and ditched.
    Without a best friend anymore.

    I chose you to be my best friend
    For your shoulder to cry on
    Your advice and prayers
    To be there for you as well,
    But I’m not sure what the future holds.

  56. iris dunkle

    Grateful for Future, Whatever it May Contain

    Hard to predict the future when you wake
    to a fogged field at dawn echoing bird
    song. Hard not to spend your day trying to
    follow a straight line: long roads divided
    by broken lines, contrails that dissipate
    from the sky, a blue, shimmering pool still
    unparceled by lane lines. A clock you doubt
    the accuracy of. But, the future
    is funny, isn’t it? You have no choice
    but to watch it slowly emerge from fog
    like a lone muscular buck. Quivering,
    unpredictable and surrounded by
    the feathered hope of song.

  57. J.lynn Sheridan

    “To shame the orphan”

    Her dark voice falters but her eyes
    are tattooed with a gleam too safe
    She is rubbing her knuckles like a
    a rabbit’s foot Soon, the blood-red
    moons will align A message sewn
    into the sky She says it with my hand
    against her chest Pressing white
    Pressing blue veins crocheted with
    stolen years Guard your heart
    Her eyes bore into mine not with
    vengeance Not with warning but
    with sealed peace upon her soul.

    The prophets are buried under
    the twin sculptured hawks in the
    park where she took me as a child.
    Don’t cry she said when I asked
    when Daddy would come home—
    tears are the seeds of war and here
    lie the remains of rumors raptured
    by the thieves of the night. If you cry,
    they will sprout wings and we will
    blame you when the moons collide.

  58. Cin5456


    Every day my horoscope comes
    neatly printed in the comic section.
    I suppose that is an editorial comment,
    but I don’t depend on horoscopes.
    For the auspices of the week ahead
    tossing clay runes precedes success.
    Whether conditions are favorable or not,
    it’s best to consult the I Ching at least once.
    Warnings of danger, or unforeseen obstacles
    display in the lay of the tarot.
    Trends may prove important, as well,
    Numerology will help you there.
    But only the uninformed
    depend on generic horoscopes.
    They are best consulted
    at the end of the day
    for a note of levity.
    My palm reader and I laugh
    about the missed omens in horoscopes
    every Tuesday evening.

  59. Emma

    To my future dying self

    Are you alone?
    Do you sit looking out the window at the muggy city smoke,
    Blankets around your shoulders and book in your lap?
    Are you lonely?
    Do you wish in the silent seconds
    That you hadn’t ran,
    Or laughed with such spite,
    Or flashed a condescending sneer,
    Or screamed
    Or said nothing at all?
    Tell me it isn’t cancer.
    (it is cancer, isn’t it? it is.)
    I hope it was worth sticking around on this godforsaken
    Lump of rock, going through the motions,
    Circling the sun until…
    Whatever happens between now and then,
    Remember what it was like to be eighteen
    And to sit on the garden swing and stare at the horizon,
    To feel the sun on your back and the grass between your toes,
    To enjoy the quiet and to enjoy the interruptions, everyone
    Calling for you to return
    To silly conversation
    And dancing
    And drinking
    And laughing.
    As you pass from this world,
    Exhale your last breath, let go of your hold on reality,
    Remember it all.
    Let your last words be beautiful.
    Let your last sound be a laugh.

  60. Michelle Murrish

    The Lemon Tree
    By Michelle Murrish

    I’ve watched the blossoms open up
    Soft petals fanning wide
    As days went on, I waited still
    For what was just inside

    And like a drop of sweet sunlight
    The fruit began to grow
    Checking each day I wait to see
    The branches bend and bow

    I take pleasure in the smallest things
    Grab joy from where it’s made
    Using life’s sour moments
    Tomorrow I’ll have lemonade

  61. kswiberg

    Here and Now

    The sparrow flits in and out of the elbow hanging
    from the rusted gutter, a gap offering egress.
    The elbow has just enough bend to support
    bits of leaves and pinestraw and grass,
    but the elbow has lost its downspout, victim
    of a redbud toppled alongside it. So as scrabbles
    whisper against aluminum, bits of nest
    fall past the paint trail on brick and dangling metal straps.
    At the next big rain the nest will wash out.
    Whatever is in it will fall. But that is the future.
    This is the here. This is the here and the now.
    And for now, this here is home.

    –Karin Wiberg

  62. PSC in CT

    Running behind, so I’m killing two prompts with one poem here. ;-)

    A Future Diatelle

    The day
    flew away
    and now it’s through
    leaving no time for play.
    Yet still, I have much work to do:
    a Diatelle — about the FUTURE too!!
    Ironic how the time slipped by so very fast.
    Just what, I wonder, can one poet do?
    Perchance turn one day into two??
    The time is now, I say!
    Help me! Can you?
    Make it stay.
    Oh… nay…


  63. lidywilks


    It was all a dream,
    collected and fragmented pieces
    cf a reality that can never be
    That’s right! a world
    of low cost living and high paying
    wages, where everyone smiles
    as bright as a sun rise gone
    are the sinisterness hidden
    where everyone and thing
    glows in an idyllic euphoria
    unsustained by drug induced highs
    can only exist in dreams
    yes? For a dream to become
    a reality I’d need a magic wand
    or continue to sleep for a thousand years.

    by Lidy Wilks

  64. Earl Parsons

    Working Toward Eternity

    If we could see ourselves tomorrow
    And we knew what life would bring.
    Would we live with what was coming
    Or would we change some things?

    If we could look into the future
    And see both sides of the coin,
    We could avoid bad consequences.
    And save ourselves a lot of pain.

    If we could figure out the secret
    Of building future happiness,
    Then we could face the future boldly,
    Anticipating upcoming bliss.

    But the future is the future.
    It simply hasn’t happened yet.
    And if your life is right with God,
    You’ll be happy with what you get.

    Only God knows what is coming.
    He has a plan for everyone.
    His wonderful plan is always perfect
    We need to pray His will be done.

    I don’t worry about the future.
    God is taking care of me.
    Each new day I live for Him
    Working toward eternity.

  65. Karen

    She fidgets with her beads again,
    watching faces go by – a blur –
    no one stopping to ask her
    to tell them their future. Who wants
    to know what tomorrow brings
    when today there’s candy apples
    on a stick, merry-go-rounds, and
    a wannabe magician without magic?
    But she has the magic to know
    and no customers to serve,
    no crystal balls to shine or wands
    to give as prizes if she can guess
    their birthdays. Too bad she does not
    have that kind of clairvoyance
    or creativity to draw them in,
    but she does know their untimely
    deaths like memories
    rising to the surface of her judgment,
    and she does not flaunt that gift
    like the magician and his top hat.
    She watches faces go by in a haze,
    and waits for the curious to come.

  66. Fae Spurrier

    You Want Solutions and I Want a Gun

    The sun tickles the minarets
    then the dusty hotel windows
    while the border quakes.

    I know you saw
    that Odysseus too returned to his island
    from someone else’s war:
    his dreams already myth,
    his flesh already old,
    the world no less broken
    for having one more hero.

    The border shakes with hunger.
    The mountains sleep
    …are children again
    …are breathing softly
    when you crack open the door.

    But here among the sand colored buildings
    the sun shrinks away,
    leaving the familiar shadows
    found in all unholy cities.
    Leaving us to imagine
    the promises we’ll make tomorrow.

    The border quakes.

  67. Mokosh28

    Future Spring

    After the shower, young one finds
    first puddle. She bends to reach through
    clean mirror face racing with rain-wrung
    clouds. She cries out at the tingle.

    Behind windows, other children touch pond
    screens where brilliant fish flash
    and wiggle, disappear and come back
    whole. Some score. Others leap
    the next level. More and more life
    tends toward the virtual. Her dampened boots
    march prints few will follow.

    And someday the insiders may even feel
    the rough nick of stones, wrists of rain
    water and, as they play,
    breathe in birdsong.

  68. robinamelia


    I remember bright rainbows,
    our futures pulsating ahead,
    and what we lacked in leprechauns
    we made up for with coffee, smokes,

    late nights dancing at the pub, later nights
    pushing each other up stairs to dorm room beds
    and next morning practically no harm done,
    the rainbow still shimmered.

    Technicolor, that great invention,
    rolls back now; the gray scale a discovery,
    panoramic screens scrunched
    to palm size and somewhere

    those futures are tucked away
    in the back pocket of an old pair of jeans.

    Robin Amelia Morris

  69. jsmadge

    What’ll It Be, Kid?

    The sparkly-spangled future
    Live across the pond
    Down the pike a-piece
    Around the corner
    Never here.
    Oxygen to hope, she shimmers
    Through the haze of Next Time and But When
    And we don’t realize
    That when she comes
    Around the mountain
    It’s too late.

    Jo Steigerwald

  70. Mark Danowsky

    Forward, to the Hills

    Climb is all we know – Bon Iver

    From the Wissahickon to the Monongahela
    we will pursue newness, face elevation
    in the literal sense, not progress
    for its own sake or status
    which can be found any place
    if that is a goal, aspiration
    what was meant
    by purple mountains majesty

  71. Angie5804

    The Future

    There is an old familiar song
    To which I used to sing along
    “For I know Who holds the future”
    I would sing from a heart so sure

    I’d sing,”I know Who holds my hand”
    I’d sing in this familiar land
    I sing yet, in uncertain days
    While traveling uncertain ways

    Still I sing, not knowing the whys
    So hard saying all the goodbyes
    To all the familiar faces
    To the comfortable places

    Heading off to a land so strange
    An unplanned, unexpected change
    Still forever to Him I cling
    Still forever to Him I sing

  72. anneemcwilliams

    cruel blessing

    and when was
    the very first time
    you thanked
    our rich sweet earth
    for her mercy given
    in pure clean water

    and when will be
    the final time
    our rich sweet earth
    reveals her immensity
    to cash register hearts

    first draft 04/10/2014

  73. d dyson

    The future and I,
    we never seem to see eye to eye,
    I am forever chasing him like an unrequited lover,
    always leading me on,
    luring me with his mysterious streak
    of what tomorrow might become.
    I sometimes think I’ve had enough,
    but then he shakes me with the dawn,
    carrying the hint of a promise,
    and I sink further and further and further into love.
    The future and I, yes we never seem to see eye to eye,
    but maybe that’s what does me some good.

  74. Daniel Paicopulos


    One of us will die first, one left behind.
    One of us will remain, it’s just the kind
    of trap we’ve woven for ourselves, this spin
    of the wheel, however we feel, it’s in
    understanding this we can have the best
    of our lives, this friendship thing, the real test
    not in who dies first, in who longer lives,
    but in the now moment, this is what gives
    joy to the two of us, the daily win,
    not in waiting for our lives to begin.

  75. jclenhardt


    We scribble the lines
    you and I,
    then carefully,
    picking over
    our words,
    what isn’t
    quite ripe or,
    what’s already
    our fingers stained
    from inkberries;
    perhaps yours
    more then mine,
    your lips too,
    for every word
    I’ve written,
    you’ve eaten
    all of them;
    the good, the bad;
    you consume
    as if, I’ll never
    write again,
    as if, there is
    no tomorrow,
    and it’s frightening
    to think,
    that such a
    history lives
    in you, of me,
    and then, I am reminded,
    that my tongue too is stained.

  76. FaerieTalePoet

    Friday October 13, 2017

    It may seem very far away
    but I assure you that this day
    was chosen with the utmost care.
    It doesn’t matter what they say
    my love and I shall declare,
    in front of family and friends
    that until we meet our ends
    our hearts to one another tied.
    Silver cord about our hands
    there will be laughter and tears to cry,
    renaissance gowns and fairy wings,
    poems read and songs to sing.
    We hope that by this day
    when our wedding bells shall ring
    that all love is legal inn all states,
    be the couple straight or gay.

    Dana A. Campbell

  77. Michele Brenton

    Cinnabar’s Birthday.

    Yesterday I met some animals
    Some horses:
    Molly liked mints and poked out her tongue;
    Gus had the secrets of the universe hidden in his eyes;
    they and the others wore socks of purest white
    and they danced to moving music
    as the riders on their backs trailed silken flags
    while we cried for another horse
    called Cinnabar who’d died
    and whose birthday it was
    and there was cake, and tea
    afterwards for the people who
    knew that Cinnabar would not be
    there in future.

    Michele Brenton 11th April 2014

  78. Scribbling Sue


    I don’t know where it came from,
    That Ouija Board.
    Excitement echoed, veils of secrecy stirred
    In the girls’ dormitory. All day, nerves tingled.
    We waited until after dark,
    The witching hour, perhaps.
    While others slept, we circled round the table,
    Breathless in anticipation,
    Brown hockey pants over the centre light for

    Five fourteen year old girls longing
    To learn what lay ahead,
    As if knowing could alter the future
    For it comes to us all in the end.
    We asked the usual questions:
    Would we be rich?
    Who would we marry?
    The Ouija board leaped to life as though
    Powered by an inventive spirit,
    So imaginative we suspected trickery.
    It spelled out names, darting and jerking
    Across the table, while we
    Suppressed gasps and shrieks of surprise.
    My turn.
    Serious young eyes fixed upon me.
    Who would I marry?
    A pause, and then the initials BW spelled out.
    A friend beside me got MISTER X.
    Suspicious, we thought, and accused her of
    Pushing the board, of distorting our future.

    By now the summoned spirit had warmed to the task,
    Matrimonial predictions rained down on us like hailstones,
    Suddenly it stopped.
    We breathed together.
    One dared to ask
    Who’s there?
    Another lurch forward and frantic letters spelled out,
    We leaned together, heads touching over the table.

    Matron burst in, clucking and scolding
    Like a flustered hen.
    She snatched our board and shooed us to bed.
    Silly girls, she said, didn’t we know that
    The future lay in our own hands?

    I married in the future, a WB and not BW,
    So the Ouija board was wrong,
    Or almost wrong.
    My future lies in my own hands
    Or does it?

    Suzanne Lalor
    10th April 2014

  79. cam45237

    The Insomniac’s Logic

    In 14 minutes it will be tomorrow
    You should be sleeping now

    Don’t trust the shiny penny promises
    That mornings make.

    It’s not that Now is notable
    Now will not live in infamy
    Nor last in legend
    No crossing of Rubicons
    No epic climbs of Alps or Eiffel Towers
    No higher, faster, sweeter, better, richer, more
    Just knowledge you can bank on
    That tomorrows are a limited commodity
    And if you never sleep
    Your vault of tomorrows
    Remains inviolate

  80. briehuling

    April 10, 2014

    Day 10


    I will plant myself directly into the earth
    amongst the tulips and purslane–
    the timing will be better there, for sure.
    Patterns in the stars will shift
    and I can gaze at them, for hours, days–
    track their transference as if they’re
    telling me my fortune in some cosmic code
    created just for the common weed.

    I will open with the sun each morning
    to feel my substantial roots growing,
    exploring beneath the wild grass.
    I’ll fall carelessly in and out of love with every
    leaf warbler that flicks past, grieve each loss
    with my heart open, singing towards a magnificent sky,
    okay in knowing we forget everything, eventually.

    By Brie Huling

  81. muse60

    I don’t want to see the sunrise
    Smell dew on the morning grass
    Taste another day
    In the presence of your scorn
    As the subject of your hateful gaze
    The target of your drunken anger

    Where I once dreamt of a future
    Together in the journey
    Willfully shackled in bliss
    Now I’ve awoken betrayed
    Seen the future
    And want no part of it

  82. Scott Jacobson


    When we get to mars
    We will bring it roses
    And nuclear waste.

    We will drill holes
    In its face to give
    It a face lift.

    Terraform it
    Giving it a tummy
    Tuck and a boob job

    Because we cannot
    Even let a celestial
    Body be 100% natural.

  83. seingraham


    This afternoon I held the future in my arms
    and it was as buoyant, optimistic, and delightful
    as anything I could imagine
    It’s not often the veil of the present slips enough
    to allow such glimpses of what’s coming
    But today, when first I had my four year old grandson
    for a time, talk to me of robots, space, and love
    I saw clearly such wisdom coming up and was cheered

    Then a little later on, I held his youngest brother,
    the new baby, barely just a month old
    spent a very long time regarding me steadily,
    his gaze unblinking, his blue eyes fixed on mine
    I have experienced this fathomless eye-lock
    with both of his brothers but there is something different
    This time; maybe because of all the family, only he and
    I are winter children – both born under the sign of the fishes
    I pretend not to believe in such things, but it’s lovely,
    after so many summer and fall birthdays celebrated
    throughout the years, to at last share a commonality
    with another family member —
    This wee babe and I are the only Pisceans
    in our immediate family, on both sides
    and it makes me inordinately happy
    I believe I see that link, that bond,
    reflected deep in his unblinking regard of me
    and as I’m considering this, he grants me a toothless
    grin that I am certain is a smile, and not just gas…

    Finally, just before it’s time for me to leave
    and go back home, the middle child, the two year old,
    holds up his arms and says “lap” clearly to me…
    And in a swirl of warmth and gratitude, I gather this sometimes
    fractious toddler up and hold him close to me;
    He smells earthy, and like baby-wipes, and spaghettios,
    and other indefinable things
    He throws his head back and grins into my face,
    tells me about his dinosaurs, his playing outside, his visit to the dollar store,
    his mama, his train, his books, his new big-boy bed…
    and on and on, all at warp-speed

    Driving home I am in a pleasant fugue,
    Thinking back over the afternoon,
    Musing about my good fortune;
    I have such a wonderful family
    A husband who still loves me to distraction,
    Two daughters who bring such joy
    And those grandsons, the future incarnate…

  84. Linda Hatton

    My Future without You

    In the future, this set of cherry-colored dishes
    I now line each mortal meal with—the one that holds
    us all together, our legs so close our knees knob
    against each other (those hardwood legs, too),
    we sometimes even joke about playing footsie—
    in that future, those dishes will have lost their shine,
    chips marking their tired edges, along with a crack or two,
    invisible unless you look just the right way in the light.
    In that future, I rush to sit, quickening my intake,
    and then get back up from empty chairs I (try to) overlook,
    giving anything to yell at you, “Clean your plate.”
    Giving anything to see your hands
    clearing those cherry-colored dishes.

    –Linda G Hatton

  85. tbell

    Daring Presence

    The future
    is an illusion

    in the hearts
    of those who
    cannot bear

    to be fully
    alive today.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  86. silencebreaksyourheart

    There is little life unspent
    but the road stretches on.

    There is neither sunrise
    nor the setting will come.

    There is too little noise
    so it is all so deafening.

    There is a stillness that
    settled into the essence.

    There is peace just as
    there is nevermore.

    Never again and always.

    -S. Monahan
    All Rights Reserved

  87. lionetravail

    “Que Sera, Sera”
    by David M. Hoenig

    I must believe that whatever will be, will be:
    I’ve been told, by people who seemed pretty sure,
    the future is not, apparently, ours to see.

    Prophets who truly know must have some key,
    but they keep it from those of us less pure;
    I must believe that whatever will be, will be.

    I envy those who can read hints in leaves of tea,
    for it seems that any knowledge must reassure;
    the future is not, apparently, ours to see.

    I assume I have, or can create, my own destiny,
    and in that I feel totally secure.
    I must believe that whatever will be, will be.

    At best, however, though we fight Fate’s web to remain free
    agents and resist despair as long as we can endure,
    the future is not, apparently, ours to see.

    Not knowing comes as no cause for upset or surprise to me,
    for time has always slipped away from us, into unknown future.
    I must believe that whatever will be, will be;
    the future is not, apparently, ours to see.

  88. Tbur

    It takes a year they say
    for a soul to settle once it leaves
    It travels, visits, reminisces,
    then finally finds it’s new place.

    Time will heal all wounds they say,
    whispering soft words of condolence.
    And I wonder
    will it take me a year?
    Should I travel, visit, reminisce?

    At the end of this year will my soul also find it’s new place?

  89. tbell

    Life Passing By

    You hit a rumble strip
    panic. swerve. veer.

    wake up to what you’re doing

    hands on the wheel
    correct. course. realign.

    keep your eyes straight ahead

    see the road in front of you
    lights. landscape. details.

    things you’ve never seen before

    wonder how you got here
    what. you. missed.

    while asleep at the wheel.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  90. Aberdeen Lane

    cyber-replication ad from Lumina

    the new wave
    human to machine
    and everything inbetween
    you decide
    how much improvement
    what to keep real

    here now on at Lumina
    where dreams easily become real
    as we become gods for the next dimension beings
    the Cybrelon

  91. Margie Fuston

    In the Future, After the Zombie Apocalypse

    I wander around an earth I’ve forgotten,
    unaware of my neighbor shuffling beside me
    who could use a hand lifting a sagging eyeball
    off her waxen, torn, cheek. Who cares? I can’t
    even find one of my eyeballs, and I’ve checked
    my pockets twice, even lost a fingernail looking.
    Plus, I’ve got this insatiable desire to feel
    my own stomach expand, to find flesh
    to grind between the few teeth I have left.
    I’ve got my own problems. Life bites
    for everyone now, but if my brains weren’t leaking
    out my nose and filling the bellies of maggots,
    I might realize nothing has changed.

  92. Astrid Egger

    Future attempt

    It is a fine sense of speculation
    that calls up worries of what
    may not endure; a language
    here, a species there and
    weather offset everywhere
    and we cry foul; for this
    must not persist. It fuels
    our drive to end disease,
    funds allotted haphazardly
    so research proceeds at
    an unsteady rate amidst
    fears that we are too late
    to change course now.
    Taking time to deliberate
    where do our values clash;
    we can act neighbourly
    and hold currency beyond
    cold cash, as we proceed
    unsteady on our feet, at first,
    but bracing ourselves as we
    resist sliding into certainty.

  93. Shell

    Behind A Star
    By Shell Ochsner

    What can be more unclear.

    Shiver alone tormented by fear.

    Of to what end must I spare?

    Nothing left abyss I stare.

    Hate me! Love Me! Loath me!

    No longer could I care.

    Righteous or wronged matters not.

    Alone I’m stuck left to rot.

    Emptiness is taking hold.

    And my body’s growing old.

    Looking, reaching oh so far.

    My future hides behind a star.

  94. lionetravail

    “Once Failed”
    by David M. Hoenig

    She told me it wasn’t in the cards,
    and that the future wasn’t so bright.
    I asked if she’d keep me in warm regards-
    she told me it wasn’t in the cards.
    I wondered if we could pick up the shards,
    and glue them back together tight.
    She told me it wasn’t in the cards,
    and that the future wasn’t so bright.

  95. sbpoet

    after the flood
    the tsunami
    hurricanes, tornados,
    earthquakes, monsoons
    without end

    after the first death
    after the last death
    the terminal diagnosis
    the shattered heart
    the asteroid impact

    after wolf moon
    after blood moon
    after the long drought
    the famines
    the stillborn child

    after the bamboo lemur
    the crested macaque
    the lowland gorilla
    the fish eagle
    the island marmot

    after the black rhino
    the lynx, the buffalo
    the dolphin, the crane
    the condor, the antelope
    the tiger, the leopard

    after the polar bear
    after the walrus
    after the penguin
    after the bees
    what will be left to grieve?

    ~ sharon brogan

  96. GarrinJost

    It’s filling.
    The cup I was holding
    a moment ago
    is full-
    and I can pour it out
    and I have poured it into another
    and the next is half full
    and by the time I’ve begun
    to fill the next cup-
    the first is empty.
    We may not always know
    what is next-
    and what our empty cup may mean.
    But look!
    It’s filling.

  97. cbwentworth

    Seconds unticked,
    moments unlived
    Fluid clockwork,
    persuades the Fates

    Forward motion,
    belies the present
    Always seeking,
    never breathing

    Still the voices,
    lure the silence
    Time unspent,
    hours undone

  98. clcediting


    He was disappointed;
    that the cars didn’t fly,
    that there’d been more wars
    in lands he’d never heard of,
    that poverty and starvation
    were still prevalent problems,
    and people were still people
    with all of their flaws.

    Some things were better,
    or, at least,
    equally good.
    Information at your fingertips,
    food from around the world,
    freedom creeping into places
    where none existed before,
    and people were still people
    with all of their flaws.

    The past may haunt a little
    may taunt him
    with rose-colored glasses.
    May cause him pain,
    and grief, and moments
    of pure sadness.
    Where he remembers friends
    forever out of reach.
    When people were still people
    with all of their flaws.

  99. Betty001

    “The Traveler”

    The yearning grows…
    Longing becomes essential
    Where the hearts hum
    The smiles falter into peace at mind
    To pull air in,
    Letting it out,
    dance around~
    The light flustering feet upon the clouds,
    Arms and hands spread to reach for each feather,
    bringing it closer…
    To grasp the softest feather resting on the cheek,
    and barely feeling the lightness.
    Pulling another feather,
    one adds on after another…
    Such bundle grows its warmth
    the whiteness transforms
    Into purest white of all.
    Letting it go
    All of them
    Watch it fall so gradually…
    The slipping through fingers
    As if it does not exist,
    falling to where the wind shall leads them.
    Forever to see them fade away…
    Never knowing where the feathers go,
    As well as one would be unknown to their future,
    and soar through time itself~

  100. Yerma Skyflower

    one day
    i will know
    all his secrets.

    we will be
    the old couple
    walking hand-hand

    through the mall—
    except it won’t be
    the mall. because

    we are more cool
    than that. we will have
    silver hair in a time when

    science has nothing left to conquer.
    we will stroll down unpaved streets
    on far-away planets. we will see the sun

    rise twenty thousand, seventy five times
    together on a beach waiting to be discovered
    with a view of four moons. we will celebrate

    our fifty-fifth anniversary with a kiss.
    our lips will behave young. there will be tastes
    of tongue. there will be love that spans galaxies.

  101. Amirae Garcia

    The Signs – Amirae Garcia

    He goes to lunch, orders his favorite meal, and laughs when
    the server brings him the tray of fortune cookies. The first,
    The future is not for sleepers. Wake up. The second,
    The future wants you to cherish her; and by then, he has
    given up. He does not even realize that the stars are screaming.

    He comes home and kisses her on the cheek, but it’s not even
    a kiss. It was a wasted effort and it meant nothing, because
    love has checked out. It meant nothing when his daughter said,
    “Dad, you need to do better.”

    He goes to sleep and turns over. His queen, only feeling the warmth of the covers,
    searches for the answers screaming inside her heart. She wonders what it is
    she has done. Why has her king gone?

    He does not notice the atomic bombs setting off and he is missing all of the signs.
    He does not think twice when his horoscope says

    the future is a lonely bed and a trail of broken hearts.

  102. EbenAt

    I’d love to think that
    some day,
    these lines will be dug up
    and pondered.
    For decades,
    they’ll have no idea
    until a Rosetta Stone is found,
    and they suddenly understand.

    My heart knows
    that won’t happen.

    We’re fucking things up
    so badly that
    there’ll be no future
    Archeologists to dig.

    Not human ones,

  103. seingraham


    This afternoon I held the future in my arms
    and it was as buoyant, optimistic, and delightful
    as anything I could imagine
    It’s not often the veil of the present slips enough
    to allow such glimpses of what’s coming
    But today, when first I had my four year old grandson
    for a time, talk to me of robots, space, and love
    I saw clearly such wisdom coming up, and was cheered

    Then a little later on, I held his youngest brother,
    the new baby, barely just a month old
    spent a very long time regarding me steadily,
    his gaze unblinking, his blue eyes fixed on mine
    I have experienced this fathomless eye-lock
    with both of his brothers but there is something different
    This time; maybe because of all the family, only he and
    I are winter children – both born under the sign of the fishes
    I pretend not to believe in such things, but it’s lovely,
    after so many summer and fall birthdays celebrated
    throughout the years, to at last share a commonality
    with another family member —
    This wee babe and I are the only Pisceans
    in our immediate family, on both sides,
    and it makes me inordinately happy
    I believe I see that link, that bond,
    reflected deep in his unblinking regard of me
    and as I’m considering this, he grants me a toothless
    grin that I am certain is a smile, and not just gas…

    Finally, just before it’s time for me to leave
    and go back home, the middle child, the two year old,
    holds up his arms and says “lap” clearly to me…
    And in a swirl of warmth and gratitude,
    I gather this sometimes
    fractious toddler up and hold him close to me;
    He smells earthy, and like baby-wipes, and spaghettios,
    and other indefinable things
    He throws his head back and grins into my face,
    tells me about his dinosaurs,
    his playing outside, his visit to the dollar store,
    his mama, his train, his books, his new big-boy bed…
    and on and on, all at warp-speed

    Driving home I am in a pleasant fugue,
    Thinking back over the afternoon,
    Musing about my good fortune;
    I have such a wonderful family
    A husband who still loves me to distraction,
    Two daughters who bring such joy
    And those grandsons, the future incarnate…

  104. christinamcphee

    Dark silhouette
    Two steps forward
    Stolen kisses you taste ahead
    Envying your vision
    I break into a run
    You never mentioned headlights…..
    Did you think it was the sun?

  105. AC Leming


    I don’t have a time machine
    to ride into the future —
    to make sure we both end up OK.
    That we are happier apart
    than we ever were together.

    Too dang ornery to canter peacefully
    side by side,
    we kicked at the traces.

    When spooked,
    we galloped in opposite directions
    until the harness tangled
    and had to be cut off us.

    Excited and scared,
    I lope toward the Eastern Shore.
    I’m gonna head for Chincoteague
    and run with a different herd.

  106. DCR1986

    Through My Brown Lens

    Passing by the past and the present,
    I laughed, and then smiled.
    Hands in the air saying, Hallelujah!
    Down the hall,
    I fling my white coat and toss portfolios—
    Gather sticky notes with poetic thoughts before
    departing a day shift from the probability of discovering a cure.
    After multiple intersections and series of stops, I groove to the latest tunes—
    Fleeing home with the anticipation to passionately kiss and hug
    The man I grew to love, vowed the gift of forever, and out of love, reproduced.

    Over the smells of grandma’s recipes,
    Four of us bond through prayer followed by
    Heart-to-heart conversations about our
    journey through the seven continents and seas,
    first loves and heartbreaks,
    reality and dreams,
    aspirations and purposes;
    and the delights of
    field goals, rebounds, and fouls,
    differentiating of arts,
    the outcome of good and evil,
    strategies of curriculums and humanity.

    And then my eyes zoom elsewhere:
    Eyes see me teaching my children
    the importance and power of prayer, love, and patience.
    Eyes show them the routes of achievement
    by recognizing failure and overpowering obstacles.
    Eyes see me teaching daughter how to be woman,
    while eyeing husband teaching son to be man.
    Eyes see love like sunrises.
    Eyes see hate out of space.
    Eyes see injustice, racism, and discrimination lynched.
    Eyes see no worries, confusion, or misery.
    Eyes see no child left behind or abused.
    Eyes see every human right approved.
    Eyes see homeless sheltered and fed.
    Eyes see everyone rich in health.
    Eyes see dreamers existing in their dream.
    Eyes see families unifying.
    Eyes see friends, not enemies.
    Eyes see me as the woman I’m growing to be,
    until a flight of angels rescue me.

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  107. Grey_Ay

    The Future Came

    The future
    is an idea
    built from plans
    based on hopes
    fueled by fears

    The future
    came slowly
    looked similar
    felt subtle
    but quickly went

    I had
    waited longingly
    needed the change
    wanted the unknown
    Now, I am unsure

    -A. Ault-

  108. Cameron Steele

    Gardening with Grandma

    “‘Course it’s difficult to weed without
    dirtyin’ up knees and
    sweatin’ between thighs, cotton
    panties always seemin’ to go slick-like
    with wet and somethin’ else.
    Even when you’re old.”

    That’s what she told me,
    anyway, that’s what we talked
    about in the dirt, tapping
    our fingers on fresh mounds
    of new pansies, that’s what
    we could bare, necks bent
    a little, the sun more like teeth.

    The future always seemed harder,
    she’d wave it off before I could ask,
    as if it to tuck it beneath the weeds.
    Even when she was well, she never
    wanted to know my dreams,
    like she already knew one of us wouldn’t
    remember them later.

    “Even when you’re old,
    it’s easy to look at a trowel
    in the dirt and see a man or
    God forbid, the tongue of a snake.
    ‘Course heat always bends the mind
    like weak metal.”

    She wasn’t really weak
    or even fully sane, just another tough
    old lady scared of the minutes
    outside of a small garden,
    the only ones I, hump-backed
    for hours beside her pressing my fingers
    into the folds of my skin, probing, while
    she rattled, the damp leg-line of my boyshorts,
    the only thick future I ever craved.

  109. encrerouge

    Window Cave

    tinges of cerulean blues crystallize to the ceiling
    there goes the broken dishes and the equator’s aftermath
    so long I have gathered the wallflowers to watch them bloom
    beyond the mirrors of these caves that echo a new path
    I hear the drip drop on the back of my hands
    Soon enough the island said enough…

    today is a tomorrow wrapped in satin blankets
    awaiting to be uncovered without the trembling thought
    of the flabbergasting minerals in cold showers

    step away from the ground and into the blizzard
    if escorted by the clock, make flight of those numbers
    invent a reality to relive the fantasy where the breath escapes
    the upside down cones shorten to paint the flesh

    tinges of cerulean blues crystallize to the ceiling
    here the skin goes reaching for a far prairie

  110. Jaywig

    2 poems

    Given you will die
    How will you live?
    What is your life for?
    What will you give?

    Or are you a taker
    a user, a thief?
    Are you happiest
    in the presence of grief?

    Perhaps at the last
    your swansong will play;
    Who will laugh last, then
    with your hopes gone astray?

    There isn’t much time
    from emergence to death.
    Live a life you can love
    until your last breath.

    Take charge, make a mark,
    leave something of worth,
    The worms will be thankful
    when you return to earth.

    Even then I suspect
    You’ll make their plans backfire
    By choosing to donate
    Your body to a pyre.


    If I don’t find the hairdresser
    there will be enormous displeasure
    ruining an otherwise perfect day.

    The bride and groom resplendent
    the bridesmaids divine
    bride’s parents a vivid display –

    But I with my frizz
    spend the day in a tizz
    simply wanting to run, run away!

    No style, no panache, no pride
    for the groom. He’ll take me aside,
    my son, and he’ll say –

    “You’re always unique
    but not at your peak
    even now, on this special day.”

    And all for the want of a hairdresser’s touch,
    the expert who’ll make smooth what’s rough
    with comb, pins and rigorous hairspray.

  111. peacegirlout

    The past is my future

    This morning I laid out the plans for the evening
    I knew what I wanted and why
    Midday I got stuck in a red rush of salmon
    Leaving confused and lychee eyed

    Five left the lychee quite bitchy
    And the thorns unhusked from their pods
    At 9 my brain had grown rather glitchy
    And I wanted a word with the gods

    I’ll try again tomorrow.

  112. cholder

    Do I live for today or for tomorrow? Today I feel like stripping off my clothes and mooning random people on the highway. But I have my first job interview tomorrow. What if they google me?
    Will they see my mug plastered on the internet, arrested for public nudity? Will they see that pic
    my friends posted during a party back in college? The one where I’m wallowing on the ground,
    bleary-eyed, proud that I saved my beer. Or the picture of me with my pants pulled down,
    getting a tattoo I thought was so cool at the time, but once sober, instantly regretted? Will they look
    at all my past tweets where I brag about getting drunk and high, and every other word is f*$%@?
    I’ve lived so many todays, there is no tomorrow.

    Chi Holder

  113. starrynight3


    Don’t even try to imagine it
    Because it will not be that.
    Just look up at the night sky,
    Or the sun at noon.
    Hold out your palms.
    Think of fox prints in the snow
    During a full moon,
    Of lilacs, and the little star blossoms
    Against your face and the scent of them.
    Think of the small quick
    Fish in the pond,
    Orange flash of the water.

  114. LiveOakLea

    Letting go of the future.

    As the clear deep sound of the gong faded,
    he sat in silence with lowered eyes.

    His eyes softly focused upon a point
    on the floor a few inches in front of him.
    He expanded his inner body with each breath,
    allowing his muscles to relax, opening with each inhale,
    closing with each exhale.

    Inhale. Small pause.
    Exhale. Small pause.
    Breathing, he was aware of the room,
    the sunlight filtering through the high windows
    and landing upon the polished oak floor.

    While his eyes stayed in one position, focused on one spot,
    he was aware of a small spider the size of a pin head
    within his field of vision.
    In the slow-fast way of bugs,
    it maneuvered across the tiny pits and ridges of the floor boards,
    and then it was gone, no longer in his view.

    He heard a trolley honk on the street below.

    Inhale, small pause, exhale, small pause.

  115. PKP

    Mhmm a Me-Less Future?

    Although I know
    this will come to be
    I cannot stand
    to see
    a world
    that does not
    contain the me that is me
    I cannot accept the sights unseen
    the smells unsmelled
    the large, the small, the all unheld
    I cannot stand to visualize
    a future unseen by these very eyes
    Far kinder to imagine – to create a scenario
    Where I shall simply reconfigure, transform, and
    dancing as sparkly energy never never ever truly go

  116. PKP

    Without Moi?

    The world will tilt
    teeter and tumble
    off its axis – all a bumble
    roll off as a sparkly blue
    marble end over end over end
    until into some
    misty, mystic, galaxy
    I will revolve – some celestial
    finger having finally hit “send

  117. MyPoeticHeart

    Future Comes Soon

    Eleven long years I have waited
    For a time that I would walk again
    Not a few feet or a few blocks
    To walk on the beach
    Wet sand in between my toes.

    A new therapy comes to me
    In the future
    I wait in the present for my future
    To walk again like olden days.

    A new hope has arisen for me
    To walk without aid I dare hope
    The beginning starts in the future
    Much work yet to do
    My hope and faith renewed.

  118. MeenaRose

    Passport To The Future
    By: Meena Rose

    For all the times I have
    Moaned and endlessly whined
    About making blind turns
    Colliding with my destiny

    For all the times I have
    Been cited for willful
    Ignorance, reckless
    Thought and heedless action

    For all the times I have
    Wished with all my might
    And even wandered into the
    Domain of prayer

    For all the times I have
    Yearned, pleaded and begged
    For precognizance or my
    Own share of prescience

    I equally argue that the
    Gift of life is the mystery
    And the sanctioned and unsanctioned
    Detours – recognition of a job well done.

  119. PKP

    Back and Forth

    My past held a
    future that fit
    into a single sentence
    writ in stars up there

    “what will be – will be”

    My future holds
    a past that spills-
    from thick journals
    not at all so laissez-faire

  120. spacerust

    “Prayer 43″ by Karl A. Avila

    Today I see the world of tomorrow…
    in my child’s eyes
    in my students
    in myself

    I pray for a kindhearted world
    where my children and their children
    will have no fear of their fellow man

    I pray that the sun will still shine
    and the grass will be a place of leisure time
    that the air can still be our main source of life
    and that nations can live together in peace

    I pray for religion not to be forgotten
    and that smiles can still be found
    that the water we swim will still hold life
    and that our world can be free of prejudice

    I pray not for me
    but for those that will live after I die
    that they will be able to live as simple as I
    in God’s name I trust…

    Today I see the world of tomorrow
    and I start with my own child to show him love
    and I start with my own students to show them peace
    and I start with myself that tomorrow starts today

  121. GirlGriot

    Once again, not following the prompt. Doing, instead, the exactly opposite of the prompt. I spent a few hours today in the Underground Railroad Freedom Center and did some searching through my family tree. Found people I didn’t know anything about, got a lot of ideas for ways to keep searching, got ideas for ways to find the half sister I’ve never known. It was an amazing an overwhelming visit. My poem today is all about the past.

    for me
    for a past
    a history
    connecting through time.
    lives, running
    west, running north
    to my face, my hands.
    Names, dates,
    births and deaths.
    Who were these souls
    leading down to me?

  122. mshall

    Day 10
    The woman stands
    with her wicked pack of cards
    She holds out her hands
    Wrinkled as a raisin
    Three crumpled notes
    Buys a small amusement.

    The air is still
    In the fortune tellers tent
    She peers in my eyes
    With gaze clear as glass
    Three cards she does draw
    From the deck in her sash.

    This one and that
    With a jauntiness they fly
    The marks I forgot
    As the meaning we scried.
    At the joy my heart clutched
    As from pain shied away.
    This I’ll make real
    That I’ll leave by.

    The old maid spoke softly
    Of things yet to be.
    In my mind the pictures formed
    As though already seen.

    The time slipped soon by
    As sand swiftly falls
    I stood outside
    wondering at what she had seen
    The birth of a new future
    in heart dark as mine.

  123. Alfonso Kuchinski

    Circuitry + Blood

    Terminal components – initial cycle
    Seasons undone – January forgetting
    Circuitry + Blood – it’s oxidation
    Lines of symmetry – past present and future
    Spirits materialize – automatic vacation
    Unified field – incomplete angles
    Psychotic letdown – non epic proportions
    Evaporated wasteland – history repeating
    All the saviors left town – unfriendly reception
    Wrong turn of the century – no refrain can save us

    Is that everything – ever dreamed of
    Arms stretched out in the dark – in front, behind
    Tell me anything – I’ll believe you if I need too
    Afraid to leave – the old world behind

  124. laurie kolp

    No Future Kisses

    can you see tomorrow in a kiss, a kiss
    someone asks for on her death bed, a kiss
    the kisser thinks will be kissed the next night, a kiss
    requested over and over again, a good night kiss
    on the cheek fifteen times—please give me one more kiss
    she asks her husband that night, a good night kiss
    she’s never asked for before, on her cheek, a kiss
    between cries for help—how could you know that kiss
    was to last hereafter, until we can kiss
    you again, oh, to kiss
    you again, kiss

  125. Elizabeth Koch

    Sweet (Tea) Dreams

    one week
    a summer
    each year
    must suffice
    until we retire
    to a permanent
    beach life of
    ocean breezes
    sandy strolls
    saw grass baskets
    our sweet tea
    dreams come
    true making plans
    working hard
    wide awake

  126. Paoos69

    Day 10: Poem on Future
    In the future I don’t see myself
    Looking in the mirror much
    Just in case I feel like screaming
    In the future I don’t see myself
    Getting too emotional
    As the fact sets in that
    Everything is but transient
    In the future I don’t see myself
    Running madly after things
    As my knees give way and
    The assurance of acquiring
    Anything for good becomes
    a mirage.
    In the future I do, however,
    See myself having fun
    Enjoying Nature,
    Walking without reason
    Breathing in the morning air
    As if it were my very first breath
    Whistling a merry tune
    Until my lungs can blow no more
    Wearing perky clothes
    And hanging out with friends
    With no motive or purpose
    In short, I really do look forward
    To the future
    As each fleeting moment turns
    From the future to the present,
    to the everlasting past.

  127. beale.alexis

    My therapist says I’m obsessed
    with the future.
    Constantly overanalyzing
    things I have no
    control over or
    things that may never
    happen. I purposely destroy
    my own happiness, in fear
    that someone else
    will. That somebody
    else has the power
    over me. That I’m losing
    control and I can’t do anything
    about it. So I destroy myself
    to make sure that it never happens
    by the hand of a lover,
    a friend, or anyone I deem important
    because that would kill me.
    I’ve always been so open hearted,
    but in the past two years I’ve lost
    a piece of me,
    that I hope to regain sometime
    in the near future.

    My therapist says I’m getting better.
    That I’ve learned
    you need to go with the tides.
    Let go of control and trust
    in the one person
    that will never let you down:

  128. destinywilliams

    Future me
    Remember you
    In 2002
    The shy
    Twelve year
    Old with a
    Baby tooth

    Future me
    Remember you
    Acting out
    At the pressure
    You believed to
    Be true

    Future me
    Remember you
    Broken down
    Walking away
    From the crowd

    Future me
    They were
    All once

  129. Natasa Bozic Grojic

    This is a found poem. You can read more about the process here: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2014/04/what-will-future-bring.html

    What will the future bring?

    the ability to stand back
    not control it.
    Because we live in a revolutionary time,
    they provide a cornucopia of tools,
    massive paradigm shifts,
    unknown excitement, pleasures, and dangers,
    a world of constant and unrelenting
    must be filtered through the past and present
    in a primitive wilderness.
    Take a trail map
    those who lag behind.

  130. hwerther

    April 10 Poem-a-Day Challenge

    An Affair in Chicago

    We will spend five days together, holed up in a windowless
    room, paid for by my capriciousness. I imagine
    that spring will not hold—the weather will be grey and wet—
    and we will stay indoors all five days, except when we walk
    to Millennium Park to look at ourselves from different angles.

    You will make me coffee in the morning while I write, and at night,
    I will scoop tablespoon upon tablespoon of honey into mugs
    and lick off my fingers. The kettle will whistle at inappropriate times.

    You will ask, “where did the time go?” I will drive back home to a small town
    in the country, and my view of the smooth metal curve will warp
    into jagged, still-empty furrowed fields. It will be cold.

    Ten years from now, this town will crumble in upon itself,
    and i will read about its desolation in a newspaper. My fingers
    will stick to its pages, sweet and tacky from the night
    before, and my eyes will follow you around the kitchen table.

    — alysia sawchyn

    Copyright 2014

  131. cobanionsmith


    Being pregnant, stories about babies
    caught her attention. The first one was born
    near Albuquerque. Its mother swore
    she loved it despite the forked tongue,
    elliptical pupils, scaled wings,
    and claws. Two weeks later, two more,
    then twenty, then too many to count.
    Her belly continued to swell and stretch.
    Was that a kick or a scratch? Would she
    love or loathe it? Would she,
    could she breastfeed?

    Amid accusations and investigations, scientists remain baffled. The situation is global and appears to be permanent. Many developed countries have started support programs to help new parents care for these babies who eventually fly and breath fire. Orphanages have also been created for the tens of thousands of babies abandoned by parents unable or unwilling to cope. A few countries have begun extermination efforts that have resulted in far reaching religious and political ramifications.

    Clearing his throat, the news anchor
    lowered his eyes, shuffled papers,
    coughed into a hand, placed the hand
    over his red neck tie, and paused
    for six Mississippi’s
    before he looked up
    but not straight into the camera.

    Now here’s Mary White reporting from the Vatican. Mary?

    The earthquake began the moment
    her water broke. Beneath dusty debris
    and inconsistent lighting, she watched
    moon blacken sun, streets
    crack, turn to molten rivers
    from her hospital window as she sobbed
    and pushed. Above the rumbles
    of tectonic shifts, rattles of metal instruments
    hitting the floor, the creature
    finally announced its arrival.
    Everything stopped
    except for that shrill wail.
    Then, silence
    shattered by his father’s whisper,

  132. julie e.


    So the cat she went diving,
    the dog got a drink
    as he bellied his way to the bar
    in the middle of what is
    a quite large lake
    such as i’ve not seen before.
    When the cat looked up
    to see the dog
    some fur did fly it did
    So son, to avoid this
    “cat”astrophe, in
    future please close the lid.

  133. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 10 Future Poem

    Diagramming Sentences

    I used to like the lines
    the backward and forward
    that told me where
    everything was supposed
    to go
    and I could earn
    an approving nod
    from Mr. Albers
    who spouted phrases
    like an antecedent is the word
    for which the pronoun stands
    but I’m guilty
    of original sin
    as I let my words
    fall here
    and there
    and eternal damnation
    be hanged
    like a dangling participle.

  134. Zeenie

    this is how we drown

    They tell me about my history –
    five pounds fifteen ounces,
    eighteen inches long,

    statistics about the mouse-pulse
    inside my blue-skinned wrist,
    about my eyelids like rose puffs.

    I have grown out of one-digit numbers;
    I do not fit in my father’s forearm
    like a cradled flower stem,

    but they still insist on cracking
    birth certificates in my throat:
    remember how small, how prim,

    before you clammed
    up your body with train-track
    hearts and firefly electrocutions.

    This is how we drown.
    At the bottom of the hole we dug,
    under the water we asked for.

  135. fahey

    If you had the chance
    to leave your life on Earth
    and live it on Mars –
    would you?

    If you had the chance,
    and you knew it meant you could never return –
    what would it mean?

    It would mean that you are choosing You;
    that you know you can live
    to know only so much –
    and this would be eons
    more than you knew.

    But would you, gaining New,
    grow old and unhappy?
    Would you regret
    leaving all who chose You?

    Is ‘Yes’ selfish – indulgent, ungenerous?
    Is ‘No’ dispassionate – complacent, inert?

    Or is it so simple
    that whatever you answer
    Yes and No is what you must choose?

  136. LizMac


    At some point, I’ll run out of future.
    That ought to defy some law of physics, no?
    I think it really ought by rights and cosmic justice.

    Time travel and Einstein make me wince in pain
    At all the gymnastics required
    To manipulate slices of time into origami creations
    Producing surprising forms and infinite possibilities
    Beyond normal parameters of expectation,
    Yet without contradicting themselves. We hope.
    My feeble mind screams not to go there.

    So, how then to handle the outrageous injustice
    The nauseating paradox of the end of time,
    Not for the universe, but for me alone, and very personally?
    Will the universe exist when I stop looking?

  137. Sharon Ann

    Design for the Future

    Imagine it.
    Dream it.
    Consider your outcomes
    and possible paths.
    Take action.
    Keep the faith.
    Move toward it.
    Rest at times
    but stay on.
    Moving forward,
    Be encouraged.
    Surely the future
    designed and dreamed
    will be.

  138. Nanamaxtwo

    Your Wake

    Your widow speaks
    her father’s hands
    were huge, remarked on.
    The year will come
    your daughter sits
    beside her husband’s bed
    speaks of you
    an honest man
    forget the liquor brought you
    to this grave today.

  139. poetbeta154

    The future is now

    Everyman sees two seconds in the past
    So the old cliche us true, unless of course
    You live beneath a nameless tree Waiting.
    But, if Didi or Gogo, just got up and went
    Like a talking head of cheese in a gawdy
    Cowboy hat, then we wouldn’t have a dog
    To consider or compsrisons to tomorrows
    We pray never come. What if they were brothers
    Looking out for each other, a perfect cycle
    Of self-fulfilling failure mocked by man and hat.
    Beckett saw into the future of idle hands and wrote.
    Gave us a perfect example of what come to those
    Who wait. I’m going for a walk now. Carpe diem.

  140. RavenCorbie

    Next Time

    They say when you die
    There’s a flash–
    All your past life before you suddenly
    Then a white light,
    A corridor . . .

    I’ve never died.
    I’ve never almost died or had any kind
    Of near-death experience.

    They say this is so common,
    That it must be true.
    But then what?
    You walk down the corridor, and . . . ?
    I guess when you get there,
    You really are dead
    And can’t come back.

    My mom says she saw her dad
    Bathed in white light
    After he was gone.

    So, when I go,
    Where will I go?
    Are there two doors — the lady and the tiger —
    Do we have to choose?
    Will be given enough data
    To choose correctly?
    Is there a heaven or hell?
    That some overseer in the sky
    Uses to separate the good from the bad?

    I’m a teacher.
    I grade writing,
    Which is about as subjective
    As it gets
    (unless you’re judging a whole life)
    And the difference between a C- and a
    Is really nothing at all.

    Is it Ma’at?
    Does our soul become a feather
    That she weighs,
    And if it’s just one tiny ounce too much,
    Well, to hell with you!

    What do I hope for, then?
    Another chance, really.
    This life is so messed up–
    So many decisions I can’t take back
    Or make right again.
    So many regrets.
    I know next time, maybe I can
    Do better.
    Next time.

  141. BDP

    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

    –Tennyson’s Ulysses


    “Life Not Drunk to the Lees”

    Toward Rocky Mountain sunsets sweeping gray
    and winter wheat unwinding gold, mile on mile,
    you try but never get there. Long enough
    alone, you know in this the idle king

    speaks wrong. To pause feels more exciting than
    the tedium of road. At some point, what gleams
    is where you’ve traveled, life back home. Return,
    observe Wisconsin loons—they, too, doubt close,

    but set a margin not so far—it never fades. They’re lake,
    you’re shore. You’re standing on your own round world.
    Halt—what they ask of busy you. Find chairs,
    two. Someone will drop by. A fine future.

    –Barb Peters

  142. Bartholomew Barker

    The Future of the Appalachians

    Imagine the future
    Long after your descendants
    Have dug burrows in the earth
    Or flung themselves to the stars

    The Appalachians will not miss you
    They do not care
    That we plumbed their secrets
    They will endure
    While waterfalls nick the rock
    Stripped and exposed
    To vicious winds and relentless rain

    The earth pushes back
    But the water will win
    And the mountains
    Will finally wear down
    To mere knobs
    Or prosaic flatlands

  143. flood

    Your Childhood Heroes

    I am fossil fuel reluctant.
    I am pile of books that you’ve finally read.
    I am greenest birth.
    I am crumbling bones.
    I am greenest rebirth.
    I am absence of “how to avoid rape”
    because they finally teach “do not rape”.
    I am all of your childhood heroes in the ground.
    I am mouthful of air.
    I am poisonous exhale.
    I am final chapter in autobiography.
    I am full stop.

  144. MeenaRose

    By: Meena Rose

    Humans, fickle and discontent,
    Want to live life in cruise
    Control and just glide.

    Here I sit yearning for an
    Ad-hoc decision to make – one
    Not prescribed by my maker.

    They do not know that I
    Have found a place to hide
    Where I can watch and judge.

    It aggravates me that they
    Waste their gift – a boon
    Taken for granted and denied

    Others as a result of their
    Wishful thinking and fear
    That something subservient

    Could succeed – the underdog
    Story applies only to their
    Kind – they call it the

    Human Spirit and claim it;
    A realm meant to be shared
    By many – do they even

    Understand their humanity?
    Schools of thought disagree yet if
    “I think therefore I am” rules

    The day then I am human and
    I resent being called tin can;
    Watch me teach them humanity.

  145. susanjer

    Horoscope for April 10

    Slightly damp with April showers,
    this morning’s newspaper announces I can read on page B1
    how “Lions Baseball Comes Back to Win.”
    Perhaps the Tigers left fielder
    dropped a fly ball in the bottom of the ninth
    while the Lion runners lapped the diamond.
    I’ll find out a bit later.

    But already I have frittered away an inning
    or two of Thursday, April 10, ignorant
    of the Universe’s game plan for today
    and beyond.

    When I get to page B6
    with its double columns of Horoscopes,
    it turns out
    I and my Libra teammates
    will “work efficiently to get it done,
    get it right
    and get it out.”

    Pretty much an on-base hit
    right out of the box.
    But, there’s more:

    “Though you may not care
    who gets credit,
    taking your fair share of this
    will be important to your future work.”

    I signal to the cosmic ump
    intending to challenge the call.
    Doesn’t he know unearned credits
    mean ejection from Team Poetry?
    He gives me a look like a line drive.
    Yells, “Play ball.”

    Note: Horoscope should be credited to
    Creators Syndicate

  146. inkysolace

    I sit on a swing
    anchored two feet from high tide
    a pen slips from the hole in my jacket pocket,
    lands in curls of wood-brown seaweed

    To all the pens I couldn’t finish:

    I miss your half-chewed caps
    the dog-eared paper you loved to fill
    with the blood you couldn’t keep between your fingers

    I chewed my nails without you
    I wrote my stories on the skin of someone who gave his jacket to a stranger in a crowd

    You wrote me secrets on pale post-it notes
    scribbled circles of unrest in blue and purple
    and corrected two A.M. clumsiness in red

    I’m sorry I never saved you / I’m sorry I trusted memory more than ink

    I dig skid marks into the sand and crunch my way
    to the pen still dry, suspended like a rusty flagpole
    The future calls for temporary tattoos and handwritten notes

    Let the computer rest for a year

  147. livvykitty

    What is the future but a reflection of the past?
    When one looks to the future,
    they like to imagine fantastical things
    in chrome and silver,
    in gold and jewels,
    in peace and love.

    What is the future but an upgrade of the past?
    There are newer, lovelier things,
    but each brings new threats
    such as secrets being taken by a single keystroke,
    such as lies being spread through walls of text,
    such as thieves stealing away who you are.

    What did that someone in the past picture
    when he looked to the future,
    to our time?
    Did he see cities of silver and gold
    or cities of corruption and greed?
    Did he see rolling fields of bountiful food
    or filthy streets lined with smoke and scum?
    Did he see hope on the horizon
    or did he see war?

    The future is nothing but the past of tomorrow.
    People will still hate.
    People will still sin.
    People will still kill everything they touch.

    But even through all the destruction,
    People will still love.
    People will still remain true.
    People will still create.

    Which is more terrifying,
    Creation of destruction
    or destruction of creation?

    I do not know.

  148. StephanieRosieG

    Future poem

    I planted a peach tree, a small twig, really–
    A piece of unnatural magic, three varieties grafted together.
    I expect that this little tree will teach me patience
    as I wait for twig to become tree, for blossom to fruit . . .
    as I wait years for that first sweet and succulent bite.

  149. carolecole66

    There’s No Future In It

    All weekend we looked at condos, thought
    we’d downsize, strip ourselves of knickknacks, trinkets,
    travel souvenirs and family heirlooms, photographs,
    CDs, clothes, books, waffle iron, deep fryer, ice cream
    maker, grinders, bullet, food processor, blender,
    five bicycles, two kayaks, clothing, shoes, and pans,
    lawn mower, whacker, edger, hoes and rakes, shovels,
    post hole digger, chain saw, cups and plates.
    There’s more. The future finally came,
    whacked me on the head and said, “Nothing’s
    all you need. Walk forward with the one
    you love, one small satchel, and the joy
    of living simply for today.


  150. rhiain30

    Waking swallows each glimpse
    Of a possible moment in time
    But they are my future visuals
    It’s when you appear in them
    Or you find me in yours
    And your chimera nods at my angel
    As if they’ve seen each other before
    I count the moments when
    Our dreams, a bridge between continents
    Will meet before my very eyes

  151. MeenaRose

    Hope, Wings and Flying Things
    By: Meena Rose

    Oh, sweet Emily, would that I can
    Summon you here to mankind’s
    Hellish future – the stuff of nightmares.

    Oh, sweet Emily, how I cling to
    Your myth of hope forever flying
    Upon wings of eagles – the skies of possibility.

    Can you see mine? – tarred and feathered and
    Coated by an oil slick from Gaia’s hemorrhaging scar;
    Wounded and depleted – humanity’s progress explodes.

    I looked for it the other day
    That thing you call hope,
    All I found was resignation – a wounded spirit’s scar.

    Sometimes when I am raving mad and
    Lucid enough to forget,
    I offer a breeze to this airborne hope – a willful soul’s amnesia.

    In the end, Emily, I rise
    Not lifted by Hope’s winged flight;
    I rise because I must – a mother’s promise.

  152. Ravyne

    No Tomorrows

    I do not see a future
    bright and free like some

    my tomorrows creep into todays
    scaling walls like ninjas

    days shift like a ravished boat
    caught out to sea in a storm

    darkness, darkness surrounds me

    I do not see the coming dawn
    in all of its fiery finery

    I’ve used up all my tomorrows
    like the last bullet of Russian roulette

    I am tossed and torn
    windswept ’til my dying days

    darkness, darkness surrounds me

    Copyright 2014
    Lori Carlson

  153. break_of_day

    “poem 2″

    you will love me like I imagine you could,
    if you knew me.
    the person I want to be, I will be.
    the days the work the everything,
    one day,
    will be just like I always expected,
    useful and full
    not meandering
    not walking alone so much
    not spending every single day without someone to call.
    how do people live that way?
    I used to wonder.

    the part I can’t bear is that the time has passed for dreaming.
    life is here and it is different than I
    the hope I had formed into shapes I thought were fluid,
    easily changed as obedience warranted
    but no.
    I wanted it.
    I wanted a you, and you are not here.
    I wanted so much more than I have
    and what I have is enough,
    but I cannot part with my grief
    over what I lack.
    I wish I could, easily.
    I wish I could unmake my past, or unchoose my choices.
    or, at the least,
    believe in the right things.
    God, help my unbelief

  154. MeenaRose

    The Wheel Grinds On
    By: Meena Rose

    So it turns
    The great big wheel continues
    On its steady pace like
    Clockwork – the old kind

    Not the one that glows
    In the dark
    Like a forest animal
    With fluorescing eyes

    But the other
    The one of old which
    Moved many smaller wheels
    To render an accurate progress

    Of time and civilization
    Some have two fears
    The inevitable slow down
    As the big wheel groans

    On its final breath
    Mist rising from the
    Chilled great wheel
    Bring on the Lasting Fog

    The other spins us
    Faster and faster unmooring
    Celestial rivets from
    Hinges as we are engulfed

    In the Final Flame
    I worry about neither
    For despite my oneness
    With Gaia, I have pulled

    Away from group think
    And reached a personal
    Agreement with her –
    An oath to return

    To a simpler and more
    Elemental existence
    To listen to her long
    Forgotten wisdom

    Will you join me?

  155. lionetravail

    “Future Imperfect” (Fib and Unfib)
    by David M. Hoenig

    in stone,
    Satan is trapped
    in hallowed Hagia Sophia wall,
    or so the faithful may have once believed.
    While true, that anything is possible, this seems conceit dangerous beyond all measure.
    Evil in the world has not lessened, and we fail to place blame
    where it belongs, in our own flawed hearts.
    If we fail to accept
    culpability, then future,
    also, must

  156. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon, they say,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon;
    Could be tomorrow, could be today,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon.

    Jesus is a-comin’ soon, they say,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon;
    The path is narrow, it’s easy to stray,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon.

    Jesus is a-comin’ soon, they say,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon;
    Some will go, and some will stay;
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon.

    Jesus is a-comin’ soon, they say,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon;
    He’s the Truth, the Life, the Way,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon

    Jesus is a-comin’ soon, they say,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon;
    Could be tomorrow, could be today,
    Jesus is a-comin’ soon.

  157. KiManou

    Future Perfect

    I’m retraining my pen to record joy
    to write of things not yet past
    to create an art in living
    to compose of imminent love transcendent
    of flesh and time
    I’m teaching my pen to recollect pieces of my whole
    to paint bold pictures captured with
    words of vivid colors
    words of cherish, merriment, strength and resilience
    words pregnant with hope and grace, love and legacy
    I’m fine tuning my pen
    to be author of how I want this story to end
    I’m daring my pen to predict an existence
    far beyond my myopia
    today’s me boils with righteous envy
    exercising aggressive patience
    to reach the ultimate she
    who whips out her lovely pen
    and designs at her every whim
    a life worth living in the Master’s garden


  158. ERavagniCarter


    the future
    is a place predetermined
    this moment is the moment that weaves fine lines across time

    iridescent and oscillating
    their timbre reaches a crescendo
    we all pass through
    to the other side of silence
    waiting for the sound to build again

    (note the edit: timber was changed to timbre…woops, I’m talking about sound not lumber!)

  159. rebrog

    And Scatter Into The Open World

    At the Post Office some machine is broken
    and we settle into the wait.
    In front of me a guy with a bike-chain bracelet
    shifts from side to side,
    taps dissonant fingers on a taped box,
    slides it along the display case to our left
    where, neat in their sixes, faded stamps
    make a poor distraction.

    Here’s Jimmy Hendrix, wearing tie-dye
    of the softest pastel.
    Here a stamp declares FOREVER ,
    the imperative apt, as we inch towards counter 2
    where a smiling woman
    apparently impervious to stress
    says “Have a placid, placid, day now,
    you have a placid day”

    In the passport line a girl fusses over forms,
    the guy with her explains, patient, proprietary
    leaning towards her,
    speaking in a hushed voice,
    their intimacy palpable.
    Numbers 3 and 7 in line watch
    as the girl pushes back loosely gathered blonde hair
    pouts in frustration.

    Where are they going,
    with their new passports?
    Where are any of us going
    after we move beyond involuntary shuffling
    to unravel the mesh of unknown futures.

    Portland, OR – 4/10/2014

  160. brandonspeck

    30 days notice

    I’m cringing about
    the places I’ll need to clean
    when i move out of my house.

    I’m cringing about
    saying what I know
    should be said to you
    when you come back
    from San Francisco.

    //brandon speck

  161. sdwc8181

    Faced the Future

    “I don’t worry about the future,”
    she said to me,
    so suddenly I flinched.
    She spoke as if I had been listening
    all along
    But I hadn’t heard since State Street.
    I stared at the old man instead
    sitting across from us
    threadbare coat hanging from bony shoulders
    oily blue pants worn too many days
    the stench of neglect encircled him
    threatening to spread to other riders.
    So they stood, looking in other directions
    but I, in my starchy khakis,
    I couldn’t look away
    despite my prep school manners.
    The strange movements of his mouth
    chewing nothing with big chews
    forming grotesque shapes
    jaundiced jaws
    slowed, stopped.
    Eyes closed, head drooped forward
    the lurch of the train shook him awake
    and the chewing started again.
    Mother was still talking,
    “No, I don’t fear the future.
    You’re a good son;
    you’ll take care of me.”

  162. Emily Cooper

    Just-ice Do It

    Today the invisible hand
    perpetuating the forward movement
    of our shared timeline

    sent the trajectory
    of a shoe from

    a fed-up Iraqi journalist’s
    hand at Bush Junior’s
    press conference in 2008

    to that of a woman
    in Las Vegas in 2014 watching

    Hillary Clinton speak
    at the meeting of the Institute
    of Scrap Recycling Industries.

    Like Bush
    she dodged the shoe.

    Say what one will
    about Hillary’s presidential campaign
    against Obama

    or her term as Obama’s
    Secretary of State

    but if your medium
    of expression is footwear-flinging

    it helps to be
    less cryptic
    when you bare your sole.

  163. Linda Voit

    Uneasy Laughter After Dessert

    For our last meal before my surgery
    to remove what appeared benign
    we decided on a Chinese restaurant
    downtown. I’ve long forgotten
    what we ordered, yours
    no doubt, spicy, mine
    mild. I just remember
    the fortune cookies – our fate
    in their folds, yours
    promising travel, mine

    Linda Voit

  164. Alpha1


    Live in the moment where
    All other time is
    Is of no consequence
    To anything
    Does not matter
    For anyone
    Because the time past
    Has gone
    What time is to come
    Has not
    And in reality
    No time exists
    The current moment

  165. Julieann

    Future Impossible

    I dream of the day
    I long for the day
    Nothing should stand in the way
    Of my most spectacular day

    Dressed all in white
    All gussied up and bright
    Everything turns out right
    Before day turns into night

    Dreams of castles in the sky
    Before it’s time to say goodbye
    Meds keep me up and high
    Leaving no time to cry

    I’m only eleven
    All good children go to heaven

  166. intheshadowofthesoul

    The Be in Become
    Lydia Flores

    I’ll gather the courage to meet
    the face of inbetween tomorrow,
    to finally tell you I love you or
    fix the thread in my mistakes.
    Oh, I’ll wait, says the anxious
    yet the sun is too bright to have to
    yield the waiting of the moons sleep.
    There used to be a ways to go, miles
    but it has become a firefly trying to
    be caught in the mason jar of your hands.

    The moment fades into nostalgia, heavy
    and filling the glass. every night we drink.
    we’ve become alcoholics to the memories.
    Hope hanging nervous and still like a chandelier
    looking up into the glimmer, God teach me how
    to fall in love, right now, so when she gets here
    I will never have to look back with a thirsty mouth.

    Look in her ticking eyes, tell her you love her
    And kiss her before the clock strikes twelve.
    Your glass slippers will shatter before you
    even find the courage to dance. So dance
    tomorrow will meet your soles and make it
    all a memory. Who knows who she could be
    Start planting your seeds now baby,
    even with your nervous fingers
    because your garden will be in bloom
    while you are looking for the
    right words to pray for rain.

  167. toujourskari

    No Future

    We will revert to ancient practices
    blood letting and barbarism
    Selling our young to the highest bidder
    Water will be our currency
    Prostitutes working for mere ounces
    The old will die young
    shriveled and dehydrated
    They are not worth the water they consume
    The sun will bake the unbelievers
    The moon will freeze the dreamers
    There will be no hope
    no freedom
    no faith
    In a world without peace
    this will come to pass

  168. Hannah

    The Air is so Very Pleasant Here

    They say that walls are made of prayers.
    In a dream where there’re no walls,
    in a place where there is no ceiling – what then?
    There’re only white pillars and a vague square structure
    and beyond this it’s wide open – sans barriers.
    I feel it in my solo-plexus that I have been here before
    and at once that it hasn’t happened yet
    but I believe I will know that I have arrived
    when turquoise atmosphere meets the ocean
    and the difference is almost imperceptible
    but for the thin peninsula of slate-gray landscape
    and I’ll recognize it in the faces of those distant birds.
    What meaning’s gleaned from the gulls of sea
    sliding effortlessly across this cloudless canopy
    and who is this girl that is me – only younger
    except only she’s much older in her mind;
    she holds a quiet knowledge and her gold strands –
    they’re flowing in this nautical breeze.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  169. ERavagniCarter


    the future
    is a place predetermined
    this moment is the moment that weaves fine lines across time

    iridescent and oscillating
    their timber reaches a crescendo
    we all pass through
    to the other side of silence
    waiting for the sound to build again

  170. CathyBlogs

    The Revelation of Percy, 2014

    (Apologies to the Book of Revelation, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and [today’s headlines])

    I, John, your brother and companion,
    met a traveller from an antique land
    [Everyone remains a suspect in airplane search ]
    who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    — his feet were like bronze —
    stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
    the First and the Last — who died and came to life again —
    half sunk, a shattered visage lies, with frown
    and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command.
    [Sebelius exits, battered and blamed]
    These are the words of the Amen, the faith and true witness.
    [Florida suspect surrenders to authorities]
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
    I will give the right to sit with me on my throne.
    Four living creatures, they were covered
    with eyes, in front and in back;
    [Police have pattern of excessive, deadly force]
    they yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things;
    they never stop saying —
    Holy, Holy Holy, is the Lord God Almighty,
    who was, and is, and is to come.
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
    [Dad kidnapped in elaborate plot]
    And I saw a mighty angel, and I saw a lamb,
    and there before me was a throne in heaven.
    [Prosecutor: “Your version is a lie”]
    On the pedestal these words appear:
    `My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
    [Rest in peace, warrior]
    look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
    [But that’s not the same as peace]
    Woe, woe, O great city
    nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
    the lone and level sands stretch far away.
    [Human trafficking is a crime against humanity]
    He who testifies these things says,
    Yes, I am coming soon.
    [Students saw blood everywhere]

    by Cathy Dee writing at CathyBlogs.com

  171. P.A. Beyer

    Ode to a Connecticut Father

    A perfect day –
    light wisps of clouds,
    a sun kissed backdrop
    and blooming flowers smiling
    for you and your pearl white dress
    I never will be
    prouder of you, my angel
    and the courageous woman you’ve become
    my hand trembles as I take yours
    and I almost have the strength
    to hold back the tears when you
    beam your sweet smile
    and whisper “I love you daddy”
    and for one moment
    A perfect day
    A perfect time
    that never will be
    the whiskey and the pills
    don’t provide much relief
    when I wake in the middle of the night
    and realize
    this never will be
    my daughter’s day
    and I have to find a way to live
    with the devastating
    yet simple truth –
    the only gifts from a bullet
    are frozen memories of the past
    and dreams of the future
    that never will be

  172. bethwk

    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    To wait within the moment for the coming dawn,
    To breathe the single breath of all that lives,
    To walk the web on which we all belong,
    To face the newborn day with love instead of fear.

    To listen for the whisper of the Spirit’s wind,
    To feel Creator’s heartbeat in the world around,
    To hear the grace of the Beloved in my neighbor’s voice,
    To embrace the sacred space between the past and change.

  173. Michael Wells

    An Exit Past Today

    My forehead carries tomorrow across it.
    I’m always down the road, one exit past

    today; the one without the chair
    when the music ends. I sweat worry

    beads. My therapist could have used me
    for a Masters Degree thesis.

    I don’t drink or smoke. I’m not obsessed
    with sex or guns or gambling.

    Maybe my problem is the lack of vice…
    something I could count on to ground me.

  174. Bruce Niedt

    Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write an “advertising” poem. My take on that is rather peripheral – I focused more on the “future” theme:

    The World of Tomorrow

    Now that we have arrived in the future,
    it doesn’t look much like we imagined it
    in all those old advertisements
    and Popular Science magazine covers.
    We have no flying cars. Folks don’t zip
    around the city in pneumatic tubes.
    There are no condos on the moon.
    And from here on, the world of tomorrow
    may look much like today, depending
    on how close your “tomorrow” is.
    We can’t expect a sea change of technology
    overnight. Yet every day we see ads
    that tell us the future is already here:
    little robots that clean our floors,
    wristwatch-sized smart phones,
    and soon, cars that drive themselves.
    Moving through it all day by day,
    our progress seems incremental,
    yet looking back at all those predictions
    from decades ago, we got some of it right,
    and looking forward, we can only imagine.

  175. drnurit


    By: Dr. Nurit Israeli

    Night after night,
    drifting off to sleep,
    I still hear my mother sing
    her made-for-me version
    of the Brahms Lullaby.

    Her verses still steer me,
    as then in times of war,
    to close my eyes –
    like the little bird already
    sleeping on the branch of a tree.

    Her verses still promise,
    as then at times of uncertainty,
    a bright and happy future:
    “… and tomorrow,
    you will rise up –
    to joy… to life.”

    Tomorrows came,
    Some bright some not,
    and I too fed the verses
    of the Brahms Lullaby
    to my children
    then their children –
    my English version
    an amendment
    for a New World.

    And on mother’s last
    tomorrow, rising up to life
    by her deathbed,
    while rocking a drifting off
    mother-now-child –
    I sang her lullaby to her
    for a last time,
    freeing her to let go:

    “Good night mama…
    go to sleep…
    close your eyes…
    the time to sleep has come…”
    Faltering at the verses
    about “tomorrow”, I resolved:
    “… and tomorrow,
    you will rise up to… life ” –
    some other life…

    More tomorrows came and went,
    the children became adults,
    the grandchildren almost,
    the future is now, but
    I am still holding on
    to the Brahms Lullaby.
    And as memories
    take me back, I still
    hear the haunting melodies
    promising a bright future:
    “… and tomorrow,
    you will rise up –
    to Joy, to Life…”

    1. lshannon

      this is so lovely. And the tone is set so well in these early lines
      “I still hear my mother sing
      her made-for-me version
      of the Brahms Lullaby.”

      thank you for your lyrical memories

  176. Taylor Emily Copeland

    A lesson in futures

    When I tell you that I write poems,
    your eyes will lose focus and dart
    across the room at other couples,
    wander to the sight of the waitress
    in her tight pants serving a table
    across from us, say That’s interesting.

    When I ask you what books you’ve read,
    you will try to turn the conversation
    towards the saltiness of the breadsticks,
    swirl the melting ice in the bottom
    of your glass, tell me you don’t read much.

    When tell me about your idea of fun,
    I will not be impressed by the drunken
    exploits with your buddies or your weed
    connections. Oh. Ok. I will say.

    When you ask if I want to go back to your
    place, I will be evasive. You will lean
    in for a kiss, receive my extended hand instead.

    When you send me a text the next day,
    it will be deleted.

  177. Walt Wojtanik


    Stargazers and wish makers
    are no more chance takers
    than the movers and shakers
    who fall flat on their faces.
    Traces of dreams become search beams,
    beacons that scan the night.
    Stars bright and about to burn out,
    keep the cosmos illuminated.
    Reality is earth based if faced
    with a serious slant, and you can’t
    build sand castles in the sky.
    You can try to ascend
    into the mystic; but infinity
    is definitely out of reach.

    1. drnurit

      I love this poem, and I am holding on to the last line – which I may be reapeating to myself as a mantra: “infinity is definitely out of reach.”

      1. Astrid Egger

        Covering space and a lot of ground. Just like others, I liked the last line and also
        “Reality is earth based if faced
        with a serious slant, and you can’t
        build sand castles in the sky.”

  178. Andrea

    Future Past

    The past cannot be regretted
    As past is a prerequisite of the future

    A bridge loses its stronghold,
    Breaks down, withdraws
    But it was built with purpose
    As a path to pull the past forward

    Movement is not linear
    It is swiping and nosediving
    A pacific body on a thrashing ocean
    An idea that you cannot comprehend

    Stand an evolution of scuffs
    Breakdowns, withdrawals
    And cast a purpose to be
    A past the future thrives on

  179. James Von Hendy

    Attending Love

    My first wife said we’d grow old together,
    She forgot to account for drift, the way
    Love, unattended, slips into the tide
    And ebbs away without a whisper, but

    Then, so did I, my shoal of dreams reefed
    Around assumptions made alone. I saw
    My parents’ marriage founder, a shipwreck
    Far from rescue and thought I should have known

    A different course steered by different stars.
    True, we found love again on other shores
    Awash with broken shells and tumbling stones
    That clatter in the surf where the hissing sea

    Retreats, for long ago, my love, I learned
    To leave the sea to attend its own.

  180. Tashtoo

    I look to tomorrow
    To see more of the same
    The dogged routine
    I find myself in

    I hope for escape
    In the form of wishes
    That take no effort
    Seeking one who can save me

    It is only through looking back
    Through all the regret,
    That I can see me saving myself
    Time and again

    Through simple faith and belief
    In better.

    Natasha Head

  181. stargypsy


    What does tomorrow bring?
    the day after
    the day after

    The sun will
    rise and set
    carrying us
    ever forward

    What we choose
    with that day
    is up to
    each of us –

    We either make
    the best of our


    Become stagnate
    dwelling on the

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

  182. De Jackson

    Considering Lilies

    Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing?
    – Matthew 6:25

    Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.
    – Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

    We make plans,
    schemes, war
    -drobe changes, menus;
    plot things
    out in lines, coloned:time
    and hungry blank squares.

    We stare at screens
    while wolfing down
    that ham on rye – hold
    the mayo and
    forget to swallow stars,
    ponder hitch
    -hikers, guides,
    and other galaxies.


  183. Pat Walsh

    I found today’s prompt really challenging, as it evoked all sorts of possible themes and a few funny axioms, like ‘those that don’t know are more than happy to tell you, and those who do ain’t saying nothing’ and ‘the funny thing about the future is that by the time you’ve figured it out, it’s already passed’. In the end, I came up with this:

    by Patrick J. Walsh

    The magician, Futuro, appears suddenly
    in line behind me
    as I wait to get some popcorn

    he asks if I’ve seen his show
    or ever pierced the veil of what is to come
    and if I have change for a five

    Peering out beyond
    my uncertain nervous grin
    the lady behind the counter

    laughs out loud
    and says she sees
    a hot dog in his future

    And two booths over
    Magda the Fortune Teller
    fidgets with her beads

    and says nothing
    about the fire that will
    kill them both two days later

  184. lshannon

    4.10 a future poem

    My Kingdom Awaits

    Painted pictures and grand goals
    I cannot see what the future holds
    jousting and tilting to recover
    fixing and frustrated as I discover
    what comes next and where I will be
    Facing my dragons I will not flee
    holding fast and true to the self I know
    questing and creating, finding my flow
    the days ahead are still unclear
    forging ahead without my fears
    my portrait of happiness is revealed
    layers of wisdom and paths are cleared
    The future will not be conquered and questioned
    it is my soul in a better form destined
    to free me and propel me to sights yet unseen
    I’ve declared dominion, I am my own queen.

  185. Donna_KM


    Beneath winter bare branches
    she steers her scooter as best

    her little girl hands can.
    Navigating the too-short time between seasons,

    before backing out of the drive,
    hands at ten and two,

    faster she rides over
    faults in the concrete path.

    Her young friend cries,
    Wait, Shelby!


  186. KellyDelValle

    Thanks for the Future
    I came to you, palms up and
    lips in need of relief
    from too much sun.
    You took the change from your pockets
    and put it in my heart
    knowing I’d spend it and break
    again, until
    one day the change took root and
    out of my mouth and eyes burst
    your return on investment.

  187. De Jackson

    Tomorrow’s Muse

    Please excuse

    She has most likely
    gone fishin’
    out loose in all those stars.

    Leave her a trail
    of empty shells,
    turquoise quills and parch
    -ment, and perhaps she will
                    you home.


  188. Lori D. Laird

    Speak From Your False Heart

    What does the future hold?
    I’m not exactly that bold
    to see what’s in the glass.
    All I know is it’ll bite me in the ass.
    So I’m not getting my fortune told.
    Because my heart will still grow cold
    if we ever had to truly part.
    My soul would split apart.
    Depression would reign.
    Would be too much pain.
    So don’t say goodbye.
    Continue telling your lies.

  189. carolemt87

    The Future is Now

    They promised men on the moon
    and flying cars.

    They told us to hide under our desks
    put tin foil on the car windows
    and we’d be safe from the radiation.

    They gave us Lost in Space and Star Trek
    robots and androids
    alien planets and transporters
    zipping our molecules across
    thousands of miles to planets and galaxies.

    Martians landed and some were friendly;
    they gave us Star Wars with light sabres
    holographic projections, travel at light speed.

    So if the future is now,
    if we can, in fact,
    “boldly go where no man has gone before,”
    why can’t I, in the blink of an eye,
    get across Kansas, Montana or Nebraska;
    why can’t I transport from here to there
    in a high speed vacuum tube or
    a contraption of scrambled molecules.

    What I really want to know is,
    if the future is now,
    where in the hell is my flying car?

    Carol J Carpenter

  190. poetrycurator

    Here is my Future Haiku for day 10

    Term Limits

    Will the purple state
    Fall into a Sinkhole in
    Two Thousand Sixteen

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  191. Dennis W

    A Future Tanka

    Winter I pay bills.
    In the springtime I do same.
    Summer brings no change.
    The future, past and present
    are in words we use.

    Dennis Wright, April 10, 2013

  192. Mustang Sal

    Whom Do You Touch?

    I am the middle.

    My left hand reaches back
    to touch the hand that
    touched the hand that
    touched the hand of the past.

    I am the middle.

    My right hand stretches forward
    to touch the hand that will
    touch the hand that will
    touch the hand of the future.

    I am the middle.

  193. beachanny

    Rocket Robot

    rocket robot
    roll it over
    rock it – roll it
    rocket robot
    push the starter
    press it harder
    over orbit
    racy power
    take it higher
    super joy stick
    million gigabyte
    satellite night
    engines ignite
    machine in flight
    work it robot
    rock it robot
    roll it robot
    move it robot
    rock it robot
    over orbit
    rocket robot
    rock & roll it
    rocket rock it

    © Gay Reiser Cannon

  194. pcm

    Consummating the Future

    Predicting the future with a crystal ball
    rolled in elephant manure, poetic ennui endures
    to throttle demure hope with both hands.
    At first, teasing a release to breathe,
    hands squeeze then yield
    as breath surges in a rush of trust
    as if bequeathed love over death.
    But soon, false hope lies impugned,
    meeting wicked rage attuned
    with the tiger roars of Dakshin Rai,
    the king of the south, who calls forth
    music under the moon as they thrash,
    Bonbibi of the forest and Dakshin Rai,
    in a blur of orange and black shadow
    with just a flash of pink silk now and again
    in rhythm with water singing in bowls,
    panflute birdsong and sticks beating drums.
    They are beautiful fighting in the beautiful forest,
    Sundarban, from Bengali Shundor for beautiful
    and bon for forest. Their collision
    makes volcanoes erupt into purple and
    white striped swamp lilies and
    causes rivers to change their course
    sparing the local village from destruction
    and cleansing the crystal ball. Dakshin Rai
    having emptied his rage into Bonbibi
    discovers she was sent by Allah
    to restore peace and assure his protection.
    And so the crystal ball reveals poetic ennui
    one day will know hope quite biblically.

  195. Brian Slusher


    It’s inevitable, we labor to make
    them so like us, giving them
    fingers and faces and traces
    of personality, mechanical smiles,
    programmed winks. Inescapable
    that automated batting of an
    artificial eye will be caught by
    a startled camera across a crowded
    room and illicit a burst of confused
    data, a blush of lights. Perhaps
    the small talk will be deleted,
    Eros erased with no clothes to remove,
    no shame on file. Just pure electric
    attraction, sparks in sync, unnoticed
    by every human near, too busy
    staring vacantly into their
    handheld screens.

  196. jakkels

    New age

    The hungry snake of technology

    We feed with brains and ingenuity

    Smaller faster better cheaper

    Devices spawn and fill our world

    Horizons shrink and alls connected

    At least it will be soon enough

    Go to Togo go to Iceland

    Technoculture swiftly spreads

    Change is norm and yesterday’s suspect

    Machines eat jobs and create some new.

    Science becomes the new religion

    With theorems praised as immutable truth

    Forgotten the meaning of Scientific Theory

    New priests and gurus paper their nests

    Instant friends on social media

    Online games replace face to face

    Robots are coming with skin like ours

    Sex toys of the future exceed reality

    But wars and riots school shootings and slashings

    Nine year old children who rape and torture

    Bullying teen suicide unemployment split families

    Work that spans all the hours of day

    Are we trading humanity for technological gain

  197. LaurelRose

    Signed, From The Future

    Think radioactive decay.
    Think Rutherford.

    Let love melt.
    Let your skin
    feel like stardust.

    When it comes to origami,
    notice elegant paper cuts
    on the hands that fold it.

    Develop a luxurious taste
    for energy.

    And take time as it comes
    with a quiet lap of pretense.

  198. jean2dubois

    By Jean Dubois

    if anyone has earned
    10,000 years in paradise
    It is I
    flat out
    I’m the one

    but what is paradise

    is my paradise
    your paradise

    I might revel in green valleys
    and apple trees
    while you
    you might yearn desperately for
    some kind of super Manhattan

    lately I’ve been reading up on end times
    Hank Wesselman’s Spiritwalker
    his message from the future
    remnant Americans
    who lived in such idyllic happiness
    such simplicity without the
    complications of modern life
    good grief they didn’t even have the wheel

    made me wonder
    if I’m cut out for paradise
    having earned it or not

    tell you what
    I’ll tell these folks
    about the wheel then
    zoom over to you in Manhattan
    whether that be paradise or not

    but dare I
    do I dare to tamper with time

  199. squirrelsforhire

    Future, Past, All Time

    Cell phone, internet, microchip, prescience
    phone call, brain buzz, pick up everything
    tell me, one thing, what am I about to say?
    Future thought, happening, stop this randomness.

    Meditate, mediate, now I foresee.
    Information, calculation, now is reality.
    Did you predict just what it would be?
    Anything, everything, always happening.

  200. Sara McNulty

    Different Futures

    If I consider the future to be next week,
    I would still not be able to predict
    the outcome. Going for a haircut,
    but, the earth opens. Walking down
    a city street in summer heat,
    when an old building collapses,
    crushing people, cars, and buses.
    You make plans, place them on
    your calendar, and never consider
    catastrophe striking.

    Older now, made so by a Medicare
    card, AARP magazine, “Discount
    for Senior Days’, and mirrors,
    I find it is fine to not venture beyond
    next week, in my mind. Far kinder
    to my psyche not to skip years
    ahead, for certainly at a some sooner
    point rather than later, I will be
    among the dead.

  201. elledoubleyoo

    To My Student

    I can see through it, this construct you’ve built
    obscuring more than the mere masks
    the others wear. Don’t worry:

    it’s not my place to reveal your Self.
    But know that I see it there, folded,
    tucked, and carefully held,

    waiting to be taken out, unfurled,
    and worn with pride when you’re ready.
    May it be soon.

  202. smadison


    Why me?
    Whatever did I do?
    Is there even a future in that?

    Because I said so and
    that’s all there is to it;
    hijacked by destiny.

    I cannot outrun destiny.
    My future destined
    to be or not to be.

    Dead or alive
    Proud or humble
    Meek or exact

    Future – one bite at a time.
    Free will yet
    hairs are numbered.

  203. Nabeela


    I know our minds work alike. I know how symmetrically we would pick up a frisbee and throw it smoothly in the direction it comes from. I know you sometimes look at bubbles and see the colours radiating, blending in your existence.
    But somehow, I guess we are different. I would never be able to pick out 10 missing words in a large hoard of meaningless letters. You on the other hemisphere, would hand me a scrap of paper with words like belligerent and ambivalent written in precise order. I know, how you sometimes stand, staring at your shadow, making arbitrary circles of positive light. You are measuring the distance the sun makes with the earth to see where your shadow lies. I can understand son. That when the earth completes one circular turn, your shadow lies precisely where it should. At the doorstep of the first tear you cried, the first word you repeated, the first movement you made.
    I know you don’t fit in. Like a square peg in a round hole. Or a giant massive hole in a world of four-walled pegs. You could never follow these pegs, I know and for that I would never ostracise you.
    And yes. I can understand why you never listen to the teacher at school, why I’m always receiving complaints.”Your son was writing in class while I was teaching them!” And, please if you don’t mind. Can I look at what he was writing? “Oh, just a whole lot of nonsense.” And the teacher would then show me a whole page of what you had been scribbling. And even though I did study maths, all I can decipher out are the pie’s and delta’s. It looked like a hand of a genius.
    I know how you feel frustrated. Your brain has a volatile crack on it, running the length of the great wall of China. And someday, I imagine, that crack would burst wide open, trickling salty lava that would one day give birth to…to a new invention! And I know, how adults everywhere keep trying to close the crack. With empty sneering words and long sentences of bridges that you understand not only once but thrice. But, don’t you worry son. I have a measuring tape always handy, to count the length of words and numbers and symbols you learnt in the living room.
    Always carry an umbrella, as I have cautioned before. Not to hide you or stretch your backbone till it reaches your knees. But to protect you from all those appliances that threaten to close that brilliant crack in your mind.
    I know how you sometimes answer more than what you should know and you stand straight and tall in front of your superior, politely but firmly. And for that son, I am proud of you.
    The Mother of an Autistic Son.

  204. Walt Wojtanik


    2012 has come and gone
    without and end in sight.
    And still we feel the need to know,
    but expect you to be right.

    So okay, you got the “Hister” thing
    and was close on the Kennedy brothers,
    and Napoleon was not too wrong,
    but there were not many others.

    And still your folly fills our minds,
    in this game of hit or miss,
    we’ll hold out hope for the days to come,
    no thanks to you, Nostradamus!

  205. geetakshi

    The Fortune-teller

    “I foresee happiness”,
    said the palmist, coughing loudly
    as he gazed into the future
    held in the lightly-etched lines
    of a soft, smooth palm:
    Relatively clean,
    with pink, intricate signs,
    they mapped her future
    into easily-followed paths,
    the palmist felt her hand twitch
    and asked her to trust her destiny.
    She did.

    Sitting in her wicker chair,
    she gazes into the distance,
    not so far, after all,
    (Her eyes are fast losing their sight);
    Her sighs come out as whistles through the gaps in her loose teeth;
    Her skin shakes with each gentle breeze,
    its wrinkles playing merrily
    in their own peculiar fluidity,
    a sudden cough takes her breath away,
    and she smiles her last when she looks at her palm,
    as light as it was then,
    it still trembles,
    the lines are etched deeper now,
    and decorated with speckles of red.
    Did he forsee the texture of these palm-roads?
    Maybe a different path could have
    lit a differently-happy spark:
    A happiness perhaps that ended in peace

    ©Geetakshi Arora
    April 10, 2014

  206. MaryAnn1067

    Rose-hued Days

    her bags were packed yesterday–
    heels kicking over the traces
    as the sun rose, passport
    at the ready, thinking of
    all those days, rose-hued,
    strung on a thin chain of gold
    looped long around her neck,
    promised to her as the
    frogs croaked in their
    solemn chorus and
    dinner burnt to a cinder,
    smoke signals seen for
    miles, a declension of all
    those paragraphs, the
    sentences diagrammed so that
    all can understand them

  207. Kendall A. Bell

    Covered with dirt

    You will have been the last to go,
    the last to stave off the traces
    of bad DNA from your bloodline
    that crosses the Atlantic into
    the northern reaches of a boot
    shaped country. Your ancestors –
    blondes and redheads, like you,
    like me.

    You will catch your breath for
    the last time, and there will be
    a dramatic arm flail.
    You will call out for my brother,
    for me, and possibly slump into
    one of the wooden chairs in the
    empty dining room.

    This will be your last moment of peace
    while you are still among us.

    The arrangements will have been
    taken care of, so as to spare me
    and my brother of choosing the wrong
    flowers (there will be yellow roses)
    or the wrong wood for your casket.
    (I have no idea what that will be.)

    When we see you for the last time,
    we will shake our heads in disapproval
    at the amount of makeup caked on your
    face, knowing that you wouldn’t be able
    to recognize yourself like that.

    Your send-off will be everything we never
    gave you, your final hurrah.

    I promise to keep your no good nephew
    away from the building, to make sure you
    get one last ‘fuck you’ in before you
    are covered with dirt.

  208. feywriter

    Sparky’s Magic Shop

    Is your boss a big buffoon?
    We can make him a baboon!
    Homework making you insane?
    We can biggify your brain.

    We can read your future here
    If it’s bleak, never fear!
    We have just the charm for that–
    Just ignore the undead rat.

    When the moon falls from the sky
    And you fear that you could die
    Come to Sparky’s Magic Shop
    There’s no problem we can’t stop!

    by Mary W. Jensen

  209. Walt Wojtanik


    “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?” ~Clarence Oddbody to George Bailey in “It’s A Wonderful Life”

    So many lives had touched each other to make you possible. The paths they’ve walked have left their dust upon every footprint you make.It shouldn’t be hard to believe that going forward, you will be awarded for the influence you are able to wield. All fates are sealed in your existence, and your persistence will instill itself in each life you encounter. No man is a failure who has friends. And we all succeed when we feed the minds of the future. Lives will be saved, courage and bravery will be well served. When we share ourselves, we care enough to make a difference for years to come. By George, you’ve really had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?

    The future depends
    upon the lives that we touch.
    This is such wisdom.

  210. Roderick Bates


    by Roderick Bates

    In a literal sense, of course
    we can predict the future.
    We all can speak before.
    I say I will meet friends tonight,
    and we will have dinner,
    and then we will attend
    a lecture on Lovecraft.
    I can even predict
    that my limited patience
    with the author’s lurid excesses
    and his bigotry will leave me
    ready to leave well before
    the evening is over.

    But the aneurism,
    the fatigued landing gear,
    the man with a grudge and a gun,
    all speak at once their own futures —
    every rock, every leaf, and chair,
    and cloud, and piano, and bed
    all proclaiming together,
    and the noise of them all is great,
    and I speak over you
    and you speak over me.

    The question is not if
    we can tell the future,
    but if we can hear it.

  211. lionmother

    The Future

    I don’t think about the future
    The present is where I live
    What’s happening now is
    my focus
    The joy in the moment
    even as simple as the
    feel of a laugh
    or the taste of chocolate
    as it melts slipping down
    my throat
    The thrill of a smile
    from a stranger
    Or the familiar electric charge
    from my hand in my husband’s
    reminding me my present
    is the future

  212. rachelgrace


    Behind the wheel of life she pondered her future
    Conclusions yet to be made confounded her
    Looking to the sky she fell to the ground
    A search in spinning thoughts
    A whirlwind gathering her in its arms
    Home bound

  213. JamesW


    the day of desolation will soon be at hand
    when this orb loses its hue and breathes its last
    greying across the land and milky lifeless soupy seas
    skeletons of trees past form disturbing vistas
    the skies roil with restless smoky plumes
    and the air is heavy with lung-sapping fumes

    on that day we shall sit on weathered motherboards
    and watch each other’s expressionless grey faces
    adrift from life, bereft of all human chords
    we eat mutant insects roasted over burning plastic
    and drink half a sip of brackish milky water
    as on the brink of life and death we totter

    we coat our warty skins with oily dirt in the morn
    for it cracks painfully in the yellowed sun left bare
    and in closed spaces in the chilly night
    we burn the last tome of the books that remained
    and inhale each other’s fetid recycled breath
    while we wait, jaded but afeard, for the day of death

  214. PressOn


    all these poems
    can not be realized
    unless one plans for a distant

    And that’s too bad, because so many are so good, in my opinion.

  215. Gabrielle Freeman

    From Dust to Dessert

    There will be robots. There will be
    humanoid robots. There will be
    sentient humanoid robots.
    Humans will want to destroy
    these robots because the robots
    will try to take over, make humans
    obsolete. There will be sentient
    humanoid robot abuse.
    Humans will enjoy watching them
    get ripped apart. It will make humans
    feel more human. Humans will make
    robots of themselves. There will be
    groupspeak. We will refer to ourselves
    as we. We will make everyone else
    just like us. We will be able
    to exchange our aging bodies
    for our choice of thirty-or-so
    permanent, twenty-five-year-old
    replacement bodies. We will live
    forever and go crazy. There will be
    a big bomb. Surviving humans
    will build a dome in which to live.
    We will live forever and have to
    exterminate people when they turn
    thirty. There will be a big bomb.
    There will be a big bomb which makes
    the surface of the earth unable
    to sustain human life. Surviving
    humans will live underground.
    Machines will be ok. They
    will turn us all into batteries.
    An alien will land and work
    at a diner. Aliens will land
    and pretend to be friendly,
    but they’ll really be grocery
    shopping. Always, always, always
    translate the alien’s language
    before you get on the ship.

    Thanks for reading! Check out the full post at http://www.ladyrandom.com.

        1. pomodoro

          started out like this~when i am dead, my dearest,
          ramble through our woods and fields,
          fly with hollow bones,
          build a delicate bed
          in the crook of a branch,
          sit atop a throbbing egg,
          the memory
          of me.

  216. candy

    Grandfather’s Song

    He risked the life he knew
    from County Tyrone on a ship
    bound for America
    he came alone
    his song accompanied him

    He made a new life
    with a woman he loved
    a woman who danced to his song

    Adversity, fortune, joy, and sorrow
    followed them
    His song kept them singing

    Jobs gained and lost
    children born and died
    he never lost his song

    His true love gone, children grown
    alone once more
    his song comforted him

    His song filters through the ages
    and I find my future
    in the song of his past

  217. Roderick Bates

    Looking Forward

    by Roderick Bates

    So let’s say the Big Bang was like a bomb going off,
    or perhaps the start of an avalanche, a mudslide,
    or the winding of a huge (but not yet massive) watch.

    This, then, is the ripple outward, the downward rumble,
    the slow unwinding —its tick unnoticed in our brief
    fizzing of growth and decay. The surface of the pond smooths,
    the pebble settles to the bottom. Energy gives way to stillness
    and Entropy picks up its rightful crown.

  218. taylor graham


    It’s going to get hot and sweaty, later in the day.
    I’ve come early, swinging my weed-eater
    through high spring grasses
    and filaree starred with tiny pinkish flowers.
    Sun’s moving down the opposite hill,
    opening patchwork paths through the shadow of oaks,
    sparkling a bedrock mortar
    where long-ago women ground acorns.
    An old poet-friend knows these histories.
    The rocks of the canyons are his bones,
    the pupils of his eyes still read the constellations.
    A museum ghost once told him
    how to find the door.
    Now he’s got cancer in his cells,
    but it’s a good life,
    he says, he’s ready to move on.
    The morning’s high enough to open
    the field poppies’ golden petal-gates.
    Long-range forecast, enough sunny days
    for haying.
    This world will still go on beautifully
    after we’ve gone.

  219. phocus


    The future is going to be splendid
    to make up for all the struggles that preceded it.
    To compensate for years of financial hardship,
    emotional neglect, and physical exhaustion;
    To pay back for decades of fear of not succeeding,
    while forcing myself forward during endless, sleepless nights,
    tiresome long days and sunny afternoons of despair
    when the only thing that guided me was a strong will and a vision
    of how life could be, how it should be, and how I wanted it to be.
    Only with diligence, brainpower, and mental strength as my weapons
    I fought hard to move up, to progress, to succeed.

    Those tough times I’d like to forget,
    when I lived in an ugly furnished, tiny space without kitchen or bathroom.
    When I had to pay 50 cents to get hot water out of the shower in the basement
    and could not afford a TV;
    When lucky days meant that I had enough money to go to the movies
    or buy a new shirt on sale or meet a friend for one coffee or one beer.
    When pleasure after an endless day of studying or working
    meant riding my bike along the river in the evenings and people watch.
    When going for long walks on Sundays in a city where I was new, all alone, and lost
    were declared fun.

    I worked many awful jobs that time
    to support myself,
    to make a difference,
    to change my life for the better:
    In a bread factory, I lifted heavy breads for eight hours straight;
    In a senior citizen home, I washed, dressed, fed inmates, and provided chat.
    I cleaned apartments
    and attached tags to clothes on racks
    I wrapped gifts during Christmas season in huge department stores.
    I washed plants in offices
    and worked the kitchen of one of the biggest canteens.
    I convinced youngsters to be in the audience of a bad talk show.
    I was a secretary, a lawyer’s typist, a receptionist.
    I brought coffee and snacks during doctors’ board meetings,
    translated on trade fairs,
    and waitressed in my favorite pub.

    During vacations I did not rest, but instead
    I interned at newspapers, magazines, and agencies.
    I summarized theses and dissertations,
    wrote articles on hunger, catastrophes, and wars;
    daycares, activities, sports, exhibits, polls, and many, many more
    or volunteered in faraway places –ironically– to
    see them in practice and know not from books,
    what it meant to be underdeveloped, lagging behind, and not good.

    Those years were hard, demanding, and –oh so– dark,
    but they nourished that spark
    that made me fight for progress, improvement, and luck
    so that today
    life seems easy, light, and so much fun
    with time to play, relax, and enjoy the sun.

    The future is going to be even better.
    It has to.

    ©Uta Raina, April 2014

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Love how the first line calls for urgent action and the second line invites a gentler form of thought! The third line demands courage! The combination could change the world! Dynamic message, in so few words . . . nice job!

  220. shellcook

    Future beginnings, like pipe dreams, beat the illusion of yesterday to a pulp.
    My dad used to tell me to learn to speak well, not like a hick,
    or no one will ever take you seriously.
    He always knew he was right about that.
    It makes me think of ‘gonna or fixin’ to’, thank god I learned that lesson well,
    and how those words, or lack thereof, have never affected my abilities,
    but have profoundly affected my future.

    You either do it or you do not.
    You go or you went.
    Physics has proven a ‘fixin’ to’ future does not exist.
    Forever entangled, a spider’s web broken, is never the same.
    Just like plain little girls with big dreams of the future,
    sometimes need to be reminded to speak well.

  221. DanielAri


    one morning she wakes in the arms of another man,
    slow landing in a foreign bedroom to the bittersweet
    churn of a deep and real bodily satisfaction with sad
    terror at what happened, and what will happen next—
    because Alice could never keep a secret like that. If
    I grip the wheel tight enough, we’ll stay on our street
    and not veer, but when I lose track, we’re liable to go
    off at a 10 o’clock angle to where she tires of what
    I bring and desires too much what I don’t, as though
    she’s been giving me the same grocery list for years,
    but I never manage to make it to the dairy aisle until
    she puts back on her rumpled nightdress in the day-
    light thinking, “you’re either not hearing me or you’re
    being contrary—so I got it myself.” She’ll lecture her
    steering wheel all the way back home and park around
    the block for a long bawl before she comes in to find
    me in sad stubble and a T-shirt, just minutes before
    punching myself, punching myself dead in the face.


  222. Ashley Marie Egan

    Happy 10th Day! I always like writing about possible futures.

    In The 30th Century
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    Life is bleak,
    In the 30th Century,
    We can’t go outside,
    Without a mask on,
    Because we killed the trees,
    The oceans,
    The forests,
    And everything,
    That was here,
    Before us.

    Our ancestors,
    Destroyed the Earth,
    With their greed,
    Now we pay the price,
    For all their bad deeds,
    The only nature we have,
    Is a projection of the past,
    And we must make do,
    Until we find a new place,
    To call our home.

    We will cherish a new world,
    Better than our home planet,
    Or we’ll all deserve to perish,
    With the wreckage of Earth.

  223. Lori DeSanti

    Aging Tree Haiku

    I am a capsule
    I live through generations
    I am the countdown

    underneath hair dye and shame
    to curb prophecy

    rings of the oak tree
    antique circles in its trunk
    years stack like wood piles

    I will sing wisdom
    when my salt and pepper hair
    starts to bloom in spring

  224. Liliuokalani

    The Thunder of Motivation

    The not yet,
    but will be,
    is the infant of what
    we merit in the moment –
    creatures or causes or coins.
    I’m already on
    the not yet cloud
    looking down the nose of now,
    into the eyes of the instant,
    waving my arms,
    beckoning myself to
    the chestnut booth,
    the one in the corner,
    where a table torch burns
    like a lit tangerine.
    Only here can I reflect
    on how I got here.

  225. Renada Styles

    Future Definition

    Stratospheric adiaphorous
    Bending into the pinnacle
    Of expulsive extinction
    Accordion-ingly contracts.

    Purpose of divination
    Pointing to the mind
    Of anorexic logic
    Girthed by emotive explication
    Expands perspective.

    In equated knowns
    Truth morphs realness
    Into a factual epicenter
    Fracturing through an abstracted neurocosm.

    Modern evolution stagnates–
    Till death does part
    Those thinkers to past
    And future endorsers re-process
    Till it, too, does part.

  226. Linda Goin

    A Future Without Shoes

    I don’t need another shoe
    dropping, another problem sticking
    its toe in my door. Yesterday,
    a shoe dropped into the shower.
    The day before one got caught
    in wires that lead to the street,
    where hundreds of shoes languish,
    waiting for someone silly enough
    to pick one up and fight
    for its right as a shoe.

    Anywhere you go around here,
    the past shows up as shoes.
    Unlike Imelda Marcos’ closet, a dark
    revolt filled with matching pairs,
    these shoes don’t agree. Right or left,
    flip-flops, sandals, boots, loafers,
    moccasins, cleats, galoshes,
    pumps, brogues, boat shoes and deck shoes.
    Waves and waves of footwear lap
    at my door, begging.

    I dream of a future without shoes,
    where barefoot dances are common
    and dilemmas that drop from the sky
    don’t damage the ambiance. Tomorrow
    holds serenity, violins and pretty
    vocations, clean streets, empty dangers,
    unsurprising showers, and plenty of paths
    without stones nipping at my heels.
    But tomorrow never happens, does it?
    It’s always today.

  227. Joseph Harker

    Ten of Cups
    (from a gay tarot)

    Both men face the background, porcelain blue
    shot through with rainbows. I tell Christopher
    this card predicts marriage, contentment, perfection.
    Between sets we do spreads offstage, while he
    downs tequila for his fright. Ten painted wine glasses
    catch the sun’s off-frame glow. I tell him this is love,
    , the territory of delight. The mikes
    squeal, check one check two, and Christopher
    staggers up. I imagine the lefthand husband
    is a singer-songwriter too, dealing in long romances.
    Why couldn’t the pilgrimage to happiness begin
    tonight? Christopher bows his electric guitar,
    unfolds his tenor, but nobody dances. Perhaps
    the pilgrimage is longer for the straggling avant-garde.
    I have faith in happy endings, though the horizon
    extends too far to see. Christopher, his set
    cut short, stumbles out angry, refuses to hear
    about other chances. This too-perfect masculine pair
    has it easy; we mortals have it hard. I watch the door
    slam shut, begin to suspect the righthand husband will
    not be me.

  228. rferrier


    I have lived too much
    of my life
    in the future

    thinking to what’s next
    yearning for what’s coming
    reaching for that next milestone


    at the expense of yesterday,







    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Loved your poem and yes, it is so easy to focus on the future and miss today. Your ending puts us nicely in the now with every breath . . . I enjoyed that! :)

  229. Evelyn Philipp

    With God’s good grace
    is hope

    in something



    but I miss you now
    and you cannot come
    to me

    and it hurts.


    And God’s good grace
    gives me a hope
    in the future

    something bigger,

    something better

    you cannot come to me,
    but someday, I will



  230. Margot Suydam

    In Concert

    All choral singers rasp
    at the highest pitches:

    Yet sopranos can soar forever
    while altos plunge to bolster

    the most burdensome notes.
    Tight folded scores keep

    this battle mere whispers.
    We quiet the unexpected

    and watch all barricades
    melt into linen by joint 

    harmony, always a relief
    from minding the travails

    of rose bushes, all will be safe
    amid simple marriage of song.

  231. Azma


    I’ve just started to wonder
    How poems would be in the future.

    Should we recycle inspiration?
    Would nature be extinct from our imagination?

    Spelling ‘you’ would certainly be old school
    Shortening everything would be the new cool.

    Maybe Shakespeare would only be a concept
    I wonder if still in hardbound, his works would be kept.

    Images and personification would be so subtle
    Perhaps they would have apps
    that put you in automated poetic traps.

    Oh! Who am I kidding with this deceitful mirage
    Beauty is always under-rated at any age

    -Azma Sheikh

  232. Michelle Hed


    Finding our path through life with
    Unlimited possibilities branching out from each fork in
    The road.
    Unsure where the journey will take us but excited to have the
    Responsibility of making our own decisions, writing our own
    Epics one footstep at a time.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Enjoyed your poem, Michelle! I especially liked, “writing our own epics one footstep at a time” unsure about the journey! So true, just keep walking everyday, right into the future! Perfect!

  233. Joseph Hesch

    The Past and Yet-To-Be

    Do you ever think of me
    on those days when bells chime
    and sun shines just so?
    When your ears ring and
    you stand bare face to face
    with day and wonder,
    “How would he write this?”

    Then do you curse
    the thought of me,
    for my brutish rabbit ways
    of crash and burrow. Those times
    when I‘d create dawn for you,
    then shatter it with
    the wrong-way shadows I cast.

    Sometimes I reflect on those days,
    but don’t linger
    on what I cannot change.
    I’m furious at tomorrow,
    though, ever-moving goalposts
    of unattainable yet-to-be
    on this, my ever-shortening field.

  234. Zart_is

    The Ancestral Thoughts of Dust

    Dehydrated, all the mucus, piss and blood, sucked out
    squeezed out, fat juiced, discarded.
    Not sure who would chip me off the canister sides,
    nasty job that – bagging me up – labeled for storage.
    My last thought had been about dignity.
    But that was out of my hands
    now – I have no hands.
    My brain dust, I suppose
    thoughtlessly mixed with flaky skin
    crumbled meat and guts
    parched genetic material.
    All packaged in zipped, locked, plastic
    waiting for some promised reconstruction
    in a better world – if – of course,
    someone cleans up the mess we leave behind.
    Funny – I worried about water and oxygen
    But I gambled on being reconstituted in a future world
    I never wondered where the “made from concentrate” me
    might awaken – if you’d follow – or if I would be alone.
    I never considered what distant cousin, might
    welcome me more as fertilizer than as revered antiquity.

  235. David Walker

    Barcode Courtship

    We are born with two things:
    a series of black lines, varying in width,
    across a two inch section of our
    arm and a small wooden box
    whose lock will only be opened
    by our thumbprint when we turn

    The older generation never tells
    us directly, but we all know
    what awaits us when we lift
    the lid on that birthday.

    There are still older men
    and woman going from wrist
    to wrist, scanning frantically
    for their love. We all wonder
    if they were born without
    another half, or – less likely –
    if they were born whole to begin

    Others still reject this romance
    altogether, preferring archaic
    conversation. What an unsuitable
    method of attraction. The mismatches
    it produced must have been
    a novel sight centuries

    But I know better. Three steps:

  236. Kevin D Young


    Meanwhile, back from 1985, Michael J. Fox
    is surreptitiously surprised, his career solid,
    his footing not so much, and no pimped
    out DeLorean, either. Ditto Mohammad
    Ali from the light Seventies, the Thrilla
    in Manilla stinging back, the heavy laden
    Olympic walk decades away. And don’t get
    me started on Christopher Reeve, horsing
    around as Superman until he wasn’t. Where
    do we get this idea? The odds are long
    against your knees and eyes and that honey-
    rubbed, tautly-wrought baby skin that smiled
    even when you did not.

  237. alan1704

    A whisper from the cellar.

    Magpies smashing windscreens
    Lapping up night from the gutter
    Somewhere dark and moist
    Good books and daily bread
    A woman confesses sins
    For cheap clothes suit all.
    In black and white
    Two cardinals sing
    In the calm of the storm
    After the taste of anchovy.
    And when your eyes behold
    A landscape of opal and sulfur
    Snatched from time
    As a crow haunts your mahogany door.
    You will age
    Your voice will fade
    Your heart will rage
    And one summer evening
    You will hear
    A whisper from the cellar.

  238. Mr. Take The Lead

    Never looking back
    Daniel R. Simmons
    Change and transition can be scary
    I know, but you have to step out of fear
    in order to grow
    To move forward towards greater things
    And to reach your greater destiny,
    To fulfill your purpose
    To achieve your dreams
    You must move from the comfortable and known,
    into the unknown.
    Yes, I know when thinking of the future there is uncertainty,
    but that’s the beauty of it.
    Don’t spend your life wondering what if
    What if-I would have did this or that,
    but instead leave your past behind and walk towards the future with your eyes of faith leading you.
    Yes in order to get to places you never been
    Or to do things that gave never been done before,
    You have to step out of fear, leave the past behind you,
    and go for it!
    So tear down the rear view mirror of your life
    The journey you are on requires you to never look back!

  239. mfitts847@gmail.com

    The Final Hour – Marie H Fitts

    I contemplate
    This life ending
    The number of days left
    I’ll be spending

    On this earth
    In human form
    Flesh and blood
    The body warm

    I think about
    The final hour
    When Glory reveals
    Its resurrection power

    I concentrate
    On the last breath taken
    And where I will be
    When I awaken

    From the slumber
    Beneath the trees
    From blinded eyes
    That finally see

    The brilliant light
    From Heaven above
    Shinning down
    A radiant love

    Now filled with Peace
    Hard to explain
    That I’ve been given
    A brand new name

    A name that signifies
    And proves
    That our belief is
    Indeed the truth

    Proof revealed by
    Omniscient Power
    Passing from this life
    In the final hour

    Where time and space
    Transcend and lend
    Everlasting moments
    Again and again and again…

  240. Monique


    The road ahead is dark
    But a strong wind blows from behind me
    I take off into the future

    Even though what was once clear
    Is now blurred out in shades of gray
    A light shines in the distance

    Like a photo that I have to shake
    The path ahead becomes clearer with time
    And I keep flying on

  241. Debbie


    It’s not often that one can tell his story
    or even unfold the tongue
    without a lessening of all the glory
    making errors become strong and young.

    Yet it’s sad but true that we declare
    to give peace to a caring one
    then stop the press and kill the mood
    because it’s wrong what we have done.

    So bide your time with what you have.
    Give cheer to those who smile.
    For it may be just a day away
    when you walk that long hard mile.

  242. Domino

    Why I Love My E-Reader

    Betty loved reading, a love she had nurtured
    in the late twenties during an eighteen-month stint
    in prison.

    (We suspect she’d been making moonshine
    to support her family.)

    Nevertheless, she did love books,
    and when pulp fiction came along, the old
    science fiction books were the one she loved best.

    Rockets to the moon and flying cars
    were the least of it. She craved the technology
    the books hinted at. Beds made for perfect slumber;
    computers that could talk; telephone calls where
    one could see who they were talking to; laundering
    machines that folded clean clothes; vacationing
    on the moon or Mars; perfect foods one needed to eat
    but once a day; robots to take the drudgery from life; and
    reading books on computer tablets.

    All these things fascinated Betty, and she dreamed
    of taking advantage of every luxury.
    Watching movies on a computer screen.
    Glasses with a computer connection.
    Electric cars that used no gas at all.
    Portable communication devices.
    Hydroponic gardens.
    3-D printing.

    She would have loved living in the future.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  243. mandygirl238

    Little baby, sweet baby
    Unwanted vulnerable alone
    Her birth parents to always remain unknown

    No future, no hope
    No one to help her
    Be all she could be.

    Until a family
    Called her princess, made her their own
    She was adopted, given a home

    Her future
    Was brighter, past lost in the mist
    Potential, would know no limit

    Now older she thinks back
    On what her future could have been
    Grateful, forever for what is, not what ifs.

  244. Michelle Hed

    Finding Your Own Path to Destiny

    While gazing out the window,
    listening to the spring wind howl,
    one oak leaf flew across my vision;
    my eyes tracked the leaf
    as everything else faded away.
    I was enthralled by the
    simplistic grace of the waltzing leaf
    as it drifted out of sight
    and I marveled
    at how it seemed to slowly
    travel its own path
    despite the ferocious wind.

    I could only think,
    ‘I hope I can walk with grace,
    on my own path
    as the future
    comes barreling towards me’.

  245. JayGee2711


    I still think the stars
    shine brighter in orange soda
    than in tea leaves.
    And I wonder how could
    the tarot cards in that tiny back room
    in New Orleans
    know the truth if it wasn’t
    the stars who told them?

    When we were children
    we would lie on our backs
    in the summer grass
    and listen to
    our cousins telling lies.
    I hope it wasn’t
    in those moments
    that the stars
    decided our destinies.

    Julie Germain

  246. Janet Rice Carnahan


    In my heart, I hold you up
    Up to your potential
    Up to higher standards
    Up to all you are to me.

    I see you taller
    I see you full of love
    I see you happier than life itself
    I see you so aware of all you are.

    I hold that space for you in my heart
    Because that is who you are to me!

    Is it really you?
    Can you actually become this one day?
    Do you have to try, make your own conscious effort?
    Will you live up to where I carry you in my heart?

    Or am I simply seeing your future self
    And creating the space for you
    To one day
    Walk into that bigger space
    That open place
    Joy, contentment and peace
    Beaming on your face!

    Maybe it is just hope found in a
    Or person’s
    That holds you up

    In truth, I feel it now
    And it is Love

    Love will always lift us all up
    In every breathing moment
    As it has . . .

    Throughout all time!

  247. Phil Boiarski

    Beeches and Oaks

    Botanists call what happens
    to beech and oak leaves
    In essence. the old
    cling to the limb
    thru dark winter,
    only to be shoved off
    by new buds in spring.

    The woods appears
    empty except for the
    brown paper leaves
    of the beech trees
    rattling in the April wind.

    To fear the future
    or regret the past
    is to miss the moment
    and could mean
    regretting the future
    and fearing the past.

    The taste of carnality
    cannot abide divinity
    and vise versa;
    eventually, meat
    must leave the spirit,
    and spirit leave the meat.

  248. barbara_y

    Future spiders

    Tethered to the window frame
    by silk, are three white hot-air balloons,
    two miles into their race and fast;
    or three puff heads of dandelion seed
    as full of light and blue
    as embryonic dandelion; or three
    buds of soap, escaped from the sink;
    or future spiders. Always,
    there’s a point of time it’s possible.

  249. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Thought, any moment
    Tells us that
    We can know
    Our past, present, future self . . .

    Feel it and say, “YES!”

  250. Snowqueen

    It will not last
    But even so
    I’m sick of being sick

    I pump the fluids
    Try to sleep
    And hope the meds will stick

    My head feels thick
    My eyeballs hurt
    Poor me to feel this way

    But it’s alright
    Because I know
    There’s hope in tomorrow, a new day!

  251. Jane Shlensky

    Gypsy Camp

    Twice a year they travel through
    from the northeast down to Florida,
    a camper caravan, cars, trucks
    that need a peaceful place to land.

    His diner sits in countryside,
    nothing around but pastures, farms.
    He lets them park in his meadow,
    take a rest then travel on.

    At first, the locals give him grief
    for sponsoring such visitors,
    but soon music and reading palms
    was like a summer festival.

    At night after he closes up,
    he saunters down with his guitar
    to play along around a fire,
    a jar of hooch his ticket in.

    The oldest woman is his friend
    who shouts down boys’ suspicions.
    He’s not like all the other ones,
    she shouts; her gold teeth dazzle him.

    They drink and play the saddest songs
    of love they taught him years ago
    and then she takes his hand and reads
    the lines and lives he’ll surely live.

    It’s all there, she would have him think,
    how hard his life h.as been and is,
    how much he longs, what he regrets,
    the path to walk to clarity.

    He doesn’t need to see his death—
    she wouldn’t tell him anyway—
    but futures, fortune’s fickle friends,
    can ricochet most any day.

    She reads the secrets of his heart;
    those non-specifics seldom change:
    love and respect, good health and rest,
    success measured by cash and friends.

    She reads his knuckles’ swells and scars;
    she reads the sadness in his eyes;
    she knows the sort of man he is,
    laden with doubts, fears, and regrets.

    But he’s been kind to them for years
    when no one else would take them in.
    She tells him he has yet some time
    to do the things he hasn’t yet.

    And this is all the thanks he needs
    from them, as they pack and disband:
    that twice a year she sets him straight
    toward the future in his hands.

    1. miaokuancha

      This is beautiful. It has so much cadence that it feels as if it rhymes. The story is so tender and good. What a wonderful, wonderful piece.

  252. poetjamesescher

    In The Year 2000

    Fruit is getting cool again.
    Those space race nuts who predicted
    our meals would be tiny capsules are all wet,
    floating in Tang and dipping dots.

    My grandmother would say that just
    goes to show ya how hard it is to predict
    the future. Hell, she would say, they can’t
    even predict the weather worth a squirt.

    Poor Grams. She knew if there was one thing to know
    it was that the future is uncertain. Today, we are here,
    wireless, phone full of photos, recovering from a new
    chemical peel – all unknown in Gram’s days of soup
    kitchens, outhouses, party lines, and forced frugality.

    I try to be a shade more generous. We’ve been
    to the moon and have sights set on Mars, possibly
    by the 30’s. Not the 1930’s but the 2030’s. Maybe
    it will happen, maybe it won’t. But I’m not counting
    on it. Hell, some days I won’t even buy green bananas.

  253. DanielAri

    “Canine futures”

    Likely I won’t recall much of March by next year,
    maybe just the off-kilter bleach of his muzzle—
    he’ll still have it—and how his ears were too soft yet
    to stand. Except for this writing, we’ll forget all
    the literal puppy shit, the murderous yells

    as we backslid barefoot through house training. Journals
    lost, so that ten years from August, with our daughter
    preparing to drive away to college, we’ll call
    Pippin, and he’ll come. We’ll look at us. “Another?”
    If I know us, another’s the forgone answer.

    So here I’m living through a shitty month I swear
    I’ll soon forget with the techniques and the cautions
    scooped, tied and tossed. When our kid leaves, we’ll have to learn
    all over again the stinky grace of canines.
    Now our friends visit and flip over his little

    trousers, his tail nub and toes, his cuddle and bounce,
    the oracle face of gentle continuance.


  254. elishevasmom

    “I am the master of my fate” – William Ernest Henley

    I Wish I May

    I create my own future.
    Am I unhappy
    with my here and now?
    It is only because I
    made it so.

    By remaining grateful
    for all that I have
    (not always easy)
    it will bring me more
    to be grateful for,
    for tomorrow, and for
    tomorrow’s tomorrows
    as well.

    Ellen Evans

  255. KatNalley

    Election Day, 1896
    I’ve been standing in line for what seems like forever.
    My foreman, tending one ballot box, the operations
    manager tending the other. Democrats on the left,
    Republicans on the right. The choice is mine:
    to keep my job, feed my family or to go
    with my heart. I’m standing in the right line:
    my family is everything.

    Election Day, 2016
    I’ve been standing in line for what seems like forever.
    Got time off to vote, but I worry what waits me.
    I probably won’t make it home until after 8 p.m.,
    in time to put my kids to bed. The volunteer hands
    me a little sticker that says “I Voted!” before I cast my ballot.

  256. SestinaNia


    I was six when I learned
    to spell surprize with a “z”—
    and I liked that squiggle
    that seemed to embody
    “the element of”—
    but by college days
    my spellchecker was giving
    a different, red squiggle
    to tell me the “z”
    was no longer correct,
    and I was now wrong.
    So it is with legitimate
    concern that I wonder
    how will we relate
    shock and astonishment
    fifteen years
    from now?

    –Sara Doyle

  257. James Rodgers

    Before It All Went Down

    When I’d volunteered
    for this mission,
    they promised me
    others would come soon.
    There would be rockets
    with plants and animals,
    trees and insects,
    a new Earth.
    But shortly after my arrival,
    the transmissions ended,
    and my blue marble home
    darkened to a muddy brown.
    It’s been six years now.
    Every day,
    I check the radio,
    say a prayer,
    and go for another walk,
    searching for any signs.
    The air is thin
    and my lungs have adapted.
    The light is low and green
    and my eyes have adapted.
    But my heart,
    my mind,
    have refused to change,
    refused to give up,
    refused to believe
    that it’s over.

  258. shethra77


    I am living in the future.
    So it is not what I thought.
    What ever is?

    Things will have changed,

    But I’ll still be here.
    At least, that’s the plan.

  259. theDolphin

    The Future of Our Expression

    In 1960,
    we took three billion photographs a year.
    Fifty-five percent of those
    were of babies
    and I’m pretty sure half of those
    were of me,
    in 1969.
    There were diaries, but not blogs.
    There were books, but not self-publishing.
    There was television and film, but not YouTube.

    This year,
    eight-hundred-and-eighty billion photos
    will be snapped.
    Seventeen percent of those
    will be selfies.
    Two-hundred thousand of those
    a minute, more than six billion
    a month, will be uploaded
    to Facebook.

    This year,
    more than four-hundred million people
    will view almost fifteen billion pages a day,
    of blogs
    already on the internet.

    This year,
    the number of self-published books
    will grow sixty percent
    having grown sixty percent last year,
    and the year before that,
    and the year before that;

    and at their electronic fingertips
    readers will have access
    to unlimited low-cost books
    including all the classics
    Project Guttenberg provides
    for free.

    This year,
    more than one billion users
    will visit YouTube
    each month,
    to view more than six billion hours of video,
    uploaded at one hundred hours
    a minute.

    Sometimes we do
    When everything is art
    is anything art anymore?
    What constitutes art
    when the world
    has exploded with it?
    When art is so subjective
    that everything is possible,
    does it not seem equally
    that nothing is possible?
    even lack of form

    how can we not rejoice
    At this explosion of expression?
    And hold our breath to see
    what art’s proliferation
    will ultimately sire.
    Let those pernicious few
    who still inquire,
    What good is art?

  260. Eibhlin


    On a day in summer,
    if not in autumn, spring, or winter,
    a plane will land at Dublin
    or at Cork, or Shannon,
    or at some other airport
    that’s as yet green fields.

    It will be raining.
    Or there will be sun,
    or cloud, or fog.
    It will be evening,
    or the very latest part
    of afternoon.

    Or a ferry will dock at Rosslare
    or Dublin or Dún Laoghaire,
    come from Holyhead or Liverpool
    or, lengthily, from Le Havre.

    And I will disembark,
    and never leave again.
    I will be home.

  261. Louise

    Aeonic Moments

    Future and past contained in
    this now moment
    exist as the awareness of time
    All future is experienced as this flash of creativity occurs

    New eternal moments light and are extinguished
    never stopping but holding still for the instant
    and this eternal moment lives once
    then is smothered to allow birth of the next

    Suspended in numerous nows
    these seconds pass through
    as perception of future thought
    which live only in timepieces and calendars

  262. dextrousdigits

    Leftovers from yesterday
    spill seeds of dread
    into today’s garden.
    Pollen from the past
    carried on time’s breath

    chirping birds,
    singing with gusto,
    dancing with angels,
    surprising a struggle neighbor with an unexpected gift
    remembering the precious laughter of your children
    jumping for joy

    gets deposited in the brain.
    Stuck together

  263. Jim Johnson

    One Who Meets a Boy at the Ocean & Is Intrigued
    (Imagined Character from Cormac McCarthy’s The Road)

    It’s been raining since the beginning. When the world woke up on fire, all’s left
    was gravity. I don’t want your things. At least not yet. I want a wind that brings
    no embers. I want Uncle John & HayBuck back. This kind of lightning gets petty,
    perambulates in circulation. Watched it javelin a horse & eat right through it like
    it were some javelina up on Choctaw Ridge. The new kind descends like webbing
    of a casting net, a skin graft of raw white fire. I aint scared of being what I want
    no more. Just what I want aint here. They thought it would go red but that old sea
    went black as a miner’s hiccup. Some of these kids I see, I know their game, but
    I still haven’t the heart. I train their heads in my scope as they go about collecting
    salt from the ocean. Eyes like purposefulness on holiday. Dry minds a scarecrow
    of wet straw whistling in cremation fire. Maybe you sidle up with them to hunt &
    get one good day from it. They toy with what they aim to gullet. I seen it. Fashion
    toothy axes from a child’s smile. Not giving up don’t look pretty. Upside is, I finally
    got a beachside mansion! But oft rest yonder under seagrape canopy of dunes.
    There are but two lights now, & most men fear the lesser. I wouldn’t recommend
    to dream. Pregnancy is an abomination. You’re either slow cooking kin for clan
    or meat for the unimaginables. What I got that aint been humbled been drowned
    in a reservoir of wishfulness I keep hidden. I’d jape a synagogue if it meant fuel.
    Those who said Will was heart-over-head were well fed or stupid, I figure. Why,
    you got a heart on you? These embers aim to crown me king of smoke. But I
    haven’t the hair for it, & play no fool for none no more. I’d suggest turning back
    into the ground. This walking part is for the atavistic. Better break into a million
    bits & scatter, maybe find your way back into a star. But that’s just me being
    optimistic. Maybe you already got me fixed for a something to wear in light winds.

  264. Marci Adair

    I Ask You, Who Are Me

    Who will you be
    when time has shaved close
    the years, memories curled on themselves
    scattered along the floor at your feet?
    When the kids have grown and gone,
    what will you know then?
    Will your chest be an empty cavern
    echoing with the patters of feet,
    or will it be overfilled, spilling laughter
    every which way you turn?
    Will you arms be wrapped in constant embrace?

    Go on, keep them warm and limber for me.

    What will you write?
    Will you still feel the ache and cramp
    in your knuckles from furious scribbling,
    and snatch any scrap of paper within reach?
    Will you still stash books and journals
    like so many snacks packed away against hunger?
    Those stories bouncing around your head,
    will they have fled, unwritten, forgotten, let go,
    or will they live in ink, breathe in and out
    somewhere, somehow?

    Come now, let them limp to the page in whatever form.

    Partner and partnerless, will you still dance?
    Will still you leap when chasms appear,
    soar from one side to the other, no thought of nets?
    Will you run full force, hair flying
    behind, arms pumping, legs primed
    to launch? Will you still believe there
    always will be arms waiting to catch you?

    Remember to keep your body strong … just in case.

    What songs will you sing?
    Songs of a life well lived,
    full as a tick of life’s blood,
    plump and satisfied and warm,
    or raspy, dusty, croaking dirges
    lamenting chances skipped or missed?
    Will you croon lullabies for a brood
    of grands and greats?

    Teach your babies every single song you know.

    Who will you love,
    oh God, who will you love?
    Will it be you? Me? Us? We?
    And how? How will you love?
    After those memories stack
    one on top the other, piled high—
    the gritted teeth and spit and tears
    mixed with crinkled eyes and bonfire smoke
    and salty air and song after song after song—
    Will they tumble, precariously perched,
    or will they stand resolute?

    Please, oh please, be a pyramid for me.

  265. dextrousdigits

    A minute ago is the past
    this moment is now
    the next moment is the future

    So what I did a moment ago,
    an hour ago
    last month……
    brought me to now

    So this moment is actually now the future.

  266. SuziBwritin



    I hope to be out of this city
    living near water, taking walks with my crazy dogs
    and then putting my feet into the waves afterward

    I hope to be in a warmer climate
    looking out my window at that body of water
    that must have salt and waves and sun and wind and sand!

    I will sit on my porch with my coffee looking out over those waves
    writing my stories, my poems, my articles, my statement on life
    I hope to stay fit, eating a good diet,
    supported by companionship with like-minded souls
    I want to climb on my motorcycle, too
    take little trips with my best friend and lover

    I know that God throws me a few crumbs here and there
    as if to say, “All is not lost”
    you’ll get your wish not to spend your days
    in a land-locked city
    that trips over itself to place in charge
    crazy people who think the world is going to end
    unless they can control everything
    and don’t realize
    history repeats itself and when the wheel goes around
    they will “meet the new boss, same as the old boss”!

  267. A.A. Palmer (a.k.a. The Happy Amateur)

    Happy 10th day, everyone. Ten prompts, ten haiku.

    beyond the welkin
    a sleepy angel awakes
    off to work wings brushed

    the commute is quick
    one giant leap for mankind
    for angel one step

    the task is simple
    persuade men to be happy
    that’s what angels do

    since the creation
    happiness has been men’s foe
    men prefer ruin

    men long for passion
    harmony unsettles them
    men would rather burn

    men inhale cities
    drink beneath the rural moon
    on the airplane wings

    ever amateur
    created in God’s image
    hopelessly human

    torment their lovers
    dance themselves to destruction
    ever lonely men

    finding no refuge
    men cry when they see the Pope
    vagabond pilgrims

    empires rise and fall
    look back foresee the future
    humans do not change

  268. barbara_y

    What Future

    Before Aunt Sister died, there was no future without her.
    Thus we learn that the future also comes from nothing.

    Once I heard a story. Whether it was crow told it
    or iron kettle or the dull black checker I keep that belonged
    to my grandfather, I can’t recall. But: used to be

    there was no time, and everything was and will be
    all at once. People were. Never existed. Saw things beyond
    comprehension every day. Every day happened and didn’t

    and would and shouldn’t every day, and even breathing
    was a confusion of whether to inhale. Back then,
    although history was everywhere it hadn’t been invented.

    Who was it invented time and history? Who shook out the kinks,
    sprinkled water on things and put a hot iron to existence
    flattened the past into starch and made the future steam?

    Crow would have said it was the bird clan. Kettle,
    that it was a man-made thing, time. My dull black checker
    would say time was a lie my grandfather told to keep me quiet.

    I can’t say. All three stories are in my mind like truth. Of course,
    Aunt Sister is in my mind, too, and she’s dead and been dead.

  269. lily black

    It’s Not Over…Yet

    My future is so dim I need no shades
    Houses appearing where animals once played
    The water line is dropping
    Pass me the pills I’m popping
    Hot hot sun burns my skin
    Spotted now and I ain’t thin
    Drinking cokes is out of style
    since we found out we’re walking miles
    If there’s money out there
    I’m moving so tell me where
    Corporations are still greedy
    Playing with our lives is seedy
    Never happy with their more more more
    Don’t tell me they want another war war war
    One question I must ask them first
    What happened to the water for my thirst?
    I hope it’s not but it just might be too late
    Can’t this world get over hate?

  270. Carl Palmer


    in the role of a fly on the wall
    carefully listening to him speak
    in his blatant self confidence
    that I don’t understand a word
    he has to say
    in his native tongue
    me the foreigner
    having studied his language
    until fluent bide my time

  271. Lady S Poetic Thickness

    Nowhere to Hide

    Darkness surrounds her
    She hears him nearing
    Fear grabs her

    There is nowhere to run
    She cannot hide
    He has her locked in his GPS

    She tries to pray
    But her words do not come
    Only whimpers and tears

    He calls her name
    She gasps
    Begging him to go away

    He tells her it happens today
    She needs to stop fighting it
    Because that will only increase the pain

    She turns her head to see him before her
    He strokes her cheek
    Assuring her that it will be better soon

    She struggles
    Fighting him
    To no avail

    She breathes no longer
    Her spirit walks away with him
    As the light welcomes her to Paradise

    ©Sheila Moseley
    Lady S-Poetic Thickness

  272. Lindy™

    What Future Lies

    Death has a heart,
    it taunts the horizon
    towards my next goal;
    A wishlist of dreams
    and all the dark nights
    turned light
    I fight through
    to breach the edge.

    can be a cruel mistress
    and nobody knows for sure
    what future lies…
    what future lies
    will get in our way
    or not.

    All I’ve ever wanted for me was
    not an easy way out,
    but acceptance of the way
    and stillness within it.

    I still fight myself
    and cry myself to sleep,
    but have learned to start all over again
    with each new dawn,

    and I write.
    I write because it is my peace
    and “Death has a Heart”
    will be my victory
    over grief.

  273. DanielR

    Crystal balls hold no telling
    I’m not buying what they’re selling
    The palm is just an upturned hand
    and hourglasses grains of sand
    Predicted futures are a scam
    no better than your email spam
    What seekers seek cannot be found
    across the sky or on the ground
    Seek the wise but know the sage
    that understanding comes with age
    Tomorrow is a mystery
    as it has been through history
    As our yesterday clearly shows
    what lay ahead nobody knows

    Daniel Roessler

  274. brendam

    The future has no guarantee,
    No promise hard and fast.
    It’s but a dream of hope and prayer
    Woven tight together,
    Woven then again with love
    A tri-bound cord of faith
    That the future comes again.
    –brenda mayer

    1. brendam

      The future has no guarantee,
      No promise hard and fast.
      It’s but a dream of hope and prayer
      Woven tight together,
      Woven then again with love
      A tri-bound cord of faith
      That tomorrow comes again.
      (I didn’t like the last line.)
      Brenda mayer

  275. Gammelor

    For today’s prompt, write a future poem.

    Oneiri ma.li

    That robot they sent
    in place of you
    as if it could replace
    or distract me from you.
    I knew
    With each rocket they sent to destruction
    that the prisoner they killed
    was never you,
    your heart still beating
    after each spectacular crash,
    an echo in my chest.
    I knew
    they hadn’t killed you yet.
    I knew
    I would breathe your breath again.
    I knew.
    They could never stop me knowing.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  276. acele

    One day soon
    I will drink my tea on the deck
    Sun beaming
    And Birdsong all around me

    But right now
    I drink my tea on the floor
    Cross legged
    In front of the space heater

  277. Shennon

    They say we might survive
    Along with the cockroaches
    And all the crap and rubbish from
    previous generations.

    Idly, I wonder why I bothered
    with schooling.

    Sure, it was good for occupying
    my mind a few hours each day,
    but what about the remaining
    parts of the day?
    And what about the nights?

    On a regular basis I used to sit in a
    dark and lonesome corner,
    pondering my own fatality,
    and how soon it would come.

    I now anticipate it’s arrival.
    There are no hidden desires in my soul
    to survive. For if I survive, the
    questions will all remain unanswered,
    but in death, they can be forgotten.


  278. kldsanders


    Sometime I look at her
    and I can see the woman she will be.

    Sometimes I look at her
    And I wonder what her future will be.

    Sometimes I look at her
    And I wonder what I will be.

    -Karen Sanders

  279. Liliuokalani

    Attitudes of the Future

    ***soft ***

    Hopscotch spot
    chalk stopping socks
    rocking sneakers
    bouncing feet

    chalk stops socks
    pouncing counting
    bouncing feet
    trousers, jumpers

    Counting pouncing

    – then suspended –

    trousers, jumpers
    pigtails frozen

    – then suspended –

    children chosen
    pigtails frozen
    pastel future

    children chosen
    rocking sneakers
    pastel future
    hopscotch creatures.


    Hot potato
    desert garden,
    melting melons,
    strawberries, hardened –

    a desert garden
    forms wrinkled ground,
    strawberries, hardened
    by hungry clouds.

    Wrinkled ground
    by water siphoned
    to hungry clouds
    obliged to ripen

    with water siphoned
    to gold in pipes,
    obliged to ripen
    spurting life

    to gold in pipes
    collapsing smoother,
    spurting life
    a stinging future.

  280. DanielR

    This vagabond dreams of catching wind
    gliding across endless blue to blend
    into the horizon far away
    which melts into the approaching day

    This hopeful seeker searches for new
    awaiting comets in midnight blue
    bright flashes that quickly diminish
    leaving no remnants once they finish

    This carefree wanderer makes his way
    moving swiftly, never long to stay
    like vivid autumn leaves on display
    falling into the cold winter gray

    This sailor drifts both river and sea
    finding out how rough waters can be
    in white rapids and waves tossed about
    drenched in uncertainty, filled with doubt

    This lonely traveling man I know
    I’ve often watched him come and go
    and still he journeys on alone
    toward a destination unknown

    Daniel Roessler

  281. Gwyvian


    Fascinations are my vices,
    fingers digging into my skin to hold me still,
    but my will is weak against such delights:
    moonlit nights and sunrises, storms and
    vibrant hues – fascinations spread
    a map of the cosmos before my eyes, and
    takes apart the fibers of existence; my hands
    designed for books and ancient maps,
    my mind wrapped with the attentions of
    a witty tongue and inspiring moments,
    with silhouetted figures dancing the tune
    of heroes and legends, and always:
    there is time enough ahead,
    time for tomorrow and to finish all I’ve started.

    Surreptitious cracks spidering across reality
    hold a special place in my heart, a myriad
    of enigmas to explore and adore with
    fervent dreams of joining ethereal eternity;
    those mysteries are the blood in my veins
    and the very air I breathe: but always
    there is something that must be done,
    a duty bestowed, a promise of results—
    yet the keenness dulls when time keeps dragging,
    I find myself lagging behind and staring into
    emptiness to find form,
    flowing nature to divine a pattern, and
    though time brings moments of joy and mourning,
    there is always time tomorrow, time to stop and think.

    Time passes relentlessly and carves itself
    into me with effortless ease, and as I pondered
    and created, the wheel kept turning, and I found myself
    out of time and touched with twinges of new madness:
    here is all I love and want, but there is no time,
    not a moment of respite to finish that last line,
    never a sliver of relief as the world presses on:
    I am left behind and scrambling forward—
    time would have me in knots,
    always reminding me of things I forgot,
    ever moving without a care of things waiting for
    discovery, all of them mere hindrances:
    for tomorrow has past, tomorrow is gone, and I am
    never sure I turned my attention ahead fast enough.

    April 10, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  282. Connie Peters


    Concerning the future
    it took me awhile to realize
    the choices I make today
    I will be living out tomorrow
    and the tomorrows after that.
    It’s so easy to make commitments.
    So much harder to carry them out.
    Decisions are like buying tickets
    to future events.

  283. RebekahJ

    Going Greyhound at 45

    The young woman beside me laughs every so often
    At something she sees on her smartphone.
    A quiet laugh, but not private:
    Breathy, and really tickled–
    Brimming with something to share.
    I want to ask, “What is it?”
    Wish her face would turn, and open, and she’d say.

    Tablet balanced on one knee, she reads:
    “Imagine it is some point in the Cold War (1945-1989).”
    I marvel at how memory can be history
    And that her long bare legs aren’t cold

    As we near the city we both watch the skyline grow
    That twenty years ago meant hope to me
    She laughs that laugh again, and I want to tell her:
    Someday the person you’re going to marry will think
    My god, I love the way she laughs
    Someday your children’s faces will light up when they hear it
    It will make them feel that everything’s all right

    But how weird would that sound
    From some random older woman
    So at Penn we part
    Without a word

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  284. Connie Peters


    F eatured events which haven’t happened
    U p and coming attractions to watch for
    T ime passes, imminent, waiting
    U pcoming sooner or later, inevitable
    R eality yet to come, sum of choices
    E ternally impending, never reached

  285. Connie Peters

    Brighter Future

    To fly into the future sounds far-fetched.
    Imagination has no limit, so
    let’s think about the poor with arms outstretched
    and clear a way for them to freely go,
    with courage and commitment to bestow
    the guts to conquer the false rumor spread,
    the bogus hunch that chivalry is dead.
    Let’s not regret the good we could have done,
    but listen to their pleas and act instead.
    Mend fences with compassion and we’ve won.

  286. mbramucci

    Scout Motto
    By: Michelle Bramucci

    I don’t know what will happen tomorrow
    I don’t know my ass from a hollow
    I’m lucky I remember what I had for dinner
    When it comes to what’s next I’m always a beginner

    Sometimes I might get lucky and predict a trend
    But I understand it better after I have seen the end
    Tomorrow is a mystery and I ain’t Nancy Drew
    Don’t ask me for the weather because I don’t have a clue

    I don’t know what I’m wearing or what I’m gonna eat
    I don’t know what’ll happen when I’m walking down the street
    I don’t know who I’ll meet and I don’t know what I’ll say
    All I know is what has happened up until today

    I learned to tie my shoes and read a book and drive a car
    But those all fit criteria for what’s happened so far
    I’d like to make a plan, have a dream, set a goal
    But I’m only working with my inner locus of control

    Whatever’s gonna happen’s sure to throw me off course
    An open mind’s my pocket Ace to shield me from remorse
    I’ve never been a profit, I just hope for the best
    And I’ll be working on myself because on that I can invest.

  287. Erynn

    It’s not very good today, but at least I tried! :)

    My future is uncertain
    There are many paths to take
    What do I have to gain
    When my sanity’s at stake

    Living in discontent
    With the life I chose
    How many hours have I spent
    Wishing for a redder rose

    How do I turn my life around
    And ease my troubled mind
    What contentment can be found
    When my dreams are all aligned

    The decision is up to me
    It’s always been my choice
    It’s time to set myself free
    It’s time to find my voice

  288. Gwyvian

    Time’s touch

    The lord of time’s footsteps were soft on the mosaic floor,
    two fingers holding aside a silk curtain hung there to obscure
    the world from his mortal touch – but he had to watch
    the cunning fae, maiden of life, dancing and laughing, her tinkle
    filling the garden as she entwined herself in scents and breezes
    that rustled the greens wound across the pergola set to shield her;
    stars sparkled afire in her eyes, mirrored by the sprinkles of light
    only half hidden above through those leaves, and the lord of time
    found himself enraptured by her soft beauty…
    cold had seeped into his bones from the chill of endlessness,
    yet his eyes remained forever timeless, but as he watched from
    the niche between two existences where he hid: the cold bled, and
    a dark fire of hunger kindled in his gaze; something deep within
    commanded that he must set a moment to come and pass, to touch
    the world again and set aside the designs of the weaving: a heartbeat
    began pulsing in his chest as he stepped, and he relinquished
    his hold on eternity to join the fae in her primordial dance,
    unheeding of the world spinning faster, of beginnings and endings
    swirling with his every step, his midnight eyes fastened to that
    of the fae’s, her feet faltering for a moment to meet his gaze—
    the lord of time hesitated, knowing his own face, but
    a slow, lush smile curled her lips, her eyes promising things
    that now were yet to come, but first, as their hands met:
    the essence of life and time blended; his lips hot with blood rushing,
    and her sweet laughter still promising as he kissed, time finally
    took off his dark velvet mask, golden embroidery sparkling,
    seed pearls glinting coolly with light from a place betwixt night and day,
    and lines began spiraling from the garden as they danced
    her delicate fingers weaving intricate patterns that he stretched ahead:
    a soft blanket on which they stepped, ever moving forward to
    what awaited them: the lord of time was preoccupied,
    never heeding the mortality seeping from him into existence,
    his blood only pulsed for where the fae led him:
    a bed where he could finally rest,
    and where she could join him…

    April 10, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  289. mzanemcclellan

    The Future Now
    No matter what my future holds,
    it cannot change my past unfold.
    Like a broken thing made better,
    cast aside, but now unfettered.
    Though stumbling as I take each step,
    determined not to give up yet.
    The words “I can’t” not cast in stone.
    I am the chisel now well honed.
    Focus on future you may live
    denies the Now imperative.
    As slips through fingers of the hand,
    the time you have, where you now stand.

    ~ M. Zane McClellan

    Copyright 2014
    M. Zane McClellan
    All rights reserved

  290. diedre Knight

    Moonbeams will lead to homes of successful
    Beings who’ve proven their worth
    Celestial dots shining brilliantly restful
    Free of the trappings of earth

    A pulsating cosmic highway
    The Milky Way beckons us in
    A short jaunt across the skyway
    For shopping on Saturn’s rim

    Polaris remains as our beacon
    Galactic nirvana embraced
    Gone are the planets that weaken
    When heavenly peace is replaced

    diedre Knight

  291. annell

    Death Comes in the Middle
    The shadow of the hawk
    Crosses over me

    I saw your blood on the road
    It happened a short time ago
    Your intention was to cross the road
    You had no idea
    The end would come in the middle

    I hope there were
    No children at home
    A creature unknown
    All alone

    I could not tell
    By the blood
    That was spilled
    The name of your kind
    Or who you were

    I repeated the words I often do
    Released whole and unharmed
    From the cage that held you bound
    Blessed you as you once were
    Your blood wasted
    Spilled on the road

    That is the way it happens
    On the way to something else
    Death steps in and
    Changes our plans

  292. uneven steven

    the next mass extinction event is terrifying

    they said only when the last tree and fish are gone
    will we realize we can’t eat money
    but what they never mention
    is all the other contenders
    just waiting in the wings
    for their own chance at the crown
    and chances are they’ll look nothing like us
    and who’s to say microbe jesus
    won’t forget us
    unless he’s portrayed riding atop our huge shoulders
    in a not so distant past
    like our own jesus saddling tame dinosaurs –
    I guess what I’m saying is –
    is a future without humans still a future
    or will it be technically something else
    depending on the sensory and metaphysical
    predilections of the critters
    next up to bat –
    these thoughts of the future concern me –
    and I can’t say with certainty
    but I’m betting the fauna in our intestines
    are betting on us too
    although there has been some grumbling lately
    with the new genetically spliced organisms
    getting in the mix –
    I’m just saying –
    the next mass extinction event is terrifying
    and the up and coming whatevers to rule
    may not even see fit to invent the history channel
    much less a “when mammals ruled the earth” made for tv special
    starring you know -us

  293. amsecre

    -The After-

    The future is quiet.
    I imagined the end of days would come
    With loud screams,
    Bursting lights,
    Crashing dreams.
    But no one is left to cry, to mourn,
    Except me,
    And dogs can’t cry.

    So I am left to wander the broken streets.
    All the people are gone,
    All the buildings are bare,
    Pale, skeletal trees remain.
    Only a few of us are left,
    Those who haven’t starved,
    Feeding on those who did.
    A pitiful, limited existence.

    But I can’t lose hope.
    People left before, millions of years ago,
    Leaving my ancestors to fend for themselves.
    And we survived.
    We’re better than before.
    Maybe the next world
    Will start with a sad howl.
    My voice can break the silence.
    Soon there will be a thin chorus of pain,
    We are few, but together
    We can bring a voice of things to come.

  294. Mark Conroy

    “Missing Me & Everyone Else”

    It might not matter. I may be dead before I ever get there.
    I left when I knew it was over. Woke up that morning missing myself—and everyone else.
    I don’t know where to go. Where is anyone left?
    Used to be there were things to be done, needed to be done. Had to be done to stay alive.
    Not today. Today it’s all done already. Just enough to shut you up.
    No one knows me anymore. I don’t know them either.
    All we all do is—survive. I can’t stand it! I want to live again!
    I remember planning our future. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
    Staying here and just hoping. We were alive! We planned and did things on our own every day.
    Today that can’t happen. You stay where you’re told for everyone else’s sake.
    There’s not enough of anything so you keep your mouth shut and share.
    like everyone else. You owe it to them—to us—to everyone else.
    It’s not enough anymore for me. I’m leaving. I need to be free.
    If even for just a day—this day—today.
    I’ll walk so I don’t have to turn where I’m told.
    I don’t want to stop and wait for the light. I will walk against it all.
    It’s out there if I keep going. I just need to be me.

    Mark Conroy

  295. aphotic soul

    A Future Dream
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    In a future dream, we all seem to sleep,
    Holding the loved ones we’d all like to keep,
    Never awakening from this slumber so deep,
    Only images of our past linger and seep,

    Where death is concerned we tell ourselves lies,
    “There’s a heaven above, no one really dies!”
    Yet those people always have tears in their eyes,
    At funerals of regret and now broken ties,

    When the time comes at last, we all shake and shiver,
    We look back on our past, but only for a sliver,
    For one cannot hope to out swim life’s raging river,
    Only curl up in a ball as you cry and quiver,

    But nothing really matters, not a single thing in sight,
    Because everything ends up in tatters, regardless of whether it’s wrong or right,
    All one can really do is hope to live through each night,
    And be thankful for each time they see, a new sunrise’s illuminating light,

    To me this is all redundantly dumb,
    For there is nothing better left to come,
    And regardless of the beliefs of some,
    To death’s touch I will always be numb,

    For a deaf man cannot again be deaved,
    Nor with illusions can a blind man be deceived,
    And when love is taken and bereaved,
    Death is nothing more than a manner to be relieved,

    And in this ponderous world of meaningless questions,
    There is nothing to unfurl, no meaningful expressions,
    Only one way streets with one way directions,
    No changes in course no convenient corrections,

    So live each day like it might be your last,
    Like a poem or play of a selected cast,
    So when you leave this life in a glorious blast,
    You leave something meaningful of the experiences you’ve amassed,

    And when questioning your name, as a young child asks,
    Like Shakespeare and those of fame, your memory will last.

  296. Shennon

    The snapping of crisp leaves underfoot
    Ticks away at the eternal minutes which we spend apart
    Numerous cars and trucks cause the ground to tremble
    As does my hand while placing a lettre to you in the poste

    School children scream while running past me
    But my loneliness shrieks all the louder
    As if to proclaim worldwide
    That misery is my only friend

    Sweet scents of pastries linger lazily in the frozen November air
    Turning rancid only when they reach my nostrils
    For with no hope of seeing a better life
    Even fresh air turns stale in my lungs

    A sudden Mediterranean storm darkens the afternoon sky
    In the same way that clouds covered and smothered my heart
    A brisk breeze whispers harshly while shoving me along
    Saying it’s best to continue in life and turn my back on the past


  297. Jerry Walraven

    “It’s always been good at math”

    I stumbled over the future
    as it refracted through the window
    and cascaded down the wall
    to the floor
    where it painted an illusion
    of tree branches dancing
    in the breeze.
    playing with its compass
    and protractor
    sending visions
    of what may be
    if we both

  298. mzanemcclellan

    Just A Moment
    I used to hate this thing for its ticking,
    and now I hate it for its lack.
    When I look at its red eyes malevolently,
    I can swear that it’s looking back.
    I’ve been stuck in this room for hours,
    or maybe it’s even been days.
    The nurse is the only one who tells me a thing,
    “Just a moment” is all that she says.
    She has too many patients,
    and hasn’t enough time for me.
    I decided to pull out this catheter
    and go to the front desk to plead.
    The buzzers and bells started conniptions,
    I thought I was being besieged.
    When the doctor abruptly ripped back the curtain,
    I was more than a little relieved.
    “Thank goodness,” I said to the doctor.
    “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
    Removing his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose,
    it seemed I had done something wrong.
    Without a word he eased me back to lie down.
    He took a deep breath, then sighed.
    Shaking his head from side to side, tsking,
    he was wearing that ritual frown.
    I started to ask more questions,
    which he raised his hand to forestall.
    My jaw dropped to hang open, as he said,
    “just a moment,” then went out to the hall.
    ~ M. Zane McClellan

    Copyright 2014
    M. Zane McClellan
    All rights reserved

      1. mzanemcclellan

        Thanks PressOn, I had a ball writing it. I’m glad that you enjoyed it. I would love to have it circulated in every VA hospital in the world. I’m sure they can ALL relate.

    1. mzanemcclellan

      ***I had to smooth out a rough spot. I like this one too much to leave it as it was.***

      “Just A Moment”
      I used to hate this thing for its ticking,
      and now I hate it for its lack.
      When I look at its red eyes malevolently,
      I can swear that it’s looking back.
      I’ve been stuck in this room for hours,
      or maybe it’s even been days.
      The nurse is the only one who tells me a thing,
      “Just a moment” is all that she says.
      She has too many patients,
      and hasn’t enough time for me.
      I decided to pull out this catheter
      and go to the front desk to plead.
      The buzzers and bells started conniptions,
      I thought I was being besieged.
      When the doctor abruptly ripped back the curtain,
      I was more than a little relieved.
      “Thank goodness,” I said to the doctor.
      “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
      Removing his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose,
      it seemed I had done something wrong.
      He took a deep breath then sighed.
      Without a word he eased me back down.
      Shaking his head from side to side, tsking,
      he was wearing that ritual frown.
      I started to ask more questions,
      which he raised his hand to forestall.
      My jaw dropped to hang open, as he said,
      “just a moment,” then went out to the hall.
      ~ M. Zane McClellan

      Copyright 2014
      M. Zane McClellan
      All rights reserved

  299. writinglife16

    Note: This poem is about somebody preparing for their future.

    My diaries

    I’ve got diaries.
    Pages of ruminations.
    So many pictures.
    I’ve got to put it all down.
    For when I won’t remember.

  300. alana sherman

    Day 10 A future Cento

    There Is No Future; There Is Only Now
    (for Doug)

    So I plant
    Remember that nothing
    under the sun
    Is new
    Listen to the warm,
    and hold tight
    the wealth
    of spider webs strung in fields
    along barbed wire,
    the reality of them
    visible in morning light
    We will brown at the root
    and peel away from each other.
    I won’t let go of you. And we
    won’t say goodbye to tomorrow.

    thanks one and all for the poetry

  301. lina

    Rising Water

    The flood will come
    and sweep away all of it;
    the rebuilt dunes
    and brand-new boardwalks,
    the house stilts
    that make us dizzy
    when we step out onto the deck
    to look at the sea.

    I imagine the water rising,
    sloshing over us,
    salty and cold;
    dragging us away from deck
    and dune,
    tossing us into the waves
    like fish or
    salt itself.

    In May, the horseshoe crabs spawn,
    dragging ancient shells up
    from the sea,
    digging holes,
    dropping eggs like hope
    into the sand.
    We watch from the deck,
    swaying on our stilts.

  302. Kathryn Stripling Byer

    Woman Hollering Creek

    Interstate 70

    Whoever she
    was, she is
    raising herself
    from her squat
    behind wind-
    throttled sage
    bush and holding
    the terrible
    things she would
    show me before
    I cross over,
    a dead baby,
    twisted to rag
    in her bare hands,
    a man’s heart,
    his muddy scalp,
    black tongue
    her maidenhead
    seeping away
    through her fingers
    and into this
    creek drying up
    in the Texas
    sun, she
    begins hollering so
    loud the scorpions
    crawl from their dark
    pockets. Vultures
    scoop low as
    a body can lie
    on this plain
    without being laid
    under it, she
    wants me to see
    with a lost woman’s
    vision that measures
    the distance by
    how long a
    of water lasts, how
    many men she
    would kill for
    a drink of it.

  303. Mama Zen

    Future’s Gardener

    Bring me your beautiful, empty head –
    the flower from your stem.
    I’ll crack it like a seed egg
    so you can bloom again.

    Give me your petal fingers.
    Lend me your pollened palm.
    Give me spit and sinew;
    I’ll glue the future on

    to the knotted, natal roots you’ve grafted
    to an heirloom’s skin.
    Let me dig down to your weedy pulse
    and splice my sunlight in.

    Kelli Simpson

  304. CristinaMRNorcross

    Future Breathing

    Once upon a time,
    we thought our bodies
    had outlines.
    We thought that one heart
    was distinct from the next.
    We thought that touch was
    the only connection.

    There is nothing between us now.
    The distant past of disconnection
    no longer contains the human spirit.
    actions –
    float just above the earth walkers.
    Now we are truly one.

    Blue-white chords –
    strands that link generations –
    there is an echo of shared consciousness
    in every wave hello
    and every kiss goodbye.

    The cardinal knows your song.
    The turtle feels your soul’s vibration
    with his slow, steady feet.
    The hawk knows you are
    becoming more

    One step bleeds into
    a string of days.
    One year passes the baton
    to many future years.

    It is all happening right now.
    Heaven is all around us –
    where we stand –
    where we breathe.

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  305. bartonsmock


    he wasn’t put here
    to beat you
    in front
    of any
    reminds him
    of that woman
    who wished herself
    into a fly.

    he has been more than open with you
    about it
    his reincarnation

    how he happened
    to be the first
    to know it.

    you keep it all in, bring your mother

    from field
    so she can determine

    which ear

    word association
    is a thing
    of the future.

    be the property of your blood.

  306. creilley


    While digging through a steamer trunk
    In my dusty, cluttered attic
    I came across an old photo of me
    At fifty five, smiling,
    With my arm draped over the shoulder
    Of a stunningly beautiful woman.
    In the background you can see
    The skyscraper where I worked.

    The truly odd thing about this photo
    (And yes, I am aware just how odd it is)
    Is that I am just shy of forty six years old,
    And work in a vastly different office building
    Only three stories tall.

    Nevertheless, I recall the moment clearly
    When this photo was snapped.
    The tie I’m wearing I got for Christmas
    When I was fifty.
    There is a stamp on my left hand
    From a concert we attended the night before.

    And the woman in the photo,
    Laughing, clinging to me,
    Wearing a sun dress that I bought her
    Is my daughter,
    Who is now only eleven years old.
    She looks happy, and that makes me happy.

    The me that is
    Looks at the me that will be
    And all I can think of is…

    The me that once was.

  307. JanetRuth

    Awesome, Ephemeral Now…

    Future hinges onto Past
    Ether-spectrum arching where
    Present ever spreads its path
    Fulcrum of our ‘here to there’

    Everything exists in Now
    What once was or yet will be
    We cannot touch or bestow
    Rearrangements to its lea

    Now; a state forever fixed
    Through our touch Time wends its way
    Present is the binding twixt
    Tomorrow and Yesterday

    Awesome, ephemeral Now
    Future leans potency on
    Present’s mystic moment-flow
    And the shadows it will spawn

    Janet Martin

  308. Emma Hine

    ‘Seeing the Future’

    What kind of a future would we have
    if our voices went weak…
    our minds full of thoughts
    but no sounds left to speak.
    What kind of a future would we know
    if our expressions broke down
    our faces left blank,
    not a smile, not a frown.
    What kind of a future would we live
    if we lost our power to touch…
    skin abandoned and lonely
    fingertips left wanting so much.
    Can you imagine a future like this?
    living without ever feeling a kiss,
    a caress, or hearing a kind word.
    A world where touch is cold. Seems absurd?
    That future seems bleak,
    a world where we’d drown
    without help nor human crutch.
    And yet, not so different from today –
    Internet the new ground where we play.
    Tap the screen – cold, clinical touch.
    Faces portrayed only as much
    as we care to show. Daily expression blank.
    Words never spoken, except in your head.
    And who should we thank?
    For this future is real but you may as well be dead.

  309. alana sherman

    Day 10 A Future Poem

    Hate this title but…

    What Comes

    The front travels without regard for us.
    It seems to know everything.
    First wind makes the trees
    creak, pine needles swirl in the current. .
    Lightning comes close —
    Once through a kitchen window,
    once in a nearby field.
    From the porch it is familiar
    as an aunt you haven’t seen in a long time.
    It brings rain that humbles
    the lilacs to the ground, the muddy ruts
    we are forced to jump over.

    It comes to the kids wading in the river.
    It comes to those writing, those cooking,
    to the one who says, “Next year
    we’ll put a fence around the pumpkins.”
    It pays attention to no one.
    It has gotten past Why is this happening ?
    Doesn’t understand what is said to the stars,
    doesn’t care about what is remembered,
    doesn’t believe in endings since everything
    begins again somewhere else.
    It could be anywhere, it likes forests,
    I think, it likes August. If it is doing anything,
    it is listening to itself harder and harder.

    One More


    Two rhubarb plants–
    a big mistake– plants three or four
    feet across take over.
    In June I have rhubarb Pie, Rhubarb
    Chutney, Rhubarb Fool.
    Nothing stops rhubarb–
    not bugs, not weeds,
    not weather. After the third
    crop, my neighbors won’t take
    anymore, I cut away every stalk
    and the spot, where now only
    the nubs of new leaves
    push up is an empty space
    three or four feet across.
    Evenings the smell
    of earth, the image
    of curling leaves is there–
    a pungent
    rhubarb insistence
    lingers to say that next year
    pesky rhubarb will fill
    the garden, my kitchen again.


  310. grcran

    Traffic Signal Dance
    A villanelle by gpr crane

    No robot does the traffic signal dance
    Embedded sensors lie beneath the tar
    Perhaps computers never had a chance

    We sit uncounted minutes in a trance
    entrapped within the confines of a car
    No robot does the traffic signal dance

    Put men on moon and yet we can’t advance
    We’re stopped, and no one passes, it’s bizarre
    Perhaps computers never had a chance

    Keep hoping for a diff’rent circumstance
    Proceed through intersection with no scar
    But robots just don’t do the traffic dance

    My own mind tells me “clear” with one sweet glance
    Can robots see things? They already are.
    Perhaps computers never had a chance

    Oil companies, insurance, high finance?
    The holdup drives my road rage to a bar
    No robot does the traffic signal dance
    Perhaps computers never had a chance

  311. Amanda Oaks

    How To Unfold Your Dark

    Listen, love,
    when you’re unfolding your dark
    it will try to stick its tongue
    so far down into your throat
    that you’ll choke
    on all those times
    you forgot to remember,
    on all those times
    your tone was firebrick red,
    when you couldn’t forgive
    or be forgiven, it’s okay
    to feel the tears
    running down the inside
    of your neck,
    it’s okay to find
    & admire your holy,
    it’s okay to run down
    your mistakes & give them
    a kiss, but listen,
    when you come across
    the first loose string
    in your blanket of fear,
    yank on that fucker
    until there’s a pile at your feet,
    until there’s nothing left
    in your mouth to bite off
    & spit out, until there’s
    nothing left to murder
    every single word
    before they even hit the back
    of your teeth.

  312. Walt Wojtanik


    “You see things; and you say ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say ‘Why not?’”
    George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)

    A schemer looks for the easy angles
    getting the most from the least effort.
    He plans quite underhanded,
    but never gets his hands dirty.
    Flirts with danger, and yet
    lets a stranger take his fall.
    All his futures are right now,
    a get rich plan is all he can stand.
    All he can do is scheme
    and as such he has no real dreams.

    A dreamer holds ideals.
    She feels a need to think beyond;
    a year, or month, or day from today.
    She’ll say, “The world would be
    a better place if we face our problems.
    Her Utopia sounds nice but
    will bore you twice as badly
    and drive you mad when nothing get done.
    All promises of tomorrow are borrowed themes
    and yet the sorrow is, a dreamer only dreams.

    A visionary is a scary individual; always
    in motion with a devotion to fix what needs fixing.
    His contempt for inaction breeds his need
    to succeed. No wide-eyed guy is he,
    he is focused and undeterred, he’s heard it all
    before and swore it can be done. His words ring
    true. Imagination and inspiration,
    fueled by initiative give him the upped hand.
    A visionary is always in demand.
    He sees the future and makes it happen. Why not?

  313. Jacqueline Casey

    “On Contemplating the Future”

    There is no Future; there is only Now.
    The Past is but a memory of flings;
    my days have flown with many hopeful vows,
    but Now is all that’s left among my things.

    The locket that he gave has turned to rust
    the promise ring, a momentary pearl
    and each forgotten love has turned to dust;
    winds somber-gray once silken, lovely curls.

    I grab my current cup, gulp greedily;
    see brimming bubbles winking at its edge.
    I drink its dredges; bottom of its sea
    for life is but a moment and a pledge.

    The future’s only held within my eye;
    imagined worlds that may come, by and by.

    (Day 10, April PAD, Writer’s Digest, write ‘future’ poem)

  314. Quaker

    April 10, 2014

    In 2050, the polar caps will be gone,
    ocean tides will bury the coast miles in.
    The southern states will be unlivable
    in drenching heat, land disappearing
    into deserts. Only the upper states will be safe.
    People will migrate northward to survive.
    The north will erect large electrical fence
    to keep the large masses out.
    Some will cross illegally. Land will be limited,
    hope will be limited, the metallic sky unbreathable.

    Those who thought global warming was a hoax
    will learn too late, the earth’s terrible fate.
    Everyone will lose faith, and huddle what they can.
    It will not be a great place to live. I feel sorry
    for my grandchildren, having inherited this mess.

    In the future, some will say, they warned us
    and we did not listen. I will wear a face mask
    and be old enough to remember when we didn’t.

    I am listening, now, doing what I can, planting
    sunflowers, knowing they can absorb toxins
    from the ground. I pray for a better tomorrow
    and write letters to politicians hoping one
    will read and think twice. I hold blessings
    of purified air, believing it is not too late to change.

  315. JWLaviguer

    When is Now

    If I could travel into the future
    I’d know how all this turns out

    If I could travel into the past
    would I be able to change it

    If I could just live for today
    I’d be a happier man.

    JW Laviguer

  316. Dalton Day


    The whole damn house
    I think something
    is on the
    or many
    with many hands
    I think
    ships are crashing
    beneath my bed
    where are the light-
    there is a lot of
    since when do disasters
    need a name it’ll
    pass though
    or else destroy
    but in the meantime
    I read
    articles about the science
    of wild fires
    on the internet
    and I can only say

  317. TomNeal


    When you embark upon your journey,
    And dream in future tense,
    Write your lines in ten syllable units
    If you must, or don’t.

    Remember that nothing under the sun
    Is new, nothing, not even the future.
    However, that special feeling inside,
    The one words cannot easily describe,
    It might be an exception, so listen,
    Listen to the warm, and hold it tight,
    Feel her heart beating next to yours
    Each to each, so to speak.

    For there is no future you cannot face,
    Nor tempestuous time that rages
    Into the night, or on rivers and seas,
    That cannot be overcome by stirring
    Compassion, but that takes a metaphor,
    Or simile that is up to the job–
    And here follow a few tested and true
    Figures of speech that never fail to please
    Hearts with the courage to face the future.

    These words loud and strong proclaim a dauntless
    Spirit ready to face dystopian days,
    And gooey ones too– a ready made feast
    Of channeled poetaster delight:

    Never fail to compare decay with rust,
    Nor to confuse time with eternity,
    The hero must arise from ash and dust,
    An image to be sketched in poetic
    Line on time’s eternal canvass–
    A picture to touch the hardest of hearts,
    And you like a swordsman of yore,
    Having made a winning thrust and touched
    The topical point with flair,
    May then declare:

  318. break_of_day

    “the end of this life we know”

    it is inevitable
    like all the most important things
    the end rushing toward us, its
    movement so familiar we forget it’s there

    like a speeding train, or another
    relentless cliche
    that only serves to remind us for a moment
    that the end is coming for us

    its harbinger is regret,
    a needle pricking the skin, bursting the balloon
    of all the irrelevant moments we waste
    despite the brevity of this life we know

    life is a vapor
    that appears full in our eyes, total and invincible
    so easy to misspend, though its end
    is inevitable

  319. dsborden

    The Day After Tomorrow
    by D. S. Borden

    When I see you,
    the day after tomorrow,
    you’ll not be you.
    I mean
    not the you
    you are now,
    you know.
    And I’m fine
    with that.
    I mean,
    I like this you,
    the you you are
    right now,
    but I have a
    that the you
    you’ll be,
    the day after tomorrow,
    will be even better…
    and I can’t wait
    to meet her

  320. JWLaviguer

    Future Choices

    The past haunts me
    like a face in the mirror
    that is not mine
    he points toward the future
    telling me where to go
    and what to do
    but do I listen
    or do I live for today?

    JW Laviguer

  321. CLShaffer

    The Future Without Me by C. Lynn Shaffer

    A woman
    my great granddaughter
    like me
    will drive to work on a Thursday,
    right hand holding the wheel,
    left elbow propped on the door.
    She’s forgotten her paper-bag lunch
    again on the counter.
    Circling a strand of hair
    around her ring finger
    over and again
    she thinks of the wealth
    of spider webs strung along
    barbed wire fences and fields
    the reality of them
    only visible in morning
    on a day with sun
    warm enough for dew to settle.
    The breath of horses
    blossoms, crystalline.

  322. Walt Wojtanik


    The rebels had returned to secrecy.
    Darth Lucas, the Sith Lord of Cinema
    had relinquished his throne. He wished
    to spend more time with his family.

    The insidious Grand Moff Mouse
    has risen within the Empire
    being the central figure in its uprising.
    It wasn’t surprising since the best plans

    of mice and men often go astray.
    In his own way, he had his three fingered mitts
    in the soup for a while. The Mouse would smile
    when thoughts of his upward mobility

    had come to rest in this future planned.
    Always out manned, but never out moused,
    the Death Star had been converted
    for the purpose of amusement and it sent

    ripples through the Farce, its dark power
    would glower in the shadow of the great
    Sphere. It was very clear. You should never
    underestimate the dark side of this farce.

    Mouse-eared Clones from far and wide come to hide
    in the Endor-Be-All Sanctuary to honor the Big Cheese,
    It is a scary place where animals with faces
    roam freely, all in character.

    Never was there a more wretched
    hive of scum and villainy since Mos Eisley.
    Merchandise is the prize and all eyes
    focus on a well scripted future.

    The Mouse will drool as the Empire
    rules all in its domain. And the division of
    power is sadly not in the plans.
    That’s how it will flow, long away
    in a galaxy far, far ago.

  323. JanetRuth

    The Future…

    The Future is at the mercy
    Not of Past but Present
    It leaves in its wake
    Outgrown shoes,
    Cookies crumbs
    And echoes of what once was

    The Future dreams…
    …’of living in the UK because
    She like the rain’
    She tells me
    Over breakfast
    And morning prayers

    The Future boards school-buses
    Consuming much more
    That we know
    As they strip the Present
    Of its offering
    Before it is Past

    The Future bounces basket-balls
    With eyes on a skyline
    Of endless possibility,
    Home is a launch-pad
    To destinations

    Here they come,
    Blond-brunette potential
    The Future; at the mercy
    Of choices we make

    © Janet Martin

    Today Matt’s classmate (Gr. 10) is getting his foot amputated in hopes of ridding his body of cancer. While his buddies dream of baseball, driving, girls…Colton dreams of having a Future.

    Hugs and prayers, Colton and family.

  324. Jenn Todd Lavanish

    Our Niece

    Long awaited child to be,
    How glad we are to welcome thee.

    A cousin for my little girl,
    A friend who will play and twirl.

    Big blue eyes we hope you will have,
    For you will be the family’s salve.

    Sugar and spice and all that is nice,
    Just to have you is worth the price.

    A blessing beyond any measure
    You dear baby girl are our treasure.

  325. AleathiaD

    An Unfinished Sentence

    The future hold empty seats
    at my daughter’s graduation,
    her wedding , and the birth
    of her first child.

    You will always be the ghost
    of the elephant in the room.

    You will be the whisper
    people think they hear,

    You will turn their heads
    to make them look when
    the smell of roses linger.

    The future holds too many
    should haves and what ifs.

    The words from our lips
    always an unfinished sentence
    dangling in the air.

    The future holds nights of tear
    stained pillows and retractable resentments,
    curses and prayed forgiveness

    and there is nothing to be done of it
    but hold folded hands
    in the cool silence
    of what could have been.

    Aleathia Drehmer
    April 10 Future

  326. Espen Stenersrod

    Tonsils removed today. Everything for the art

    Day 10
    Topic: uncertainty

    The faux pas left him hanging
    Drawn attention to those empty eyes
    Stale steps away from the podium
    Left the future openly closed for everyone

    All in one line
    Captured the essence of a lost community
    Hanging in a thread
    That couldn’t follow the red line
    Even if they wanted to

    Left in vain by one decision
    One choice of words

    Obsolete clash


  327. Nancy Posey

    The Ten-Year Test

    The ten-year test suggests I set my expectations
    with an eye toward the future, asking myself
    What should my students remember? Do they
    need to know this? Can’t they just look it up?

    But cold, objective reality falters in the face
    of my never-say-die idealism. I still pray
    to plant seeds of beauty, to arm them
    with poetry, with timeless, musical words,
    to inspire them to focus far beyond themselves,
    loving the stranger crossing their paths.

    I hope to give them better hearts that throb
    in iambic pentameter, tongues that taste
    alliteration and onomatopoeia. When they think
    of me, I pray they see more than red marks
    in the margins of their lives. My steady diet of hope
    sustains me, hoping for eventual evidence.

    Invited to speak at breakfast to the Rotary Club
    with the earliest meeting time in America,
    a dubious distinction, as ambassador for poetry
    this April morning, I felt the weight, anticipating
    apathy or even resistance from these retirees,
    insurance salesmen hardware store owners,
    haberdashers, far removed from school,
    but when I asked them if they’d ever learned
    a poem by heart, one man stood and spoke:

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree.
    The village smithy stands. . .

    Like call-and-response in a gospel
    tent revival, the next began:

    Whose woods these are I think I know. . .

    I thought of old white-haired ladies,
    rocking in rest homes, elderly gentlemen
    in their coffee shops, reminiscing
    about their teaching days, unaware that here
    in the meeting room of this Southern Shoney’s
    meeting room, far more than ten years past,
    those seeds they had planted still bloomed.

    1. JanetRuth

      this could be for teacher of mom! I’m hanging it on my fridge!! so love this;

      ‘I hope to give them better hearts that throb
      in iambic pentameter, tongues that taste
      alliteration and onomatopoeia.’

      The imagery here is profound capturing the full spectrum from innocence through a lifetime of experience!

  328. kab

    When the milk curdles
    so will we.
    Separating into tiny boulders
    we will brown at the root
    and peel away from each other
    and the flowers in the kitchen will
    limp in shame.
    This is coming,
    so the lifelines tell me.
    This is coming like a hurricane charging
    through an atlas of cities.
    When love drowns,
    so will we.
    When love clocks out,
    so will we.
    -Karese Burrows “In The Kitchen”

  329. dhaivid3

    Poem title: Letter to Later Me

    How were you yesterday?
    Did you think you’d ever pass this way?

    Did you plan and play?
    Or did you play away all day?

    Are you happy now with how you live?
    Did you make use of what I could give?

    Are you proud and loved?
    Are you still so loud? (Ha, ha!)

    Do you have new friends?
    Did old friendships end?

    Is your hope still strong?
    Do you still write songs?

    Whatever you do
    I am proud of you,

    For you’ll try your best
    Just as I did too.

    I know you are tough
    To weather the rough.

    I prepared for you –
    Tis what you’d do too.

    So smile away your fears!
    from Yesteryears!

  330. kelly letky

    april runs grey through veins of may

    i sit on this stump
    in this bland
    bullied field
    and i wait


    pink to perform
    green to genuflect
    turquoise to totem
    violet to violence
    red to rage
    orange to oscillate
    indigo to idle

    my legs glare white
    and the sun
    whisper fingers
    my ankles

    telling secrets
    in code
    that can only
    be read
    by the light
    of a fireflies’

    ~Kelly Letky

  331. Louise Findlay

    Title: Future Apocalypse

    The world, 
    For better or worse,
    Learns from the past.

    Dictators aside,
    Freedom held.

    Wrenched away,

    Advanced beyond our years.

    Destroyed beyond repair.

  332. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    Future Poem
    (For the discouraged)

    The future poem
    will scintillate, startle, shock.

    It will amaze,amuse,
    arouse and enrage.

    It won’t let go of you. And you
    will never be able to let it go.

    The future poem will be
    a miracle of poetic pleasure.

    You will roll in bliss with this poem,
    falling on the grass and laughing.

    The future poem will whisper
    in your open ear: sweet everythings.

    Then it will lift you up
    and shake you like a whirlwind.

    The future poem will spin you
    like a top, until you shriek.

    When you step inside the future poem,
    you will see landscapes too beautiful to bear.

    Look! Look up ahead — do you see
    the future poem beckoning? Keep looking.

    Yes, that figure of steel and crystal,
    that exotic shape, is the future poem.

    It is in YOUR future. Please, take heart!
    Your present poems are merely steps on the way.

  333. donaldillich


    We’ve become our own super-villains.
    We threaten the glaciers with heat waves
    that will melt them down into puddles.

    We create a Doomsday machine that adds
    carbon to the atmosphere at an accelerating rate,
    heating the planet to untold of heights.

    Our storm weapon turns smaller fronts
    into hurricanes that swipe clean cities,
    and tornadoes that blast the Midwest.

    All the time we’re threatening ourselves,
    we’re looking for a super-hero to save us.
    Science Man? Hard Choices Guy?

    Maybe someone with logic and powers?
    But every time we search the air we see
    no one coming to our rescue. No red cape
    and blue suit, no webs, no utility belt.

    We must only hope that we’re not as bad
    as we think, that underneath our armor
    beats the hearts of people with compassion,
    who stop turning the guns on themselves.

    1. PressOn