Writing Prompt
    Boot Camp

    Subscribe to our FREE email newsletter and get the Writing Prompt Boot Camp download.

    2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 2

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

    Tammy and me are heading to Austin, Texas, this morning for the Austin International Poetry Festival. If you’re in the Austin area, I hope you’ll get out for some poeming fun. Speaking of poeming (and fun), here’s today’s prompt…

    For today’s prompt, write a voyage poem. In my case, we’ll be driving along the Gulf of Mexico, but a voyage can happen in a variety of ways–even on foot, or psychologically. Heck, the process of writing a poem is a sort of voyage all its own. Happy poeming!


    2014_poets_marketBegin getting published!

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

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

    Click to continue.


    Here’s my attempt at a voyage poem:


    i can’t escape the sound of train whistles
    they hound me in apartments & hotels

    discover me with my pants on the floor
    kissing behind a double-bolted door

    & airplanes often pass over me too
    with sounds that build & fade into the blue

    cars also follow wherever i’m at
    criss-crossing my path like metal black cats

    these machines move me even as they find
    ways to unsettle my unsettled mind


    Today’s Guest Judge Is…

    Neil Aitken

    Neil Aitken

    Neil Aitken

    Neil is the author of The Lost Country of Sight, winner of 2007 Philip Levine Prize, and the editor of Boxcar Poetry Review. He was born in Vancouver, British Columbia and raised in Saudi Arabia, Taiwan, and western United States and Canada.

    His poems have appeared in American Literary Review, The Collagist, Crab Orchard Review, Ninth Letter, The Normal School, and elsewhere. A former computer programmer, he is presently pursuing a PhD in literature and creative writing at the University of Southern California.

    Learn more here: www.neil-aitken.com.


    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. Be awesome today. Learn more about him here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


    Find more poetic posts here:


    You might also like:

    • No Related Posts
    • Print Circulation Form

      Did you love this article? Subscribe Today & Save 58%

    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    984 Responses to 2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 2

    1. IndiFox says:

      The Last Voyage

      Much like the rain dripping on the window
      Her lonely eyes cry
      Waiting for her man
      Her soldier

      Fingers tap against the pane
      She’s restless
      Longing for any sign
      Of her soldier

      Fogs the window with her heavy breaths
      She’s been there for days
      Because there’s moving on
      From her soldier

      A knock at the door lifts her up
      But it’s two uniformed men, side by side
      And she breaks down
      Because her soldier has died

    2. Day 23

      The Simple Road

      The journey goes straight
      beautiful view of a horizon filled with references
      every reference can be pinned to a life event
      never leave this road
      and safety will be by your side
      carry you high on a pedestal
      so you have perfect vision both backwards on forward

      You can play connect the dots with your future
      see how symmetrical you can get it
      as you draw a linear equation towards your past
      where you are perfectly placed in the interception
      of you own reality
      so simple
      just go straight

      Perfect view from your birth place
      to your death bed

    3. Julieann says:

      Voyage to Find Myself

      I embarked upon a voyage
      To find out who I am –

      I traveled to places widely known
      And those barely surviving

      I saw wonders of monstrous proportions
      And as miniscule as an atom

      I met prince and princesses, heads of state
      As well as poverty prone peasants living in the street

      My voyage took years to complete
      Around the world and back again, more than once

      Finally delivering me to my own front door
      With what I saw, with what I learned

      It would take volumes and volumes
      To record each moment, sight, and sound

      And all that I discovered about myself
      Is what Dorothy said to Auntie Em

      If I can’t find myself in my own back yard
      Then I really wasn’t lost to begin with

    4. bxpoetlover says:


      I have flown, ridden on a boat, and
      taken trains, buses, and cars.

      All I know is that I want my next
      trip to have all of the magic
      of my first ride down the hill behind my house
      on my Bigwheel.

      I had dragged it to the top
      sat down and pedaled
      as I careened to the bottom
      and jerked the handlebars
      so I would slide to the left.

      If I do the corny thing and spin my globe
      to choose my next destination
      I will go there as long as I can feel sun on my face
      wind in my hair, and have my smiles returned.

    5. ToniBee3 says:


      I watched dizzy ants
      lug their crumbs from stove to fridge
      for twenty shakes… spraaaaaaay!

    6. ASperryConnors says:

      Opps! Posting late…Just returned from a journey where there was no internet!

      Cross the street
      Cruise the aisle
      Run the boardwalk
      Roam the Nile

      Jump from the nest
      Kick your own pants
      Hop aboard an Angel
      And watch the light dance

      Follow a snake’s path
      Sail the sky blue
      Expedite a letter
      To a heart so true.

      Dance a love song
      Sing of your soul
      Compose a requiem
      Of a giant black hole

      Direct a child
      To paint her fear
      Borrow a lifetime
      Of someone dear

      See with spectacles
      Not your own
      Carve out new ears
      Taste the unknown

      A destiny without a map
      A direction to explore
      Journeys begin…
      When we walk out the door.

    7. Freefredonia says:

      Where We Went

      was where we had been
      a nameless place
      or I had forgotten since

      where we were
      and where we had been
      are as one and the same as
      where we are

      all future contained in time’s shape
      formless and floating
      a universe of possibility
      so utterly simple
      as simple to have not seen
      and all that was contained in time past

      kind of like the white lace trimming swimming in the breeze
      caught upon branches edge
      behind the stark yellow tape
      at the scene of a crime

    8. Tuere Allwood says:

      “The Muslim (in the aftermath of 9/11)”

      6 a.m.
      Meshack Ahmed.
      Black Egyptian.

      Driving down the freeway.
      6:07 when the siren kisses my ear,
      cerulean flares, and the horn voice,
      “Pull over to your right.”
      “License and registration,”
      the law demands.
      While he reviews it, I inquire,
      “May I ask what the problem is, sir?”
      He asks if I know how fast I was going.
      He doesn’t volunteer, but stares.
      Muscle eyes, grip jaw.
      I turn to smile and request my speed.
      Flame nostrils, menace sneer.
      Too fast is the curt reply.
      I sigh in my rear-view, pondering
      why Captain Commando is having such a godawful day.
      But I peep my image and it reminds me.

      The name is Meshack Ahmed.
      I’m a black Egyptian.
      It’s not his awful day; it’s mine.

    9. Snow Write says:

      She’s on her way
      not sure where she’s going
      knows she has to get away
      find a new place
      determined now
      to set out on the journey
      yet finding herself
      going back

    10. Are We There Yet?
      Fire. The wheel. The alphabet.
      Tribes. Empires. Democracies.
      Jungle drums. The telegraph. The iPhone.
      Swords. Guns. Lasers.
      Public education. Universal suffrage. Gay marriage.
      Wars. Wars. More wars.

      Are we there yet?

    11. Snowqueen says:

      Fourteen years of marriage and counting

      We opted for the all-inclusive voyage

      Lodging – his heart makes the perfect accommodations – soft, warm, sturdy and giving

      Drinks and meals – I pour my bottomless love to quench his thirst. I offer all-he-can-eat support and acceptance to feed his soul

      Entertainment and recreational activities – We negotiate on these; we try new things, both indoors and out. Our play time together suites our needs

      Gratuities – they are also included but we still tip…. A hidden secret note, a massage, completion of an unexpected chore, chicken soup when the other is sick

      Transportation – We drive each other crazy in good ways and bad. Our love gives us the wings we always wish we had

      That leaves us with the cost, it’s worth it but dear….we give our all, we giver our best everyday of every year

    12. grcran says:

      Typical journey
      By gpr crane

      The trip to one’s joy
      Hideous snaring stumbles
      Into bon voyage

    13. bookworm0341 says:

      “The Voyage”

      Stars so bright
      Nature calls
      Out all night
      Fireflies and tag
      Man-hunt to the extreme
      Capture the flag

      Yips and yahoos
      No, “how-do-you-dos”
      Sir and Ma’m is not spoken here
      Just made up words
      Some beyond absurd
      With shouts, laughs, and cheers

      Travel in the clear of night
      Above the crowded streets
      This voyage is the child’s delight
      Who knows whom one might meet
      A dash of pixie-dust from Tinkerbell
      Or a duel with the fierce Captain Hook

      Flying through the sky as a Lost Boy
      With the one and only Peter Pan
      Neverland is a place of sheer joy
      for those too scared to grow from a boy to a man
      Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning
      Take a voyage through the pages of a book

    14. withoutalarynx says:


      the curious concurrence
      of distance and connection
      like the gentle throb of a
      phantom limb:

      you’re looking out
      of an aeroplane window, tracing
      rivers of light chiselled from the
      sprawling dark, and you begin
      to imagine

      the matrix below

      all those stories insulated by
      the wailing wall
      all that love
      insulated by the soul
      (which also wails)

    15. The Leaf

      Caught in a rush of wind
      it swirls and rises
      then gently spirals
      down toward the river

      Another gust nudges it
      over a rock
      then another rock
      and into the
      cool choppy water

      It swirls again
      this time with
      less grace but
      still in harmony
      with the flow

      Once more it spins
      joining with others
      just like it
      creating a colorful
      carpet rushing over
      jagged stones

      Hours later
      fifty miles farther
      it comes to rest
      torn and tattered
      but fully alive

    16. stepstep says:

      PreTend Land

      Let’s take a trip to PreTend Land
      Where all is fair and good,
      Smiles create the atmosphere
      And manners, as they should.

      PreTend Land can be cozy
      Some attend in rare form,
      Some even like to be nosy
      Some refrain from the norm.

      More alive one can be
      Music travels north, south, east and west,
      PreTend Land forces one to see
      What makes life the very best.


    17. Day 2: Voyage poem

      “I Don’t Dog-ear Pages”

      I mark my place with ticket stubs.
      They peek out from between pages
      of the places I’ve been while on my way.
      The corners, all tattered and torn,
      match perfectly the ragged edges of my heart.
      We have an understanding, both torn in two –
      half staying and half going, travelling ever onward,
      trembling at once with anticipation and anguish.

      We know leaving behind means moving forward;
      and marking pages read prompts turning to the next.

    18. Pengame30 says:

      “Come With Me”

      Look out, breathe deep, and let peace be still
      Peer through the slant of an Asian eye, as
      black belts swing back and forth on the racks in the African market
      Run hands through a dark sea of Indian hair
      An endless supply of beauty hanging in rows, assorted
      Pupils dilate as the Japanese animate, leading the artistic race
      Run along the track and feel Usain leave you panting for breath
      The crowd cheers, as the matador pierce’s the bulls eye
      Atlantic city screams with raging machines. “Jackpot,” one person screams
      as the others head home wishing they were in a dream
      Russians prep for war while college jocks wonder about the next score
      Tourists take photos of corner stores as homeless men scrape chewing gum off of pennies

      Written By: Sean Drew


      this summer to exotic ports of call like-
      Pittsburgh, Charlottesville, College Park.
      I’ll call Holiday Inn Express, research good
      places to eat, make it one to remember.

      Tell me where you want to go and we’ll
      make a few calls, take a bunch of tours,
      stroll across the shady green campuses,
      browse bookstores, buy a t-shirt or two.

      I want to get it right, I want you to choose
      where you will go, where you’ll begin the
      first day of the rest of your life and find a
      place for you to feel safe, strong and free.

      Make a list, I’ll fill up the tank, head out onto
      95 South, ride across 76 West, cruise down
      Highway 81, hoping you choose the place close
      to home, that school just 10 miles up the road.

    20. PenConnor says:

      The March wind comes
      and like white raindrops
      pear blossoms launch
      into its river, buoyed
      in the current, drifting
      into puddles at my feet.
      I harbor them in pockets
      these promissory notes
      that hint of summer
      and golden sweetness
      beneath my tongue.

    21. Mickie Lynn says:

      Voyage to a New Song

      The ship sails ever forward
      in the search for sacred lands.
      The waves swesh splash against the bow.
      The rhythm lulls to a lofty peace:
      swesh splash
      swesh splash
      This rhythm repeats throughout
      several cycles of the rotund moon.
      At last a lonely sight in the distance:
      sweet soil to save the stir-crazy soul.
      Steps on the shore
      tap out a rigid dun crunch of
      flinty granite against boot:
      dun crunch
      dun crunch
      which wander in weeds and willows where
      freedom wears sky and soul.
      Leave behind the life left to you
      from generations who have come before
      to carve a path that sings a new song:
      Loo low, loo low, looo…

    22. gmagrady says:

      In response to yesterday’s poem… BEGINNING OR ENDING?


      “Wait up!”

      I stop
      in my tracks
      undecided, hesitant

      I hear the shadow
      a jumbled hark
      in sound
      a blurred image
      in sight
      at first

      worried about the
      fretting about the
      and yet
      compassion hears
      the calls

      “Please, wait!”

      I could walk on
      and no one would
      question my decision,

      but I don’t.
      I stop
      I wait
      I ponder

      “I’m on my way!”

      I could cover my ears
      and cover my eyes
      as if he’s not there
      down the road
      sprinting into focus,

      but I don’t
      I stop
      I turn toward him

      “I’m getting there!”

      I could put up a hand
      to tell him to halt
      to not come any closer,

      but I don’t.
      I stop.

      “Don’t leave!”

      And then
      I start moving
      a bit more quickly,
      hurried now,

      because I remember…
      I do.

      • gmagrady says:

        ** Day 2′s poem continues the voyage of Day 1′s poem.


        Though I feel a shadow
        unaware of where I’m headed
        undecided, hesitant

        Robert taps my shoulder—
        “You’ve been standing here long enough;
        it’s time, my dear, to walk.”

        swaying like the tree limbs
        new mom at 3 a.m.
        a pendulum
        time ticking
        standing still
        I sway

        Jack stumbles into me—
        “Burn, sweetheart, burn;
        you’re mad to travel, to be, to talk.”

        Silence behind
        lips quiver
        branches crack
        with no words
        for numbness.

        Still mute
        Still solo

        Bruce urges me on
        to a promised land
        if I just take his hand

        and I want to be led
        hunger to be fed
        life to rise from the dead

        “Are you coming?” I call out

        as I step out,
        not knowing the shadow’s whereabouts,
        either way,
        no longer…

    23. We Set Sail for the Margins

      And skirt around the edges, a pencil skirt
      not maxi, not A-line, hits at the knees.

      Not tweed, not a fabric at all, not that you noticed.
      I can barely walk, shoes skimming the ocean floor.

      The urchins ask what there is to eat, and I say,
      Eat what you like. For my part, I eat poetry,

      and them. There are no further questions.

    24. mbramucci says:


      Your tiny shoes tap the walk
      Bounding down the hill
      Electrify my heart, booming thunder

      Life bursts through your small body
      Casting great shadows
      Like premonitions, you will be a force

      Bouncing, shifting, shadow; you
      Own your gravity
      With every leap meeting ripe potential

      This figure casting shade
      Inky silhouette
      Proving her existence, the sun sees her

      I watch your shadow play
      She knows her master
      Giddy with excitement, she is grateful

      To watch your shadow play
      I see your beauty
      Humbled by your grace and by your promise

    25. Aberdeen Lane says:


      grains fly to the wind
      a rain of sand
      the rattlesnakes slick along
      without impingement
      diligent in their wandering

      catching on cactus spines
      hitching rides backs of roadrunners
      catching the momentum of passing tires
      hitching rides on the wings of cicadas
      then back to the sandy floor

      drifting on the tides of wind
      gently landing
      in the morning coffee of a park ranger
      in the lungs of a backseat driver
      on ocean waves
      on the deck of a cruise ship
      or mixed in excelsior

      swept up in endless adventures

    26. dextrousdigits says:

      Now taxes are done, I can travel to another realm

      In sleep
      I travel to lands
      created by mind-theater
      with fluid characters and scenes
      changing quickly
      for play,
      to unlock closed doors
      to arrange a problem puzzle into Monet painting.

      In books that leap from pages
      and then pull me into the story
      I come alive in someone else’s mind.

      In the redwoods
      gigantic trees hold my eyes
      earthly smells fill my nostrils
      and sounds of birds, squirrels, lizards, crunching leaves
      vibrate deep aliveness
      while encasing me in silent escape.

    27. Voyage

      It only takes you one spoken
      stanza to travel the length of
      my body with your lips, and
      to leave me wanting more.

    28. PatsC says:

      Mind’s Eye

      Longing to break the chilly silence,
      Time traveling,
      To boulevards of sand.

      My summer soul travels
      To memories free of snow.
      On a land that shifts,
      The creation of new shores.

      The sandpiper dances with the surf,
      The pelican plummets to the sea,
      Searching for the fullness
      Found on a summer day.

      The nativity of sand,
      The sparkle of wave,
      The gulf sings to me,
      A sirens song of pure delight.

    29. dsborden says:

      by D.S. Borden

      Click and slush
      and off we go

      these bone-draggled steps
      of tip and time

      and roundabout

      press your shoulder into mine
      your hip
      and dagger

      lip into your boots
      on the observation deck

      and there I find
      your hand in mine

    30. kimberleetm says:

      To Grandmother’s House

      I wind my way
      through stacks of outdated
      Walgreen’s ads, while you display
      your broken cross necklace
      and nail polish on the loveseat.
      I see my grandmother’s kitchen
      beset by boxes, bags and cans.
      The table overflows
      onto the counter onto the floor.
      Your mother would never allow
      such indulgence of weakness
      and poor form, yet you keep
      every should-be castoff
      as an altar to her once-existence.
      How can tribute ever be this ugly?
      You beam at the chain and cross
      you refuse to put back together.

    31. Intrepid

      My ship sails on,
      I don’t know where.
      It launched at noon,
      by dusk was gone.
      I followed past
      the gurgling bend
      ‘til our small creek
      joined the river.
      Its walnut hull
      swirled the eddies,
      bounced off big rocks.
      Toothpick mast stood
      brave and upright.
      Red parchment sail
      caught bits of breeze
      propelling it
      toward the channel.
      Perhaps it found
      the boundless sea.
      I know it won’t
      come back to me.

    32. jasonlmartin says:

      A message on a car window

      Late winter in Owensville, Ohio is thick,
      dank, like no simile could ever fathom.

      When we were last here
      the apples had all fallen, rotted, swallowed up
      by the muddy ground under our shoes, the sound
      of rubber soles against mushy cores. We drank cider so tart
      the metaphors are too rampant to describe with a single one.

      You are 4. It’s hard to imagine
      one day I won’t toss you in the air,
      as you pretend to be Superman,
      or Luke Skywalker to my Obi-Wan
      in our starfighters out to find Vader.
      The apple cores are our ammunition,
      Tossing them up and they fall all around.

      I want to trace this memory in stone.

      Yet all I have is the car window, to trace your silhouette,
      The condensation holds in place a moment so I can see you, but then washes down
      Til you’re no longer you, my son, but the tears that I will shed when you are grown.

    33. Reynard says:

      Life is a journey
      Haven’t we all heard that one
      In the beginning
      I was me
      Then I started a voyage
      To find myself
      When I look at it
      Like that
      It does seem a bit

    34. Reynard says:

      The distance seemed impossible
      When I started
      When I first put my head down
      Trudged forward
      Put one foot in front of the other
      Deciding to begin it
      Even if I didn’t think
      I could finish
      My eyes are cast downward
      I l listen to the beat of my heart
      Ignoring the jeers
      And the taunts
      From outside of myself
      I have been on this path
      For a while now
      I stop to check my progress
      Scared of what I will find
      I look at the steps behind
      I have come so far
      Bringing my head around to look ahead
      I see I am almost there
      What I thought I could not do
      I have almost done
      And I am nearly through

    35. Shrewd-Knavish says:

      The Journey

      the journey is a series of
      haircuts nail-biting chest-binding
      fainting in the backseats of cars
      and mall restrooms
      people calling you words
      that ring in your ears
      like shrill sounds languages you’ve never heard
      the sick realization that there is no place for you
      in the world you tried to live in
      hair growing hips showing softening of skin
      stretching over bones that won’t stop growing
      and people never stop fucking looking
      and you’re watching the pendulum swing
      as the seconds turn into
      minutes turn into
      days turn into
      fast forevers never slowing down
      not even trusting the name you were given
      not even knowing what to call yourself
      you don’t have the words or the means
      to describe yourself
      because it doesn’t work like that here
      memorizing every movement every angle
      so you don’t get caught
      so they don’t see you’re not one of them
      existing with the hope that the needles and the thread
      will make it better
      make it better
      making it fucking better
      maybe you shoulda been a tree, kid
      maybe your journey shoulda been the one
      of a single-celled organism
      or a clam
      maybe you shoulda been a seahorse
      carrying around a baby
      maybe you shoulda been the wind
      because nobody tells it where to go
      anything to escape your present being
      living a life where your soul
      matches your body
      maybe somebody else gets a manual
      but you sure as hell don’t
      you only get what they teach you
      you only get what they gave you
      you either hang yourself with a bowtie
      or you crush yourself with a corset
      ready set
      ready set
      ready set

    36. In Spite of Preparation

      “I’m on a road shaped like a figure 8
      I’m going nowhere, but
      I’m guaranteed to be late.” -Modest Mouse

      A black mood turns any trial
      no matter how trivial
      tells you to trudge
      paths cleared long ago
      of kudzu
      even those razed
      rise from the ashes
      come under scrutiny
      as if to remind us
      our equipment is still limited
      to a dull machete
      so we will be kept up all hours
      spinning wheels
      whittling them down
      to blunt nubs


      If only I could forgive you,
      Failed Father,
      all those times you didn’t play with me,
      when you weren’t there to heal,
      to comfort,
      when you didn’t teach me
      how to ride a bicycle,
      or pick me up when I fell,
      O Father…

      Where are you now?
      Staggering from star to star?
      To the bars?

      If only I could forgive you,
      Failed Father.

      Where were you when I graduated?
      Why didn’t you shake my hand?
      Show me the way?
      Give advice?

      If only I could forgive you,
      Failed Father.

      But in the meantime
      I have grown,
      I have also failed,
      not as a father
      but in other ways,
      failed and tried, tried
      not to fail again.

      So maybe I can find
      A way to forgive you,
      forgive and forget you.

      Written by Roger Bonner

    38. jean says:

      Roadtrip Quatern #1

      The monotony of driving
      Tries my patience with my husband
      May I please drive for a while, hon?
      Someday? Sure, I believe you, dear.

      I am just the navigator
      The monotony of driving
      Grows with the Garmon. It’s my job!
      Well, it was last century. Sigh.

      This is a second honeymoon.
      My hopes ran high at the start, but
      The monotony of driving
      Eats up the road, snacks on my soul.

      I can write poetry, crochet,
      Listen to an audio book.
      He would just sigh and bristle at
      The monotony of driving.

    39. Scott Jacobson says:


      My ship of grief capsized on your reef of silence.
      A sad sea monster found me and took a bite
      out of my imagination so that he could chew
      it over and over for company. Then a merman
      tried to drown me with his sob story
      about being part of an extinct species of bachelor.
      We are all alone in this ocean of loneliness
      trying to reach love’s white sandy shores.
      Even the whales of depression beach themselves
      to feel the sun’s loving warmth on their belly
      one time before dying. And every time I feel
      like I should stop swimming I picture
      you and keep my tired legs kicking
      the waters of life as hard as I can.

      • ASperryConnors says:

        I love ‘a ship of grief’ on a reef of silence
        and the image of a sea monster chewing
        on the contents of your imagination to be entertained.
        I also know the feeling of depression feeling like a whale
        wanting to beach itself for a moment of sun.
        very nice

    40. shellcook says:

      The voyage, long awaited, anticipated, planned, and calculated,
      The vehicle primed and ready to ride, the engine revving, the path so clear,
      With all these checks and processes filled, I dream of this journey with
      Unanticipated fear.
      My intent set, not just along for the ride, have i done this right, this one last time.
      For this journey is wild, untamed, and unknown, I pray I am ready to take this next trip.
      Time is up, time to get moving, twice great gran agreed.
      It’ll be a great ride from beginning to end.
      Scuffed up, worn out, new lessons to learn.
      I hope this works out, cause I’m all out of choices;
      Great God above what’s all that noise.
      Only a moment to decide, if I stay or I go,
      Oh, my. Hello pretty mommy.
      Let’s do this again!

    41. Pengame30 says:

      Dear Johnny,

      You were never there,so I never even thought of you
      Mother often wondered where she would get milk to feed us
      You drank and left us with nothing.
      Appearing, disappearing, and then reappearing was unnecessary
      You could’ve stayed gone.
      It was better that way, and we developed less migraines
      Now I keep seeing you, but I don’t need you
      So I walk past in hopes that you don’t see me
      And you never do

      Written By: Sean Drew

    42. Pengame30 says:

      Look out, breathe deep, and let peace be still
      Peer through the slant in an Asian eye as
      black belts swing back and forth on the racks in the African market
      Run hands through a dark sea of Indian hair
      An endless supply of beauty hanging in rows, assorted
      Pupils dilate as the Japanese animate, leading the artistic race
      Run along the track and feel Usain leave you panting for breath
      The crowd cheers, as the matador pierce’s the bulls eye
      Atlantic city screams with raging machines. “Jackpot,” one person screams
      as the others head home wishing they were in a dream
      Russians prep for war while college jocks wonder about the next score
      Tourists take photos of corner stores as homeless men scrape chewing gum off of pennies

      Written by: Sean Drew

    43. “Flight”

      1 At night I stare
      with blank eyes
      limp limbs
      & dry tongue

      5 I am unaware of existence
      the earth is lifeless
      a colorless, sooty haze

      8 I am numb to touch,
      to hot irons & ice cubes
      I cannot feel the sensation
      of a truffle melting
      on my brittle tongue
      food loses savor
      initiative is lost

      15 & I live in a blend of curtained light
      sleeping without sleeping
      reaching up with curved fingers
      my face twisted & rigid with need
      desperate for flight
      craving escape

      21 The salt lick of the ocean waves
      taming every failure,
      the kisses of sunlight
      ridding imperfection,
      the rush of the wind
      and my twisting stomach
      the thrill of illusion
      while I’m dreaming of flight

      33 With open eyes
      when I come back to bed
      breath is short
      my heart is thrashing
      I feel with shaky hands

      38 I have no wings
      I have fallen into darkness
      I am lost again
      a rejected heart
      & neglected build
      weigh me down
      in hopelessness
      by effect of violence
      & artifice,
      I am helpless & confined

      48 I close my eyes to leave again
      silence my heart
      shake off the numbness
      loosen all stillness
      & take a step forward
      with heavy limbs.
      In the course of that peculiar malady,
      I found a place
      where I could not cave.

    44. rhiain30 says:

      Still playing catch-up!

      “that glimmer of light
      my feet tread darkness – I reach
      for what I can’t see”

    45. ALifornia says:

      Trip to My Ship

      BANG !!! The race against millions has begun.
      SPLASH ! Surging forward to become the one.

      Shouldering onward or upward in perpetual motion.
      No time to think, it would be dooms implementation.

      Violent clashes pushing n pushing amongst brothers.
      Trying to feel the serenity of the touch of our mothers
      Moving faster than a speeding bullet at initial launching.
      This time its for real, no helmets nor dams, no stopping.

      Surging forward perpetually with determined intensities.
      Thoughtless focus on the march of inches lasting eternities.

      Then low & behold after leaving the tunnel lies the target.
      Yes the Mothership is waiting! But only one may board it.

      I bolt faster divinely inspired by fates directed manipulation.
      Finishing & Beginning journeys upon conceived penetration.

    46. Pengame30 says:

      Look out, breath deep, and let peace be still
      Peer through the slant in an Asian eye as
      black belts swing back and forth on the racks in the African market
      Run hands through a dark sea of Indian hair
      An endless supply of beauty hanging in rows, assorted
      Pupils dilate as the Japanese animate, leading the artistic race
      Run along the track and feel Usain leave you panting for breath
      The crowd cheers, as the matador pierce’s the bulls eye
      Atlantic city screams with raging machines. “Jackpot,” one person screams
      as the others head home wishing they were in a dream
      Russians prep for war while college jocks wonder about the next score
      Tourists take photos of corner stores as homeless men scrape chewing gum off of pennies

    47. elliewrites says:

      Voyage of the Mind

      When I was younger and so bold,
      It’s funny what I used to think
      About the world which seemed so cold.
      The earth cried out; my thoughts would shrink.

      It’s funny that I used to think
      I could change and mold all mankind.
      The earth cried out: my thoughts did shrink
      To minute sparks which made me blind.

      If I could change, mold all mankind,
      It wouldn’t be to my image
      Of minute sparks which make us blind.
      The world would be a kinder stage.

      It wouldn’t be to my image
      Nor the world would seem so cold.
      The world would be a kinder stage
      Now I am older and so bold.

      A Pantoum by Emme Zann
      This is my first foray into the world of Pantoum-it’s harder than it looks!

    48. Bucky Ignatius says:


      From Saint Joseph,
      Missouri to Sacramento,
      California in ten days!

      Impossible, the skeptics
      said. But what the ponies
      did then was cake

      for pigeons, who flew
      a hundred miles in a day,
      over the Alps, with life-

      saving cures in nineteenth
      century Germany. Employed
      to pass word of tsunamis

      in India until 2002.
      Banned by the Taliban,
      finally retired, victim

      of the mouse that clicks
      tonight’s reminder
      of Gandhi’s message

      to the west: There’s more
      to life than simply
      increasing its speed.

      Bucky Ignatius

      this is my post for day three, I am once again locked out of being able to post my poem. I log in, but soon as I click on the PAD Day 3, I am automatically logged out again. This site is very difficult for a newbie!

    49. elliewrites says:

      Voyage of the Mind

      When I was younger and so bold,
      It’s funny what I used to think
      About the world which seemed so cold.
      The earth cried out; my thoughts would shrink.

      It’s funny that I used to think
      I could change and mold all mankind.
      The earth cried out: my thoughts did shrink
      To minute sparks which made me blind.

      If I could change, mold all mankind,
      It wouldn’t be to my image
      Of minute sparks which make us blind.
      The world would be a kinder stage.

      It wouldn’t be to my image
      Nor the world would seem so cold.
      The world would be a kinder stage
      Now I am old and bold.

      a Pantoum by Emme Zann
      first foray into the world of Pantoum-it’s harder than it looks!

    50. When Taking An Inward Journey

      Don’t forget to pack storm coat and hat.
      You must pass through fluctuating
      temperatures, battering
      winds, and raging water
      before centering
      at last within

    51. CJKulak says:

      Late post – fell asleep on the floor while I was waiting to give it one more revision and went right to bed!

      He places the map ceremoniously before me.
      I study it, realizing this is somehow tautological:
      it shows the route he used to get here,
      when the sole purpose of getting here is to give me this map.
      The entire quest was to give over the map
      that was created to document the quest.

      It’s not unlike a math test:
      Show your work,
      show me how you got to the answer.
      Assuming, arguendo that the answer is “here”

      And now it is my responsibility to question the quest,
      Why turn left there? Why cross the river instead of going through the forest?
      and flesh out the steps along the way,
      Did you encounter any orcs? What weapons did you use to fight them?
      and determine, with twenty-twenty hindsight, if your answers make you worthy
      of yet another quest.

    52. Linda Voit says:

      The Week Before Our First Kiss

      Probably, they were just stars,
      no more beautiful, no more full
      of hope and enormity, sending
      no stronger messages of light years
      than they ever did or ever will
      but it was that cool June night
      in your back yard when we decided
      to drink a little port wine
      and look at them together, when we lay
      on the blanket, our eyes skyward
      my right and your left arm
      close enough to feel the warmth
      of the other without touching
      without moving away,
      that I swear I heard them
      for the first time
      recognized their winks, knew
      they were shooting to say
      there really is magic –
      just believe.

      Linda Voit

    53. dianemdavis says:


      I have a dress
      pure silk, with pastel roses so real
      you can smell
      summer just looking at it.

      I used to float in that dress.
      Now it’s tucked and folded
      hidden in a hole in the floorboards
      waiting for spring.

      We’ll travel to the countryside
      to barter and beg.
      The only place left
      where a girl might still trade
      milk or tomatoes
      preserves or applesauce
      for a dream.


      I carried you
      held your head above water
      when you were
      drowning in misery

      I drowned with you
      unable to float us both
      when the burden
      you carried sunk
      us both

    55. ShannyCakes says:


      Upside down, I lay my head,
      Daydreaming from the foot of the bed.

      Something calls me, loud and clear-
      Do you hear what I hear?

      I have an itch that I need to scratch;
      I have a virus that I hope you catch.

      One thing is certain, I have to go,
      I’ll tell you where, just as soon as I know.

      Don’t overthink it, I know you’re prone,
      Come along, or stay alone.

      -Shannon Joy Anderson

    56. catlover says:

      A voyage within
      my heart
      my mind
      my soul
      my being
      filled with desires
      surrounded by
      a roaring sea
      of thoughts
      and emotions

    57. Patmar says:


      your lips sail this world
      discovered territories
      others yet unknown

      exploring is never easy
      they say
      [there be monsters]
      i was never afraid of storms
      already departed towards your world

      following the new path
      from the well-known north
      sailing south
      always south
      anchoring at every cove
      at every beach
      east to west
      lost off course
      follow the tide, the winds

      go with the flow
      dead calm or storm

    58. Mywordwall says:


      Love called
      my heart said “follow”
      though I have to cross the seas
      and brave my fears
      that love is not
      what it is harped to be.
      “What if
      at voyage’s end
      only broken dreams wait”
      “what if the End opens
      Happily Ever After’s gates?”
      The reward was too great
      for the call to be ignored
      broken hearts could mend
      but it would be as death
      to have questions
      I uprooted my life
      sailed to the unknown
      on the wings of a prayer
      that love would make a home
      in that faraway land…

      that she now calls her own.

    59. emmaisan0wl says:

      I’m not scared of flying, I’m scared of arriving
      was a pair of suffocating hands
      and my cold heart does not miss it.
      oh, if you love me
      let me be a nomad forever.
      let me live a libertine.
      miss me if you must,
      but please,
      do not make me

    60. “Every Journey of One Thousand Miles”

      Every journey of one thousand miles
      begins with a single step
      or so they say in platitudes

      But I’d counter it’s the travel
      not the start nor end that
      matters across the latitudes

      Friendships are built
      riding along the two lanes
      passing through the land

      More so than drinking
      margaritas, feet and toes
      embedded in the sand


    61. dimitria.vl says:

      The trip I want to take
      I think
      calls for
      Inter-dimensional Travel
      I want to see – no -
      I want to KNOW
      The Cosmos.
      That is all.

    62. Bon Voyage

      Don’t be afraid
      you might bruise me with Champagne.
      Just kiss me goodbye.

    63. dolsz35 says:


      I’m leaving this place
      I know I’ve said it before
      I can’t find anyone
      To believe in my anymore

      I pack my bags
      While they’re all asleep
      I hate to leave
      But I know no one will
      Be missing me

      Thirty five thousand feet
      Above the sky
      Within the clouds
      I look down
      All my problems
      So distant now

      Goodbye friends,
      And family.
      Adios oppression
      Sayonara negativity
      So long suicide

      I arrive at my destination
      No one is waiting for me
      I let go of expectation
      And promise to be happy

    64. Autumn Aloeswood says:

      In meditation
      I sit still and count my breaths
      This makes my mind mind

    65. sarahegreen says:


      we made it seem like a party
      so our greyhound driver joined us for the march
      when it rained at the rally
      some of us bailed and ate nachos under a roof
      some of us went to a steakhouse and drank beer
      all of the speeches were so boring
      (we were 18)
      all of the music was so sad
      why are you here? a camera woman said
      I said, all struggles are connected
      my foot itched
      for the cause I tried to make my face
      look like a face stamped on a coin

    66. bbjzmn says:

      day 2

      Last night I decided to unzipped my body so I could walk around,

      but the air was so nice that once I got out there I ended up swimming instead.

      as I waded around my room, buzzing and humming, I touched every corner just to make sure they were there.

      satisfied that they were I floated from thought to thought and back through

      when my legs had gotten too tired I snuggled back into myself and fell fast asleep.

    67. theDolphin says:

      For some reason, the first thing that came to mind when thinking about a voyage was the ride home from church in the back seat of my parents’ car when I was a girl. This poem was the result.

      Richard drinks coffee
      after Sunday School
      even though he’s just eleven.
      I have hot chocolate
      even though I’m thirteen.
      He stands next to Daddy,
      talks to the men
      and to the ladies.
      I sit behind a pillar
      wanting to take my tights off,
      looking out window panes,
      first white, then yellow, then green.
      Sleepy April grass is showing,
      brownish-green, waking up
      now all the snow has gone,
      and if you step on it
      your foot slides
      and makes a mud
      In the parking lot at last
      I step over cracks
      ‘cause though I’m mad at Mama
      I don’t want to break her back.
      I wonder why we always fight
      before church
      but not after.
      Maybe because it’s Spring
      And we’re pure now?
      Sun explodes off the windshields
      And the car smells like coffee
      And happiness.

    68. Ciel_ says:

      Lost and Found

      He followed the scent of his family
      for days, weeks, months
      but they were gone.

      Strangers took him and
      locked him in a cage
      that smelled of bleach
      and echoed with longing.

      He wondered why he lost his family
      He learned to sit, stay, fetch
      He kept them safe
      from raccoons and vacuums
      He loved them
      more than bacon
      more than himself
      but they were gone.

      A little girl with pigtails
      came by and saw him
      She could see a loving friend
      in the broken dog.

      His new family smelled of
      grass, leather, and cotton candy
      He loved like he was never abandoned
      And he was home .

    69. Marjory MT says:


      One night, with a moon day-bright,
      a moon-beam brought an invite
      to travel high above the waves
      to where a seagull’s small band plays
      the wind songs so soft and clever
      one wants to listen forever.

      C/R Marjory M Thompson

    70. anneemcwilliams says:


      You’re on one of those cheap vacations, car trip from Columbus
      to Schenectady, let’s say. You stow jugs of water, peanut butter
      and pork rinds in a backseat basket and wriggle into your seat belt.
      You have a laundry basket of clothes in the trunk. Your friend
      is driving. It is 3am when you start. You will arrive by nightfall.
      Soon traffic hums by and you begin counting the miles until
      your first coffee break. For awhile, you make small talk.
      The radio is buzzing with NPR. You’re going to visit
      your friend’s eighty-year-old uncle, who treats his guests like royalty.
      His body is crippled and his wife is healthy as a horse, mean as a snake
      and developing Alzheimer’s. Besides a change of scenery,
      the vacation is a working one. You want to Spring- ready the home and yard
      for this dear man. The wife is suspicious of your every move. She follows
      you around and fights with her husband. No one’s cleaned since your last visit.
      You work hard and set things up with adaptive devices and caring neighbors.
      The uncle is incredibly generous, taking you to musicals and museums.
      You eat food you’ve never tried. You kiss and hug when you leave.
      You have no way of knowing that the next time you see him
      he will be in a coma. In less than a month he will be dead. The wife
      will sell the house, give away its contents and move into extended care,
      all by herself. Such dazzling ambiguity takes courage; an attention to detail.
      You never hear from her again. You really don’t care.

    71. JRSimmang says:


      Solvitur Ambulando,

      -JR Simmang

    72. foodpoet says:

      in lazy swirl whirl
      dancing rays
      liquid paths
      between rock points
      a glide through water
      dreams sleep
      eyes closed to day
      we drink water
      eat fuelfood
      Breathe, but
      without dreams
      life would be saltless
      thought dieing
      body moves

      Megan McDonald

    73. foodpoet says:

      Of words moving
      Yet still each poem
      An escape of the
      Gilded cage of complacency
      Even now today I do not
      Set sail

      Megan McDonald

    74. Evelyn Philipp says:


      Seal the envelope with kiss
      Flinging hope skyward
      Love waits, patient for reply.

    75. Daniel Steyn says:

      A Winter’s Calling

      A misery, a murmur, a notion of demise,
      in the cold cold breeze, in the grey grey skies,
      Suspended in rain clouds, a sad sad air;
      Lonely lonely rain clouds of grey grey despair.

      But I, for one, do not care,
      It’s not my fault – it’s God’s affair.
      He has spoken, done his dealings,
      Should bad weather concern my feelings?

      I am not cold, nor am I lonely,
      I find peace in these winter skies.
      I do not like people, and thus I come here,
      Where none but a hunting heron flies.

      And yet, I envy that hungry heron,
      As it roams freely, free from fear,
      Alone in a world to make it by itself,
      Alone and at peace – there is no one else here.

      You will be on your own, if you run off like that,
      There is no home for you to come back to.
      But who needs a home when you’ve got yourself,
      When you live a life with no one but you?

      Yet, I have oaths and promises to keep,
      One cannot simply run away.
      For although I do not like to say it,
      There are people I love, all the same.

      So good luck to the hungry old heron,
      I sure hope it finds its way.
      But I will not be joining it any time soon,
      I have love here to give and take, anyway.

      - Daniel Steyn

    76. lily black says:


      Packing light
      running fast
      Twenty five bucks
      deep in my pocket
      Food clothes water
      spiral The Little Prince
      and a purple pen
      Standing by the side of the rode
      Thumb’s up
      Take me Take me Take me Take me
      on down
      the road.

    77. ianchandler says:


      Curls of willow smear in a place back there,
      branches reaching out to someone who will never come back.
      If the street had palms, it would extend a STOP
      to keep beauty still.
      Perhaps rain is the trees’ tears
      because they cannot stand the loss
      of a speeding shipwreck
      on the banks of a dying watch band.
      The sunset is the penultimate caper,
      drawing tourists to its eye,
      the oasis of road trips.
      The trees hate the sunset,
      but they hate the night even more,
      turning off the lights to hide the (beautifully) (shamefully) naked bodies
      like daylight would collapse at the sight of leaving
      and so it stays at arriving,
      ending the visible at a point when
      every wheel on earth
      seems to be hurrying toward the edge.

    78. Grey_Ay says:


      Clothes on top of everything
      luggage open wide

      Wheels on glossy tiled floors
      an alphabet of signs

      A porthole open wide enough
      sunset under sky

      Different smells of everything
      different lights shine

    79. CLShaffer says:

      Writing a Poem at 30, 000 Feet by C. Lynn Shaffer

      “. . . there have been some instances of people calling cellphones of passengers of the missing flight and hearing ring tones, sometimes days after the plane disappeared.”
      from “Questions Over Absence of Cellphone Calls From Missing Flight’s Passengers” by Keith Bradsher

      The earth has fallen away, and they are busy
      lighting up the minds of those still anchored
      to it. The grieving are unwilling poets
      forced to imagine the possibilities,
      plucking them from the infinite loop above.
      Accountants have gone partly Biblical,
      left hands now married to the guts
      of fish. Feet walk the ocean depths
      and phones glow along dead coral,
      bioluminescent rebirth already
      weakening. Let them leave their caves, return
      with It was the damndest thing stories, snapshots
      of where they’ve been. At least let voices
      rise from black boxes, unspooling rivulets
      like bodies of water below, rain beating
      a window, softly then thunderous and finally silent.

    80. Scribbling Sue says:

      Barrow’s Voyage

      Warm, worn slabs of the Pass Bridge,
      Bristle with ferns and fine moss;
      The brown Barrow flows below,
      Caressing stones, kissing rocks.

      Dark green weed like mermaid’s hair,
      Hide minnows from heron’s glance;
      Essex marched his men this way,
      Feather plumes on helmets danced.

      Their blood spilled and seeped away,
      On her voyage to the sea;
      Joining sisters Suir and Nore
      For silent sleep at Dunmore quay.

      Tamed at times to join canals,
      She helped bring hops to town;
      The barges, hauled by horses,
      Heaved Guinness barrels down.

      Calm in drought but fast in flood,
      Her summer smiles and winter tears
      (Mindful on her ceaseless run)
      Witness history down the years.

      (Footnotes: The Barrow is a river in Ireland.
      The Pass Bridge is in Monasterevin, Co. Kildare.
      The Earl of Essex is said to have brought his army over the bridge on their way to battle at the ‘Pass of the Plumes’ (named because of feathers on the helmets worn by soldiers).
      The Barrow, the Suir and the Nore are known as the ‘Three Sisters’ – rivers that join and flow into the sea at Dunmore East, Co. Waterford.
      Parts of the Barrow were canalised and horse drawn barges brought goods to and from Dublin via the Grand Canal. The canals quickly lost appeal when the railroads arrived and waterways in Ireland are now used only for recreational purposes.

    81. TheFlawlessWord says:

      Canada Geese

      Chevron floating
      Across April sky
      Canada geese glide

      Return delayed
      By bitter blast they squawk
      Their displeasure

      Too long south
      V after V they soar
      United front

    82. stargypsy says:

      We don’t sign
      onto this journey
      Life is a
      voyage given
      us without a

      We make the best
      of what is given

      A precious gift
      that takes us
      to parts unknown…
      to adventures…
      to people…

      This voyage we
      allows us to do
      as we will
      learn from it…
      enjoy it…
      share it…
      love it…

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

    83. jsmadge says:

      Where to Now, Jackson?

      :”Voyage” persists as a trip for pirates –
      Ones wearing velvet doublets, of course –
      Salt spray, avast ye, sunset sail,
      All of that; what?
      Such a dimpled word, “voyage,” too coy –
      Grand, handsome, and dreamy –
      For car rides to find paper towels, cat litter,
      the next doctor who might tell you “no.”

      Jo Steigerwald

    84. Yolee says:


      They depend as much on the writer
      as they do the reader to grant
      them latitude as they travel
      thru probable fog or clear
      perspectives. It is their hope
      to reach the library of the heart.

    85. Rosie Red says:

      I love the kid I just can’t love the kid
      this journey we’ve endured seems never ending
      every time the end nears it’s back to the beginning
      I’m annoyed, I’m interested, I’m impressed by the stability
      I’m hurt, I’m empowered, I adore the consistency
      from friends to something shy of lovers
      from acquaintances to something without a title or a label
      from nothing to being
      the journey seems more like a cycle
      but I don’t mind
      this voyage of love and respect for each other as people must always lead to understanding
      understand that I am woman and you are man
      understand that i move with mind and you move by foot and hand
      if being in love isn’t our destination let love be
      I love our friendship, you & me
      on the treasure trek of life.. we seek success
      I appreciate being able to ride the roller coaster with my best…
      I love the kid I just can’t love the kid

    86. Kit Cooley says:

      Riding the ATV to the Mailbox in Early Spring

      Chains on the tires clack
      and swish through ice and slush
      and sometimes patches of thick
      mud that threatens to suck us in.
      All four wheels spin, and on we go,
      past the meadow, then take the turn
      where Flume Creek churns,
      furious and full, beside and beneath
      the road, ice cold still in April.

      One mile, two, then three
      to the county road where
      we stop and turn the key
      in one door in the row
      of battered silver mailboxes.
      We carefully tuck in envelopes,
      secure packages, and stow
      advertising flotsam behind us,
      circle the wheeler and head
      home, with the wind in our faces.

      ~Kit Cooley

    87. skanet says:

      Where is the light at the end of the tunnel
      Where is the day at the end of the night
      Where is forest beneath the canopy of shadows and fright

      I was alone in the sinkhole
      Falling an hour a day
      Trying to keep hold of anything that could hold my weight

      There were others, but they balked
      And the voices merely talked
      A hand was never let into my care
      Through the empty vaguest days
      Where I kept myself awake
      By talking to the voices that weren’t there

      One day is like the week itself and weeks pass by like days
      When one is lost there is no help
      There is no saving grace

      And so it goes, day in, day out
      With no reprieve in sight
      If I want to scream and shout, I must first kill the light

      So I sit
      And wait
      And take the pain
      I wait and pause
      And let it rain
      And so it goes
      Day in
      Day out

    88. Jezzie says:

      Going to the Local Shop

      I went on a journey last week,
      down the road to the shop and back.
      It wasn’t easy, I must say,
      following my usual track.

      First I met with some traffic lights
      put there because of the road works,
      then I was diverted for miles
      from just before where the road forks.

      I just wanted a pint of milk
      and a bottle of fizzy pop.
      Three miles out of my way I went
      to get to my usual shop.

      I thought that had been bad enough
      to make me want to scream and curse.
      But what was about to happen
      on the way home was far, far worse.

      I thought that I would take a short cut
      and went home a different way
      but then when I rounded a bend
      I ran into a load of hay.

      It had fallen from a lorry
      which had taken the bend too fast.
      I just managed to avoid it
      but I knew I couldn’t get past.

      So I had to turn my car round,
      and drive back the way I had come.
      Next time I need a pint of milk
      I think I’ll borrow some from Mum!

    89. SugarMagnolia says:


      How will I get there? I wondered, wherever “there” might be…

      Hop on my bicycle and navigate the dangerous roads
      Slipping between thick traffic as the gas fumes fill my nose

      Get behind the wheel of my car and zip along happily
      The music blaring as I sing loudly and dance in my seat

      Take a ride on train listening to the steady thump…thump of the railroad tracks
      As I put my feet up and close my eyes an drift off until I arrive at my stop

      Maybe a cramped spot on the bus, that sometimes feels claustrophobic
      Watching the other passengers reading, talking, doing their crossword puzzles

      I take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other hesitantly at first
      I look up, smile and begin walking with determination and excitement

      For no matter how I get there, I know my journey will be filled with love

    90. Winter-Rose says:

      I imagined myself leaving the car and hovering over it, ascending upwards, crossing the clouds and looking down on the sky. Soon the whole earth stood in front of me. Then through our solar system, all the way out to Pluto where the sun no longer burned my skin. Still further away past celestial bodies and stars I do not know the name of. Our own sun long lost among other tiny dots in the darkness around me.
      Then my fathers words forced my mind back into the car. I looked around puzzled, I had only been gone for seven seconds.

    91. Onwards

      Incessant, seething flow,
      skimming down the stream
      like a leaf adrift,
      roilling over rocks, trunk of tree,
      houses backwards blurring,
      I hurl along
      bucking bubbles of sun,
      till the sea engulfs me
      in horizons arcing over
      ever widening worlds.

    92. JamesW says:

      A little girl follows me singing a lilting haiku
      As cherry blossoms flutter like butterflies across my face
      In the ephemeral daze of beauty and smell,
      Oh that I could wait, but I am busy!
      I must leave this picnic,
      I’m travelling!

      A thousand horns pierce the dusty cloud that hangs low
      Blown by the rhythmic hooves of the bucolic herd
      Bells tolling, calves calling, feet falling
      Lone whistles pierce the cooling evening air
      The herdsmen lower their guard and wave
      Adieu, I’m travelling!

      A man hangs on to a ring of worth all he has
      Hands a-trembling, heart a-galloping,
      Holds the rails of the bridge of good fortune,
      Taps his pocket, nervously waits
      She bursts into view, framed by the city of love
      As he goes on one knee, I must be travelling!

      My minders gently lift me from the hammock
      Lay my leaden feet on the footplate
      Strap my trembling arms on the armrest
      One runs a hand through my hair
      And they ask of the smile on my face
      I say- I’ve been travelling!

    93. ina says:

      Carbon – Ina Roy-Faderman

      A hole in the forest
      so black that even crows fly
      past it, as if it still burns,
      like the space you once occupied, now
      a scattering of pitch pine cones,
      needles that crumble in
      the faintest breeze, ashes to
      be scattered before the dew
      can squander them in the earth.

    94. JamesW says:


      A little girl follows me singing a lilting haiku
      As cherry blossoms flutter like butterflies across my face
      In the ephemeral daze of beauty and smell,
      Oh that I could wait, but I am busy!
      I must leave this picnic,
      I’m travelling!

      A thousand horns pierce the dusty cloud that hangs low
      Blown by the rhythmic hooves of the bucolic herd
      Bells tolling, calves calling, feet falling
      Lone whistles pierce the cooling evening air
      The herdsmen lower their guard and wave
      Adieu, I’m travelling!

      A man hangs on to a ring worth all he has
      Hands a-trembling, heart a-galloping,
      Holds the rails of the bridge of good fortune,
      Taps his pocket, nervously waits
      She bursts into view, framed by the city of love
      As he goes on one knee, I must be travelling!

      My minders gently lift me from the hammock
      Lay my leaden feet on the footplate
      Strap my trembling arms on the armrest
      One runs a hand through my hair
      And they ask of the smile on my face
      I say- I’ve been travelling!

    95. FaerieTalePoet says:

      What Lesbians Bring on a Second Date

      Relationship still new
      she found herself
      homeless, kicked out
      by her mother
      unenrolled from school
      due to a lack of
      her father’s signature
      on loan papers
      no dorm room to move into.

      So we found ourselves
      loading her possessions,
      left over from a previous life
      that involved a husban
      and a bank job in FL,
      into the back of a rented SUV.

      Just us and
      my ex-girlfriend’s cat,
      who yowled the entire trip,
      on our way from sunny CA
      to rainy OR, where you just
      can’t quite get warm enough
      in the wintertime, especially
      if you have arthritis
      in your hands.

      Dana A. Campbell

    96. COOKING 101

      For due process.

      Obtain the necessary
      essential for delight.
      Take time to stir the plot,
      slick with muse

      the waters
      churning against
      the walls of your heart.
      Swirling within
      it’s inner chambers.
      at the brim.

      Set it on low
      And give time,
      for due process.

      Sit and let it stew.
      Until all
      unfettered access
      to what has been
      through you.

    97. lionmother says:

      California Here We Come

      The Mommas and the Pappas planted
      in my snow-numbed soul the joy of
      California dreaming and I seeker of
      rainbows in my naive youth gathered
      our few things and we traveled in a
      1967 Fiat on unexplored roads
      the scent of orange blossoms in my head
      leading us onward through Arizona’s
      pine scented forests into the great desert
      whose sun soaked afternoons lulled us
      and there was the promised land
      freeways and shingled homes
      lives lived in transition
      rented furnished apartment with
      a pool shrouded in smog most of the time
      and a population changing day to day
      and realizing the dream was not the reality
      we traveled back to the snow and cold
      back to where your neighbor lasted more
      than a month and we left California to dream alone.

    98. brandonspeck says:

      As a splinter
      I eventually landed underneath
      New York City’s fingernails.
      The city swelled up around me
      and tried to push me out.
      all its dirty rain and bankruptcy,
      its wage slavery and boxed living
      awaited me at the end of the bridge.

      This place never sleeps
      because it’s burning anxious insomnia.
      Its foggy glimmering light prettier than
      its actual cement embrace.
      At the end of the road,
      this is the place.

    99. seingraham says:


      They say it’s the journey that’s important,
      not the destination
      And I believe it, try to remember the adage
      Live my life enjoying the trip as often
      as possible
      But of late I’ve been half-wishing I could
      travel backwards in time
      To do a few things differently

      Ferlinghetti once said, “Temper your most
      intemperate voice with compassion.”
      I remember thinking it excellent advice
      But also recalling how I’d never need take it
      Being one of the most compassionate folk
      I know; this is not an exaggeration, just fact

      When one has spent a lifetime making
      colossal mistakes,
      then being forgiven for same
      It isn’t too hard to develop
      into the kind of person
      who forgives easily, I suppose
      And that’ s me … a sinner by dint
      of circumstances
      sometimes out of my control
      I do have an inordinate amount
      of tolerance for others’ foibles,
      and am quick to forgive transgressions

      Except, it turns out, in one case…

      Ferlinghetti also said,
      “Make new wine out of the grapes of wrath.”
      And it wasn’t until I re-read this quote recently
      that I realized how angry I’ve been
      And at who, and the whys and wherefores
      I started thinking about this whole business…
      More than just thinking about it;
      it has started to consume me
      Day and night – in my dreams,
      I revisit it over and over

      Not unlike many women, I suspect,
      many daughters—
      I had issues with my mother
      As it happens, they grew bigger,
      and I grew more resentful, and angrier
      As we both grew older, however,
      as she became frailer, I felt
      there was no way to ever resolve
      our differences without doing
      irreparable harm

      I think I always had a hope,
      buried deep inside, that we might
      talk things out someday
      Naturally, someday never came,
      She died, leaving me here with all
      the issues unresolved
      And feeling angrier than ever.

      But lately, I wake in the night
      and she’s here in the room
      with me, ready to talk
      I keep my eyes closed knowing
      if I open them she’ll be gone
      And I wait for her to speak; she never does
      Just like when she was alive, she never does.

    100. LeighSpencer says:

      Ready to Go

      has expanded the world
      to the point where
      no one lives and dies
      in their hometown anymore

      It’s good, I think


      But I remember being a kid
      when Sunday dinners
      didn’t exist, except
      at my grandparent’s house

      Spring meant
      veal burgers on the grill
      and no less than five salads
      my grandmother made by hand

      Summer was pizza
      on the living room floor
      badminton and backgammon
      on blankets in the big back yard

      Winter was a bucket of ribs
      from Chicken Delight around the corner
      unspoken eating contests
      Norman and Greg would have
      leaving mammoth graveyards behind
      on greasy paper plates
      (Skinny Norman NEVER won)

      No need for hasty update phone calls
      or email yet uninvented

      We’ll just see you on Sunday!

      Until I boarded the plane
      for college
      across the country
      because people can do that now

      I was ready to go!

      And then
      I never came back

      Except to cram two years’ worth of Sunday dinners
      into 5 days at Thanksgiving

      My kids have no idea
      what every Sunday dinner feels like
      beyond us four

      When there is so much badminton
      laughter and dizziness
      you fall asleep in the grass
      counting grey puffs
      on the endlessly high pussy willow
      Wake up to mason jars of lightning bugs
      while grandpa flips the burgers

      This year
      the offer came
      for my twelve year old son

      His grandparents invited him
      to spend two whole weeks with them
      sleepaway camp equivalent
      of the magic I had every Sunday

      He’ll board the plane
      (if I let go of his hand)
      and walk himself through
      his own future nostalgias

      But he WILL come back
      at least this time

      It doesn’t matter now
      beautiful memories you leave behind
      because you can VISIT them!

      providing my first taste
      of what’s to come
      when he’s really
      ready to go

    101. BezBawni says:


      I open
      my mind into the depth of whiteness,
      I linger
      at every point and every line,
      wary to cross.
      My fingers
      hover over the letter why,
      hope and
      imbue all the tumbled dashes with nothing
      short of luminous.

    102. briehuling says:

      Voyage into Spring (11:15 west coast time!)

      April 2, 2014

      pretty little mouth
      your lips
      their delicate fleshy weave, wet weapons.

      all the poems have turned erotic—
      bodies blending
      there’s no stopping it anymore because
      I have absolutely no idea where it all started.

      the audible breath
      broken stalks
      these vaulted pockets of shadow,
      where it’s become too hot to sleep,
      too hot to not sleep.

      sultry, smoky
      my petals, the corruption,
      staleness in absolutely everything
      the stamen center of it all.

      I am the dead honeycomb beside my bed
      upside down now, and plucked–
      this is where I’ll strike a contract
      with myself alas,
      amongst the endangered
      the particulars of it all spelled out
      in blood or in pollen, maybe in letters or in love.

      I am putting a dandelion to my lips as if
      it never happened,
      as if it has always been spring
      and everything was swaying, just exactly,
      exactly like this.

      by Brie Huling

    103. donnellyk says:


      I did not pack a bag
      The journey was not long
      The tank was full
      I had my Ray Bans on

      The journey was not long
      I was meeting her for lunch
      I had my Ray Bans on
      I wasn’t even hungry

      I was meeting her for lunch
      I wasn’t even hungry
      It just seemed obligatory
      To keep the friendship alive

      I wasn’t even hungry
      To keep the friendship alive
      I don’t know why I bothered
      It was just something to do

      To keep the friendship alive
      It was just something to do
      I was longing for a journey
      I thought I should go somewhere

      It was just something to do
      I was longing for a journey
      I needed an adventure
      To get out of my own head

      I was longing for a journey
      To get out of my own head
      Dreamy listening to Chopin
      I turned the radio up

      To get out of my own head
      I turned the radio up
      Ignoring chained link fences
      I saw beauty everywhere

      I turned the radio up
      I saw beauty everywhere
      I forgot how music soothed me
      How I loved my own company

      I saw beauty everywhere
      How I loved my own company
      I’ll go ahead and meet for lunch
      But next time I’ll go nowhere and play music

      ~Kimberleigh Donnelly

    104. youarehome says:

      remember when you traveled when you were young, spent three months wondering
      how the world got so big during the time you spent
      on an airplane, did you ever think you were too small
      for this, for all of it, did you ever not know what “this” is? did you ever miss
      home? did you ever see paris at night, cobblestone streets

      like baby wrists, bathtub light pouring over them, close your eyes
      now, you’ll get soap in them. maybe this time you won’t see sidewalk cracks
      like veins. maybe this time you won’t think of how tangled
      they are, and how broken. i’m sorry your chest is not an open
      suitcase. it would have made packing a lot easier, wouldn’t it? you would have known

      that anything you forgot could be replaced, you could unzip,
      stuff in a few t-shirts, keychains, cute boys from australia, nice girls
      who look at you like they want to help, you could let them
      help. you could smile with teeth. you could smile without pockets full
      of dirty underwear and ripped out pages. then you could pick yourself up

      by the handle, board another train, choose a seat facing forward.

    105. Chris7BA says:


      We often put down roots
      For some, it is provisional
      And for others, it is everlasting
      Some have the freedom and go
      wherever the wind casts them.
      Others must remain inexorably rooted
      But both lead journeys
      Meandering epics that conduct us to both triumphs and tragedies
      And often times take us to places we never imagined
      Most believe a journey is the space between two destinations
      But the secret is that the journey is the destination.
      Whether we like it or not
      we are guided to quest, and discover
      and journey
      Whether it is in a different neighborhood
      or a different country
      And just as we put down roots
      we also journey

    106. Sarlet72 says:

      Going home to MS to eat crawfish with the family.
      Good or bad; crazy or sane, which none of us are
      When it comes to a crawfish boil, you put it all aside and enjoy the hell out of it

      You have your cooker, cold beer, newspaper covered tables, plastic trays, paper towels and the live crawdaddys
      Oh, let’s not forget the fixins
      Cajun spices (fire), crab boil, sausage, corn on the cob, potatoes, & onions
      And more beer, love and lots southern gossip

      You get the cooker boiling with the seasoning and all the fixins, last add those crawdaddys

      When their ready damn, you can see everybody salivating at the mouth

      So get ready cuz your about to learn how to eat crawfish and then I bet your ass will want to go MS

      You take the crawfish with both hands, tearing the head off first, then suck the juice from the head (best part).
      After sucking head, discard it, then peel one crease from the tail, pull and there’s your meat. All of that in about 20 seconds! Then off to the next…
      It’s my favorite thing to do in the spring & summer

    107. Margie Fuston says:

      Midnight Voyage

      When you twist over in the bed
      at 12:03 AM
      and tell me we’re done,
      I make the drive
      from your place back
      to mine, one last time.

      The edges of the headlights,
      all seem to leak
      into the night, trying to escape
      their source.

      I blink.
      I think I need new contacts.

    108. Relic round

      When my momma ran
      she ran so slow it broke
      your heart. To watch her

      body jostle so,
      beating its own cadence
      into your bones,

      the heave and crush of her
      breasts first flying
      then crashing like typhoon landfalls—

      the way she breathed
      through every hole like ether
      through the pines.

      Through the pines,
      through every hole like ether—
      the way she breathed

      then crashed like typhoon landfalls,
      breasts flying—
      the first heave and crush of her

      into your bones,
      beating her own cadence,
      body jostling so.

      To watch her broke your heart.
      She ran—so slow—
      my momma ran.

    109. beachanny says:


      Stainless strips and steps in Londontown;
      where I hear those deep beat busking sounds.
      Come with oyster early, cash in hand;

      Ride the Central line beneath the Strand.
      Sliding doors I change at London Bridge
      Merging there with slackers nouveau riche.

      At Canary Wharf my friends await.
      Leaving late to lurch through Bishopsgate
      Past St. Paul’s two hops a skip away.
      ‘cross the Thames where I could stay,

      Dance entranced the new Globe’s wooden stage;
      While near Bow bells oldtime minstrels play.
      Cockney garb adorned with pearls that spell
      Bloomin’ love that’s built on Roman ruins.

      Some might long to leave for rural lands;
      But I yearn to live my life in that grand
      Old town a rumblin’ on the Underground.

      (c) Gay Cannon 2014 * All Rights Reserved

    110. Journey of the Heart

      My heart is out
      on a limb dangling
      sweet as fruit
      with fruit bearing seed

      My heart is out
      worn on the sleeve
      stitched in symbol
      styled in military grade

      My heart is out
      in limbo
      splayed on the page
      splattered through words
      and line by line arrayed

    111. LaraEckener says:

      He’d been reared in a nest of whispers
      so, the museum’s dark corners felt like stasis.
      Hundreds of voices drew millions of lines
      as they spun off black walls,
      cracked against gilt frames,
      vibrated through plexyglass boxes,
      and were absorbed into canvases
      still moist after seventy years.

      He was like the canvases in that way,
      had more in common with the thick color
      that clung to them than he did with
      the image of himself suspended
      in its clear pane. Cocky once, sure.
      Reckless, with bloodied knuckles,
      pummelled patience. He doesn’t remember
      being that. Doesn’t remember being art.

      They’d said a rifle could teach a man
      who he truly was. They left off how,
      when it came down to it, the value of being
      was what they’d make him into, and not
      at all about the man that had been possible
      if given a world that didn’t measure time
      by the half life of the oxidized metal
      clinging to his bones.

    112. Leaving the Nest

      We made this cradle from
      the dirt we carried in our mouths.
      My lips still bear the mark
      of straight things made flexible
      by warm breaths and dreams
      fresh with the steam of creation.

      It is cool now.
      The bendable browns turned
      gray and shapeless like brittle bones.
      We will die unless we jump.

    113. Mariejoy says:

      “Views from the Bangkok Skytrain”

      Silom Road is claustrophobic now.
      Buildings loom on either side, close enough to bite.
      Their windows reflect, or curtain themselves against the sun.
      No one sees human lives beyond at computer desks and boardroom tables.
      One, perhaps, who works by that window of blue glass,
      frowns at the rumble of your passing train and pays too much rent for accessibility.
      Big signs of English-language schools and Irish pubs leer
      and you could almost reach out and knock a letter askew.
      The sky appears at last as you leave the road behind.
      You’ve forgotten how clouds absorb the colors
      of lips and flowers like a lazy painter.
      Down at Lumpini Park, trees cluster and lagoons wink.
      The lagoons, you think, tease you for seeking freedom and clarity up here.
      But Man builds ever higher.
      You remember a time when sparrows chirped and
      weighed down power lines and made tourists laugh with their droppings.
      But what can withstand felling of trees,
      erection of buildings and bridges,
      approach of a train bullying wind before it?

    114. joanne.elizabeth says:

      The Lane

      Riotous raucous rambunctiousness
      Slamming sudden silence

      Joanne Edgington Henning

    115. I’m tired of writing
      where my feet may wander to.
      Let me rest my head.

      -S. Monahan
      All rights reserved.

    116. clcediting says:


      The time came for departure
      and one by one
      goodbyes were said.
      There were smiles and well wishes,
      but also tears.

      The sky was the kind of blue-gray
      you only ever saw in watercolor paintings.
      The streaky, uncertain color
      blended almost out of existence;
      signifying the dampness of the air
      too light to be rain
      too heavy to be mist.
      Atmosphere muddled with emotion.

      Finally the voyagers must away to their ship.
      They can tarry no longer.
      They must catch the tide, the wind,
      the sea.
      The lines are cast
      and sails unfurled.
      The waves beckon them west.
      To new places and adventures;
      to wonders unseen.
      To quiet morns and moonlit nights
      And hours of joy between.

    117. lquaid says:

      Final Maiden Voyage

      This is the maiden voyage,
      And yet the only one,
      So many miles traveled,
      Yet only just begun,

      Although the sea, at times, is rocky,
      Somehow I barrel through,
      And when the fog seems thickest,
      I change my point of view,

      At times it’s like a roller coaster,
      With many ups and downs,
      Other times are like a Midwest drive,
      Just cornfields and tiny towns,

      There are moments like a haunted house,
      Cast in the darkest shade of black,
      When fear grips me like a monster,
      Sending shivers up my back,

      But then there are those moments,
      Like a lovely, blooming field,
      When I feel calm, loved, peaceful,
      Those moments are my shield.

      Not one day is like the next,
      Yet moments blur to years,
      This confusing paradox,
      A dream-catcher holding fears,

      A delicate web continuously constructed,
      Binding every breath,
      Made from simple, fragile silk,
      Yet linking birth to death,

      Appreciate this maiden voyage,
      Which somehow morphs into the last,
      As the future begins with the first breath,
      But quickly turns into the past.

    118. P.A. Beyer says:

      Royal Caribbean

      Michael refuses to spend another minute on the cruise ship.
      He finds watching the waves neither calming nor charming.
      He’s had enough of buffet lines and disco balls and shuffleboard.
      And most of all, he can’t stand Bernice anymore.
      With her faux Texas tan and the way she says at every port “Bon Voyage, y’all.”
      No, he dreams of a chair with rollers and staple removers.
      He longs for phones with buttons and cords and can just envision, like an oasis,
      a vending machine dispensing black coffee in a Styrofoam cup.
      “I miss the good ol’days” he whispers in the salted air.

      The 12:00 on the VCR doesn’t flash anymore.

    119. Dennis W says:

      A Dream Portrait

      He wears no hat and never will
      and hangs none to call a place home
      where he belongs and is his own.
      He spends no time in other’s will
      he uses the wind as his hair comb.

      Years ago, he found garden still
      that was marked your “very own”
      that strangely was never home,
      a dream he had and always will
      to this day a dream still unborn.

      Dennis Wright, April 2, 2014.

    120. lionetravail says:

      “Liberty Belle”
      by David M. Hoenig

      One copper dame’s face,
      launched more than a thousand ships:
      twelve million plus came.

    121. Shell says:


      For the love of the sea says I,

      rolling waves testing time.

      Drift afar to who knows where,

      dare we not capture a stare.

      Queer we be in the land of not,

      feted to start later forgot.

      Long the voyage aged laid rest,

      treasure abets at end no less.

    122. tbell says:

      Ghosts at Play

      The decisive moments in life
      are not usually dramatic
      or even wholly conscious

      quiet fleeting happenstance

      a wrong turn
      chance meeting
      question slipped between lips without consent

      ghosts having their way

      standing in that place
      where before they took a certain path
      choosing on a whim

      a different direction

      than the one
      that made you
      who you are

      curiosity flipping a coin

      seeing what it might be like
      to live a part of life
      once left behind.

      Copyright © TD Bell
      All Rights Reserved

    123. Linda Voit says:

      twice their weight in crumbs
      ants plod without questioning
      burden or journey

      Linda Voit

    124. (sedoka)

      as if the windshield wipers
      kept count
      while I drove home
      this evening . . .
      all the friends I’d cut off
      over the years

    125. azkbc says:

      The Maiden Voyage of the Tugboat Twiddle Dee Dee

      The ocean waves rolled on the maiden voyage
      of the Tugboat Twiddle Dee Dee
      and the captain splashed and laughed
      and shouted and called to his crew of three.
      “Here duckie, and fwroggie, and ‘raffe ‘’raffe, ‘raffe.”
      They bobbled at the side of the sea
      as the captain splashed and played
      with the soap watched over by his crew of three.

      With a mighty roar and swooping splash
      the Tugboat Twiddle Dee Dee was tossed
      and turned on the murky sea (followed by its crew of three).
      The sea water rose in a swirl and a churl
      and a twirly swell of the sea.

      With a mighty surge the captain was torn
      from the depths of the darkening sea
      leaving Tugboat Twiddle Dee Dee
      (and its crew of three).

      Soon the water calmed down and
      Tugboat Twiddle Dee Dee bobbed
      from side to side in the sea.
      The water swirled and gurgled and soon
      Tugboat Twiddle Dee Dee and its crew of three
      lay abandoned on the white ocean floor.

    126. jakkels says:

      I threw open the cover undecidedly;
      A platoon of poetic phrases ambushed my mind
      Even as they marched my eyes down the page
      My mind inhaled the magic and flew with images
      Through dark, slimy caverns of despair Where ravenous dogs of memory Lusted after morsals of pleasure
      Ever out of reach.
      Through graveyards of friendships
      Where tolling bells banished ghosts of hope
      To anonymous pitchfork mobs.
      Through volcanoed halls of anger
      Were molten emotions ran like words
      Along painful bleeding paths.
      Through living jungles of thoughts
      Where inky monkeys laid paths of scintilating words
      Leading to castles of technicolor air.
      Past meadows and beaches and firelit rooms
      Where beauteous maidens or handsome men
      Waited with impassioned expectancy
      Past portraits of Valor, Sacrifice, Success
      Changing like videos as the eye them beholds.
      To hazy halls of shifting scenes
      where phantoms enact life dramas
      On an unseen stage.
      then I closed the book.

    127. shethra77 says:

      I had to do another today–suppose it is two-fer-Wednesday.

      Changing the Route

      They told him he could not sail
      in that direction. They insisted, saying,
      “Look–you see? The compass won’t
      even point there. How will you find your way?
      No one can do it.”
      And he reached in his pocket, took out
      a powerful magnet, and forced the needle
      to turn.
      The compass still points in that direction
      to this day.

    128. Deri says:

      The Quest

      Every journey
      does not begin
      with a single step.

      It must begin
      with desire,
      a fire within
      to find the greater world
      beyond the barriers
      of our own skin.

      We must want
      those treasures
      which wait for us,
      across the world.
      Others, just across
      the thresholds
      of our own
      locked doors.

    129. Corridor

      I was three when my tongue grew fat
      as a summer strawberry, my joints knolled,
      and wet-tender. This was how my grandparents
      found me: learning to walk again, toting
      an IV, my Igor, down sun-slick hallways.
      How their breath caught, forgetting
      to cheer, to hooray me to the finishing line,
      their arms stiff, one hand clutching
      and unclutching at empty space, waiting
      for me to break into a run.

      Three decades later, and I’m learning
      to walk again, my feet like some gourds
      left too long in the garden, all sensation
      wrung like a leaf. At three, it was a disease
      like an engine—Kawasaki’s—and at thirty,
      it was the little limbs and torso, the wet body
      of my daughter, and that Frankenstein’ed slit
      in my abdomen—I have forgotten
      the nodes, the way toes can scuff, can rub,
      no longer beneath sheets but out, in this air
      that shivers, as if the only thing waiting
      was me.

    130. Erica says:


      He said,

      The men who created maps wandered lands unknown until directions made sense and the Sun always rose in the east.
      Lie perfectly still and allow me to dawn on you…

      Lost is not the word I’d use as it implies
      a feeling of helplessness. And in these pools of cinnamon brown, I never wanted to be found. Unless it was you looking for me.

      Cascading down prominent bridges atop pouty meadows lush with colors and rich in red wine.

      Following traces of my past down plunging flatlands and resting briefly within twin peaks reminiscent of God’s holy tear drops.

      At last, amidst two oak trees, firm and strong, a perfect fit, my home away from home.

    131. bonniejj says:


      I read the braille of your skin,
      the scars and sags, wrinkles and freckles and moles,
      to glide me across that topography
      and into the ocean
      of soul that is
      plus me
      all that hums.

    132. amaranthe says:

      The Kelpie Whisperer

      “Down by the sea
      lived a lost pony…”
      And she was beautiful.
      Mane tinged with sea froth.
      She whispered to me.
      But first I learned how to hold my breath.
      Counted to one thousand.
      “I want to take you on a journey:
      My heart is at the bottom of the ocean.”
      She told me.
      Never could resist a sad horse.
      With my face in her mane we plunged.
      Galloped to the seabed.
      My heart became hers.

    133. carolecole66 says:


      “Your feet look like boats,” my mother said
      when I got my growth about age ten. I’d look
      down at them, imagine row boats (I’d never seen
      a different kind) painted bright red, laces
      jutted out like oars. I plowed through the waves
      a family makes, pulling hard through storms
      and winds, occasional peaceful days,
      all the while facing away, my back to land.
      I watched the far horizon dip and rise, and I
      kept rowing, rowing toward
      the distant beckoning shore.


    134. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      Vibration of Joy

      Once set free,
      Energy just grows,
      Through bouncing,
      Jumping, flying,
      Arcing, extending,
      Pushing, stretching,
      View from on high,
      With the building sense,
      Exalted excitement,
      Racing ahead,
      Until a crash landing occurs,
      Just seconds before,
      Pain now,
      Where previously,
      Unheard of,
      Unaware it could happen,
      Because the experience
      The journey, purposeful voyage,
      Had always just been joy,
      Realizing . . .


    135. Throw me a rope
      So that I might join you
      Hovering over the crevasse
      Peering down in to its great depth
      Measuring its width
      Landscape shifting
      You standing on one side resolute and firm
      And me kneeling here as the ice gives way around us.

    136. Shennon says:

      The gown is black
      The eyes are dry
      The steps are slow
      She waves good-bye.

      The car is black
      The ride is long
      The chords ring out
      To a well-known song.

      The screen is black
      The pictures appear
      The familiar faces
      That many hold dear.

      The mood is black
      The sadness real
      The witnesses don’t concur
      With how this makes her feel.

      The caps and tassels fill the air
      The girl feels nothing but despair
      The torturous trip across the stage
      Stands for new life – a coming of age.

    137. shethra77 says:

      Difficult Passage

      “Here there be monsters,”
      says the map.
      But forward we sail,
      we run, we slide,
      but not safe, ever, just
      challenge confronted,
      one voyage completed,
      each prize held aloft.
      Again, again, and again,
      keep all cannons ready,
      eagle-eyes in the crow’s nest.
      Skim before the wind.

    138. Kwoody says:

      J. Kerr

      The memory of my sanity fades like fingerprints bruised into flesh
      As distance and time gather mass and dust.
      When that purple, blotted bruise fades into a jaundiced yellow
      Splotch I just have to dig my fingertip into to see if it still hurts
      And it doesn’t, though I try to recall that sharp pain
      But instead wallow in the comfort of gentle numbness.

      I can try and recall the time before the madness
      As a nascent pearl can remember being a grain of sand
      Stuffed into the salty viscous meat of an oyster.
      Each layer of hardened protein another step away from the beginning product,
      A dull particle like every other grain of sand but this one turned precious
      With agitation and minimal effort.

    139. christinamcphee says:

      Longing tears plough the ground
      Carving varicose rivers
      Claiming the new clay I cradle to myself
      Trying to reshape the form of us
      Before arid trials cracked and spilt the place we knew
      I ride the remnant trickle
      Backwards in my mind
      Chasing echoes of you
      A patchwork of frozen moments
      stained images fading out
      You are standing in a mist I caress one last time

    140. BDP says:

      “They used to take your horse and if they were caught they got hung for it. Now if they take your car and if they are caught it’s a miracle.”

      –Will Rogers, 1932.

      “Progress Takes Its Own Voyage” (Quatern)

      The outhouse path was one hundred long steps
      from back door. So she dug a septic tank,
      installed a toilet, faucets took the place
      of hand pump, water hot, quick liquid silk,

      all good, no downside. So why then still hike
      the outhouse path of one hundred long steps?
      She used her nighttime thunder pot, gave in
      to that one ease, stored under bed. She slapped

      mosquito bites the other times, and eyes
      stared down from trees, thick swarms of noseeums—
      the outhouse path was one hundred long steps—
      nipped ankles with her blood as sauce. I’d take

      that walk—her grandkid—all the while feared teeth
      liked me best. Nature, no faux freshener.
      Why? This was modern once. Hold daisies, stroll
      the outhouse path. Just one hundred short steps.

      Barb Peters

    141. susanjer says:

      Georgia O’Keeffe Hitches a Ride to Abiquiu
      After a 1944 photo by Maria Chabot

      As if I were Charles Lindbergh setting off for Paris, Maurice gives me his leather helmet. I tuck in my hair, push goggles, his too, to the top of my head and roll up my jeans. I throw one leg over the Harley-Davidson Knucklehead. Maurice says it is important to call the motorcycle by its full and correct name because a machine, this one at least, has a soul and can exact revenge if slighted. I put my hands at Maurice’s slim hips. He tromps on the start pedal. We take off.

      fast as dust devils
      against the landscape of his back
      my smile a mesa

    142. senquist says:


      from birth to old age
      life is a trip worth taking
      not just words on a page
      but an adventure in the making

      Sarah Enquist

    143. GirlGriot says:

      Here Alone

      Lean back.
      Watch the road.
      Watch the driver.
      Hold your bag. Smile. Talk.
      Safe –
      for now.
      Be ready.
      You’re here alone.
      Climate changes, shifts.
      Don’t blink.
      Don’t miss it.
      Stay on, ready,
      always set to jump.

      Hear silence,
      weight in non-words.
      Hold the door handle.
      Watch him,
      smile and nod.
      He’s a good one.
      Still: stay on, ready.
      Lean back.
      Hold on tight.
      Eyes on his hands.
      Keep your smile bright.

      I rode
      months. Alone
      with strangers, men
      I did … didn’t trust.
      from home, from
      family. Trusted
      strangers, gave myself
      unknown hands.
      Luck riding close
      down every long mile.

    144. mrs.mjbauer says:

      Another journey
      Navigating the unknown
      Will I meet a companion?
      Will I go alone?
      Following trail without map
      Traveling to find my home

    145. Pamela says:

      Eons I have roamed the streets
      In search of my own existence
      Generations have come and gone
      Yet I rarely show up on life’s lens

      Man has searched for me high and low
      No stone left upturned in his quest
      Failure is what he usually gets
      Deaf to my heart beating in his breast

      He who finds me is indeed special
      Clean in his mind, innocent of guile
      He desires not wealth nor power
      It’s the little things that make him smile

      His heart holds no place for war and strife
      He years to accept, not discriminate
      I am Happiness and that is my home
      Not a heart that is full of hate

    146. SRK027 says:

      Bathtub Dream Sequence

      The ship bobbed like an ice cube dropped in a full glass,
      dropped me off on the rocky shoreline.
      The trees there swayed and waved to greet me
      and I smiled until they started
      dropping their leaves recklessly.
      At least the waves soothed and sang,
      telling stories about the future and the island
      and the buffalo wading in the breakers.

      Can I find you here–
      where the grasses twitter like chipmunks and the chipmunks
      play in the sand?
      Can I find you in the heavy plunk of tossed rocks
      or the seals’ yelping cries echoing across the pier?

    147. feywriter says:

      Dreamer’s Voyage

      The stars tuck me in
      as I take one last drink of the Milky Way
      before the glass on my pod fogs over

      I dream of oceans
      clear and blue, full of life
      not the black dead seas we leave behind

      I sleep endless nights
      ship carries us
      through time and space

      countless years later I finally wake
      to set foot on new land
      greener than the crumbled world we left behind

      our new home

      by Mary W. Jensen

    148. Sailing

      pushing off from the shore
      we still saw
      copper-breasted birds wresting
      worms from the earth

      stopping her ears from the
      siren call snaking through
      grey mists edging the
      waters, a fluid fog
      wreathing the way

      unpiloted, our navigator
      gone missing at the last port,
      color-coded maps, with veins
      of red, indigo, green, mustard
      yellow, harvest
      gold, bordered by blue,
      shoved under her oxter

      the salt spray so
      refreshing while, in other rooms,
      tapestries are woven and
      unwoven, she sings stories
      of the long way home, the
      dog-eared tickets, her
      last and best hopes
      dashed upon the rocks

    149. njensen says:


      They know where to go;
      they feel it in their breasts, in the wind’s caress,
      in the endless rhythm of those above, and beside, and below.

      The sky opens before them,
      folds around them, seeping gold,
      and together they become creases
      against the sunset moon.

      They know where to go;
      and rooted and alone I watch,
      and wish I were
      a swan.

    150. cholder says:

      Parallel Lines

      My mom never told the truth
      That’s why I stopped talking
      My silence a lecture
      I used to argue
      Hack myself into pieces
      that wouldn’t fit
      A conversation without a point
      continues to infinity

    151. One day my feet will find the water again.

      I do not understand why seagulls exist in Arlington, Texas.
      Their presence stings like a ray and I am reminded
      That there is no beach a bus ride away—
      There aren’t even buses in this
      Place that smells like

      Flat tires with no jack and books with the last few
      Pages ripped out as a joke. Never children
      shouting over the roar of waves
      as soundtrack to end of day
      Hell. Everything is just

      A little bit off in a way that mosquitoes here
      Don’t even feel like real mosquitoes—
      They don’t come from dynasties of
      Killers of men by the thousands.
      They don’t know about fever
      In Texas.

      They don’t know the history of water.—the voyage
      That God makes as he takes form: long limbs
      Wind that bites, breath torrential rains.
      God is a hurricane anxious to remind
      His people he is real.

    152. REBECCA MARSH says:

      Feeling the overwhelming heat,
      I took the first step.
      It felt like a blow dryer,
      My face so warm.

      My purpose,
      So clear in my mind,
      to serve my country,
      The land of the free.

      Continuing down,
      a sense of pride came over me,
      Never more ready to embrace,
      my first deployment.

    153. flood says:

      A Wednesday Night

      When she said “yes” to him
      when he asked if she’d move

      to Arizona with him,
      she didn’t know that

      she was saying “yes” to him
      finding another woman there.

      She didn’t know that there
      is no lonely in the world

      like an empty refrigerator and
      the empty mouths of two sons.

      She didn’t know that there
      is no lonely in the world

      like a Wednesday night
      in an empty bed.

      She didn’t know that her
      husband’s father would fill

      their refrigerator with food
      before he bought three tickets
      back to Cleveland, Ohio.

    154. When I Finally Found You – Amirae Garcia

      It was London after spending an eternity in the desert.
      It was like rebirthing, it was salvation.
      My hands lifted like a prayer,
      like the only thing I could do was marvel over you,
      like I made for this moment, made to feel you.
      I sat there, letting the rain wash over me.
      I sat there, dying to drown in this feeling.

      It was the Grand Canyon for the first time.
      It was the hand of God in the flesh.
      We sucked the breaths from the people who saw us;
      and still, they had no idea how much we contained.
      The colors and the ridges were perfected images
      of the way our bodies looked when we laid together.
      We were magic, a world wonder unlike any other.

      It was around the world in mere seconds.
      It was flying when we touched – skin on skin on skin.
      You were electric and I felt you everywhere
      even as you slept beside me.
      We were a jet plane, getting lost in the clouds.
      The Bermuda Triangle tried to eat us alive,
      but spewed us back out because of the fire inside.

      It was a journey to get here, my victorious voyage.
      Every path the earth could have ever created for me
      was leading me to this exact moment.
      When it happened, I felt a shake in the ground.
      It took me infinities upon infinities to find you;
      but when I finally found you,
      I ended up finding me, too.

    155. AC Leming says:

      In the Beginning

      Before Earth’s faint swirl
      trembled in our galaxy’s imagining,
      before asteroids collided to form planetoids,
      before jumbles of rock inched together
      over a millennia to make Jupiter’s moons,
      what swarmed the dust which formed our home?

      What zero-gee life thrived
      on the motes in Saturn’s nascent rings?
      What swam in the methane
      which poured into Titan’s Lakes?
      What ancient specs of some other proto-man
      burned away in the conflagration
      of our solar systems’ birth?

    156. CStern says:


      In morning air not yet warmed

      by the sun’s slow struggle to rise

      the train hunkers on the tracks

      a segmented metal beast

      waiting noisily

      in a whirring thrumming crouch

      Passengers fed one by one into its doors

      until the hum grows


      growling as the wheels dig in

      The beast runs free

      prowling across its territory

      past houses shading into trees

      woods disappearing in glassy stretches of water

      rocky shores giving way to grassy meadows

      climbing over bridges

      criss-crossing roads

      until reaching another station den

      and resting for another journey

    157. Zeenie says:

      free-falling burns

      I wake up on the side
      of a highway, stretched out
      and fully naked, wind
      like melted shadows
      in places nonexistent
      until this moment –

      the holes you’ve left
      in the sides of my cheeks
      and the crest of my back
      feel like free-falling burns.

      Cars stretch on in dusky
      traffic for miles, horns
      exploding at my “indecency”
      and “shame,” mothers driving
      by so fast I don’t see the tears
      for their sons’ lost innocence;

      at least their sons
      had the chance
      to be innocent.

    158. Tom Waits records in the back of my car
      Dirty windshield directions slow
      One headlamp crooked by age
      Destination over the shallow road

      Loaded my life in my trunk
      And found yesterday’s keys
      Closed the lights and locked the doors
      And walked into the street

      Moon reflecting off the window crack
      Blinding, hopeless, faceless light
      Engine rattle, exhaust cough
      Only echoes aping flight

      Asphalt screams, streetlight pains
      Looking for another date
      Shallow stations with sallow folk
      Serve my eggs with shade

    159. shellaysm says:

      Both Dreamers

      Though they’re both dreamers at heart,
      The voyager explores
      Where his inner compass leads,
      Squinting behind tinted glass,
      As he sails upon merciless waves.

      The voyeur analyzes,
      A spectator to the coveted trip,
      Watching with hazel eyes,
      Though they’re both dreamers at heart.

      As linguist and editor,
      Teacher and student,
      Actor and critic,
      One journeys; one judges.
      Only the voyager becomes the wayward breeze,
      Though they’re both dreamers at heart.

      Michele Smith

    160. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:

      If there was a destination
      In relation
      To being there
      We would be where

      Perhaps I want us to be just
      Like this – no fuss
      Wind-chapped dry lips
      Cursory kiss

      Outside any disappointment
      From contentment
      Stoking embers
      Each September

    161. bynks says:

      an attempt at haiku:

      Rise into the dawn
      Launch your step with a prayer
      Shall glee hail thy flight

    162. Roderick Bates says:

      World With End

      “Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.”
      — Annie Dillard

      And so it is.

      We are all engaged in a forced march forward,
      Time hard against our backs every moment,
      the hands of its clock like gun barrels
      prodding us toward an uncertain end —
      uncertain, at least, in all the ways that matter:
      what, where, when, and most of all, why —
      though there is no uncertainty that it is end.

      Going to work and back again, we march.
      Sitting at home of an evening, we march.
      Sleeping, alone or in the arms of another,
      we march. Temporary survivors.

    163. toujourskari says:

      Like a Ship Upon a Wave

      Like a ship upon a wave, my hand rests
      On the swell of your bare chest
      There is no storm approaching, only calm seas ahead
      As your breath rises and falls in gentle dream-crests
      I am lulled to sleep like the Moses babe
      By the current’s steady rhythm

      Your body is an ocean that takes me far away
      To lands undiscovered, filled with exotic delights
      The voyage is not always smooth or easy
      Your tempest rages, engulfing me in salty darkness
      I’m pulled under by the violence of the tide
      inescapable and unpredictable
      The storm rages until it has reached its end

      Washed up on the shore after the hurricane
      I trace your name on the sand of your skin
      In the golden letters of morning
      A humble offering from a grateful passenger
      As I place my hand on the swell of your bare chest
      Like a ship upon a wave

    164. JoCam says:


      There goes my bra
      in the laundromat window
      it glints, implodes, and then billows alluringly,
      churning away among dozens of wash cloths,
      hand towels, two sheets and one pillowcase.

      Now it has disappeared,
      shoved rudely out of the way
      by his macho briefs and a few sordid skivvies.

      The bra re-emerges,
      bouncy as when I was a teen,
      next minute, as droopy
      as I don’t want to think when.

      A sock lumbers by, exhausted by circular jogging,
      it calls for its mate
      Did I drop a sock on my driveway,
      On my way to the car?

      Dazzling, the bra once more arises,
      radiant as twin moons
      in the clutch of a galaxy!

    165. aphotic soul says:

      Death Race
      by Paul Andrew Ryan

      There’s someone for everyone they always say,
      But they never seem to specify just in what way,
      For I dance with angels throughout the night,
      But they simply vanish during the day,
      Not a word nor sight,
      Because they are never meant to stay,
      They frolic in the the depths of my mind,
      Always so gentle, always so kind,
      But in the end they are never real,
      With no one who can compare, no one I can find,
      My dreams, the only place I can feel,
      Because in this reality I am lost and blind,
      So I awaken each morning so deeply alone,
      With the only life that I’ve ever known,
      Losing the ones I struggle to hold,
      Always banished from where I wone,
      Into where suns freeze and hearts grow cold,
      From a hapless home now to one which I disown,
      It’s almost a comfort to see those faces,
      In different times and in different places,
      But I shall always remain here,
      In my hapless oasis,
      For I must always remain near,
      In an immortal stasis,
      And when the nice guy finally finishes last,
      I’ll look back at all the people who have passed,
      For that phrase means not what people may think,
      But no one ever questions nor asks,
      It is death to which this race is linked,
      And we all finish… some slow, some fast.

    166. LCaramanna says:

      Bon Voyage

      She took the midnight train,
      Journey lyrics in her ears,
      Rocked by a melody
      Played out in her soul.
      Just a small town girl
      Headed for the City lights,
      One heart burned desire,
      Believing never stopped,
      Doubtless, she knew
      Anyway she wanted it
      Would be the way she needed it -
      This journey.


      They say Voyager crossed the heliopause
      last summer with thirty thousand years to go
      to clear the sun’s gravity. Our plutonium
      spark, a flicker of human warmth returning
      to the stars like that first purple martin
      returning again in the spring to the place
      where he was hatched or the salmon
      swimming up blue streams. We are called
      home to where our atoms first began,
      the water, the sky, the stars. The silent iron
      in our blood aches for the supernovae
      and so lying on our backs beneath
      the wind-swaying oak trees, we hold
      hands and watch the stars, imagining that
      long journey whose end we’ll never know.

    168. Pilgrimage

      seeking, searching
      twisting path leads astray
      faltering, steps through the shadows
      discovering forgotten torii
      kitsune’s laughter resounds
      Kami’s presence brings peace
      healing the weary

      ~ Blossom Vydrina

    169. C. says:

      O’er my shoulder I look
      To see the sun set day
      Beautiful orange
      Paints the sky of gray.

      I smell the salty wind
      Brushing by me past
      O’er the ships blue end
      Sparkles everlast.

      I smile, loving light
      Watch it fade on back
      O’er here comes night
      Wrapped up all in black.

      A tingle in my throat
      Slips down like a snail
      My gut it reaches now
      A shift in white strong sails.

      I look for the rail
      Where my hands did lay
      As I watched the sun
      Streak out into rays.

      But there it was in front
      A plate, a white clean table
      Adorned a fish cooked well
      Shouts all seemed like fable.

    170. Sharon Ann says:

      A Traveler’s Prayer

      Take me away to a place I’ve not been
      expanding my mind and experience.
      Let my journey take me to places unknown,
      down roads not yet travelled,
      to people not yet met,
      through mountains and hillsides,
      to a place of peace.
      A place of beauty.
      A place of kindness.
      A place to be myself.

    171. Hannah says:

      Thank you for the inspiration…safe and fun travels Robert and Tammy!!

      Copper Sunshine

      This journey is a jar
      full of shiny pennies,
      it starts with a single plink
      and the choices begin…
      Who’s to call
      which side wins
      and who’s to decipher
      fortune from adversity?
      Just maybe
      they all gleam
      even the ones that’re green
      stained with patina…
      A lucky coin
      in each palm,
      the choosing begins-
      starting with a single plink…
      This journey is a jar brimming
      of burnished pennies.

      Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    172. lidywilks says:


      Today I smirked at the moon above as it outshined the remaining stars in the sky, only to become slowly and steadily engulfed by the sun, with each of my footfalls. Huddling deeper into my coat, I braced against a blast of polar air and grumbled, “Is this really spring?” But the only answer i received was the monotone voice from my phone app repeating, “It is 6:40 am. Heart thudding in fear, I sprinted down the block littered with naked trees, and pass trimmed yellowed lawns. Tearing through the nipping winds, I weaved and bobbed my way to the next street, arriving at the bus stop with seconds to spare. I watched as my bus careened to a halt, its wheels still screeching while the doors wheezed open to accept me and the newly raised fare I’d have to pay hereafter. Gulping for air, I resigned myself to board the bus and sink into the cushioned seat, the only good thing to the start of the day. And when I closed my eyes, I flew free like the sparrow and headed south to gorge upon the beauty of Iguazu Falls. Once sight and heart overrunneth, I next found myself dripping in sweat racing a cheetah in northwest Africa. Of course I lost, but vowed to beat him again before spreading my wings again, this time to Seoul. And perched on a bench, I nibble on some sparrowed kimchi and dukbokki and count the colors of the rainbow illuminated under the city’s night sky. And as I pondered my next destination, I awoke with a jolt from the sound of peeling tires. Heart sinking at the familiar landscape of cold steel and glass office buildings, I grudgingly press for the next stop. And then begins the second start of my day latching onto a fleeting dream I long to make true.

    173. peacegirlout says:

      US 17

      Of salt sweet
      Low marsh
      Rice husked

      Wind swept
      Ripped ripe
      Welt whipped

      Drum dreamed
      Moon barreled

    174. Hoping the italics don’t get messed up on here…

      (from a gay tarot)

      The boy with pierced ears and pink hair hesitates
      on the painted card. This is the minor arcana
      meaning courage for new journeys. He falls across
      my lap as I do readings on the northbound bus.
      Before this boy, the bouncer guards the doors,
      drawn rough and hard. His joint partnership
      smolders with an obvious lust. My Greyhound neighbor
      presses his massive knee on mine as he dozes.
      Both figures are portrayed holding wands, colored
      phosphorescent green. And the gates hold back
      the world, which belongs to us. I want my burly companion
      to wake and explain what this all might mean.
      On the card’s back are Deco silhouettes of men
      embracing. The boy with pierced ears is poised
      to nmake his move. Overhead the sun conceals itself
      and waits for we passengers to tease open a scene.
      Like the anonymous brotherhood of the highway
      I will wake him into tasting. Like life imitates art
      and I’m joyriding through my anxious youth.

    175. rachela50@yahoo.com says:


      You once said to me
      “I learned I was a human this year”
      And I asked if I could write about it
      And I never wrote about it
      And the next year
      I fell in love with you
      And now I’m writing about it

    176. mshall says:

      Kilimanjaro: a hiker’s journey

      The final assent
      Sharp diamonds of excitement prickle my veins
      The rawness of four days hiking throbs in my feet
      Night curls around the tent
      Camp Barafu, camp snow
      Upepo, my vicious friend, swoops down the slopes
      Like an eagle at 4600 meters
      Screeching her mastery over the African plains below

      The darkness is inky when they shake me awake
      Siyo vizuri sana
      I am really not well
      The sharp diamonds penetrated my stomach
      Hurling out the contents of last night’s dinner
      Leaving only intense queasiness,
      An after taste of yesterday’s soaring euphoria
      Upepo laughs, as she licks the flaps of my tent

      An earthquake of shivers wracks my body
      Cold, cold, cold
      The snow is in my soul
      With glacial slowness
      A realization dawns on me.
      I am wearing no pants.
      An odd state for a shivering hiker.
      But how to put the pants on?
      One must necessarily start with left or right.
      Left or right?
      An impossible riddle.
      Left or right?
      I don’t know.
      Upepo dives gleefully left and right

      The night is a crystal
      Multi-faceted walls of coldness
      Unshatterable mercilessness
      Left foot, right foot
      Siyo vizuri sana
      Left foot, right foot
      Left foot, halt
      I huddle behind a boulder the size of my fist
      Upepo finds me, singing to me her lullaby of the ages

      You can’t sleep here
      Mbona? Why the hell not?
      Only upepo knows the answer.
      Left foot, right foot,
      Left foot, up
      Why do people climb mountains?
      Why do people go up?
      Left foot, right foot,
      Left foot, slowl.
      The pebbles become rocks become boulders
      There is no part of this I am enjoying

      The guide joins me behind a boulder
      Donna. An American woman.
      He loved her. He really, really loved her.
      She was to come next December.
      They were to have lived happily ever after.
      A dream ended suddenly by a drunk driver.
      A dream gone to shit.
      Only upepo is left to wipe away his tears
      With her icy claws.
      Left foot, right foot
      Left foot, onwards.
      Upepo hear my prayer!
      The moon rises,
      A crimson disc, a sliver of an apple on the horizon
      Spreading no light, retaining her brilliance like a precious gem
      Jealous. Only for her.
      A brilliant ruby.
      Upepo hear my prayer!

      A gradual faint lightening begins
      Almost imperceptible, like the turning of the tide
      Left foot, right foot
      Left foot, lighter
      Aura draws her curtains patiently,
      The rays of light illuminate all my loved ones
      I am carrying in my heart.
      Left foot, right foot,
      Left foot, gray.
      The inkiness recedes from my heart.
      There is a part of this I am enjoying.
      Left foot, right foot,
      Left foot, dawn.
      Breaks over me with tremendous stealth.
      You will make it,
      Says the guide.
      I had not considered any other possibility.
      You will make it,
      Sings upepo.
      I laugh at her. She does not know my way.
      Left foot, right foot,
      Left foot, summit.
      Upepo blows her frigid kiss
      before dashing off
      To accompany future hikers
      Up her rocky skirts.

    177. RebekahJ says:

      Letter to the Prison Book Program of the Lucy Parsons Bookstore

      The books arrived—thank you and God bless
      Here inside there are only blank gray walls
      You helped me see Bulgaria Alaska Mexico
      I need my GED and poetry I want to write

      Here inside there are only blank gray walls
      Please send a dictionary with as many words as you can find
      I need my GED and poetry I want to write
      And any history would be greatly appreciated

      Please send a dictionary with as many words as you can find
      I’m trying to learn English German French
      And any history would be greatly circulated
      Anything you send, we’ll make it last

      I’m trying to learn English German French
      You helped me see Bulgaria Alaska Mexico
      Anything you send we’ll make it last
      The books arrived—thank you and God bless

      Kimberly Gladman Jackson

    178. jasonlmartin says:

      Difficult Things

      If I could go back,
      My Jim, James, Jimbo.
      I would have more carefully orchestrated
      Shift, Clutch, Gas! Shift, Clutch, Gas!
      my ears with my eyes with my hands.
      I know this is my car, and it’s not an automatic,
      but the only way to learn is in rush hour traffic.

      I let you down when I stopped the car, got out,
      slammed the door and sat on curb. You screamed.
      This is not how a real man handles difficult things.
      I got back in, started the engine, got on the road…
      and am still driving, stalling, believing, disappointing, voyaging
      to overcome what it is in myself that so easily gives in to difficult things.
      I am proud of you, Jason, now get out there do better tomorrow.

    179. dandelionwine says:

      In Everything That Glimmers

      With harmless mischief,
      vibrant hues of here
      and now, a hint of breeze,
      a glint of sunlight, golden
      silence tripping after
      laughter strung from
      your best yarns, you
      listened as I questioned
      your whereabouts.

      I woke with a start
      of the answer.

      Sara Ramsdell

    180. Heidi says:


      On the road to Wheatfield Canyon
      a beetle hesitates crossing.
      I hear the click of heels on damp stone tarnished
      yellow, and the wheat stalks a windswept field.

      Too much noise on this road
      to Wheatfield Canyon—white noise—
      static interceptions—lips
      and tongue click on damp teeth.
      A phone call to our sister,

      a public announcement on airwaves skiing.
      On the road to Wheatfield Canyon; frozen ponds
      hold mermaids with goldfish tails trapped
      beneath a thin ice crust, glazed—their pixie faces blue,
      their perky breasts veiled behind a gauzy film of seaweed.

      A memory frozen of our
      father driving on the frozen
      lake in Iowa scaring little girls,
      and the coffins where the older
      sisters played among the dead.

      The detour bleeds a thin trail through
      a cactus forest, where purple prickly
      pears nourished our split lips,
      on the road to Wheatfield Canyon.
      Splintered limestone woven into a

      bridge teetered over the Salt Pits—
      a missing rung—We asked our father, where
      is the train–will it run over us?
      The leafy willow shrouded our swings.

      White jets streaked children’s hearts
      into tomorrow, where hope waited
      on a shelf in our mother’s closet behind
      hat boxes, fox fur stoles and a water heater.

      Beetles scuttle behind water pipes wet
      with loose paint. Radiators pop and sizzle.
      Our hair is rooted in black earth, our hands
      dig bricks—adobe mud—moist in steamy sun
      on this road to Wheatfield Canyon.

      The roaches shed their skin for steel plates,
      and mosquitoes scream over the dead well
      while stars navigate zig-zags. Our necks ache.
      The train looms over the horizon as the moon shuffles then
      sinks into an inky mire of tailbones and squids while

      the mermaid with the goldfish tail erupts into a butterfly.
      Our canvas died and died again.
      No one can take our place on the cold bathroom tiles.
      In Wheatfield Canyon, fever chewed through our cheeks chilled
      on black and white hexagons—Art Deco spun, the toilet flushed.

      The teacher killed the girls one by one. Year
      by year their teeth split and vomited bile.
      The furnace belched but no door barred the
      snakes from finding us hidden in closets
      counting, we held our breath…

      on the road to Wheatfield Canyon.
      We planted our feet into black earth and
      wheat refused to stop growing.
      Hand burns, blistered, and eyes peeled in
      scaly scabs—fatal liar…cheat…thief…

      Burden bearer for her mother’s grief.
      The constant drip, drip, drip wears on our resolve.
      We have swallowed the fire, and the magician paid
      the bus fare, and peanuts cost thirty cents a bag
      of Planters salted, in Oklahoma City.

      And we swam till cream puffs failed and the
      root pussed into eruptions, our first attempt to
      flee from Wheatfield Canyon. What was
      our mother’s sacrifice? Dead bodies naked
      on basement Gurneys spewing blood

      through penises as punishment if she
      talked…if we felt…if we broke our silence?
      This is Wheatfield Canyon. Do not be mesmerized
      by the gold swaying wheat on canyon’s edge, or
      soft breezes warm, and birdsong lullabies.

      If you do venture deeper into the wheat field
      no warning awaits, but a gaping hole, black
      and hideous, littered with bleached bones of innocents.
      This is the end, of the road, to Wheatfield Canyon.

      Heidi R. de Contreras

    181. First Time Abroad

      We bridged the distance
      with expectations
      that carried us
      high on the tail
      of a kite—

      Time became concave
      and we stepped quickly over—
      it became pocket change.

      We were not experienced travelers.
      Our attention ricocheted
      from one point to another
      and when we arrived
      it seemed like the blink of an eye
      and we had seen so much.

      Michael A. Wells

    182. bethwk says:

      The Six of Swords
      by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

      The woman in the azure blue scarf
      and the horns of the moon on her brow
      reached out and turned another card.

      And it was the very last card you wanted to see.
      And it was the only card you wanted.

      This is for your hopes and fears, she said,
      For that which you desire may be
      also that which you most dread.

      * * * *
      You hear the voice from your dream:
      You will take a voyage by water.
      In the prow of the barge, head bowed
      by the weight of all that is passing.
      The ferryman at work in the stern.
      The promised isle before you.

      Almost you can feel the breezes
      that beckon from across the water,
      but the grey mist of the shore behind
      still wraps you like a cloak.

      Soon you will feel the child stir beside you.
      Soon you will raise your head to the sunrise.
      Soon will come the moment
      when you cross from the tale of what was
      to the story of what will be.

    183. Home

      was home,
      almost more
      a hope than place,
      a destination
      dreamed of and often feared.
      There were battles still to fight,
      hidden scars to reveal and heal;
      he was home…the journey just begun.

    184. From the shore,
      to the sea,
      to the stars
      Always searching,
      seeking our place

      Worn through boots,
      sails raised high,
      starlit skies
      Still we venture,
      wander, and roam

    185. LizaMac says:


      The sail ship glides through glass.
      Trees rise on all sides.
      Peace streams through the breeze.
      White, blue, green harmonize.
      The sun sinks and colors
      Start to disappear
      Under crimsoning light
      Until all is dark,
      And only sound remains,
      lapping at the sides of certainty.
      Movement also,
      As the boat lurches
      Up and down
      Bearings or Anchors slip away.
      As perception dies
      Leaving only the question:
      How to get through the darkness?

      Where will I find myself
      When – if – the light returns.
      Being lost is now inevitable,
      I understand that now.
      Best hope is to wash up
      On some unexpected shore and
      Hope there’s a way to survive,
      Or that some help will come to rescue.
      But at least there’s the possible
      Peace of acceptance
      That all is finally


      The dizzy poems are travelling in pairs.
      The dizzy poems need help going up the stairs.
      The dizzy poems stand with feet apart.
      The dizzy poems hold on to shopping carts.
      The dizzy poems use canes to your amazement.
      The dizzy poems don’t care about fashion statements.
      The dizzy poems are tired of pesky questions.
      The dizzy poems don’t want any more suggestions.
      The dizzy poems are funny little elves.
      The dizzy poems just want to write themselves.

    187. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:

      narrow rutted lane
      misty birdsong setting for
      our conversation

    188. Paoos69 says:

      Friendship is a voyage
      from Spring to Winter foliage
      sometimes green
      sometimes cut and dry and mean

      Differences and arguments
      Tiffs and quarrels
      Over opinions and issues
      of action and morals

      Through thick and thin
      holding hands
      A bond unbroken
      Through words unspoken

      Only in traveling on
      there comes a rift
      of seemingly little things
      that lie adrift

      Pregnant silences
      Unresolved conversations
      A discussion distorted
      Only adds to the convolutions

      The voyage continues unabated
      Familiar faces suddenly strange
      Yet they bring a smile
      those memories range

      Waiting for another Spring
      when once again there will be bloom
      the crocuses will flower
      and the aroma will loom.

    189. Versesversus says:

      boxes doors slamming
      stacks up and give up
      the key. in the ignition
      turning pulling out of the
      drive away. jostling silently
      talking but muted fuzzy
      radio on. gray road wheels
      and too large narrow lanes.
      behind us lines cars distant
      memories already wishing
      he came but traffic jam
      frustration too many
      thoughts and him and new
      red taillights flashing turn
      away from he didn’t come
      I didn’t should’ve asked
      to(o) new unloading boxes
      stacks down sinks spirits
      new key new sadness new
      no place to call home.
      -Megan Reyna-

    190. sharon4 says:

      Toward Juneau

      No ground but the glacier calving to the shoals
      No ground but sea swells and tilted decks.
      Salt on your skin, on your tongue, the sun’s bright beaks
      in the dips of the waves. I found you on the ship’s bow
      Shivering, composing your face into a wan smile.
      Tissues crushed in your hand. Everywhere around us
      The merge of sky and sea, that dazzling mystery
      Without horizon, a blue almost white, almost ink.
      It’s wrong of me to be away. It’s wrong of me to
      experience such beauty without him.
      Your husband home, dying in increments.
      No shoreline in sight, just vertigo, sunlight,
      The cold plow and heave.

      Sharon Fagan McDermott

    191. Voyage of the Damned
      by Ashley Marie Egan

      Damned are these souls,
      That sail across dead seas,
      Seeking treasure more precious than gold,
      Pillaging the land of echoes,
      Desperate for a spark of life,
      To illuminate the hollows of their ship,
      And mask their sins before judgment,
      On their voyage of damnation.

      A little nervous. I’ve never posted any of my poems in the comments before. Good luck to everyone.

    192. Astrid Egger says:

      At the soles of your feet

      At three weeks old
      water was seeping in
      your footed one piece

      covering your thighs
      and nudging your diaper
      not yet soaked

      your soft wailing
      pierced my thoughts
      like an obsidian tool

      the notice of closure
      for the overland trail
      dislodged in my brain

      The neighbourhood children
      were dragging their feet
      past grey green sea asparagus

      Its ashes once used
      for glassmaking; the succulent
      often inside the pickle jar

      Still bragging about who
      was first to look through
      the hole of the Pesuta

      a shooner stranded
      in 1927 at the mouth
      of the Tlell River

      No choice but to
      Carry them, one by one
      across the widening creek

      you were the last
      to ford across, hoping
      to avoid a further misstep.

      My mind pleading
      That you wouldn’t
      Catch pneumonia

      Promising to always
      Stick a tide chart
      In your diaper bag

      And I hurried
      To drive us home
      Without incident

      Some years later
      You would fear
      the Sasquatch

      and almost forget
      your city keys,
      buoyed by excitement

      to feel the tide
      tickling the soles
      of your feet.

    193. CathyBlogs says:

      And if Paris opens herself

      And if Paris opens herself
      to you and I
      for just one day,
      we shall dance along
      her luminous streets,
      ford the Seine over
      a bridge of locks.
      At the Louvre we shall not
      visit the victorious
      nor the enigmatic
      but linger at courtyard table,
      sipping Diet Coke and
      eating salty fries.
      We shall circumnavigate
      flying buttresses and
      riotous gardens at Notre Dame,
      peer inside at rose windows
      and apostles, forget to
      pray, then use our
      euros for cheap souvenirs
      at the cross-street shop.
      Upon the roof of a shining
      rumbly red trolley bus
      we shall be carried
      down the Champs d’Elysees,
      even as the sun’s radiant spell
      casts upon us this somnolent
      afternoon, we pass by cars
      and cafes, shoppers
      and strollers, in silent suspension
      forever, or a second,
      or long as a lingering
      traffic signal –
      ah, this last lovely hour,
      my beau companion,
      let us away, we
      wing to Tour Eiffel,
      scale the lattice curves
      of Pillar Nord, finally find
      our way to the top,
      where Paris surrounds
      us at last, the city
      a cloudy dream
      from which
      we will

    194. Earth

      Trust has borne me up and down mountains
      so many times, I’ve got skinned knees
      from climbing.
      Maybe the worst part is how
      I still let it, even if I expect the fall.
      Because in some ways,
      I’m just looking to be proved wrong.

      I have crossed the oceans
      in my own chest,
      looking for answers to questions
      I never knew how to ask.
      I am unashamed of the crew I’ve lost at sea,
      or the way my skin tastes more like salt
      than anything.

      If life is a two-way street,
      then I’ve been looking to make a u-turn
      for the last hundred miles.
      But I’ve followed it so far,
      there’s no point in stopping.
      So here’s to chasing a sunset
      around the belly of the world
      and calling it Love,
      when it’s really just earth.

      • Janet Rice Carnahan says:

        Love your line, “If life is a two-way street, then I’ve been looking to make a u-turn.” Great description of a real life journey!

    195. drwasy says:


      You are on a different journey;
      for the first time
      you are ahead
      of me.

      Your face looks wan
      through the back window.

      At the stoplight
      you wave.
      A glimmering of you.

      Your health worker
      leans over you, laughs
      at something you say.

      Valentine is his name—
      a big man.

      The light turns green.
      The ambulance
      eases forward.
      I follow.

    196. “The Longest Journey”

      I hate to take this trip,
      It happens every night.
      While fairies dance inside my head
      Or monsters give me fright.

      Sometimes I travel more than once,
      And it costs a hefty fee.
      I’d rather stay inside my bed,
      But of course, I have to pee.

      So I drag my feet across the floor
      And wipe the dribble from my chin.
      My man has left the seat quite up
      And, yes, I’ve fallen in.

      And when I’m finally done
      I make the trek back to my bed.
      My sheets welcome me with open arms
      But tomorrow, my man is dead.

    197. daydreamwriter says:


      I bleed the ink.
      My pen nibs from.
      I etch the passion.
      On this parchment.
      As if it were your skin.

      If you would see.
      The colors in my desire.
      My words would come to life.
      Flow through your veins.
      Bring warmth to your soul.

      One day you will dust off the years.
      Hold those delicate pages of mine.
      As I hold you today.
      Reflect the love that is.
      My voyage to your heart.

    198. Hayley says:


      Longer than any distance
      is the space between words–

      there must be a Wrote
      for there to be Writing,
      and writing to reach
      Have Written.

    199. India says:

      ~Two Leaves~

      Two leaves and a bud.
      Plucked, cooked, dried,
      and rolled. Carried from sea to shore.
      Strained here into my canary yellow teapot.

      Taste it, the colors of India,
      a swirl of smells, taste the rush,
      the hum, the spices, and chaos.
      All packed into my cup.

      The journey it has come
      makes every sip

    200. encrerouge says:

      the legend of the contemporary puzzle

      they are dancers in a triangle
      trying to abridge the waters,
      from this continent to the world
      the soil unites with a hum

      to the just and fearless
      let the waters touch your feet
      and as this ship rejuvenates
      follow the fall to rise

      to the loss but not forgotten
      in the ripples you will find the note
      harmonize beyond the fire
      and become the tail of light

      returning to a spiritual Pangaea
      to gather the four letter word
      among the pores and the skin
      Chile, you are not alone

    201. SestinaNia says:

      Got to spend some time today with Wyoming State Poet Laureate Echo Kalproth–so much fun to hear from her and then get to write and share with her!

      Here’s my poem for the day–


      The distance between
      me and you
      is not unfathomable—
      we need no ship, sure of mast,
      to traverse aquamarine waves;
      no guide required
      to lead us along the rocky
      precipice; not even a map—
      crinkled from years of consultation,
      cities worn to oblivion
      along the folds—
      can make the path clearer.

      You are right next
      to me in the garden,
      hand extended—
      but I am
      an angel encased
      in stone,
      unable to unfurl my wings.

      –Sara Doyle

    202. LizaMac says:

      Morning in Helsinki

      Jet-lagged, I wake up in a land
      I’ve never seen in daylight.
      If I want to eat, I’ll need to
      Take a trip in search of food,
      Incomprehensible to a foreign tongue.

      It’s cold, but already the sun is fighting
      Its way to the top of tall buildings,
      Doing its part to relieve our frozen numbness.
      Its light gilds, makes warm, the many colors
      Glowing from unexpected architectural forms.

      Domes suddenly appear in the distance
      Snatches of sea surprise at different angles.
      I am surrounded by a new world, discovered in the old.
      Who knew a city could be this clean,
      Shining, beautiful, utterly unexpected?

      I arrive at the store and shuffle
      Down narrow aisles, annoying everyone
      As this stupid foreigner peers and
      Peers again at unfathomable labels.
      I somehow pay and hope it was food
      I bought, not rat poison or dead reindeer
      (Which is very popular, I hear).

      Finally, I step back into the streets and smile
      Almost hoping to lose my way on the journey back,
      As I slowly drink in new possibilities
      Rising from the past;
      The delectable variety of this
      New short-term future.

    203. Why We Search

      We go looking for the bodies
      familiar, voices we understand, the arms out
      of reach, the eyes we cannot see
      in our own mirrors. We wish
      to lay down our heads
      on pillows, wrapped inside soft blankets, curled up
      as in the beginning. We need
      to discover why we breathe, why
      we need, always need, to smell
      musk like a memory that can put
      us at ease. We push, we must
      know our cells, the truth of ourselves,
      the reason all along.

    204. Other Mary says:

      A slightly different sort of voyage:

      This morning
      as usual
      I stumbled
      down the stairs
      for coffee
      like a heat-seeking missile
      if heat-seeking missiles
      were slow and wobbly
      so not really
      like a heat-seeking missile
      at all
      more like
      a caffeine-seeking zombie
      if zombies
      sought caffeine
      rather than brains
      not yet fully conscious
      not yet able to form
      sensible metaphors or similes
      it took until the seventh stair
      the squeaky one
      the one that should get the grease
      but no that’s wheels
      to register
      that it didn’t matter
      the squeak wouldn’t wake you
      sleeping across town
      in someone else’s bed


    205. beale.alexis says:

      “The Arrival”

      I grab my iPod and run
      around my neighborhood twice.
      My feet beat the ground;
      with each step
      I’m crushing
      the darkness and frustration
      out of me.
      My lunges are hollering
      that I’ve gone too far,
      that I’ve exceeded my limit.
      Take a break. Drink
      and quench your thirst.
      That will make you feel better,
      not this. This futile attempt to
      But I’m almost there
      I whisper through cracked lips.
      Where is there? The voice inside
      my head mocks.

      I pause to change the song on my iPod and
      In that moment of complete silence
      I hear the birds singing and chirping.
      I hear the dog barking down the street.
      I hear the Mr. and Mrs. laughing.
      I hear cars whizzing past me
      and honking, yelling for me to get out
      of the middle of the road.
      I look up
      and see
      that I’m already here.

    206. poppyherrin says:

      Voyage of a Promise

      A heartless trade to deal with words
      tenderly made like feathered birds,

      to send them forth to fly alone
      through dark and fearful skies unknown.

      I fear to learn what morning brings
      should they return with broken wings.

      Poppy Herrin

    207. Christi says:

      “On Free Will”

      ships without sails still drift
      moved by the same moon
      that kneads the wind and water
      even Jupiter can’t stop.

    208. anloebick says:


      The spine cracks,
      A satisfying moment,
      Inhale, savor
      The thick musty pages.

      The uneven edges,
      Cut by an uncaring knife.
      It has character,
      This leather-bound tome.

      Title page,
      Chapter one.

      Off I go!
      A hobbit’s tale
      A kingdom of long-ago
      Lost among the stars.

      Once upon a time,
      Build-up, tensions rise
      Climax! Resolution!
      The end.

      What an incredible journey!

    209. DCR1986 says:

      A Journey through PAD

      Oh, Pen!
      Oh, Pen!
      Wake up, wake up!
      Crank up your inking soul.
      Let it spill outta here.
      We have a mission to complete
      And it’s only thirty days deep!
      And you riding shotgun,
      Guess who is accompanying us?
      Metaphor and Simile.

      Ready now?
      First, exit south after merging a title
      For what we prose and think.
      Then, yield eyes and hand from West to East,
      Exploring feelings and exchanging them for show,
      As we stanza ourselves down below.
      Dressed in jet on cruise control,
      Descending on white with blue parallel streets–
      Mapping out life’s mountains and valleys
      On countless detours sheet after sheet.

      In meters, singing-out-loud numerous of ballads and odes,
      Until rhyme and rhythm occasionally meet us—
      Parked by alliteration and onomatopoeias.
      Oh, pen!
      Oh, pen?
      Are you sleeping again?

    210. Angie5804 says:

      For my Voyage poem I have made a Minute Poem. The Minute Poem is rhyming verse form consisting of 12 lines of 60 syllables written in strict iambic meter. The poem is formatted into 3 stanzas of 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4 syllables. The rhyme scheme is as follows:aabb, ccdd, eeff

      Don’t know which way the winds will blow
      I do not know
      Will rains be soft
      Keep love aloft?

      I can’t tell if it’s flow or ebb
      The water’s web
      It’s fingers cold
      The grasp foretold

      I can’t discern here in the mist
      Through swirls and twists
      Can’t tell which way
      To go today

    211. Cin5456 says:

      The Journey

      I went from there to here.
      I’ll turn around and
      go from here to there.
      When I reach the start,
      I will be at the end.
      I am no longer as I was
      when I began this journey.
      One thousand days in
      one thousand places does not
      describe my journey even by half.

      On one day of this journey,
      I awoke beside a river bank
      and watched an otter play.
      When I laughed, he dove
      and swam down river.
      As I cooked my morning meal
      I watched a doe and fawn
      tiptoe to the water for a drink.
      The sound of the spoon
      touching the fry pan
      sent them scurrying, still thirsty.
      Later, on the edge of a town,
      A child played ball by himself.
      When he saw me approaching
      he abandoned his ball to run home.

      In the span of two hours, I discovered
      that my presence causes changes.
      I decided that I do not wish
      to be scary. I do not wish
      to cause harm or bring alarm.
      I am no longer who I was
      when I began that day.

      Consider the possible changes wrought
      during one thousand days
      and one thousand places.
      When you hear, ‘Getting there is
      half the journey,’ look inward
      to find the journey
      you might have missed.
      My journey has lasted a lifetime,
      and is not over yet.

    212. inkysolace says:


      I wake on a train with cream dabbed on the corners
      of my lips. Outside is a spectacle–blurred
      trains with white chocolate taillights, plucked
      by the fingers of a patient child.

      We do not stop until the edges of our seats turn
      the crinkly brown of melted chocolate, our hair
      tied up with pink icing bows.

      The oven doors open and we tumble out like ash
      into the day’s warm spit. Candy-stained fingers
      point to half-eaten clouds suspended with wire.

      “This is your new home. An assembly line
      that has forgotten the meaning of sweetness.”

    213. viclopab says:

      PAD Day 2: “The Dark Heralds” by César Vallejo

      Just as there always comes a time in which we feel, inevitably, the dark heralds of life arriving upon us, to beat on our flesh or the flesh of those we love; Vallejo’s poem still gets us again and again, and while it doesn’t soften the blows, it explains them beautifully…


    214. That band from Brooklyn is amazing

      There is always a wrong turn,
      a missed exit -
      some sort of detour from the path
      that ends up in front of my house,
      or at a show to see a band we both
      love. How many flat tires can a car
      sustain? How many highways can one
      take in the wrong direction before
      feeling slighted? Still, plans will
      be made again, online invites will
      be confirmed and best intentions
      will result in a late night drive
      to bar in Philly where I will stand
      against a cold pole in a packed room,
      close my eyes while the music engulfs,
      surrounded by strangers and your
      empty promises.

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        really love this poem. what i love most is how I feel your spirit in the poem. The poem is not mechanical but breaths:0). Your beautiful pauses are also very good. Well done!

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        On Our Romantic Get Away

        Let us ride the wings of our youth
        or grab it by tail, so it can drag us through our best years-
        years we are to spend, living life up, together,
        birthing and believing in new things,
        buying fine china, and books of how to make love,
        and thinking that it doesn’t get better than this-
        flying to timeless golden places,
        in which, not even in our infinite moments of self pleasure,
        could we ever say we reached.

    215. Head Trip

      Let me take you
      on a trip through
      my brain. The little
      purple flags sticking up
      represent my creative
      curves, which, as you
      can see, drop down
      to a valley of yellow–
      a warning for me
      to pay attention,
      not my strong suit.
      Notice the small green
      hills. They are rich
      and fertile, as is my
      compassion. Step over
      that gray rock–a murky
      attempt at hand crafts–
      and you have now reached
      the end section, red ropes
      of fire from a younger age.

    216. miaokuancha says:

      April 2, 2014

      Prompt: Voyage


      Five o’clock in the morning.
      Tai Chi on the lawn of the summer school.
      The dew is fresh.
      Watching the sunlight walk horizontal through the trees.
      Yin and yang.
      Shadow and bright.
      It walks as it rises.
      Twenty-four years old.

      Seven o’clock in the evening.
      The leaves haven’t turned yet.
      Standing on the deck looking out over the yard.
      Watching the sunlight walk horizontal through the trees.
      Yang and yin.
      Bright and shadow.
      It walks as it sets.
      Forty-four years old.

      It walks.

      “It Walks”


    217. Jenn Todd Lavanish says:

      In my self

      Frozen my mind hovers in fog
      Waiting for a flare.
      The siren’s call,
      A muse’s magic,
      Tuning fork vibrations,

      I need help,
      Small prayers,
      Sparks for my inspiration.

      Tools and tasks await my presence
      Routine seeps into my soul
      And becomes daily practice for my body.

      Haunting aches for the yet to come
      Lay dormant in hibernating creations.

      Time is my thief,
      Staccato with long pregnant pauses
      Interrupting my imagination,
      How do I spark?
      The fog is thick.

      My spirit is in quicksand
      Sinking some each day
      Self-critique weighs me down

      I force my way,
      Do something everyday

      Process takes away dismay
      The product ignites my mind
      For another day.

      The fog is never here to stay.

    218. ckays1967 says:

      traveling without headlights
      the way home is a muscle memory
      turn left, turn right and follow the road

      home is in the cul de sac


      bad news use to be an announcement
      shared from one person to another

      a ringing phone
      and a Daddy lost

      a morning bathroom break
      and a best friend gone

      but technology shatters the soft cushioning
      of; “I’m so sorry but they are gone.”

      while your parents worried over telling you
      a social media post broke the news of
      your friend’s chosen journey to death


      suddenly I was traveling without headlights
      counting on my muscle memory to carry you

    219. Adrift

      She sails through memories,
      sometimes alighting on
      a decades-gone short,
      sometimes re-tossed by
      long-quelled tempests.
      She sends reports back,
      now and again, brief
      as postcards, but far
      less comprehensible.

    220. MMC says:

      Selfie, Anyone?

      Cruise ships
      take me out to sea,
      to distant lands where
      sunsets and sleep
      are the main attraction

    221. Megaparsec says:

      Alaska Ho

      We set sail under a cloudless sky
      Me, my aunts, my cousins and I

      To cruise the great Alaskan expanse
      Me and my cousins, I and my aunts

      Our friends and family asked us “why?”
      My aunts and me, my cousins and I

      Our travel fun we wished to enhance
      I and my cousins, me and my aunts

      We did not know what we would see
      My cousins and I, my aunts and me

      Perhaps bears, and birds, and whales by the dozens
      Me and my aunts, I and my cousins

      We wished to “mush” and zip through the trees
      I and my cousins, my aunts and me

      I said, “How ’bout we scuba dive?”
      No aunts, no cousins, just me and I

      But that’s okay, lots of time had we
      My aunts and I, my cousins and me

      To talk of our go’ins and com’ins
      My aunts and I, me and my cousins

      In the end I was just glad to be
      I with my aunts, my cousins, and me

      For we did it all and didn’t die
      Me, my cousins, my aunts, and I

    222. ivywriter says:

      family Reunion haiku

      Every single year
      family treks to a new place
      to let love abound

    223. MeenaRose says:

      Opportunity Comes Knocking
      By: Meena Rose

      Strikes randomly;
      Eager souls ensnared.

      Comes knocking
      On every door.

      To lands;
      Discovering new loves.

      Freely shared;
      New found friends.

      Enriched gratefully;
      Humanity renews hope.

    224. Here I am Holding
      Skimming the green, velveteen hills on my drive
      to work I see a large muddy sheep own
      a low lying field. She is completely
      alone. Rain has left this place softened and pooled
      and she carries the weight of it in the folds
      of her unshorn wool. Sky spindled above.
      Split between decisions: one end darkened
      as the wet earth, the other lit behind
      in syrupy golden light. No one knows
      what lies ahead. The sharp bend in the road
      seems dangerous and small in the dim light.
      Tomorrow, the same road under a different sky.
      The sheep shorn. The field dried. A universe
      lost and found in a single morning.

    225. verniedee says:

      It was at the airport
      When I realized
      I was finally leaving
      With a one-way ticket on my left,
      And a macchiato on my right.
      I finally sighed and said,
      “This is it.”

      As I took a step closer,
      I also took one farther

      Closer to life,
      Closer to a brave new world
      But not like Aldous Huxley’s
      Closer to dreams
      Closer to hopes

      Further from a cage
      I had to call home
      Further from love
      Further from forever
      Further from you.

      As I stepped into the airplane,
      This humungous,
      Pressurized vehicle
      I’ll be calling home for 18 hours,
      You were the first image
      That came to mind
      Our last hug,
      The last look
      The last kiss.

      I closed my eyes,
      And waited
      18 hours
      2 meals
      5 trips to the lavatory
      3 in-flight movies

      And as we landed,
      I said to myself,
      “Well.. I guess
      This is home.”

      -V. Del Mundo

    226. 5555 says:

      The voyage began in Kuala Lampur.
      It took a wrong turn and was heard from no more.
      “Alright, Good night” were the words someone said,
      And before very long all were missing, feared dead.
      The search lingers on for bones, metal or trash.
      Reporters and others report and rehash.
      The whole world wonders and worries and screams,
      while the writing of documents fills paper by reams.
      There may never be closure to the sad tale of woe
      Of Malaysian Airlines flight 370.

    227. PSC in CT says:


      Let me travel
      like the trees –
      delighting in the trip.
      Not seedlings newly sown,
      but those Ancient Ones –
      seeded, rooted eons ago –
      with feet firmly planted,
      yet, still reaching for the sky;
      accompanied by old friends,
      savoring the journey.
      Providing sustenance, sanctuary,
      even entertainment for fellow travelers;
      slumbering under the stars,
      bestirring at the blush of dawn,
      singing with the wind, dancing in the rain,
      greeting each evening
      with fingers full of moonlight.


    228. The process of whaling with a fishing net

      Have you seen the watery part of the world?
      That salty air has bleached and sandblasted
      the color from my beard, turned the lips
      of my grim-set mouth into those of
      a weather-worn statue, with a face so cracked
      the slightest of smiles could cause an avalanche.

      That scent is despondency, a shared disillusionment
      secreted like sweat from all men into this sea of words,
      where the wind only exists to knock your hat off
      and make you feel as hopeless as an untethered rope
      slapped repeatedly against the mast.

      Here, you turn yourself into a fishing net,
      a tool ill-fitted for the task at hand,
      most of us laves or throw nets,
      cast repeatedly into the chilly waters
      and hauled back with scant quarries
      of over-used cliches and unused suicide notes.

      The repetition wears on the knots,
      lets loose weighted stone after weighted stone
      until some are lost in the currents,
      a ghost of monofilament thread
      carried out into godlessness
      where the only salvation
      could be a shark’s stomach.

      It’s an illusion, the whale that calls us,
      like the way something cold can feel wet,
      yet some hone their longing, their faded eyes
      always searching that shadowed horizon
      for sign of that great idea cresting a wave
      with a spout of mist, their arthritic fingers
      already whittled down, sharp as harpoons.

    229. Margot Suydam says:

      Silent Thought

      All the years earthy Sif watched
      candles burn down to the wick

      before retiring to bed alone
      maybe she couldn’t care less

      that her husband was forever
      sailing on some crashing wave

      of tragic adventure or critical
      confrontation. Maybe sighing

      was a form of release, a relief
      hidden in the sweaty blankets

      of an already-cooling marriage.
      Missing her Thor was draining

      her reserves, her hand-maidens
      thought as they replaced the wax

      everyday, listening for his roar
      as if it could be cherished forever.

      Yet we forget, that quiet darkness
      is where willing wives often wait.

    230. spacerust says:

      “Journey43″ by Karl Avila

      Troubled seamen
      Fighting the inevitable
      Desperate to survive
      Battering waves
      Slamming into them
      One after another
      Ceasing to never end
      All the hope in the world
      Prayers to God for a chance to live
      One by one
      Swept overboard
      ‘Till no one left on deck
      Once living, now lost to see
      One by one
      They faded
      Sinking slowly
      Into the depths of the dark sea
      Never remembered
      Never forgotten
      Ship drifting onward
      Without a destination
      Wood creaking
      No one could hear
      Swallowed forever
      Memories of here

    231. Angie K says:

      Call it what you wish

      You call it a voyage,
      I say it’s a trip.
      While you see a freighter,
      I just see a ship.
      You say it’s gigantic,
      I agree it’s rather large,
      But it’s not the Titanic –
      We’re just riding on a barge.

    232. spacerust says:

      “Journey 43″ by Karl Avila

      Troubled seamen
      Fighting the inevitable
      Desperate to survive
      Battering waves
      Slamming into them
      One after another
      Ceasing to never end
      All the hope in the world
      Prayers to God for a chance to live
      One by one
      Swept overboard
      ‘Till no one left on deck
      Once living, now lost to see
      One by one
      They faded
      Sinking slowly
      Into the depths of the dark sea
      Never remembered
      Never forgotten
      Ship drifting onward
      Without a destination
      Wood creaking
      No one could hear
      Swallowed forever
      Memories of here

    233. danieletu says:

      Voyage Poem

      One step
      In any direction
      Begins an odyssey.

      Step forward
      Part the veils of destiny
      To reach enlightenment

      Step backward
      Lift the mists of the past
      To cleanse the soul

      Left – Right
      Skim the edge of the vortex
      To obtain inner peace

    234. Womb and Dust

      The journey
      always begins
      in the womb

      in the dust
      of the earth

    235. Richard Fenwick says:

      From Manchester to Merrimack

      The cars move in a single file,
      the procession, like a snake
      winding behind the hearse,
      immersed as we are in the ritual.
      At the tail, I watch it slither,
      the lead car in a wide right turn
      while I make a hairpin left,
      the sum of us in our quiet dirge
      under a layer of gray that tosses
      handfuls of rain. Last night,
      a niece called for sun, high
      enough to warm our faces, yet
      I am glad for the gray, glad
      to be at the tail of this thing,
      somber enough to see it slink
      across the wet wheat fields.
      This deliberate task must move
      like the reptile, it demands
      the gray and a couple of drops
      of rain. It must be slow.
      Arrived, I close the door
      and feel a drop pit upon me.
      There is nothing more lonely,
      I think as I enter the field,
      than a blue and cloudless sky.

      • miaokuancha says:

        Serious wordsmithing here.

        “like the reptile it demands”

        I know you have a comma in there, to make a different sense. But putting these words together on one line makes such an evocative combination.

        “feel a drop pit upon me”

        First the impact, as if drops could leave pits on the face.
        Then the pun with viper …


    236. April 2 PAD prompt – journey.

      Today I created a haiga in response to the prompt to write about a trip or journey. The image is a photo which I manipulated digitally to achieve the effect of a Japanese painting (I hope) It can be seen here:http://wabisabipoet.wordpress.com/2014/04/02/poem-a-day-april-2/

      spent seed pod-
      a sudden hungering
      for a second chance

    237. Bucky Ignatius says:

      Phoenix to Eternity

      Across the Colorado,
      north of Yuma, through
      the passes where mountains
      of the great Mojave
      clump in small ranges
      like neighborhoods,
      named for their part
      in the namer’s dream:

      Castle Dome, Dome Rock,
      Eagletail and Trigo.
      Old Woman,
      Big Maria,
      Palomas, Plomosa
      Chuckwalla and Chocolate.

      The old trail traces
      the wide Coachella Valley,
      Salton Sea to the south,
      then skirts the ‘Little’
      San Brenardinos curling
      north up into high desert
      magic where Joshua
      trees dance in the slowest
      motion, mammoth granite
      boulders stacked to the stars.

      Bucky Ignatius

    238. julie e. says:

      ROBERT–I am deeply shamed by what you can put out in what did you say, fifteen to twenty minutes? That’s crazy talk! Lol!


      And when she was born
      with her mama in jail
      she was given into other hands–
      And i held her like a mama would
      and i loved her like a mama would
      carefully squeezing a piece of
      my heart into hers
      like a mama would
      till the time came when i
      gave her back into mama’s hands
      piece of a mama’s heart
      still beating in her out there,
      traveling her life’s journey
      But some days when i
      think of her most,
      my heart beams a signal like
      a mothership
      to that missing piece.
      i wonder if she can feel it?

      • De Jackson says:

        Oh, Julie. MY heart. This is wonderful.
        I have a friend who is currently fostering the sweetest little one named Lyric. I can only imagine how hard this would/will be. Your words spill the love in your heart so well. What a gift.

      • Angie5804 says:

        This is so beautiful!

      • julie e. says:

        Thank you De–”Lyric.” What a special name like our Diamond! I appreciate your kind words so much!
        I really had to beat off The Rhymies yesterday but it was worth it. :-)

        Angie–thank you! It was such a unique experiment in motherhood. I definitely learned I could love another woman’s child like my own. :-)

    239. seingraham says:


      In the pitch that is night, I hear you
      A nightmare inexplicable has you
      terrified, and me quickly there;
      I hold your sweet sweaty self
      Feel your heartbeat drum
      panicky fast against my chest
      I rock you gently, murmur nothings,
      hum snatches of sounds I hope
      are soothing, as I try to lull you
      back to sleep.

      You beg me to take you on a trip,
      to help you escape
      It’s not the first time…
      Mixed with the scent of No More
      Tears shampoo, there’s something
      else…the aroma of childhood
      We settle back into the bed, get
      ready to ride the dragon
      There is nothing quite like climbing
      upon a purple-winged dragon
      and flying off to a perfect place
      And so we do…

    240. Mr. Walker says:

      She takes a road trip
      with her best friend.
      Seventeen years friends.

      I watch their progress
      on Facebook.
      Admire their photos.
      Press the like buttons.

      Wishful thinking?
      Perhaps a bit.
      Briefly, then gone.

      These passages,
      they are stops
      on my road trip.

    241. Journey of no roots

      The journey began,
      when time made room,
      for the birth of Adam.
      Showcasing his smooth
      red clay birthday suit.
      Although like Abraham,
      He would not take root,
      in the earth.
      But boasted in a life
      of the altar and the tent,
      As he walked and spent
      his time with God.

    242. Alpha1 says:


      While traveling
      Life’s rugged road
      You fell from heaven
      Into my path
      Leading this heart on a
      Soaring on the delicate
      Wings of love
      Upwards we traveled
      Higher and closer we came
      To the clouds when
      Without warning
      Without provocation
      It seemed
      We spiraled downward where
      You released me
      And dropped this heart
      Back down to earth
      Back down to life’s
      Rugged road looking
      For the way home

    243. jenreyneri says:

      -Waiting for Asheville

      then dreams and miles
      lift me from rhythms of
      the daily grind and encourage
      (un) wine-ing-
      coffee grinding
      town of charm, art

    244. Bucky Ignatius says:

      Phoenix to Eternity

      Across the Colorado,
      north of Yuma, through
      the passes where mountains
      of the great Mojave
      clump in small ranges
      like neighborhoods,
      named for their part
      in the namer’s dream:

      Castle Dome, Dome Rock,
      Eagletail and Trigo.
      Old Woman,
      Big Maria,
      Palomas, Plomosa
      Chuckwalla and Chocolate.

      The old trail traces
      the wide Coachella Valley,
      Salton Sea to the south,
      then skirts the ‘Little’
      San Brenardino’s curling
      north up into high desert
      magic where Joshua
      trees dance in the slowest
      motion, mammoth granite
      boulders stacked to the stars.

      Bucky Ignatius

    245. jakkels says:

      I threw open the cover undecidedly; A platoon of poetic phrases ambushed my mind Even as they marched my eyes down the page My mind inhaled the magic and flew with images Through dark, slimy caverns of despair Were ravenous dogs of memory Lusted after morsals of pleasure Ever out of reach. Through graveyards of friendships Were tolling bells banished ghosts of hope To anonymous pitchfork mobs. Through volcanoed halls of anger Were molten emotions ran like words Along painful bleeding paths. Through living jungles of thoughts Where inky monkeys laid paths of scintilating words Leading to castles of technicolor air. Past meadows and beaches and firelit rooms Were beauteous maidens or handsome men Waited with impassioned expectancy Past portraits of Valor, Sacrifice, Success Changing like videos as the eye them beholds. To hazy halls of shifting scenes where phantoms enact life dramas On an unseen stage. then I closed the book.

    246. kimdorfman says:


      It’s been a long journey, the one from daughter to orphan,
      21 years now, and four parents gone.

      The fathers, bookends on that trip—each grew sicker still, and died, both on my watch, under my care.

      ‘92 snuffed the first, in early May, such new grief ruining forever the first real week of spring every year, the one when trees burst tight buds, litter sidewalks white with waves of castoff petals, and the air sweet, lilac, redolent.

      Even now, those glorious details leap out from winter’s pall to summon…an unfathomably dull sadness, until I remember.

      Early this raw winter, the second dad ambled, then rushed away, in a season so rife with everything. Everything needing attention—every deadline competing— all at once– for me.

      That month of his dying marked the final time my role as daughter would ever compete with that of mother. Every day brought fresh obligation. Whose needs should come first, the kids’ or my sick dad’s?

      All I knew was mine came last, though I couldn’t feel a thing, simply stalked the line as it curved, one foot ahead of the other, blind.

      From beginning to end, that trip spanned twenty-one years of children born, jobs exchanged, relationships woven in, out and under like colorful Maypole streamers.

      I was young, too young, to properly care for my first dying father. But, now, now…perhaps it is apt there lives no insulation between my generation and death.

    247. On Venus and the Sailor

      Happily I wander
      Searching for places
      Where sky touches sea.
      I’m curving for contact
      For you are my Venus
      And the sailor is me.

    248. I write running poems where the title is my distance, time, and the date.

      3.16 Miles, 32 Minutes 4/2/14

      Salmon and lavender
      of cloud.

      Geese horn their way
      through the wakening sky,

      their signal to each other that they
      are together in flight.

      So opposite
      from our honks, warning when
      we get too near one another.

      The heron sits frozen above
      the river. Still as a meditation.

      When the sun crests the hill,
      he spreads his wings, warming
      from statue to life.

    249. Forward and Back Again

      Breathe In
      Breathe Out
      Shake All
      about. You’ve
      got to get
      that monster

      Up to the
      to slay
      The dragon
      too late it’s
      changed it’s

      Down to the
      river. To wash
      away your sins.
      Why did you
      let them in?
      Purify yourself
      from within.

      Back to the start.
      You think this
      is the end. But
      sugar be careful
      because it always
      starts again.

    250. I write running poems where the title is my distance, time, and the date.

      3.16 Miles, 32 Minutes 4/2/14

      Salmon and lavender
      of cloud.

      Geese horn their way
      through the wakening sky,

      their signal to each other that they
      are together in flight.

      So opposite
      from our honks, warning when
      we get too near one another.

      The heron sits frozen above
      the river. Still as a meditation.

      When the sun crests the hill,
      he spreads his wings, warming
      from statue to life.

    251. DanielAri says:


      and when we shipped for Saigon the contrasts
      were so pronounced, I didn’t start to notice
      until years later, when I was out of the Navy—
      how, for starters, it was night, not day, and
      how no women stood on tiptoe on the docks
      waving hankies and crying teardrops like lost
      diamonds from heaven, how no fanfare fanned
      at all as we plunged in to carry out the orders
      already ejected from the perpetual grimace
      of the PO. It was late when I went, and timing
      was the bullet I dodged. We made it there and
      headed for home within the same calendar
      month. To think I was disappointed then at
      the trip made for nothing and not the absence
      of women waving on the docks, coming or going.
      They should have been there when I came back
      to the states, calling “Bon Voyage, Eugene!
      Look us up when you get back home!” Which
      that guy, of course, never could have done.

      —FangO (by the good graces of DA)

    252. lshannon says:

      A trip not yet taken
      vast stretches of empty route ways
      cut off and preserved.

      Alone-time with her
      dust and faded neon
      roadside attractions
      distract and humor
      and still amaze

      Time honored meals and
      diner destinations
      retro in the preserved present
      the curled edges of postcards
      patches and souvenir spoons
      dust settled and resettled

      A caravan of
      comfortable convenience
      with nothing but time
      and the next stop
      to bring us together
      catching up on years apart
      singing forgotten songs
      on a real radio
      tuner dials and static
      and sorting through snapshots
      her past is my past

      Her laughter and
      tear filled eyes
      childlike delight and
      fussy discoveries

      What can and cannot be consumed
      a part of each meal plan

      Wisdom and warmth
      constant in my life of inconsistencies
      this precious time
      as yet unclaimed
      a possible regret

      To claim this path
      thoughts beyond self
      and schedules
      trading hours of
      precious priorities
      open the door and go

      Settle behind the wheel
      of expanding roads
      let the journey take us.
      before both the path
      and the companion
      become memory

      -Lauren Shannon

    253. I combined the PAD voyage prompt with the NaPoWriMo mythology prompt. This is an old Slavic myth of Morana and Jarilo:


      I am the cold.
      People say I am evil
      because my breath turns everything
      into ice.
      They fear my beauty
      and the wolf that sleeps inside me.
      I am Perun’s daughter,
      my mother is the Sun.
      I am born every winter
      As the clock strikes midnight
      And the New Year begins.
      With me, my brother,
      My husband, my only one.
      Stolen from his cradle, he wonders
      the underworld.
      Forgetting who he is,
      He seeks the warmth of the fire.
      I wait.
      He comes to me
      in summer.
      He never stays long.
      The winter makes him restless
      and he slithers underground
      where it’s always hot.

    254. Hobo

      Railroad trestle bridge high
      Over the great lake
      Where a town precariously
      Teeters on the cliff’s edge.
      The town floods every year:
      Clockwork, like the train comes
      Twice a day, elevated track
      Someone knew to build that way,
      Chugging past the rowboats
      Floating by the attic windows.
      Not many female indigents those
      Days, she came with the five o’clock
      Jumped from the rusted boxcar
      Someone’s daughter, or mother
      Clutching a faded tapestry knapsack
      She knew how to fade out of view
      Into the line of trees, step into an alley
      A town, perched on a lake like that
      The way it might perish with the next hard rain
      She could inhabit a place like that.

    255. Hobo

      Railroad trestle bridge high
      Over the great lake
      Where a town precariously
      Teeters on the cliff’s edge.
      The town floods every year:
      Clockwork, like the train comes
      Twice a day, elevated track
      Someone knew to build that way,
      Chugging past the rowboats
      Floating by the attic windows.
      Not many female indigents those
      Days, she came with the five o’clock
      Jumped from the rusted boxcar
      Someone’s daughter, or mother
      Clutching a faded tapestry knapsack
      She knew how to fade out of view
      Into the line of trees, step into an alley.
      A town, perched on a lake like that
      The way it might perish with the next hard rain
      She could inhabit a place like that.

    256. rebrog says:


      If I reach across
      the aisle of the train
      and touch your arm
      or say your name
      and if it’s you
      all these years passed
      knocking back the contents
      of that glass, with a hand
      that mapped such intimate cartography
      it felt like an extension of my body
      if I reach out
      and if it’s you
      will you be ready
      to forgive me.

    257. barbara_y says:

      The Voyages of Hedgehogs

      We are round and gray.
      Pink and spiky. We’re strange
      common. Ordinary-dull,
      uninteresting, fascinating, wild,
      made of odds and pieces, ripe,
      programable. We fish for bream
      with crickets and worms and big brass hooks.
      We travel with bottles of pills.

      Young, I was vegetable.
      My husk was green, unblighted
      chestnut. A squirrel removed my jacket.
      Silly things float down the gutter.
      Bolero jackets off chestnut hedgehogs,
      neon tennis balls, ruby rings
      dropped by careless snatch-and-grabmen.

      I imagine relatives who are urchins.
      Sea lanes above are bowled by pirates,
      and every mate, strange
      as a hedgehog.

    258. Donna_KM says:

      I don’t know if missionary work is counts toward the “voyage” theme, but a friend in Africa inspired me, so here we go:

      The Missionary’s Wife

      In the searing streets of Senegal,
      By her God’s hand,
      his assailant’s slipped.

      A machete,
      A body bruised,
      not bloodied, between
      shoulder blades.

      His servant’s heart begged mercy, grace
      for the Machete Man who fled in a haze
      of Dakar dust that settled into her mouth agape.

      Silent lips tasting of grit
      paid service to her husband’s prayer.

    259. Emma says:

      The Bridge

      It’s probably my seventh crossing
      in as many months.
      I’m homeward bound.
      The Severn sparkles beneath,
      fading out into the distance,
      stretching out to the ocean.
      For a little while, i am
      leaving Cambria and it’s
      great red dragon behind,
      returning to the other side
      of Offa’s Dyke, the place
      where I understand all the
      annoying adverts on the radio.
      My carriage is a big blue bus,
      creaking and groaning
      as traffic rushes by.
      The setting sun glints off the water.
      My eyelids fall, I drift off
      (or maybe ‘sail’?)
      to the rhythm of the tired wheels turning.

    260. Elizabeth Koch says:

      I Am Her Poem

      She used to hide me
      keep me to herself

      scribbles of emotions
      making sense of life

      tucked between pages
      stuffed in the drawer

      But now here I am
      on public display

      for the world to see
      her life on the page

      she’s no longer scared
      to let you view me

      through me, she is scared
      of nothing

    261. Rolf Erickson says:

      A Walk In the Park

      It looked like a walk in the park
      to the unobservant eye
      or the bowed head and
      facile thumbs tweeting
      their way through
      the trees.

      But that was just the
      form of the journey,
      not its essence.

      The feet knew their
      way through the woods
      to the wide surreal
      grassy meadows
      where steeple-like
      trees lift their eyes
      toward the sky.

      The trees that pray
      for someone for
      anyone who may
      be able to see them
      as they really are.

      Not just their form
      not just the outside
      but inside where
      long bare branches
      reach outward and
      up in supplication
      to the sky.

      I was that anyone
      entering into the tree
      reaching my arms
      as far around the
      massive soft wispy
      bark as arms
      could stretch.

      I was that someone
      who saw and held
      and whispered:

      “I know you.”
      “I see you.”
      “We are.”

    262. Shortcuts

      It took me years to realize it was journeys
      With destinations that he abhorred,

      Arrivals anywhere but at his own front door.
      Those summer trips where a rest stop for the boys

      Was a backseat peanut butter jar? All
      About getting to the grandparents and back

      Again with as little time away from
      Home, the yellow glow of lamplight burning far

      Into the night, the comfort of his books
      A journey that need not end. It took me

      Years to realize separation and divorce
      Were journeys with destinations he endured

      To be with us. He’d pick us up and drop us off,
      And in between lay mapless roads of heaven.

      Always when the day grew long with shadow
      And it was time to take us back, the way

      Straight and clear, we’d see that sidelong glance.
      “I know a shortcut,” he’d say, and we’d laugh

      When he meandered down every byway
      And looping lane, each turn taking us still

      Farther from destination into journey,
      The yellow glow of headlights a signal joy.

    263. MELenns says:

      From Here to There and Back to Here

      I exist in my soul
      In my mind
      In my brain
      In my head
      On a pillow
      In my bed
      I thrive in an upper room
      In my home
      On a lot on Long Drive
      In the Onalaska Woods
      In Onalaska
      Polk County
      Deep East Texas
      In the United States of America
      On the North American Continent
      In the Western half of the Northern Hemisphere
      Of the planet Earth
      In orbit around the Sun
      At the center of a solar system
      In the Orion Arm
      Orbiting the black hole
      At the center of the Milky Way Galaxie
      In the local galactic cluster
      In the Virgo super cluster
      In a universe that is ever expanding
      Into the eternal infinite void
      Which contains the ostent
      Evanescent eidolon of
      Circumstantially Evident
      Solipsistic Reality
      Perceived as the energy/matter
      Space/time, life/mind paradigm
      Where I am, know I am
      And know that I know.


    264. Packing for a month long trip to Brazil

      Passport: check.

      Laptop: check.

      Voltage converter: check.

      Tickets: no, the airlines don’t issue card stock tickets with cryptic writing anymore.

      Clothes: I don’t think I own a month’s worth that fit so I’ll pack what I have and trust a laundry can be found.

      Companion: I don’t have one of these yet. I enjoy the freedom of eating when hungry, sleeping when tired and leaving when bored. Alone I can take unreasonable risks in the name of experience or do nothing in my hotel room and feel no guilt. Of course I miss the poetry of exploring foreign cities with a lady on my arm, puzzling over Portuguese menus and delighting in strange flavors together but my past high maintenance choices have left a preference for solitude. Wouldn’t it be nice to pack a companion and take her out when lonely?

      Alas, the vuvuzela doesn’t fit in the suitcase either.

    265. James Rodgers says:

      At Night, I Fly

      When at night I go to bed
      I slip into my dreams
      I can fly and soar about
      because my arms are wings

      Aquamarine and three feet long
      my wingspan’s extra wide
      with my legs forward and back
      through the air I glide

      Because who wants to walk around?
      It’s more fun to fly instead
      And I ride the air ’til morning
      and then wake up in my bed

      No longer high up in the sky
      I’m back here on the ground
      until I go to sleep again
      where nothing can keep me down


      Here, I’m holding the door for you.
      You used to open doors for me –
      canoeing a stormy Kenai lake,

      following scent trails in the dark,
      calling a stranger’s lost name.
      All those adventures.

      Now the nurse calls your name.
      You gave up driving a year ago.
      Blindness opens the other senses,

      a journey we never wanted to make.
      I’ll lead you out into natural daylight.
      What does green smell like?

      Do you hear the heartbeat
      of that blackbird on the sidewalk?
      Tell me the texture of morning

      after rain has sharpened edges,
      washed them soft as watercolor
      halos against your cheek.

    267. madeline40 says:

      Africa Last Summer

      Our Kenyan and Tanzanian safari
      last summer satisfied
      all past and future yearnings
      to visit Africa.
      I saw more animals and birds
      than I ever dreamed of – many more
      than Noah could ever board
      in his ark.
      The geography varied
      at each place we visited
      from bumpy hills
      with bare trees in Samburu,
      a vast plain and little vegetation
      called the Savannah in the Masai Mara,
      rolling greens covered with dense rocks
      and thunderstorms every evening
      on the Serengeti,
      dust and hot dry air in Lake Manyara,
      and at our last place Ngorongoro,
      wind-blown red soil covered
      all of me inside and out.

    268. nmbell says:

      Voyage Poem

      Wheels are turning under me
      The truck’s nose is pointed east
      Across the vast prairie I’m headed
      Snow and ice still holds the wheat fields in their grasp

      The sun wakes diamonds in the frosty trees
      Can you imagine making this journey years ago?
      Horse and wagon doing maybe twenty miles a day
      Slogging through the last snows of spring

      Hoping the next water hole won’t be dry
      As spring turns to summer and heat shimmers
      Over the short grass prairie where gophers whistle
      And hawks soar in an impossible blue sky

      A dry wind sucks the moisture out of your skin
      Just as it sucks any moisture from the earth
      Acrid scent of manure mingles with the dust
      And the fragrance of crushed grasses

      I can’t even imagine breaking down out here
      Prairie towns are still few and far between
      Even in the 21st century.
      It makes it easy to understand why settlements
      Sprang up wherever there was water and trees

      A woman looking ahead and seeing only more prairie
      Holding a baby to her breast and clutching a toddler’s hand
      Telling her husband this is as far as she’s going
      Come hell or high water

      You have to give credit to the pioneers who carried on
      Who saw the mountains rise out of the haze in the distance
      The ones who rode the sea of prairie grasses to the foothills
      Ending the voyage in the arms of the Rockies as the poplars turn gold.

    269. Tara says:


      It’s a long trip to forty
      four decades, no less
      and yet it goes by
      in the blink of an eye
      and I’m sitting here feeling a mess

      I dreamed a different journey
      in a dorm room long ago
      but I took a wrong turn
      different lessons to learn
      found a side of me I didn’t know

      Now I sit here at forty
      no escaping that fact
      but I’m trying to be
      that old version of me
      and starting out a new act

    270. A Poem for Russell Brand
      or This is the way to fight for Yashika.

      A young girl weeps,
      we do not hear her screams
      we do not see her cry.
      Justice wears a bandage
      and will not rest until we
      share its blindness.

      Her mother has sobbed
      on national tv,
      her teachers ROAR at the pain
      of losing this diamond clear
      intellect, this hope, this future,
      we have tried,
      we have tried.

      She travels in a van with
      heavy guards.
      Count them,
      Onto the plane with one either side.

      Eight rows of empty seats
      between her and any help.
      Count them,

      Eight hours to fly from here to there.
      From where she is safe to
      a place no one cares.
      The government bared its
      teeth today,
      and we must vote its
      seats away.
      Count them,

      You wondered what the point of voting was for?
      Think of Yashika and wonder no more.

      Some background information on this poem: 2nd April 2014 – Yashika Bageerathi was deported from the UK at 9pm while Nick Clegg and Nigel Farage debated about Europe on television which was a good time to bury cruel activities.
      She had avoided deportation twice. Once when British Airways refused to participate in the deportation and once on this Sunday when the level of protest embarrassed the government. Today while her supporters were celebrating Sunday’s achievement she was whisked away to Heathrow at short notice. She is a model student who came to the UK as a child with her family to avoid violence as a refugee. She reached the age of 18 and despite being due to take A’levels and having a scholarship to university was picked to be deported alone and incarcerated in a detention centre.

      Russell Brand is a UK actor/comedian who famously pronounced during an interview on British tv with political interviewer Jeremy Paxman that voting was a pointless activity.

    271. 私の愛
      watashi no ai,
      two oceans are but dew drops,
      beads on red maples

    272. kmb3 says:

      Day 2: Reflections of the Journey

      i look back
      through the perspective of years
      at those who sat and judged
      who deemed me
      at those who were right

      i look back
      through the twists and turns
      at those who journeyed
      past me
      through me
      behind me
      at those who stayed beside me

      i look back
      through the landscapes
      at those mountains
      and the cliffs
      and the gentle meadows
      and the boulders
      at the muddled landscape that has become me

      And i see
      a milllion
      twists and turns
      that have brought me to this place
      this moment
      this person and i know
      that if i could go back
      to any intersection
      to make the journey less painful
      with fewer mountains
      and without meandering
      it could be a different voyage
      but i would never change a thing
      i’d endure it all again
      if it changed the destination

    273. Kevin D Young says:


      Iced in in Abilene, one last trip frozen
      in place, farther from too far by slim
      roads under glass and a penchant
      for frugality and timing. The economics
      of death are not as crisp as new Lincolns.

      One day earlier we’d have heard her inhale
      her last two liters of (mostly) nitrogen, contaminated
      with, so the math impresses, at least one molecule
      breathed at the end by every person breathing
      anywhere, at any time. Now with Caesar

      and with Brutus and the ash-faced children
      of Pompeii she rehearses in the brown
      Brownian whorls of a West Texas wind
      the storms she carried before they shucked
      themselves from her Alzheimerian cob.

      Tomorrow, or one day, we will drive
      into the vortex, suck her through our teeth
      and re-speak this blunt, bland cavalcade
      to others who will not know
      when they come or go or care.

    274. Landing Spot

      Breaking waves at the water’s edge, a child’s yellow shoe wrapped in seaweed.

    275. Brian Slusher says:


      Each day, she watches him embark
      On a voyage of delay. He navigates
      From room to room in a panicky
      odyssey, hoping to discover a set
      of keys, a pair of shoes, maybe
      a printout or a precious device,
      yet she’s wise to his wanderings:
      he’s really looking for time, ransacking
      drawers for extra minutes, turning
      out pockets for the stubs of seconds
      because he hates to leave, despises
      the verge of the insistent world
      and while some might crave to range
      from Junin to Lianyungang, she sees
      this house contains his Antipodes,
      as he stretches his arm beneath
      the bed, longing to reach a stay.

    276. saracosty says:

      The Problem

      Here’s the problem with me:
      I believe in another plane.
      I believe every day
      I walk into someone else’s story.
      I trudge to class through a reality that exists
      in a another world, another time.
      The reverberations of lives past
      are constantly bouncing off me.

      They’re less than shadows but more than air.
      My senses tell me what my eyes can’t see;
      something’s there.

      I think I believe in what most people
      are afraid to understand,
      afraid to accept,
      because it’s scary.
      To think we stay here.
      It’s scary
      that our souls could wander helplessly forever.
      IT’S SCARY.

      There’s a morbid comfort, I would guess,
      in thinking all that’s waiting
      is blackness.
      That after it’s over, it’s over,
      and we spend eternity
      in a cold, damp darkness.

      Here’s the problem, I don’t buy it.
      7 billion people on the Earth with
      passions and angers and loves.
      I don’t buy it
      that your soul gives up weakly
      after your last breath leaves you.
      I DON’T BUY IT.

      I think souls recycle like the rain,
      healing in the ground,
      rising to the Universe,
      and entering our ranks again.
      I think we are more
      than the life we live now.
      And our soul shows our past
      like rings in the innards of a tree.
      And to me,
      someone refusing to believe
      in a plane we intersect with
      every day
      is just another politician
      who denies global warming.

      Here’s the problem, death is scary.
      We don’t know what happens,
      and no one’s lining up
      to find out.
      But if we just considered
      all the history around us,
      all the stories never told,
      or told too often,
      all the words so important
      that they’re still being whispered,
      and all the cries trying still to be heard….

      When it rains,
      there is water that doesn’t sink into the ground,
      that gets stuck on rocks,
      or in garbage cans,
      or gutters,
      or tree houses.
      So too, are there souls,
      and we cross paths every day
      as mindlessly as we step
      in a puddle filled
      with three-day-old

      Here’s the problem: no one is sure enough
      to believe what they can’t see.
      We’re just as afraid of death
      as we are of being wrong.
      Only children believe in Santa Claus,
      but he can be real in our hearts!
      Yes, I suppose.
      I suppose that’s true.
      But ghosts aren’t in your hearts.
      They’re all around you.

      Here’s the problem when you say that:
      no one believes you.

    277. Passage

      Oh what a ride. A full whirlwind!
      Our journey together.
      Compass in hand we traverse
      prairie fields, desert hills,
      even gardens of the world.
      Side by side we wiggle through
      retaining walls to define our married life.
      One decade becoming two
      our knot finally recognized.

      From the airplane window we watch
      the earth move and we feel change.
      A virgin voyage some might say
      though we return each year
      feels different. Open eyes and arms wait
      to pull us in, pull us close
      to avow our love
      to celebrate
      the completion of us.

    278. Funkomatic says:

      Contact, as in to press against
      As the ball point indents the paper
      Leaving a trail behind it that can be
      Over-written but not erased

      A trail for past lovers to get lost on
      Each bump and switchback in a signature
      Shakes another loose, makes another
      Dress like a ghost, or go hungry at night.

      A trail from one hand to another
      That counts the final step on the line
      A change position but not place
      The city clerk a silent witness.

    279. On the Road
      by Jacqueline Cardenas

      Sooner or later
      she’s got to realize,
      1969 at two and a half,
      blonde pig tales, and
      embroidered bell bottoms
      was a banner year.
      The best of ‘em.

      When she said,
      “I a hippie.”
      She really had a good idea
      of self–
      back then.

      These days, it’s just a run
      for the money.
      Watch your words, your back, and your
      bank account. Forget those new
      running shoes, I’ve decided. No shoes
      will do just fine for this next part of the road.

      What I want to be when I grow up
      is everything I ever knew in the
      sparkle of dandelions growing in
      my backyard. I a hippie.
      Not workin’ for the man or
      the woman in his suit.

      No, this jungle animal is breaking
      free of this food chain. Dean and
      Marylou would dig it. Time
      for me to hit that high note too.

    280. tunesmiff says:

      G. Smith
      I am a pilgrim,
      Long on my way;
      Step by step,
      And day by day.
      With joyful song,
      Mile by mile,
      I’ll reach my destination in a little while;
      I’ll reach my destination in a little while.

      I am a pilgrim
      Long on the road,
      Helping my brother
      Carry his load.
      Taking my sister
      By her hand;
      Together we’ll journey to the Promised Land;
      Together we’ll journey to the Promised Land.

      I am a pilgrim,
      At the edge of the sea,
      Charting a course,
      To what’s to be.
      Study the tides;
      The moon, and North Star,
      Follow the sunset, no matter how far;
      Follow the sunset, no matter how far.

      I am a pilgrim,
      Long on my way,
      Step by step,
      And day by day;
      With a joyful song,
      Mile by mile,
      I’ll reach my destination in a little while,
      I’ll reach my destination in a little while.

      I’ll reach my destination…

    281. saracosty says:

      Foreign Eggs

      My foreign-looking omelette
      looks up at my from its foreign pan
      on its foreign stove
      in its foreign kitchen
      in its foreign country.

      You couldn’t call it an omelette.
      More so a cheesy, oozing, tomato-y blob.
      I couldn’t make myself an omelette in France.

      I came by myself,
      thousands of miles on my own
      for the first time.
      Two days a week, I fended for myself
      in the cobblestone arena
      that is Arles.
      I was finding independence.
      I was finding confidence.
      I was finding power
      in the steely face I bore as I walked
      the wandering streets.

      Language mishaps didn’t bother me,
      I was fine with getting lost.
      But this omelette.
      This eggy, cheesy blob…..

      Every failure in the last year
      manifested as I desperately flipped my blob.
      The cheese that escaped reminded me
      of everything I’ve been denying,
      trying to hide in the recesses of ma tête.
      There was egg that was cooked,
      and secure
      and strong
      but the blob still oozed in a panic,
      not sure what to do or where to go,
      and no matter how I tried,
      I couldn’t guide this blob to its proper form.
      I screeched to myself,
      my voice shrill and echoing in my head,
      “How can you be anything at all
      when you can’t even make
      a god damned omelette?”

      I almost cried over an egg blob.

      But I shook the blob out of its foreign pan
      onto a foreign plate
      sat at a foreign table
      and squirted some not-so-foreign ketchup.

      I still could eat my mess of a blob,
      even though it wasn’t what it was
      supposed to be.
      And it was still good, even as
      messy and misshapen as it was.
      It may have not been perfect,
      but it was my egg blob
      that I created for myself
      after fighting to survive in a cobblestone arena
      in a foreign town
      on a foreign continent
      across a foreign ocean.

      If I was really nothing,
      if I could never really be anything,
      I would have never cracked
      that foreign egg.

    282. DamonZ says:


      Up the leafy, feathered, trail.
      I roust and rove in splendid regale.

      Blissfully sweeping along in time.
      Eating up distance as I climb.

      I attain the summit and join the crags,
      The wind blown tangles and twisted snags.

      My senses acute and spirits high.
      Across the hinterlands I descry.

      A wondrous world of nature’s own.
      Peacefully I ponder all alone.

      Across the coulee an eagle sails.
      In the valley coyotes wail.

      Down from low I have risen.
      New beginnings I’ve been given.

      Nothing convalesces a sorted soul.
      Like reaching and achieving a personal goal.
      That warm feeling of peace on the whole.

      By: Damon Zallar

    283. matthew says:

      I seldom use the word journey
      Because that band sucks
      And they have ruined
      The word journey for me

      I have voyaged to distant
      To Huauchinango Mexico
      To the Emerald mountains
      Into hugs
      Where it is always green

      I have tasted the feast
      That was prepare for me
      Walked the streets at night
      Stopped to listen to a
      Mariachi band and applauded

      Not once thanking my wife
      For overseeing this journey
      Just smiled at her and
      Mention how great it was
      To visit family

    284. keepkeepingmesane says:

      By Jeremy Johnson

      It’s a slow spiral.
      Not like riding a
      one-winged dragonfly
      through an 80-bladed ceiling fan.

      More like riding aback an ant.
      Traversing the twirls of
      a telephone cord to discover
      just where the hell that voice is coming from.

    285. GarrinJost says:

      As I Cross This Day:

      Be with me as I
      eat and drink
      speak and think
      love and move
      grow and shrink
      pass and stay
      kneel and pray
      live and die
      breathe and blink

    286. saracosty says:

      Daily Affirmation

      I don’t like staying in one place.
      I itch to be somewhere else
      as someone else
      doing something else.
      But I’m lucky. I can leave if I want.

      I have been a constellation.
      I have saved a boy from Hell.
      I have been abused and the abuser.
      I’ve already been old and decrepit at 21 years old.
      I’ve suffered heavily from alcoholism.
      I’ve rallied thousands against injustices,
      and I’ve waited in your bedroom at night.
      I even smoked a cigarette while I watched you kill your husband.
      He had it coming.

      I swear to you, I close my eyes and I’m gone.
      I walk into the light and my body stays,
      in the dark stairwell behind me
      as I take on someone else.
      I explore every facet of our beings,
      and sight see every dark memory,
      and excavate the tears I’ve buried, lest they come at the wrong time.

      As someone else I ask myself questions
      I never would before.
      The obviously politically incorrect questions
      one asks when in a foreign place.
      The ones the natives never ask.
      How much did that really hurt?
      How broken are you?
      Do you know what it’s like to be afraid?
      Sometimes it takes traveling to someone else
      to learn we’re not that different.

      And I eventually return to my
      pulseless body
      with all the energy of my soul’s voyage
      in another person’s shoes and smile and eyes.
      Sometimes it’s devastating.
      Sometimes it eats at me day after day,
      wearing me down with bags too heavy for me to carry.
      But sometimes it’s beautiful,
      and always
      it’s worth it.

      I walk into an audition like an airport;
      my resume is my passport.
      A record of the people I’ve traveled.
      Who will I go next?

    287. Taylor Emily Copeland says:


      Oh traveler,
      you have conquered my inches
      and staked claim of each breath
      from my gaping mouth. You have
      moved the pale earth, a slight
      tremor to a landslide, watered
      the ground and calmed the natives.
      You can leave your shoes in
      the dim hallway, take my extra key,
      raise the sun in the morning,
      shade me with the husk of you.
      Baby, you are home.

    288. Time Lost Forever in Tucson
      by Jacqueline Cardenas

      On the way to Tucson
      my father is there dying
      what has not been said is
      everything that a little girl
      ever wanted to say to her daddy

      you are the king of my world
      you have saved me from the greenest scaliest dragons
      you are the reason that all men should have the strength
      of Stetsons, the scent of English Leather, the softness of
      tears for his children

      you are how I know how to fight
      and how I know how to fail
      like all the others in your family before you
      we have run out of time
      stopped far short of the finish line
      we gave up. On each other.

      Somehow I don’t think that’s what you meant
      for us when I was small, or even when I last sat across from you
      silently. Maybe you want the chance just to say
      before you go on,

      “I love you my girl, and
      I would slay a thousand dragons,
      just to tell you that
      you are the princess of my world.”

    289. JanetRuth says:

      For the Heaven of it…

      Maybe to you my voyage seems to be a bit like housewife hell
      My dear, someday I hope your dreams will find the heaven in its swell
      And if it were but laundry-mop-and-dishes metronome
      Perhaps it would be drudgery but oh, it is for Home

      Maybe my voyage seems unglamorous, dust-cloths and brooms
      Are not so very amorous, tis true; but in these rooms
      I touch the Place of happiness for this is where we come
      Away from gawking greediness to this; our home sweet home

      …and I suppose there is no title for the pro of scrubbing pots
      Or wiping up of cookie crumbs; picking forget-me-nots
      And maybe all these miles I’ve vacuumed seem an aimless tome
      But I have yet to find a kinder destiny than Home

    290. Blaise says:


      I finally hear it
      through the still morning air
      the extravagant horn of the train.
      As this rich chord gets closer,
      louder, it beckons me
      like an iron bell to a churchgoer.
      Ears pass the call inside,
      where my stomach rumbles for new roads
      and nose hungers for acrid steel.

      Bag on my shoulder,
      my feet’s rhythm on the sidewalk quickens,
      tones of the approaching whistle now clear,
      five notes stacked up in penetrating harmony,
      complete yet open,
      pleasing yet dissonant,
      to throw the question
      through flesh to my bones,
      “Where to?”

      Gulping the last of this town’s air,
      I reach the platform
      just before she pulls in,
      this gleaming silver phallus
      always female to me,
      screeching steel wheels and
      clouds of steam
      delicious music to my soul,
      luring me to come away with her.

      Dusty boot hits foot-polished steps
      and the conductor gives form
      to the now-silent whistle, “Where to?”
      “How far West does she go?”

    291. Pat Walsh says:

      Safe journey, Robert! Here’s my “Voyage” poem — with a nod toward Tristan Jones:

      Stone’s Throw
      by Patrick J. Walsh

      Let me show you this
      little stone I found this morning
      when I pulled in my net full
      of fish

      See the way it shines
      in the light of the sun
      as though it were a founding stone
      of Elysium

      Can you believe that this
      little stone fished from the sea
      traveled to this moment from the dark
      of space

      I will toss this stone
      as if sounding a final breath
      and its echo will plot our course
      of voyage

    292. Autumn Douglas says:

      Death is a voyage.
      Choose your destination now,
      Before it’s too late.

    293. KS20x1 says:

      Its how you rotate

      and inhale

      the way your mouth

      moves around the exhale

      the flicker of eyelashes to the question

      ‘what are you thinking’

      slowly revolving hips

      circular motion

      towards the


      chest falls to chest

      bluest eyes roll back to beats

      and the cadence of hearts


      while passing the intoxication

      back down

      clouds accumulate behind

      walls of teeth


      sucked through or poured


      into a waiting

      vessel for the second

      A to B to

      ‘I love you’
      was so simple

      “Coming Home”
      by Kelley Stephens
      Day 2 PAD Challenge (Voyage)

      • KS20x1 says:

        Its how you rotate

        and inhale

        the way your mouth

        moves around the exhale

        the flicker of eyelashes to the question

        ‘what are you thinking’

        slowly revolving hips

        circular motion

        towards the


        chest falls to chest

        bluest eyes roll back to beats

        and the cadence of hearts


        while passing the intoxication

        back down

        clouds accumulate behind

        walls of teeth


        sucked through or poured


        into a waiting

        vessel for the second

        A to B to

        ‘I love you’
        was so simple

        “Coming Home”
        by Kelley Stephens Day 2 PAD Challenge (Voyage)

    294. LeeAnne Ellyett says:

      Your Voyage, My Journey,

      My Great-Grandfather,
      a man I never knew,
      yet so many others do,

      For his life was a voyage, on land and sea,
      a rather famous tale, to tell,

      It begins as a wee lad, over the seas from Ireland,
      to another land, to grow as a man,
      here he studied and learned to master his craft,

      Shipbuilder’s, brother Lockhart, James and he,
      Modest at first, a Brigatine, a total of seven, from 1852 to ’57,

      When, as a Member of Parliament, he had an argument,
      A man against Confederation, fought with determination,
      To keep his land from amalgamation,

      But to no avail, for he failed,
      it’s time to sail,

      He began to build and build they did,
      the largest sailing ship, Canada would ever see,
      Exclamations were made – “Ambitious Rig” ” To Big”,.

      Launched in 1874, watching from his front door,
      The W.D. Lawrence slipped off the bore,

      She floated at ease, weathered the storms,
      carrying her precious cargo, to foreign places,
      the Captain exploring magical places,

      A-hundred and a forty years later,
      my Great-Grandfather, I now know,

      Nova Scotia Master Shipbuilder,
      The Museum, his home,
      This is a tribute to your voyage into my life.

      William Dawson Lawrence. 1817-1886

      • LeeAnne Ellyett says:

        Sorry the line should read from “1852 to ’67″‘ Confederation year,
        BTW, as a newbie, I’m so excited to be part of this,
        You, all are so gifted and talented, I’m humbled.
        Wonderful, beautiful poems.


      It used to be necessary
      to journey from the cave.    
      To hunt and gather
      that of which we crave               
      and lug it back                  
      bound in glorious tale.               
      Now we sit as kings and queens
      and fail with nothing lack                 
      while creatures from the Amazon 
      bring forth our load            
      wrapped in cardboard.   
      I do not miss that perilous road.     
      Except for the stories. 
      But those aren’t for sale.

    296. allison_leigh says:


      i held hands with nausea
      and batted my lashes
      at lift off

      I’m out of touch–

      by Allison Leigh

    297. Geoffrey says:

      You ask me to go

      You ask me to go
      I can’t say no
      wherever the winds blow
      we go, we go.

      You bid me to fly,
      I’ll not ask why
      we’ll take to the sky
      we’ll fly, we’ll fly.

      You tell me to trust,
      it’s not discussed:
      I will, I must
      I trust, I trust.

      Into the unknown,
      wherever we’re blown,
      by whatever cyclone,
      unknown, unknown

      Together we go,
      where to, we don’t know
      but yet even so,
      we go, we go.

    298. “Anywhere”
      Get out of the way
      There’s only so much space
      You can’t stay right here forever
      Looking at me and waiting
      I want to help you
      You’ve got to pick your own self up
      Don’t look back
      It won’t change
      That time’s lost
      Gone forever
      If you stand still
      You’ll run yourself over
      Find a new way
      Turn in a circle
      Scan the horizon
      Don’t look down
      There’s no one there
      But me waiting
      For you
      Mark Conroy

    299. Here’s where the idea of a journey took me. The poem is

      spent seed pod-
      a sudden hungering
      for a second chance

      The haiga is here:

    300. De Jackson says:


              -eur, she stares
           and stirs, as words
         wander down the pathways
                  of the page.

               -ing for time,
            she sings these things,
          a rambler refusing to act her


    301. Voyage

      I had hopes my Cancer Tour was over,
      meandering from a friend’s prostate to another’s brain,
      followed by one’s lungs and the other’s pancreas,
      finally one with no name, no organ to blame.
      Mostly friends of many years, spanning decades,
      my age and younger, all gone now, as memory fades.
      I always knew that one of us would die first,
      but, pushing on, thought it would be me.
      I always knew the journey would end,
      for one of us, but not two and three,
      not four, then five,
      me the last one alive.
      I had hopes my Cancer Tour was over,
      but I was wrong.
      It simply went international.

    302. Andrea says:


      If Juan Ponce de Leon was a lonely man,
      would he have sought the Fountain of Youth?

      What man could
      keep the Galapagos’ secrets
      or find no reason to return?

      Not souls set forth on the earth running;
      not souls cross the river Styx alone

      Worth in life is a caravan of lovers and sideshows;
      a single shared sun that becomes a passed torch

      Worth in life is fingers-touching love,
      taking one’s place – or saving it

      Lifetime is a world
      that is never

    303. RuthNott says:


      Adrift on a sea of memories
      Alone with the wind and the waves
      The painful take flight on the wings of gulls;
      Wrapped in sunlight, the best are saved.
      Rocked like a babe in the womb
      I succumb to the sway of the sea,
      Asleep in visions of yesterday
      As each wave brings you back to me.

      Adrift on a sea of memories
      Awaiting the coming storm
      When the gulls will take refuge beside me
      And the pain that they carry transform
      My sunlight to darkness and turmoil
      As lightning streaks turbulent skies
      Illuminating my guilt and my shame
      And the fear lurking deep in my eyes.

      Adrift on a sea of memories,
      Alone as the storm subsides,
      Hearing their cries as the gulls depart,
      I awake drifting home on the tide
      Reality shakes the awakening
      As dream ships and waves disappear.
      Today takes shape in the morning mist,
      A new voyage surprisingly near.

    304. ehorowitz says:

      The Journey

      Goodbye hill, goodbye sill
      Overlooking valley
      Goodbye highway rumbling below
      Covering lilies near the woodpile.
      Close down. Close off. Disconnect the heat.
      Give the key to strangers.
      Unravel our center
      mud season fecund, wet tracks
      thin lipped water, chestnut grass.
      We can thatch back a semblance
      construct walls, insulate ourselves
      from what will be will be.
      But we will always live where we are not
      half awake to the calls on the open marsh.

    305. Lesson Number 32

      I told Luca
      that if he
      put on some
      super magnetic shoes
      and travelled round the world
      for a couple of
      thousand years
      he might
      make the world stop
      he said.

    306. NO SAFE HAVEN

      The ocean roughly kissed
      her lips and in the mist she felt
      tiny grains of sand pelt
      hard against the old welt, a scar
      from days she thought were far
      away but still could mar her days.
      Enveloped in a haze,
      she ran in varied ways to slip
      from pains which held their grip
      but on this pointless trip persist.

      © Susan Schoeffield

    307. Colored Smoke

      Taking a trip
      on a psychedelic wave
      where an unknowing skip
      removes realities cave

      launching yourself
      ever so gently
      from within oneself

      seeing hues
      with rainbow infused glasses
      while chatting with two Scooby Doos
      feeling the grasses

      inside and out
      relaxing and mellow
      no need to shout
      just sit with this fellow

      take a trip
      take a ride
      on life’s ship
      here’s your tie-dyed guide.

    308. Clae says:


      I journey over stars
      The winds of suns propel me
      as I tour ageless
      on a constellation ship
      I cannot steer
      and never wonder where
      I might end up
      The voyage is what matters

      T.S. Gray

    309. priyajane says:

      Holding Hands

      He holds his phone
      she holds hers
      space and time disappear
      He is quiet, breathing
      she is speaking,leaning
      with nothing in between
      Some stolen moments
      of wandering in galaxies
      of a pointless world
      potent and fragrant
      dance in a beat
      And life goes on–

    310. Flight of the Short Beaked One

      She ascended clawed fingers
      into his footless shoes, cracked
      at the edges, a square of white
      tape he hadn’t noticed stuck
      on one side, she flew them
      over to his side, hovering like murders
      of Corvus brachyrhynchos calling out,
      interrupting his slumber, taunting her
      that it was simply his time to flutter
      the flightless voyage, for how can clipped
      wings take to the whispering sky, how can
      she, still just a young crow, leave his side.
      Landing beloved wing-tips next to him,
      she pecked his forehead, squawked
      goodbye, his last sleep, from which
      he can never die.

      -Linda G Hatton

    311. Srividya K says:

      To the House of Souls
      – Srividya Karthik

      What is a soul
      It’s like the sole
      Carries our weight
      And never complains

      Softens the blows
      Of life’s terrible lows
      When it leaves
      It doesn’t grieve

      A transparent body shape
      Up it flies
      Sheds a layer
      Plane by plane

      Numerous cloaks of emerald green
      Drawn together in the raven black
      They grow so tall
      A beacon so bright

      While they wait
      They connect to the console
      For the Consul sets all the rules
      In the shiny House of Souls

    312. gl86 says:

      Inspired by Keats

      The Final Voyage to Rome

      When I’ve received the final augur,
      I’ll make my pilgrimage to Rome
      and before my name is writ in water,
      through this Eternity I’ll roam.

      To see heaven through earth’s eye once more
      and dance with Immortality
      above the Christian dead of yore
      in sprawling gardens of nobility

      From whence we come, we go,
      so take me to the Tevere
      where I might join this ancient flow
      and let the city absorb me.

    313. JWLaviguer says:

      A Voyage By Word

      I fell through the pages
      and came out the other side
      waiting for the sequel.

      JW Laviguer

    314. lionetravail says:

      “Beyond Termination Shock”
      by David M. Hoenig

      Farther than known, into enigmatic dark,
      O traveling child- gone from all you knew!
      From your creation, future painted stark:
      you stood, you posed, your reached: you flew!

      You came into the world to join four billion,
      and left the year Seatle Slew made history.
      You went before us, dopplered in vermilion,
      to explore what remains yet a mystery.

      O traveling child- passing sights and sounds
      which no one living has witnessed!
      Beyond the terminus, and heliosphere’s surrounds,
      Man’s first Voyager to the stars: be blessed!

    315. DanielAri says:

      “A story”

      Once, I quested to have an audience with The King.
      His castles are so megalithic, their amethyst
      buttresses and diamond towers stunned me to kneeling
      in the Royal Forest, ten-thousand furlongs distant.
      I crawled closer to His gates. Keeping to the footpath,

      I found myself among many other supplicants,
      all of us in our progress surfacing a byway,
      a multitudinous queue—encampments, then markets—
      decorating our slow forward motion. Years from days,
      brick houses from canvas tents, birthing wails and keening,

      the complex eddies of businesses and laws, ballet,
      lottery tickets, parenting tips, keypads, aglet
      to Zamboni, astrophysics, zymurgy and ways
      that we forget that we forget…something we forget…
      like the feeling of liking our smile as we smile it,

      or how time collapses in the mind when a loved pet,
      for example, licks our skin and what’s unsettled sets.

    316. georgiana says:

      Hatching from an Empty Nest

      I bought my ticket with sleepless nights
      Endless diapers and pureed squash
      Skinned knees, broken hearts, lessons
      For dance and art and baseball and science
      and lessons in
      Being kind
      Telling the truth
      Respecting others.

      They gave me the receipt by growing up
      Educated, good, contributing people
      With jobs and houses and —lives.
      “What will you do now?” They ask.
      “Now you are free!” They say.
      “Enjoy the world!” They tell me.
      They think I don’t know how.
      But I listened. I will be kind
      And respect their wishes, and tell the truth.
      I’m off. Farewell!

    317. veronica_gurlie says:

      When We Go Riding

      I won’t get on it– I won’t,
      I won’t ride that crazy black horse through them deep wild woods,
      not even to convince myself, that I’m just as brave as man,
      or to let my fears go, and just feel free again–
      when all I go to do, is strap my heart to yours
      and love you up into me.

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        EDITED VERSION. Please use this one:0). thanks.

        When We Go Riding

        I won’t get on it– I won’t,
        I won’t ride that crazy black horse through them deep wild woods,
        not even to convince myself, that I’m just as brave as man,
        or to let my fears go, and just feel free again–
        when all I go to do, is climb on top of your heart
        and love you up into me.

    318. MINIMUM DAY

      Home lay over the overpass,
      but a yellow sign forbid two ten-year-olds from crossing.
      I thought the trek around would be as straight,
      but streets branched into industries
      we never saw on drives back home.
      The paths I hoped would lead us back
      ended in walls we wouldn’t scale.
      I understood street names as little
      as graffiti on the sides of empty buildings
      and company logos unseen at Toys’R’Us.
      The few passersby that drove these streets
      would neither stop nor slow for us—
      we knew not to talk to strangers anyway.
      A nudge and a prayer guided my way.

      We crawled through the labyrinth
      hungry for food and home and Sega games;
      I wished I could reset now that we were stuck.
      I would’ve listened to my brother when
      he said we should walk to grandma’s two blocks from school
      or even wait for mom to pick us up,
      but I knew the way home, just not below
      the overpass we had driven across before.
      Halfway through, we couldn’t turn back.
      Tall blocks of buildings hid east from west—
      as if I could read a compass anyway—
      but a hunch encouraged me forward.
      I just had to find the right direction.
      Home lay only a few blocks away.

    319. cholder says:

      Road to Nowhere

      days of my youth
      dirt roads going nowhere
      leaving rivals in our dust
      toast to ditching town
      drive all night

    320. mrnor10 says:

      I was doing genealogical research in Chicago about people who lived in the 1700s in Virginia. Thus, my voyage poem:

      My travels are not always on pavements
      Treading miles upon miles of asphalt;
      Quite often I must travel by paper
      Reading words upon words about places.

      One day I shall stand on the ground
      Of the places I read and I research;
      Today’s travels are written on papers
      I’ll read again and again ’til I get there.

    321. EbenAt says:

      One corpulent heart surgeon
      One dentist with heart,
      a forty two foot ketch
      full of high schoolers.

      Violating Rule One
      at South Pender
      rips shaft and prop
      clean out.

      Good fortune leads
      to Galliano
      rather than sinking.

      Imitation Skippers replaced
      by a Son of Gloucester whalers,
      she rockets down the
      Juan de Fuca straight,
      chasing hull speed
      in a gale warning.

      Thus recalled is
      the age old adage,
      avoid a large breakfast
      before you fly.

    322. Janet Rice Carnahan says:


      Carried by courage,
      Driven by the need to know,
      To become a new understanding,
      Felt somewhere deeper within,
      The voyage to India,
      Became a necessity!
      Yes, a different culture,
      To explore,
      Find something new,
      Share stories once home,
      Be surrounded by a fresh community,
      In an old country,
      Learn a new way to relate,
      To communicate,
      A great search for peace,
      The voyage to India,
      Was the necessity!
      Early morning chanting,
      Strolls through temples,
      Sunset meditation,
      Dancing on the roof,
      Under the bright, clear moon,
      Walking around the mountain,
      As a sacred journey,
      All its own!
      Listening with an eager heart,
      The ways of the gurus,
      Spirituality at the beginning of time,
      It was necessary to take the voyage,
      To India!
      Once the journey ended,
      Plane landed,
      Life returned to normal patterns,
      Whispered wisdom came forward,
      A renewed sense of purpose took hold,
      A fresh depth had been reached,
      Revealing why it had been so necessary . . .

      Voyaging into India!

    323. hohlwein says:


      One needs to be in a different space
      And move through it.
      That is a voyage.

      In my case, there will be ropes and luffing sails
      And, seen through the luffing sails, great walls of
      electric blue ice.

      I try to prepare myself now for this
      by noticing,
      as I aways do,

      great shears of my life falling away
      sometimes, as I pass from room to room.

      and icy waves that rise and reach
      towards me, for me.

      They don’t get to me – perhaps –
      so much anymore
      though the same walls fall
      and the same waves reach.

      I perch on a mast above my life.
      And, safe enough there,
      watch the days slip by below
      as if they were landscape.

    324. sbpoet says:

      Well, this is a bit of a surprise to me. It’s quite long, and I’m not in edit mode just now, so posting as-is and will come back to it later. Also, the formatting did not carry over & it looks quite different on my blog: http://www.sbpoet.com/2014/04/poem-a-day-2.html

      the sea carries you

      in its heaviness

      its thick grey-green

      all the creatures’ lives

      beneath, swimming

      hold you up in the

      salt air

      walk the deck

      watch the movement

      of water & sky

      the sea washes you in rain

      island mountains

      rise ahead & fall


      there is water, earth & sky

      there is sharp cold air

      it all holds you

      carries you


      dolphins come to play

      in the ship’s wake

      they watch you

      with their small

      sharp eyes

      they are laughing at you

      why are you on this

      object of wood & metal

      when the sea itself would be

      so happy to carry you alone?

      gulls circle the mast

      at noon

      at dawn the sea is gold

      the rain, the rain

      comes later

      the sea swallows it all

      releases green light

      back into the day

      at night, a bevy of stars

      the hum of the engine

      black water that moves

      waves of pale light

      you walk in circles

      yet the boat, the sea, the earth

      carry you a far distance

      sometimes you consider

      stepping off

      into the deep water

      perhaps you would sink

      straight down

      through schools of fish

      falling, falling

      or perhaps the sea

      would hold you up

      in its arms of waves

      carry you to some

      far, longed-for place

      an imagined Atlantis

      of mer-people and porpoises

      giant gentle sea-horses

      an octopus embrace

      or perhaps a whale

      will swallow you

      whole and carry you

      to god, give you


      you will hear the singing

      of the whales

      the call of dolphins

      the ocean speaking

      to itself

      & above, the dance

      of sea-birds

      their sharp

      brittle music slapping

      the surface of the sea

      all its colors you have never seen


      one into another


      into something new

      something unseen


      and you will never come up

      for air

      this is what you

      are made of

      this salt water

      this fishiness

      this longing

    325. Debbie says:

      Long long long
      Endless beams of steel
      Reach reach reach
      The unreachable is so real.

      Quiet quiet quiet
      A solitary trail
      Clatter clatter clatter
      Metal against nail.

      Planks planks planks
      Wooden steps to guide
      Cars cars cars
      Asleep, travel, hide.

      Power power power
      Taking us to anywhere
      Dreams dreams dreams
      Maybe we’re already there?

    326. Janet Rice Carnahan says:


      Sun glinting off wings,
      Catches my eye and I soar,
      Their voyage lifts me.

    327. k_weber says:

      You Can Go Almost Anywhere

      The ceiling drips a Hawaiian waterfall
      as I sail this well-worn sofa and drift
      another orange day lit by TV glare or actual sun.

      My windows are open and breathing in the sound
      of two dogs fighting for just as many hours; this happens
      as a train floats by then grinds the rail.

      I saw a boy on a skateboard Tuesday afternoon
      and I am convinced he was leaving for a town
      where people still ride skateboards in the middle of a day.

      I reset my pedometer before I go to sleep
      in case I have adventures in my dreams
      or I walk through my own blackout in pajamas.

      How much mileage will I get from these words?

      - k weber

    328. Zart_is says:

      Watching the Western Sky

      We escape all that transpires behind us.
      Focused on horizons where
      a lazy cloud-wrapped sun slips into the ocean.
      We are freed from concern from care.
      Real life, jam packed in our suitcases,
      can’t wind us up again
      while embracing a languid life
      we dance with gulls on sand
      as the sun paints our skin bronze.
      Heading home (yes we must)
      removes us from this tranquil sun and sea and sand.
      Day to day might be broken,
      memories putting on the clothes we bought there,
      vacation purchases and sandy books,
      a few shells, some coral
      and a hand full of sea glass.
      I vow never to forget where
      we found each treasure.
      Yet, I scatter them at random
      across the years
      between being there
      and wishing here was there.
      Where the sun goes west
      falling into its sea bed
      as we watched its slow descent into night.
      While the sand was still warm,
      everything was still
      we saw so many more stars – there.
      Felt so many more bright moments
      filling the dark.
      Not so much here,
      where the sun glares – tumbling
      across the street getting lost
      between trees and buildings.
      We become busily bound up at home
      where the day is just the day
      the nearly starless dark is just the dark.
      When I’m with you we savor
      the part of there that brought us together
      promising to return soon
      to pursue the real sun,
      the one that goes blazing across beaches
      and swims in the western sea.

    329. Ride the Wind

      March winds chasing leaves around
      Swirling change and sameness
      An era ends – a new one found
      Uncertainty is nameless

      Release oppressive frosty chills
      They don’t hold you now
      Embrace the breeze of hope you feel
      And give yourself a bow

      For having braved the darkest clouds
      Seen rainbows in their wake,
      Ride the wind, release the shroud
      The chance is yours to take

      Summer’s onset brings relief
      Winter’s darkness gone
      Blue sky days beyond belief
      hearten moving on

      diedre Knight

    330. SSteele1 says:

      A man, a friend and an adventure unknown.
      A ship, a sail and a direction.
      A compass, a sextant and a star to steer by
      An eye, a spyglass and the horizon.
      A desire, a question and an answer unseen.

    331. geetakshi says:

      This is mine, for Day 2 :)


      A well-woven life
      is much desired,
      where threads criss-cross
      in select patterns of neatness:
      Blue and green make sweet love
      on the brown ground of comforting warmth;
      clouds are a resplendent white,
      Or a fertile grey at worst;
      Such dreams are also the food of reality:
      The burnt orange of fiery sunsets,
      that blend well with fires that consume and destroy;
      The horizons that travellers mourn,
      also blur the homes that were left behind
      in moments of envy;
      Is anger black like a dark sky?
      Or perhaps red like an imagined force of life?
      When blues and greens become
      maps to be traced
      on smooth, soft skins,
      can the tapestry be unwoven
      to reveal something?
      Such nightmares that were not dreamt of:
      Perhaps to say a word can exorcise
      from the mind and soul,
      the pain of seeing a loved one leave
      in a passion to escape
      the tangled skeins of
      different-hued skins

      ©Geetakshi Arora
      April 2, 2014

    332. Anvanya says:

      Just You and Me, Kid

      Burbank/Bob Hope has the coolest way to board a plane:
      You walk out onto the tarmac and climb the stairs
      Which are metal, for God’s sake!
      And when you return, it’s down that same staircase as you deplane.
      Your feet make noise on every step,
      And your carry-on clunks behind you.

      That’s missing in the big airports –
      It’s not all cushiony carpet Jetway enhancing the fiction:
      You are about to be thrown into the heavens –
      But it’s all safe tech and no bumpy rides.
      Those steps at BUR tell you you’re actually going some place
      Or you’ve returned from some place.

      Alaska Airlines provided me with a flying carpet in ’06
      When I slipped through the skies to Emerald City Airport.
      I upgraded for free at PDX and trembled
      Through my first hour in First Class, including
      Coffee which I managed to tip into my lap.
      Nervous? About seeing you after forty years?

      A week later I knew where I had been
      And I knew that one day we would be stepping,
      Hand in hand, and laughing as we clunked up
      And down that staircase – our way of traveling.

    333. msmacs3m says:

      Where the Dreams Are
      By Sandra A. McCulloch

      Where Dreams Begin -

      Brown brick & flowers
      Coastal Bellingham
      Glass-modern Ferry Terminal

      Greets the dreamers.

      M/V Columbia
      Waits colorful tents dot
      her white rising decks
      pointed North
      along the Whale Road

      Where the dreams are -

      Eagles soaring

      Icy capped sea born mountains
      calving thunderous glaciers
      Haunting Ravens eye
      Whales breeching
      Sea otters bobbing
      Bears Snatching Silver
      Salmon Spawning

      Where the dreams are

      The North Star hides
      till fall Northern Lights dance
      silent cobalt skies
      answering Wolves’ ancient call

      Here’s where the dreams are


    334. (a second poem. variant. commonly, to erase the first.)

      -outside the body it is always procession-

      I may have lied about being pregnant but I know my fucking kid.

      her father quells cocaine.

      ants are quiet.


      his teeth make sense.

      our yell is I’m gonna shoot you in the blood.


      downfall, a light dusting, the sleepy


      • it can’t matter. but, no matter. edit. should’ve said:

        -outside the body it is always procession-

        I may have lied about being pregnant but I know my fucking kid.

        her father quells cocaine.

        ants are quiet.


        his teeth make sense.

        our yell is I’m gonna shoot you in the blood.


        is a light dusting
        of downfall. sleepily


        are the sunbathing sad.

    335. acele says:

      Dmv (details of motherly voyages)

      Setting out at 7:25
      Amidst dry, brown fields
      Past warehouses and big bellied birds parked in a row

      Realizing not far into our journey that
      I forgot the small piece of plastic that says
      I am me.

      Turning around to retrieve it we ponder
      The quickest route and lament
      That we will not pull the first ticket.

      Passing by morning joggers and under lines of geese
      With their group membership in the flying club,we jettison
      Around curves, along side countless other drivers, wheeling towards their daily destiny.

      Arriving at 8:04, we take our ticket and sit
      Sleepily in rows of black chairs, anchored in a blue and grey sea,
      Listening to the sound of clicking computer mice and whirring printers.

      “Now serving D618 at window 9,” the dry voice beckons
      At 8:35 and
      We scurry to the counter.

      Verifying documents as carefully as a ship steward, the attendant behind the counter
      Accepts our fare with a smile, and hands me the registration.

      Though the sail bears my name, it is our firstborn,
      No longer teenage son
      Who will man the vessel.

      Feeling as though my long journey has brought me to some
      Strange new harbor,
      I wave him off from the driveway.

    336. alimathis says:

      kids and long car rides
      prepare with ammunition
      movies, music, games

    337. JohnLY says:

      The Healing Voyage
      By John Yeo
      A very sad loss,
      With a thick mist over my consciousness,
      I had suffered a traumatic life event,
      Shattering a union of many years
      A loss that was to my detriment

      A loss that would not go away
      A black cloud covered the firmament
      Clarity with understanding, missing.
      The familiar surroundings added sadness.
      Some good advice like a ray of light

      Get away from here to lift the fog
      Take a trip to anywhere, pastures new,
      See the world, whatever you do,
      Switch off your moping and try.
      Somewhere there is a wide clear sky,

      People will help you to understand
      Many are in the same boat.
      Travelling rough seas alone.
      I boarded a ship with little expectation
      Of any solution to my sad situation.

      The voyage began over calm seas
      With friendly faces and comfort.
      Waves billowing a calm sea breeze,
      A friendship forged at cards,
      I began to feel at ease,

      At the voyage end
      I had made a very firm friend,
      Who is still by my side, comforting.
      I have lost the fog, cleared the mist,
      My life is now completely,

      Copyright © Written by John Yeo~All rights reserved

    338. Girlfromsandwich says:

      Fishing Trip

      I’ve had this thought before.
      This could be the last time that I traverse this shore.
      I face the bow.
      I close my eyes.
      I feel the sun.
      I hear the loons,
      and whirring of the rod and plunk and splash of sinkers, lures and floats, the gentle tune
      of father showing sons just how to watch that float turn upside down.
      That’s just a nibble. Wait… wait… Now!
      Tug that cane pole firm and hook that sunny!
      I face the bow and cast my line.
      There was a time I would have been chagrined to feel the tremor, sense the lack of power in the cast.
      Today I smile and take it in.
      Scents of sunscreen on those tender arms behind me mingle with the fishy lake.
      Croaking, splashing, buzzing, laughing.
      Gleefully, one boy pulls his catch on board.
      This could be the last time that I traverse this shore.

    339. Saba Island Soul
      (for Cora)

      I journey to the center of you –
      an island queen with nimble fingers
      creating Saban Lace.
      I seek the hidden mysteries
      of your smile –
      your blue-black hair
      coiffed just so –
      the way you read
      Our Daily Bread
      in your speckled, red wool chair.

      I travel to the source of ancestors –
      this island home
      you left at 18.
      Not knowing how to swim,
      you left by boat –
      forging ahead
      with only seamstress skills
      and strength of intent.

      One-by-one, you brought them –
      brothers and sisters
      carried across the vast sea.
      Your hands –
      instruments of freedom.

      I journey back to the day
      you left all that was known –
      Saba spice,
      sweet Malta,
      the top of the volcano,
      and the village at The Bottom.

      It is at this crossroad
      of leavings and beginnings,
      that I find my source.
      I would like to think
      it is

      You are my black stone courage –
      my onyx strength –
      my Saba rose pride.

      Cristina M. R. Norcross
      Copyright 2014

      • Still learning to write, edit and post all in one day. Usually I take days to smooth out the rough edges. I am posting an edited version of this poem as a comment, only because there were 2 factual errors, and this is about a real person.

        Saba Island Soul
        (for Cora)

        I journey to the center of you –
        an island queen with nimble fingers
        creating Saban Lace.
        I seek the hidden mysteries
        of your smile –
        your blue-black hair
        coiffed just so –
        the way you read
        Our Daily Bread
        in your speckled, red wool chair.

        I travel to the source of ancestors –
        this island home
        you left at age 11
        for a bigger island.
        Not knowing how to swim,
        you left by boat –
        forging ahead
        with only embroidery skills
        and strength of intent.

        You left the Caribbean
        for a new land at 18.
        One-by-one, you brought them –
        brothers and sisters
        carried across the vast sea.
        Your hands –
        instruments of freedom.

        I journey back to the day
        you left all that was known –
        Saba spice,
        sweet Malta,
        the top of the volcano,
        and the village at The Bottom.

        It is at this crossroad
        of leavings and beginnings,
        that I find my source.
        I would like to think
        it is

        You are my black stone courage –
        my onyx strength –
        my Saba rose pride.

        Cristina M. R. Norcross
        Copyright 2014

    340. Transportation Conversations

      Each day’s voyage begins with the same one word
      question over the monitor: Trains?
      As I enter your room, you ask again
      and add whoo whoo! pumping a fist
      in the air. On the walls, blue planes buzz
      purple motorcycles, yellow cabs and red busses rumble
      past green tractors and trains. No surprise

      your first word was go. Magellan of mischief,
      you sail seas of sand, dig for treasure
      with the plastic excavator, bury the rubber boat and its car
      cargo with the metal dump truck. Grab my hand.

      Your turn?
      My turn?
      as if being co-pilot was my idea all along.

      Chugga chugga chugga chugga whoo whoo!
      we say as we build your boyhood
      one train track at a time.

      (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

    341. Upon God’s Waters
      Lydia Flores

      I am but a mustard seed, a grain
      at the vast expanse of his arms
      Yet he opens them before me at shore.
      The sea kisses my feet, cool and soft.
      My knees tremble at the roaring call
      but they come for me and I surrender.

      I do not know where waters will take me
      but I fold my heart into a little boat
      I pulsate in anxiety but the wind be my sail
      and I fade into quiet rhythm, the waters sing
      to my hope, swooshing and sloshing…
      The waves crescendo and decrescendo.

      I keep my eyes upon the horizon
      though in the deepest well of blue,
      tranquil yet a disarray of hollow wails,
      I am without borders and the seas hold my trust.
      But if my feet fail I will let myself sink
      be it so sinking is surrendering.
      Your grace abounds
      even in shipwreck.
      I wash back on shore
      reborn from your living waters.

    342. AleathiaD says:


      Every day I leave this world
      with heavy syncopated foot falls.

      The air crisp and forgiving
      for the things I’ve not done yet.

      Each step, each breath
      begs for absolution
      from all living things.

      I leave because reality
      is far more painful and sobering
      than I can take all at once.

      I am selfish in this way
      escaping for unmitigated blocks
      of time, the essence of body
      released, though always anchored,
      by truth and responsibility.

      Aleathia Drehmer 2014
      April 2 Voyage

    343. veronica_gurlie says:

      I was inspired by this challenge for this poem. I been playing around with the grammar for this poem so my meter comes across right.

      When On Fire

      I’ve done something, I’m not proud of,
      on a cold and misty rainy day,
      in the dark,
      and in a place, I’ve never been– and with someone I hope I never see again–
      and do I consider me to be brave? No I don’t.
      But like you,
      I’m looking for some change,
      and something obviously different,
      a moment to live, to not die alone,
      to not always be good,
      not always.

    344. Azma says:


      A voyage that gives
      Only if you choose to take,
      that weigh you down
      or lighten you up,
      to be delivered to
      the destination.

      -Azma Sheikh

    345. ina says:

      Robert, Love your voyage poem, btw

    346. L. says:

      A map on my desk,
      This thing covered in plans.
      Obsessively, I sketch my route.
      Much too excited to realize
      That this is a voyage too.

    347. Jane Shlensky says:

      Arm Chair Traveling On

      “…those faraway places I’ve been reading about from a book that I took from the shelf…”

      Arm chair travelers ride trains of thought
      hang duffels on a phrase read in a book
      prepare to be amazed by well-placed words.

      They journey sundry worlds like watching ferns
      unfurl from bud to frond, leaves drifting streams.
      They take it slow.

      They suck syllable straws like summer grass
      and savor nuance tangy on their tongues—
      their senses grow.

      Once they are on the road, they read aloud
      sometimes, to hear from inside out
      how words can move.

      “Azure” can take to sea or wing the air
      an eye so blue a lake, they swim into
      a brief romance.

      “Malinger” makes them ache that wrongs echo
      like songs they used to sing
      ghost melodies.

      They turn a page and words carry them on
      to places that sometimes they do not know
      so far away.

      They rent a mental room to characters
      befriended, let them stay long as they like
      but get along.

      Imagination packs a mental bag
      or travels light its vision to renew
      from words.

      A cruise, nothing to lose to voyage so
      and arm chair travelers can always choose
      to go.

    348. Domino says:

      Stars in our Eyes

      Lying in the grass in a field on a
      late summer night, we hold hands under the
      deepest of blue-starry-skies. Luckily,
      gravity’s grip keeps us firmly pinned to the
      earth, though in our minds we float away and
      plunge into the vast, star-studded sea so
      near. We try to navigate Orion’s
      belt, and end up in Cassiopeia’s
      hair. Draco takes a swipe at us as we
      pass, seeking Ursa Major. We take her
      cub, Ursa Minor, as a peace offering.
      Her dipper pours us from the sky; we wake
      to drops of rain, and laughing, run for home.

      Diana Terrill Clark

    349. Tracy Davidson says:

      The Night of Lost Fathers

      I had never felt so cold, so frightened.
      From a safe distance it didn’t seem real –
      it must be a dream, a wretched nightmare

      that I’d wake from in a minute or two
      and find myself in bed, in Robert’s arms,
      and he’d comfort me, soothe away my fears.

      I closed my eyes and prayed it would be so.
      But it was not a dream, my dear Robert
      was not beside me, my fears went unsoothed.

      In the lifeboat we huddled together,
      mostly women and children, a few men.
      The screams of those left behind, they echoed

      across the cold unforgiving water.
      The children cleaved to me, their poor faces
      red raw from crying, their bodies frozen.

      Jack called for his father as Sarah sobbed.
      We watched the ship sink beneath the surface
      and we simply held on to each other.

    350. Tracy Davidson says:

      A Voyage Through Her Window

      Confined to bed she can only dream
      of the wonderful places beyond her window.
      Her body is failing but her mind, still sharp,
      refuses to be boxed in by four grey walls.

      She retreats into her imagination, stares
      through the window and sees, not the actual view
      of other grey and featureless buildings,
      but Technicolor landscapes, people, cities.

      Some days she sees herself, her younger
      able-bodied self, wandering through foreign lands,
      haggling in bazaars, sampling local delicacies,
      camping in Bedouin tents in the desert.

      Other days she sees herself on the ocean,
      sometimes on a yacht in a round-the-world race,
      sometimes on a cruise dancing the tango
      with a dashing officer or two.

      She explores cities on foot, all the world’s great capitals,
      able in her mind to move between them instantly –
      a morning in London, afternoon in Rome,
      perhaps a Peking duck banquet in Beijing.

      Freedom is hers and her dream self revels in it.
      Her real self no longer responds to visitors or doctors.
      Machines may keep her body working
      but daydreaming keeps her soul alive.

    351. Beewrite says:

      By Michelle Starks Murrish

      Each morning my feet hit the ground
      Free and unbound
      Wanting to follow the wind
      To feel the earth
      And pursue her many paths
      They long to hike the mountains
      To trace across the sand
      To leave their prints in as many places
      As one can go in a lifetime
      But today the only mark they’ll make
      Is another hole in my sock
      Yet I pray these feet of mine
      Never lose their wanderlust

    352. Mr. Take The Lead says:

      Drive On
      Daniel R. Simmons
      It’s time to get in the car and drive towards your dreams at full speed.
      Though your vision may blurred as the tears hit the windshield against all effort to wipe them away-drive on. Or maybe all the windows of your heart are broken and the cold wind pierces your soul- but still drive on. Take a quick glance upward to the double sided mirror, one half reminding you of what you are leaving behind, the other, half strengthening you in the beauty of what lies ahead. Reflect on who you used to be, but rejoice in what you have become and are becoming.
      Yes the roads will get bumpy, as you drive around mountains, over hills, through crazy the curves of emotions and circumstances, the snow, the rain, the hail, the heat of the sun and the cold of your life’s winter.
      You turn off the radio because all that’s playing is the songs of your past and the broadcast of naysayers telling you what you can’t do, so you ride in silence. Burning the fuel of your gained knowledge, determination and motivation as your frustration, negativity, fear and pain escapes through your exhaust system and fill the air- you drive.
      You drive and drive and drive stopping from repairs from time to time as life begins to pick dents in your progress trying to slow you down.
      You pass signs that tell you wrong way, and of discouragement.
      But with eyes straight ahead, focused on the road the lead to the fulfillment of your dream, you drive until your engine gives out and your wheels fall off, as you scream I’ve given it all I’ve got! I have nothing else to give, I’ve push as hard as I could!
      Then you come to a violent stop as your broken down car fails to the ground- you look around as yourself planted in the place where you always wanted to be.
      Ultimately you have arrived to the town of your success. With a shout of joy, a huge smile of relief, fighting back the tears you kneel down and send up a pray of thanks to God.
      You throw a fist pump in the air and prepare for the next journey determined to accomplish even more

    353. TomNeal says:

      The Thames
      It starts here,
      The water still and Kemble clear,
      No silt, no mud, just water by a church,
      Moving water made sacred by English
      Earth and words and bones and pubs,
      Made strong by the waters of Ock,
      Cherwell, Windrush, Pang, Kennet, Colne, and Wey
      Heading up to London via Oxford,
      Abingdon, Streatly, Reading and Windsor.

      There are fellow travellers here, Oxford eights
      Escaping Oxford greats, and nearly great,
      On bitterly cold Hilary mornings
      Training for short sharp trips to Folly Bridge,
      And cyclists on the congested towpath
      Upon which Dr Johnson walked
      To Iffley Village and its lock.

      Other friends litter London’s banks,
      Where the water tanned from travel mixes
      With City bankers and Russian billionaires
      And politicians in one grand accord
      On boats moored at Chelsea Harbour,
      Some distance from the corrupt Isle of Dogs,
      And the journey’s end near Canvey Island,
      From whence the innocent water
      Departs gentle England forevermore.

    354. a heartfelt journey

      Fields of green flashed before his eyes as he fell
      The damp moss cushioned him as he wandered into a distant mood
      It beckoned him as it never had before.
      The temperature grasped at his limbs as he rolled to face the sky
      The moon laid its arms around him
      Surrounding him in solitude and warmth
      Familiar scents whirled through the air
      Bonding each, distance was seen in the stars above
      Memories flowed forth
      Love, finally, love.
      Never again will he find it in such kind.
      Reflection of the past hurting and the want of forgiveness
      Never again will he find it in such kind.

    355. Christopher says:

      Stuck on this voyage of time
      With the entire world
      And my erratic mind
      A voyage testing endurance
      Measured by the end of lives
      The sirens call out
      And in blissful ignorance
      Another accepts their fate
      And joins the ranks of yesterdays
      The others left to carry memories
      In hopes to hold off misery


      It was the way
      for me … my
      daily walk to insulated settings
      of school,
      village …
      even then my own company more interesting than those destinations.

      The Tao gray sidewalk
      became the way
      of seasons … paralleling the
      brook with
      chartreuse skunk cabbage
      its thick mire busy
      with circling gnats,
      summer’s heat,
      then later, frothed with thick fall
      steam over still warm
      waters where it
      joined the creek by the
      Baptist church that amazed me
      one day by unexpectedly
      becoming the Church of
      Later Day Saints.

      There was the thick curb
      where Cadman Street intersected with
      the bike tire-width
      path worn by
      navigating around it. If you
      rode, the
      handlebars had to
      be jumped up to get it
      right to avoid
      losing speed and
      falling over.

      Were there locusts along
      my avenue?
      Can’t reckon
      for sure … but
      a child’s walk from the
      inner quiet to the boisterous outer
      world developed
      serenity, contemplation …
      an inner standard
      of peace.

    357. SuziBwritin says:


      Learning to walk taught me not
      to fall
      Learning ballet taught me
      To be Graceful
      Learning yoga taught me
      To Breathe
      Learning tai chi taught me
      Learning belly dancing taught me
      To be Sexy
      Learning tap taught me
      to be Joyous
      Learning karate taught me
      To Defend myself
      Learning ballroom dancing taught me
      To be Romantic
      Learning to walk with arthritic knees
      Taught me to be

    358. Misky says:

      Me and Ben

      I once went on a journey
      with a chicken. Not a normal
      sort of thing to do, but normal’s
      not something I’m known
      for doing, nor would I
      dream of speaking on behalf
      of a chook. Now this chicken
      was a hen, and she demanded

      to be called Ben, and so you
      know why I’d never dream
      of speaking for this hen;
      Ben could speak for herself!
      Now our journey was not
      very long; from this end to
      that there end of the barn,
      but every day we’d converse
like old pals, clucking ‘bout

      where we might stay, assumin’
      that a chicken would roost
      in a fancy Five-Star hotel.
      Ben, you see, was a rarity,
      and of exceedingly very
      good taste. But that’s a tale
      for another day, as to eat
      her would have been
      such a horrible waste.

      (c) Misky April 2014
      to see photo that accompanies this piece please pop over to http://miskmask.wordpress.com

    359. Jane Shlensky says:

      Out and In

      he knows her body like he knows
      his hands
      he’s traveled her blue highways
      her white strands
      of beach and by-ways, avenues
      and lanes
      sometimes he saunters other times
      he planes
      he’d know their favored harbors, vistas
      he knows her body, frightened of
      her mind

      her eyes get deeper every time
      he looks
      such oceans fed by rains and
      swollen brooks
      he cannot fathom, even though
      he tries
      the depths that he must travel in
      her eyes

      through deepest jungles, over rough
      he treks, gets lost, and finds his path
      the more he learns, the more she
      he sees that on herself she most

    360. To the Doctor

      It requires planning,
      walker, cane,
      a plastic babushka
      to keep the rain from
      ruining her hair,
      papers, cards
      with numbers and
      co-pays and charges.

      The trip is mostly
      pleasant, the hills
      just beginning to
      show signs of spring,
      an emerald mist
      floating among
      the twigtips.

      On the way home,
      the mood is somber,
      timelines and
      test results
      in the back seat
      like a passenger.

    361. One Day
      -Laura Romero

      You meet one day
      Maybe shyly, Maybe through friends
      And decide this is it,
      This is where the search ends.

      You meet one day
      Feelings stir somewhere down deep.
      Call it lust, Call it love
      Call it something obscene.

      You meet one day
      Everyone says, “Go!”
      This is it.
      Time for the show.

      You meet one day
      At the altar, All in white
      He in his tux
      And everything is right.

      You meet one day
      With a babe in your arms,
      Yet you’re perpetually swayed
      By all his goofy charms.

      You meet one day
      On your porch with a glass of ice,
      The chairs are there rocking
      And everything is quiet and nice.

      You met one day
      It feels like ages have gone by.
      But now you’re all alone
      And you sit and you sigh.


      You meet one day

    362. priyajane says:

      Choo Choo
      Time, suspended in motion
      Wheels, rolling the imagination
      Gentle sways along the way
      Adding humor to our day

      Glistening tracks go on and on
      Connecting lines of ladders long
      Different feathers flock and mix
      Boarding here and leaving quick

      Messages from underground
      Rhythmic attitude of sounds
      While my thoughts choo choo along
      Backwards, to some future song

      The window world keeps changing sight
      Moving further, gaining height
      So much there we do not see
      Swirling with the dusty breeze

      Childlike play of engine giggles
      Chug at sidetracked memory squiggles
      A handshake from some speeding treats
      Takes me places from my seat

      Vendors that can sing in riddles
      Weave in and out like running stitches
      I ponder on the life they lead,
      Of what they do and how they deal

      With every muscle it pulls along
      Just following the tracks, ding dong
      Chiming lulls thro starry nights
      Chasing all our dreams that ride

      I know not what awaits out there
      For now, I’m safe inside this care

    363. Jane Shlensky says:

      Round Trips

      “Sometimes a person has to go a very long way out of his way in order to come back a short distance correctly.” Edward Albee

      He drives long-distance semis, days alone,
      picking up hitchers like me on the road.
      He seems to live on coffee, mints, and cake
      he buys at truck stops where he laughs and flirts
      with waitresses and hollers at the cooks.

      He’s thin as a tire iron but somehow looks
      so tough and wary, who would ever guess
      he has advice to give, amends to make.
      He promises a ride to Abilene
      so I have hours to nap or hear him talk.

      He takes to me as if I am a wheel
      he feels obliged to steer along the road.
      A job like this must make him lonely, wild
      for company of any scroungy kind.
      He knows me at a glance, it seems, his eyes

      scan me like radar looking for my fault,
      what could have put me traveling on my thumb.
      His gravelly voice is kind. He needs an ear,
      small thanks for me to pay him for the ride.
      He drives and thinks aloud, an easy pace.

      “You make enough mistakes, you learn some tricks
      to traveling light or learning to forgive.
      Although some folks with feelings hard as stone
      like to snap whips, see blood, pile error on.
      Punishing minds can stay too close to home.

      Regret and shame get heavy, backs can’t lift
      so hard a load; you have to set it down.
      You shed your sins like snakes slough summer skins.
      You laugh at insults, mostly ‘cause they’re true,
      control your temper. What else can you do?”

      I see he’s busy knocking memory’s doors
      half hoping they’re unlocked by one inside
      his thoughts, but half afraid of curtains closed
      on faces that he knew once but no more.
      He drives and waits at doors, his hat in hand.

      “You eat some crow, some humble pie, some shit,
      and try to put down roots. You try to please,
      but highways sing like sirens in that poem
      and soon you have to go no matter what.
      The ones you leave don’t see Odysseus

      when you come back, I tell you that for sure,”
      He laughs and I do too a bit surprised
      That he knows Homer. There my judgment shows.
      I wonder just what other things he knows,
      Bhagavad-Gita stuffed beside his maps.

      Do you have folks, a wife and kids? I ask.
      He smiles with sad acceptance, “Used to have.
      I couldn’t live a sedentary way.
      My stories always some, for them, far place
      I’d traveled with a pack or on the job.

      But there are other walkers on this road,” he says,
      suggesting me, “good company who know
      this lay of land and travel light as rain.
      Their stories keep me up many a night
      as mine do them, unless my guess is wrong.”

      I sit in silence watching road subside,
      imagining the door that I’m to face,
      hoping with all I am I have the grace
      to take all blame and get life right this time.
      I dream their eyes are open and they smile.

    364. LGordon says:

      There Is a Linear Destination

      The body is designed to heal itself
      if you opened the skin on your palm
      it would scab, make new skin
      if you took a hammer to your toes
      they’d heal, eventually

      My heel is healing, growing new bone
      to reach an Achilles tendon hell bent
      on separation and the spurs are spurned
      lovers in an unrequited chase. In the chair
      the doctor cups the balls of my feet

      her pink gloved hands hold me by the ankles
      as if she is testing the heft of my thighs
      push your hips back, she says, and I do
      like I have done before when asked
      You’re uneven, she says, as if I didn’t know

      I’m wondering about Achilles now
      how his mother bathed him nightly in ambrosia
      before holding him over fire, how this ritual
      scared his father who walked in on this scene
      after a long day at the office

      How he would not have been vulnerable
      if his mother had been allowed to protect him
      as she intended. All babes are left
      to their mortal fate. Any child can break
      a bone in her back from doing the splits

      that sets off a Rube Goldberg of bones
      adjusting and compensating in one small life
      If I am to recover, the doctor says, it will take stretching
      against the wall, holding myself straighter,
      walking more consciously.

    365. acctgdr says:

      The walk

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

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

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

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

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

    366. pomodoro says:

      If Only

      Let’s return to Monterosso
      where we can meander
      through terraced vineyards,
      then sip wine at the cafe
      on Via Verdi.

      Let’s return to Vernazza
      to climb the steep slopes,
      ramble among olive trees,
      and descend
      on paths peppered with cactus.

      Let’s return to Camoglia
      to eavesdrop and let
      the words of others
      fill the silence
      of the Benedictine abbey.

      Let’s return to Riomaggiore,
      stroll the Via dell’Amore
      above the rocky sea wall
      in the company of kestrels
      and drink in the scent of rosemary.

      Let’s return to Manarolo,
      laze on the pier
      like nets drying in the sun
      and toss our passports into the sea.

    367. lethejerome says:

      “Return from Zhongshan”

      Sun neither in the trees nor in the sky-bound clouds.
      The dirt
      filters through
      in direct
      rays, openings
      in time in lives unknown
      glanced in motion – to me,
      solidity – escape and breath
      catching, silent,
      The release from language yet to be acquired.

      Jérôme Melançon


      (I hope this poem shows up correctly: it’s meant to look like a frame, with the words on the right, right justified.)

      • lethejerome says:

        It is meant to work either way:

        “Return from Zhongshan”

        Sun neither in the trees nor in the sky-bound clouds.

        The dirt filters through in direct rays, openings
        in time in lives unknown glanced in motion – to me,
        solidity – escape and breath catching, silent,

        The release from language yet to be acquired.

        …but when it’s a frame you get bonus verses.


    368. shelaghart@yahoo.com says:

      Soul Voyage

      Egret soars on blue sky
      My soul takes wing, rising high
      Joy o’er earthly cares

    369. kab says:

      Here is what I know:
      The Ancient Egyptians believed that the human heart was the source of all emotion.
      When we loved, you planted an earth. When you left, I caved from the root.
      God is many things. He is a cloud and a tree and a falcon and a flower. He is a poem
      written from an airplane flying over Georgia.
      This heart is a greedy thing. It is a stubborn four-year old throwing a tantrum. It is a hungry
      house. It is a christian-less church. It is a break-less car driving 200 mph.
      When you fall in love for the first time, it feels like coming home.
      But love isn’t a house. It is faith. It is a natural thing. It can get lost. It can spoil.
      Writing a poem like this is never pretty. But then again, neither is heart break.
      Moving on is a voyage. Moving on is a train ride that never ends. It is an elevator
      that doesn’t cannot tell which way is up. The only way to make it is to press
      all the buttons, and pray you get off on the right floor.”
      —Karese Burrows “Facts Over Georgia”

    370. YOLO’ing on the River

      Duke Energy says to the judge
      keep citizen groups away

      from our three dozen
      coal ash pits strewn
      across North Carolina.

      The Department of Environment
      and Natural Resources says

      keep away the pollution
      from the drinking water.

      Duke’s CEO says
      to the public
      that they won’t keep away
      from responsibility.

      Federal prosecutors
      have said 23 times
      the corporation can’t keep away
      from the law

      more specifically
      the U.S. Clean Water Act.

      Hey Duke honey
      sweet darling

      dude you’re 114 years old
      and even your great-grandkids

      think this game
      of “keep away” is lame

      (and the coal ash
      says he’d now rather
      pal around with the nerds).

    371. mindiaust says:

      The Good, The Bad, and The Ocean

      I remember Wild Wood, New Jersey,
      early 80’s, the sea-urchin spines
      of hypodermics needling my toes.

      I remember my prankster sister
      stuffing a huge conch shell
      with dog crap, so when I held it to my ear
      to hear the ocean’s lull and sweet mermaid song,
      I got shit for brains.

      Then there was the yellow starburst sun
      making over-here-baby eyes at me,
      but I knew I’d just be another notch
      on his melanoma belt,
      another burn victim inches from water.

      I remember wanting to pummel those days,
      those waves throwing temper tantrums at God,
      back into the sand from which they came,

      from which came my career of taking
      the good with the bad, so said my cliché-making grandmother,
      got to take the shit-filled shell
      with the super-swirled design,
      got to know my masterpiece castle
      will eventually be swallowed by sea.

      Or so says my self-help, beach-book,
      all life’s tragedies and triumphs
      line up back to back like kids comparing heights,
      and that everything’s a gridlock of opposites,
      life and death,

      like a woman I know who met Mr. Fantastic
      at a funeral, thus proving conversations
      over cadavers as effective as conversations
      over cabernet.

      All these sad circumstances
      knotting us together in a traffic jam
      of boats shackled to dock indefinitely.

      Even now, on this beach, barren,
      winter sunset, where we’ve gathered
      to spread your son’s ashes,
      we tilt our heads to hear the water
      directly, as if to say, there is no medium
      for this listening, these feelings,
      no shell, no needle, no bottle,
      no way to navigate these riptide currents
      of smiles and sorrow,

      until all the forces that used to strike us down,
      will finally find their rightful places,
      not pushing,
      but lapping against us,
      like those tamed and tiny tides
      when the silver-sliver of moon,
      and the golden sun agree
      to balance on some final scale
      of peace.

    372. Waiting
      with bated breath
      to rekindle romance
      off on a second honeymoon
      Is it the land of enchantment?
      Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Taos
      reservations confirmed
      New Mexico

    373. elledoubleyoo says:

      Driving Up the 5

      We drove in a two-car caravan
      in case Mom wanted to stay an extra night.
      These days, the only time we drive this stretch
      through the grapes and almonds and bees that smash
      into our windshields is when someone dies.
      Grandpa, Uncle Leonard, now Aunt Sandy — who’s
      next? The question no one asks. Halfway there,
      a hatchback with a coffin strapped on top
      shocks us, but we point and take a photo.
      “Don’t do that to me when I go,” Mom says,
      and we laugh so hard we cry. It’s only
      later I know these tears were born from fear;
      one day, not so far away, our cousins
      will drive this same stretch, but in reverse.

    374. Lady S Poetic Thickness says:

      Her Journey

      She woke to the sun beaming upon her face
      Her surroundings were the same, yet she was different
      There were no tears or sadness anymore

      She slid out of her bed; looking outside
      The scenery was so inviting
      Filling her with great joy

      As she savored the moment
      Scenes began to play in her mind
      Each displaying a portion of her life

      Her childhood
      Riddled with abuse
      Love was a thing she only heard about

      Seeing others play and laugh
      While she cried
      Asking what she had done wrong

      Somehow she knew once she was an adult; it would all be better
      However, being an adult only meant answering to someone else
      In her case, it was her new husband and his dominating ways

      Scenes danced through her head
      Watching as she progressed through her life
      Noting she never gave up…the fight continued throughout
      She stands presently
      Stronger than she ever has been
      Basking in the rays of the sun

      Her journey has not been an easy one
      Climbing mountains, battling adversaries
      Searching for answers; only to find more questions

      Today, she feels empowered
      Realizing she is not a victim
      She is a survivor

      ©Sheila Moseley
      Lady S Poetic Thickness

    375. Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 2 Voyage Poem

      Day Tripping

      The collected total
      of my perceived need
      never matches reality
      neatly like hound’s-tooth
      or herringbone,
      but leaves me
      packing more
      and more,
      futilely struggling
      to encase it all
      and lock it down.

      So I have an aversion
      to luggage,
      to cases and causes,
      to memories and regrets,
      to remorse and shame,
      to baggage
      that must be carried
      by someone
      stronger than I.

      I’m in need
      of a porter
      or a dark, sweet

    376. Lindy™ says:

      Love and Madness

      It just takes one step
      that first step into madness
      to raise from the dead
      the life in your head
      to find all the colors
      you lost on your voyage
      of growing up
      in polite company
      to become what you ought
      or so you once thought.

      quite often lack
      but the trip was so dark
      from just a flicker of hope
      and the stormy nights
      scared away your dreams
      so it seems.

      Once you take that
      very first step
      into the true depth
      of love
      your heart full of fire
      your will on a wire
      creating your desires
      becomes instinct
      and trumps everything
      you thought you knew
      with everything
      you’ve ever wanted to do
      in your “right” mind
      not your thoughts mined
      out of madness.

    377. Before an earthquake

      I am told

      The clouds pause,
      the wind holds its breath,
      the birds pause their songs,
      the trees hold tight to their leaves.


      The clouds paused,
      the wind held its breath
      the birds paused their songs,
      the trees didn’t drop a leaf,

      But I did not climb under the table.

      I packed my bags

      And no earthquake came.

    378. Monique says:

      Wandering But Not Lost

      Starting out on an uncharted path
      Familiar ground, a distant memory
      Friends and foes and lovers past
      And I myself, a reverie

      How strange it all is,
      like a kaleidoscope
      The world
      Full of constants and variables
      Possibilities as infinite as the stars

      People like me
      Out in the world
      Wandering but not lost,
      we find ourselves through the journey we take

      We do not have an end in sight
      because we can’t see an end.
      We only know that the end exists.
      Somewhere out there
      Like the last page of a long story

      But right now, we are not at the end
      Nor are we in the familiar beginning
      Instead we find ourselves
      Smack dab in the middle

      Wandering, but not lost.

    379. I am overwhelmed by the number of comments already online. Here is my voyage poem. It started as a haiku, but then I thought, “Stop haiku-ing and get to real poeming again!”

      Stars rise and fade
      in whispers unheard.
      Train wheels rattle on the track.

      It is time.

      Time races against the stars,
      deaf to their moans,
      insensitive to my sighs,
      blind to the burden on
      the luggage rack.

      Wheels rattle on,
      unseeing the end,
      because the tracks go round
      the earth, girdle it
      as a mindless belt.

      Stars rise,
      in every sky,
      each minute.
      Where are the eyes to see them all,
      and the hearts to hear their cry?

      Mutilated souls migrate.

      ©2014, Mariya Koleva

    380. Linda Lee Sand says:


      Found where I started, finally.
      Walked all the way barefooted
      since my shoes fell off.
      Blisters didn’t matter,
      glass and cuts, I wanted it
      to hurt.
      I went to see where it began
      That deep sad part of me
      laid on the floor, so

      Went back to make a cradle in
      my arms, give it another name
      a longer glance, now
      maybe sing it a refrain, but
      no. no refrain.

      Might say the word, though,
      forgive, not sing it yet just say it,
      just a word,

      Might say it now to who I was, that
      girl that blew like prairie wind, who
      blew herself away, was air and wind but had no
      breath that girl,
      could give no breath away.

      But now I do,
      have breath enough to say the word, forgive.
      I’m back, I’m back here now,
      walked back and back, that’s why I came.
      Not to start the story over, but
      to begin again.


      I take refuge in Beethoven, public radio
      pulsing his shamanic music
      as we cross the coastal plain,
      funeral drone laying down strophe on
      strophe, the violins rising above
      the pull of your absence, riding
      the wave of it, as raptors soar over
      the earth below, higher and higher,
      my feet keeping time on the floor board,

      the clarinet venturing forth its first
      breath, the flute breathing back
      into life what sustains. What is
      joy if not breath rising
      above the obligato of death?

      Merging onto the interstate,
      my skull fills with andante
      not emptiness, leaves clinging,
      cotton bolls still holding on,
      my ears full of a deaf man’s creation,
      trumpet by trumpet, a bridge,
      a river,
      a wake,
      a road moving on
      as the world moves,
      galloping as you used to ride
      your horse over the gopher holes
      and cow turds, blood pounding
      in your ear, your hand me down
      dress hitched up over your bow-legged
      knees, as you cry, “Look at me,
      I have crossed over!”

    382. 12th deck promenade

      walkers lap the track
      between lounge chairs
      of varying nudity

      5 laps = 1 mile

      circuiting the ship
      hand in hand
      she watches to see
      him not notice
      the topless bather
      this third time around

    383. Chinks.14 says:

      Paradise Lost

      Chasing a paradise
      She was bottled in love once.
      Eyes closed,lips are singing
      “Oh my love!I am nearing you”.
      She can feel the scent
      left in the white mist,
      the place of hide and seek.
      Covered in blue apparels
      as sky hugged her and
      reciting in her ears the destination.
      Riding on a boat of hope,
      so intense her desires to
      touch and feel the heartbeats together.
      Even her shadow in the river
      longing to drift away downstream.
      Such a intense love cling to her
      that the five elements are saying
      “Hope you will find your love”.

    384. Misky says:

      A Journey Into a Book

      I’ve piled pillows to brace my neck
      my knees bent tall like pointy-Vees.
      To my right, a cup of tea
      and to my left, chocolates,
      (ahem!) yes, but only 3.

      I’m on a journey along the edge –
      a trip, to fall,
      let’s plunge off a ledge
      and fly into this page’s
      inky fun and fantasies.

      (c) Misky 2014

    385. veronica_gurlie says:

      My Thoughts On Driving to Sandlebridge Virginia Beach

      For the long naps on the patio, with the sun stroking my face,
      For the taste of fresh buttered lobster, and the feel of sand, pushing between my toes,
      and for a chance to see a battle ship far out in the ocean,
      I will drive hours talking mostly to myself, and listen to the same old songs.
      I will only eat cold meals and only sleep in my car.
      I will take the trip, as if I shall be defined it
      and as the rain beats on the windshield,
      no matter how blurry the future becomes, or blind I am to the world,
      just like every lonely day of my life, I will drive on,
      I will keep thinking, I must go on, I must– and I do believe I will.

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        typo miss. fixed.

        EDITED: Please use this one. Thanks:0)

        My Thoughts On Driving to Sandlebridge Virginia Beach

        For the long naps on the patio, with the sun stroking my face,
        For the taste of fresh buttered lobster, and the feel of sand, pushing between my toes,
        and for a chance to see a battle ship far out in the ocean,
        I will drive hours talking mostly to myself, and listen to the same old songs.
        I will only eat cold meals and only sleep in my car.
        I will take the trip, as if I shall be defined by it
        and as the rain beats on the windshield,
        no matter how blurry the future becomes, or blind I am to the world,
        just like every lonely day of my life, I will drive on,
        I will keep thinking, I must go on, I must– and I do believe I will.

        • Nanamaxtwo says:

          There’s another poem here…send button…irreversible…edit a thousand times and see the typo after….I figure these are one-day first drafts.
          Your poem speaks to the strength of sensory memory-no poem intended. I can identify.

          • veronica_gurlie says:

            Huh? My poem was NOT edited a thousand times, so please don’t go saying that. Ask me and I will tell you how many times it was edited. It was only edited on a line or two twice. I was happy with the material, just making sure my meter is how I want it. I’ve never been the type to edit my work over and over again. I never need to, cause I don’t write a poem unless it comes out naturally.
            I’m more for sure sharing my work with others. Is there a reason why you’re first comment is on whether it is a first draft or not? I do not spend days rewriting my work. My work comes out naturally, most as it is. I never send down and say I will write a poem and work it out over and over. I do not get what you meant by your comment. If you look at the poem, maybe only a line or two has been changed. I will not change any more of it. Some poems are meant not to be work shopped to death. it seems you approach to insult my work in a very strange way sense, much assumption was made, especially in this thread. It is also in bad taste since you are aware that judges can read your post and mine. Your first comment on my work comes off like an insult and it also says alot about you as a person. If this is not, please clarify. Other wise, your comment is not constructive but more an assumption of the process of my poem, in which as I said i did not work shop my poetry. I’m a natural at writing and have been writing quite a long time. I write poetry for enjoyment. Sensory poems are also poems. I’m not sure what you mean by that but part of your comment but it is no ones place to tell anyone whether their work is a poem. Your comment is coded and I’m interested in your response. Some people may write just to impress others, or to win. I’m writing cause love to write and share my work. I have been published several times and even that work was not edited a thousand times. If I’m incorrect about your comment, please tell me what did you mean.

        • veronica_gurlie says:

          Diedre. what do you mean? I was not going to response to that comment of that person but I felt I should, especially since it is my post they were replying to. It amazes me to see anyone not giving constructive criticism and giving comments that are negative and they are fully aware that this entire thread is under review. It will give a bad impression of you. I will let them go on in an attempt, to obviously make other poets look bad in order to try pull attention from their work. We should motivate, but not everybody does. I don’t want a big argument in my thread either, ya know:0)

          • PKP says:

            Have no real sense about what you are both arguing about – but this is a very supportive site and such arguing is inappropriate here – Veronica with over 1,000 posts yesterday and hundreds today I wouldn’t worry about judges being swayed by the merit of your work – edited or unedited – the only problem you could ever run into on this site Diedre would be – being unkind or provocative to another poet – in past years some poets have been asked to leave – so let’s just get back to poeming

    386. Alfonso Kuchinski says:


      seeking a gigantic bounce,
      playing the same way as yesterday;
      substance fatigue.
      A mid-air boost!
      mysterious corridors exposed,
      NOT hallways recognizable.
      Unique space
      opening to undiscovered mansions.
      Rolling a die this time,
      disregard of the
      two alternating states,
      the limitations of a wave;
      changing direction,
      bouncing outside a defined range

    387. poetbeta154 says:

      Walk to work

      On a Providence hilltop where lovecraft may
      Have refilled tired lungs with the logistics of life,
      The to and from of things inbetweens breathe.

      Wayward the billowing limps fraught with autumn,
      Remains undeterred by modems compression, this-
      Molecular army oof subjection, as I, tugging gravity.

      Arms are pendulums tethering petrified frozen
      Hands, heavyand reddened by clawing a path to trending
      Edges, the droopy face of this ahing landlocked harbor.

      If this growing ball of misting had an enemy to fear,
      It would be the love affair between planets and sun,
      The subtle nature of mitosis, being as it is to consumers.

      Plants have a remarkable ability to absorb/distribute.

    388. Clae says:


      I said goodbye
      to the ones I’d miss
      they were jealous I
      could move on before them
      and wished me luck and blessings
      hoped I’d come by to visit

      It was well past time to move on so
      when an opportunity arose
      Sought me out in fact
      after I’d lost track
      I thought this must be meant to be
      if so or not, I surely had to try and see

      my voyage did not take me far
      driving further away,
      fewer days so less pay
      but I get to use a chair, so it’s ok
      I’m still working out if this opportunity
      is it or not, I’ll just have to wait and see

      T.S. Gray

    389. rachfh says:

      by Rachel E. Hicks

      These are the things
      I want to tell you at night
      when you lie beside me—
      travel-weary, road-worn:

      Let’s reframe— migrate
      from this clay-baked road
      with no foreseeable end;
      let’s make it—in our minds, tonight—
      a voyage by boat, or better yet,
      by canoe.

      Meandering streams hold more surprises,
      like hope.

      Maybe then I could use that metaphor
      to assure you—
      your axis threatening to shift,
      adrift from the shore where answers grow
      reedy, numerous and anchored—

      you’re navigating well with
      a tricky oar; nobody’s jumping ship,
      though it’s eerily quiet
      and the fog pushes close
      against the hull.

    390. Mokosh28 says:

      Boat of Souls

      All that the sea
      is forgiven, wide
      water, never blinking, not
      in solace or even
      revenge. They say
      that infants who never take
      a breath
      are lost this way
      to moon strings and rib
      patternings of shells
      where formless creatures
      crawl for sleep.
      An empty
      boat drifts out across
      the waves. You
      can hear laughter
      on the farthest island.

    391. cam45237 says:

      Not a poem – just a question
      Is there a way to search the results for each day. I have stumbled across some poems I have loved and would love to see what the poets write through-out the challenge but I can find no way to navigate this page besides scrolling thru hundreds and hundreds of posts. I have some vague memory from years gone by that there is a super-secret method by which to find particular posts. Can anyone help?

    392. d dyson says:

      We are all strangers on this voyage
      finding ourselves stationed between acres of sea,
      and our hearts at times do murmur
      for adventures through the unknown
      to collect moments, to collect memories,
      for scrapbooks, journals, to sit through and admire,
      we are all strangers on this voyage
      just variations of one heart.

    393. jlaigle says:

      Inner Voyage

      sailing around the world
      but going nowhere at all
      this journey is in the mind
      this journey is of the heart
      who am I
      I am who I think I am
      discovering self

    394. candy says:


      Lying supine on our mats,
      lights out, music playing,
      the calming voice of the yogini
      tells us to clear our minds
      and focus to our breath.

      But my mind has already journeyed
      to the parking lot, started the car engine,
      driven across town, and is in the drive-through
      line of a favorite coffee shop
      waiting for my morning chai.


    395. A Voyage to Three
      Elyse Brownell

      It was our first trip away with your daughter
      we packed up the car with our clothes
      sandwiches in a cooler, Yoda, our dog,
      her car seat, enough videos to stay four
      nights, and drove the three hours into the mountains

      When we arrived, Yoda was anxious,
      smelling each spot of grass along the
      side of the building, lifting his leg,
      claiming his territory—
      a welcoming to all the other animals nearby

      she was laughing at him, pointing to him,
      head back, golden brown strands past her
      shoulders, asking you to carry in her things
      taking my hand with such softness
      and leading the way

      The room was musky, as if it had not been aired-out
      for days, she quickly changed into her bathing suit
      anxious to get to the water, then sat on the bed,
      arms crossed, while we got settled and changed into ours

      we drove 15 minutes up the street,
      to where the indoor hot springs were,
      it was all we could afford after a quick
      decision was made to get out of town together

      the water felt like a warm gel
      sliding past my legs, resisting each step
      as I planted my feet on the bottom of the pit—
      a slimy, dissolving paper of algae grazing my toes

      she had her floaters on, each one wrapped around
      her slender upper arms, kicking her feet, trying to escape
      you, the loch ness monster for the day, me, her
      adventurous partner keeping her from danger

      we spent all afternoon playing games in the pit,
      you became the kissing monster, she let us kiss,
      just once, we became a family on vacation

      when we returned to the hotel room that night
      she fell asleep between us, full from popcorn
      and laughter, us holding hands above her
      and Yoda, fast asleep at the foot of the bed.

    396. Midnight tides

      He does Not
      long Like I long
      For him The night does
      Not gift him
      To give
      He does not
      Thirst My skin
      Or rise upon
      The quiet tides
      Of moonlit
      We lie as
      stone As wine
      tarnished by groans
      Of wind and sun
      We lie
      As winter
      Fallow shorn
      Tethered to storms
      Of dust. And ice
      in disguise.
      Curious moons
      To our private tides.
      For tonight.

    397. Eibhlin says:

      In the waiting room
      of the mammography department
      a thin woman cries silently.

      Here for the first time
      - and only because of age -
      I avert my eyes.

      How sure I am that we
      are on different journeys.


      My train has yet to arrive,
      and I’ve a ticket in hand
      I stand in wait.
      My destination beckons.
      Sadly, I’ve taken too many nights
      one day at a time.
      A suitcase below and my guitar in tow,
      with my itinerary full; I’m in demand!
      It’s great for a poet/one man band

      But I’m tired; I want to go home -
      my thoughts escape me,
      my music plays,
      my love life waits for me, in silence.

      It never ends;
      caffeine and books tide me over.
      It un-nerves me; perturbs me.
      Cookie cutter towns where ever I go,
      dingy buildings with smoke billows,
      and marquees showing oldies.
      The faces of strangers distract me,
      they remind me I need to be homeward bound.

      I just wish I was home.
      My thoughts escape me,
      my music plays,
      my love life stays in wait for me, in silence.

      So at night, I write my rhymes again.
      I hate this game, but I’ll defend
      all my words, they come back to me
      from my chest, mediocre at best.
      There is no harmony in life’s void
      and I’m so annoyed; I need some comfort.

      Homeward. I’m bound to go,
      I just wish I was home.
      My thoughts escape me,
      my music plays,
      my love life stays in wait for me, in silence.

      Inspiration drawn from “Homeward Bound” by Simon and Garfunkle

    399. novacatmando says:

      I don’t want to go
      to Tupelo, where a man
      of nine mothers will sell his luckless
      soul for a compass, all that trouble
      in a moveable map. Long day living—
      the way blues fly, and ashen sky spreads.
      I’ll stay hi-ground up the Natchez Trace,
      I’ll stay listening to switchgrasses grow
      under arched spans in a Birdsong Hollow.

    400. Nanamaxtwo says:

      Voyage PAD 2

      12 Steps is more
      than a geographical,
      a road from blankness
      to new memories,
      a bridge over a river
      of fear, the monster
      chasing faster
      than we can limp.

    401. pmwanken says:

      sail, with oar
      in water, moves
      me…alas, only in

      (a cinqku for Creative Bloomings Inform Poet prompt)

    402. Travelling to Other Realms

      I’d like to say I imagine you
      levitating on elephant clouds
      puffing a healthy cigarette
      all nonchalant-like, worry free
      elbows bent and ankles crossed
      Beethoven’s 9th symphony
      your ode to joy as you
      ascend to heaven

      rather than chained to lightning
      drowning, sinking down
      through earthquakes and fire
      Chopin’s Funeral March
      a full-blast concerted lash
      thunderous as you thrash
      like stinky catch at the gates
      to hell’s inner core

      but you’re probably just gone.

    403. A Quest for Magic
      with deep love & respect to David Smith

      This poem makes me feel that the cup & ball illusion
      of our hearts & minds is a hat-trick. This poem may
      or may not be a hat-trick. This poem makes me feel
      like the rabbit’s accelerated heartbeat just after her truth
      is pulled from the hat. This poem pets Hecate’s hounds
      while she holds her torches high to light our path
      when the moon is heartless & we don’t have a match.
      This poem is the desire that the magician’s assistant has
      to upstage him. This poem is her glory when she does.
      This poem is the collective gasp just after he saws her
      in half. This poem is winning over the hearts of the audience
      even though they are being fooled time & time again.
      This poem won’t turn her back on you baby.
      This poem makes me feel like a dove packed
      into the arm of a suit just before she appears
      out of thin air. This poem is the fine wire
      holding the weight of a levitating illusion.
      This poem holds space for the recluse, busker
      & the sold-out Vegas show. This poem knows
      that I can make it do whatever the hell I want.
      This poem asks you what spell your heart
      could cast right now. This poem is your hand
      on the wand illuminating your dreams. This poem
      watches as you step into your magic. This poem
      is your body buzzed out on creation. This poem
      is your spirit when you reveal & revel in it.
      This poem makes me feel the way you feel
      right now. This poem just turned into
      the wild freedom of a bird mid-flight
      & the rest of the words in this poem
      are a vanishing act.

      Amanda Oaks

    404. -uptick-

      I eat ice cream like an orphan.

      if you hate
      your hands.

      a baseball
      is stopped
      from rolling
      by a shoeless

      it’s not your nose
      it’s not mine
      that is broken.

      the players
      on their knees
      I see

      a newcomer with bad penmanship
      has a stupid kid, has come
      to be angry
      at a box
      and to add

      an ‘s’

      to free

      • quickly, while no one is watching. an edit. afterthought in foreground. that free kitten, thing, a bit forced. odd because it’s the only part, actual. not odd. I hate when people say things are odd. anyway, edit.


        a rolling
        is stopped
        by a shoeless

        if you hate
        your handwriting.

        the players
        are on their knees.

        it’s not your nose
        it’s not mine
        that is broken.

        eat ice cream
        like an orphan.

    405. veronica_gurlie says:

      I’m going to begin here,
      the moment you stepped off your drunk sinking boat,
      remember– my arms were wide open.
      The sun was pressing on my eyes
      and I had a pen for your poem in mind,
      and a funny story to tell you.
      I was ready to wake you up with stimulation
      and draw your thoughts back to me,
      but you just dropped your pitiful bags at my feet,—
      you just went looking for shade in some dark green bottle,
      some shelter, with some make believe love– in another dream.

    406. Louise says:

      Loving being here for the first time actually posting poems. Always before poemed from prompts, but just got up the nerve to post this year. So here goes

      Opening my heartmind to
      radiant energy
      allows my soul to rise
      above the congested crawl
      Safely contained in my steely conveyance
      focus splits and purpose arises
      I soar into communication with
      the place in my consciousness
      that embraces the understanding
      that this mundane daily journey
      is starving my very being
      stealing the essence of life
      My destination attained I crawl back
      into my desolate form
      prepared but not ready
      to face the trivialities that feed my
      possessive nature but not my soul.

      And another kind of journey for me.

      each night releasing
      the expectation
      that reality is a sensory experience
      I embrace awareness of the capacity
      to fold space and time
      closing my eyes
      and liberating myself
      into remote regions
      setting adrift apparent realism
      rousing vibrant memories
      transmuting resonant details
      restores me to youthful play and places
      restores me to the déjà vu
      of my certainty
      freed from the impermanent now
      embracing all moments in this eternal moment

    407. MeenaRose says:

      By: Meena Rose

      Is it just me or does
      Life’s road steer us
      To a cliff’s edge as
      The Muses look on
      Placing bets on what
      We’ll do as the
      Bookie stands near by?

      So you think you us
      Humans made, you think
      You know what makes us
      Tick? Have you even studied
      Our history? Yes, that one.
      The one that you keep trying
      To pretend like it never happened?

      Let me tell you something Muses.
      Never bet on me. Divergents are
      Running amok stretching curves
      To any statistical trend. We
      Do as we please hopping from
      One path to the next equipped
      With our own navigational guides.

      Want in on another secret? Too bad,
      So sad. I won’t share. Some people
      Are crying the world is going to
      End as they cling to the cliff’s edge
      With eyes glued to a murky abyss. Others,
      Are planning for themselves which leaves
      Us to fashion new roads and level cliffs.


    408. Stewart says:

      Another untitled sedoka:

      thick fog
      unfolding and folding
      along the country road

      what questions
      do the family of deer
      hold within their mute crossing?

    409. kingac says:

      From Four to Two

      Extra wheels removed,
      trying to ascertain a position
      between sitting and upright –

      a high-wire stunt gone wrong,
      vacillating left, then right;
      and inevitable Weeble-Wobble.

      Muscles tensed, clenched, exasperated
      by the lack of memory –
      learning something new.

      Grass stains and dirt mingle,
      knowing their replacements
      road burn and gravel would soon come.

      -John Pupo

    410. Quaker says:

      April 2
      Based on Gauguin’s painting, Day of the God, 1894

      Gauguin voyaged to Tahiti
      to escape civilization
      and “everything that is artificial
      and conventional”. Living in a hut
      near mountains, painting
      half-naked women
      the color of dusk when flutes
      made notes into stars.
      This was far from convention
      and expectation.
      Women’s toes with touch the edge
      of illogical colors
      making pools
      like birth, like umbilical cords
      attached to new planets.
      One woman sat upright,
      her feet in the water,
      water droplets from her breasts
      were milk for the new born.
      Another woman, turning away,
      whispers, “death.” Death will come
      taking all of us like a tidal wave,
      like winds of religions,
      like dancers of memory
      and forgetfulness.
      Every day, a Day of the God,
      a place far from normal and acceptable,
      where every day
      is painted with imaginary colors.

    411. Recovery
      by Daniel Boster

      Last week, in the air above Florida,
      my dad recovering from quadruple bypass below,
      the flow of my thoughts as ripped and rearranged as
      the vessels of my dad’s legs and heart.

      The doctor’s work now manifest
      in scars and scabs on my father’s skin.
      The slow meals of soup and sliced apples
      punctuated by long stretches of silence.

      And, every day, the story of a missing plane,
      an airliner vanishing from the sky, families
      angry with waiting, with grief, with fear
      of never touching again.

      At night, in dreams, voyages of disappearance
      for the selves I’d known,
      for certainty that things lost are found,
      for the illusion that our parents’ bodies exist outside of our own.

    412. alana sherman says:

      It’s amazing how many sailors are poets or poets are sailors. The sea, boats, sails are natural metaphors for
      the voyaging we all do.
      Day 2 A voyage poem

      Evensong @ Canterbury

      Organ music and voices
      rise, saturate the great hall,
      resound from stone columns
      Light streams in and song
      caresses my bare shoulders.
      I am a stranger here but
      what I know—each person’s
      tale reflects something of every
      other person’s troubles and sins—
      is clear. The vaults
      make a dizzying pattern
      of stars and all the intricate
      glass, a mosaic of blue sky
      white clouds, the green of leafy
      trees leads the mind on a journey
      towards center and up. I do not
      care about the plaques, statues,
      the stories the windows tell—they
      are all a distraction from
      the melody, prayer,
      and the knowledge we seek—
      the journey that takes us towards
      ourselves in the cool stillness.

      And a second one just because-


      So many people gone or lost.
      Those left are scattered—some
      thousands of miles away. I have known
      and loved them but we grow old
      pining for each other. We travel through
      the wide world a-float in a river of a lake.
      Each morning I wake from dreams of
      someone walking away from me
      down a long corridor. I call to him—
      he does not turn. But I know the path,
      the clearing. The slant of the sun is perfect.
      A mosquito buzzes and leaves.
      Those days when we danced and feasted
      are disappeared. When shall we meet again
      and laughing, gaze into each other’s eyes?

    413. Passage

      The birds have all come back:
      the snow geese hang in the sky in
      great arrows, their clatter of honks
      and brays echo through the dew
      and the light, the kind of soft Spring air
      that settles in an infant’s chest
      or her grandmother’s, stays there,
      tangling itself in the branches
      of their small lungs. They’ll wheeze
      by the window, baby against breast,
      watching new starlings flutter
      in the southern shelterbelt,
      snarling themselves in the branches
      of Hackberries and Bur Oaks,
      steering clear of the hawk by the
      Green Ash, the one that rotted
      through before the geese pointed South
      last winter. A breeze will knock
      the last dirty snow from the roof
      and remind the old woman
      to tighten her own loose grip
      on the child, the one that she was,
      the other she holds.
      The journey is greatest in the quiet
      moments of a fresh cold, feeling
      the beating of a young heart against
      her own tired chest, memorizing
      the soft stutters of the organ and listening,
      finally, to the echoing passage of new birds
      on the prairie sky.

    414. The HMS Zygote sailed one night
      Launched from the gleam in my Father’s eye.
      Since then
      my innocence has stood the test
      of life’s laboratories,
      dissected and dipped in caustic situations,
      hung up to dry while the flies landed.
      On the other hand,
      the gaze of loving eyes
      and a thousand other joys
      on this journey
      allows me to say in all sincerity;
      Glorioski, aint life grand?

    415. MeenaRose says:

      By: Meena Rose

      She waded through life
      Searching for answers;
      He reminded her,
      She was the question.

    416. break_of_day says:

      cold in the back with the window cracked
      to let out the cigarette fumes
      I guess being cold was better than breathing second-hand smoke
      (though maybe we didn’t know about it then)

      the way my sister always remembered turns in the road or landmarks
      the rest of us could not recall
      but she wasn’t making them up
      they were always there
      on the other side of the mountain

      riding backward with our backs against the front seats
      stopping so I could throw up the banana I’d eaten
      wondering why my mom didn’t tell me until after
      that she thought riding backward might make me sick

      the time we drew a smiley face in the dust of the window
      the cars always old, more past tense back then
      than any memory I have now
      divorced parents and a half-sister
      state parks and touring Broadway shows and hours on the road that string out across the past
      memories much older than they seem,
      but not so distant

      • Nanamaxtwo says:

        Your poem brought back memories. Cracking the window to breathe. Riding backwards until we grew too big and didn’t have the fun of slipping off over a bump. …not so distant. :)

    417. De Jackson says:


      She hadn’t meant for her heart
      to come along for the ride, sit be

      -side her back here in coach,
      as if they were strangers. She

      thought the train would go slow
      -er, and the lights would glow low

      -er, hide the flush of her face and
      the racing of her pulse just a little

      while longer. Judas, Judas, Judas,
      she groans with the clack of the

      tracks, willing this noisy rebel beast
      to get off at the next stop, or just stop



    418. Is it too late to join in? I missed yesterday. Here’s my attempt at a voyage poem. Where is the road you are on leading you? Want you follow me to:

      The Narrow Gate

      The Narrow Gate can be hard to find
      Although it was built with you in mind
      Covered with a bloody crown of thornes
      Made from Love before you were born

      Though many are seeking
      Few will find it
      When vision is blurred
      And hearts are blinded

      If you follow the crown
      Through the Broader Gate
      It leads to destruction
      And that will be too late

      To change your heading
      If you’ve gone off course
      There will be gnashing of teeth
      And great remorse

      So take heed to these simple
      Words that rhyme
      And follow Jesus, The Christ
      While there is still time

      If the road you travel
      Does not lead
      To the Narrow Gate
      In Godspeed

      Where awaits and everlasting
      Abundant Life
      With and Eternity assured
      To be spend with Christ

    419. elishevasmom says:

      Sport du Jour

      A new sport has
      come into the world.
      It is visible
      at airports, even
      train stations.

      The ever-evolving
      business of travel
      haute couture sought
      upon the ergonomics
      of the suitcase.

      the loaded bag
      on two wheels
      (albeit those
      better than none)
      detracted from the
      traveler’s dignity
      and composure.

      Four multi-directional
      caster wheels
      allow movement
      with just a small
      directional nudge
      from the traveler’s
      hand. The bag is
      right at your side.
      Decorum restored.

      Thus, the new sport.
      Walking the suitcase.

      Ellen Evans