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2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 30

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

Ack! Today is the final day of the challenge! For people catching up, I’m giving a 5-day buffer between each day’s prompt–so the cut-off will be 11:59 p.m. on May 5 (Atlanta, GA time). Also, I’m going to post on “Next Steps” regarding this challenge tomorrow afternoon that will outline what to expect as far as judging, results, etc.

For today’s prompt, write a “calling it a day” poem. Some people might call this “Miller time,” others may refer to it as “closing time.” Just remember: Don’t call it a day until you put it in a poem.


national_poetry_monthGet the National Poetry Month Kit!

Yes, this has been another great National Poetry Month, and here’s a great kit to celebrate: The Writer’s Digest National Poetry Month Kit, which includes a digital version of The Poetry Dictionary, a couple paperbacks (Creating Poetry and Writing the Life Poetic), a tutorial on building an audience for your poetry, the 2014 Poet’s Market, and more!

Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Calling It a Day poem:


i love you
have always loved you

i’m tired of this cat & mouse
this cleaning house

if you knew
what i wanted to do

& other stuff

w/o you in it
no other way to say
i <3 u

& i’m done cleaning house
be the cat
i’m your mouse


Today’s guest judge is…

Jillian Weise

Jillian Weise

Jillian Weise

Jillian is the author of The Amputee’s Guide to Sex, the novel The Colony, and The Book of Goodbyes, which won the 2013 James Laughlin Award from the Academy of American Poets. Her work has appeared in Narrative Inquiry in Bioethics, The New York Times and Tin House.

After fellowships from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, the Fine Arts Work Center and the Fulbright Program, she joined the faculty at Clemson University.

She identifies as a cyborg.

Learn more here: https://www.boaeditions.org/bookstore/the-book-of-goodbyes.html


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. His favorite Marquez story is “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” though he also loves the short novel Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Learn more about Robert here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


Don’t call it a day without reading these posts:

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

1,171 Responses to 2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 30

  1. Shennon says:

    Depending on the hour, l’heure, la hora, l’ora
    One gets off work, le travail, el trabajo, il lavoro
    One might call it a night, une nuit, una noche, una notte
    Or one might call it a day, un jour, un día, un giorno.

    Ça dépend à quelle heure, a qué hora, a che ora
    On quitte le travail, el trabajo, il lavoro, work
    On peut dire que c’est la nuit, la noche, la notte, the night
    Ou on peut dire que c’est le jour, el día, il giorno, the day.

    Según el tiempo, il tempo, the time, le temps
    Es terminado el trabajo, il lavoro, work, le travail
    Se puede decir que es la noche, la notte, the night, la nuit
    O se puede decir que es el día, il giorno, the day, le jour.

    Seconda dell’ora, the hour, l’heure, la hora
    Si lascia il lavoro, work, le travail, el trabajo
    Si può dire che è la notte, night la nuit, la noche
    O si puè dire che è il giorno, day, le jour, el día.


  2. TuLife says:

    “Calling It a Day”
    By: Tuere Aisha

    So weary waiting for love’s lullaby
    So pale pining for my sweetie pie
    So over hoping that solitude will die
    So sapped solving how dreams go awry

    Think I’ll let time have its way
    Concede to keep my needs at bay
    Resolved to calling it a day

  3. At Days’ End

    The cool, damp dew caresses my neck
    as we lay in a field of sweet clover.
    Long branches stretch across the horizon
    my hand caressing that of my lover.
    The call of the raven echoes the beat of our hearts
    and we’re lulled to sleep as the robin sings.
    White, fluffy clouds dance across the blue skies
    while nymphs of the woods do foresty things.

  4. Emma says:

    To myself, a reminder to get out when you can

    It’s ok to walk away.
    When things get toxic,
    Leave. Because you cannot quit your own mind.
    Not whilst living anyway.
    Don’t stay surrounded by
    People who feed off the drama of
    Your troubles like parasites
    Yet do not care about your suffering.
    (They will remind you how your
    Body will betray you,
    Undo itself into malignity,
    But will not hold you when it does,
    When you reach out for someone
    Stable to cling to)
    You are flesh and blood but
    Your eyes shine so bright.
    If you do not learn to leave,
    They’ll take your light.
    They’ll suck you dry.

  5. PenConnor says:

    I’m longing for you;
    my flesh trembles for your touch–
    my mind chases you.
    This hunger interrupts my
    day. I can’t work for wanting.

    This long day is done,
    hastened by such fantasies.
    You’ve been on my mind.
    Come to bed, and find me here.
    I will be waiting for you.

  6. BezBawni says:

    End of the World

    let’s call it the final day
    when everything is no more
    a minute of no time

    when troubles have gone away
    together with joy, and we
    have stopped and stared in awe

    today we will feel no pain
    no dreams will inspire us
    no treasure will cost a dime

    there will be no friends or foes
    no wars or pointless feuds
    all struggles will cease, all tears

    come, people of Earth, don’t fear
    let’s call it a day, or else
    let’s rather not speak at all
    by Lucretia Amstell

  7. seingraham says:


    Alright, I get it…the whole “calling it a day” thing
    But, maybe it’s too late, or I’ve tried writing too many poems today
    I’m getting giddy or something but it’s striking me funny
    I don’t want to “call it a day” –
    Maybe I want to call it, “ode to a month of poems”
    Or “verses times thirty” or some other lame thing
    You see what I mean…
    It makes as much sense as “calling it a day”, doesn’t it?
    Or not.
    Maybe I better just hang it up before I get in over my head.
    Whatever that means, she said.

  8. Linda Hatton says:

    Calling it a Day (For Us)

    The opposing end of this pencil
    lead me to eraser-dusted love
    lettering, emotions too young to travel
    from thought to tongue, resolve
    too weak to roll good with bye,
    tears so familiar they’ve taken
    your place, curled up next to my sobbing
    heart, keeping me comfortable at night
    when earthshakes threaten to steal away
    my asylum, found only in this worn-down nub.

    -Linda G Hatton

    • Linda Hatton says:

      Calling it a Day (For Us)

      The opposing end of this pencil
      le(a)d me to eraser-dusted love
      lettering, emotions too young to travel
      from thought to tongue, resolve
      too weak to roll good with bye,
      tears so familiar they’ve taken
      your place, curled up next to my sobbing
      heart, keeping me comfortable at night
      when earthshakes threaten to steal away
      my asylum, found only in this worn-down nub.

      Edited version: Just added some parentheses in there. :-D

  9. Linda Hatton says:

    I’ve been very resistant to writing this poem, I think because I didn’t want the challenge to end. While I did not have much time for interaction here, which I regret, this has been the best PAD for me as far as my personal growth in various ways. Thank you so much, Robert, for putting it all together and running it!

    (I was going to post my poem, but I’m still not happy with it! Argh!) :-)

  10. gibbslissy says:


    the day is over,
    isn’t it though?
    Say it isn’t so

    I didn’t do this or that or twenty other things
    Draw a line and call it quits,
    whatever you do
    you better not go on the fritz.

    Stay calm and don’t forget(s)
    to flip the page
    to tomorrow’s day,
    so you can
    Call it quits

    for real.

    Elissa Gibbons

  11. LeighSpencer says:

    Calling it a Day

    Thirteen hours
    on my feet

    Dealing with the ridiculous things
    rich people care about

    Like name tags
    table assignments
    and the crunch of the crème brulee

    The Dean got drunk
    slurred speech
    turned all the talking points
    into curves

    Wallets opened anyway
    so, a toast to that!

    I would gladly have traded
    my $100 plate of fish
    (and crunchy crème brulee)
    for cheap pizza and cartoons
    with my non-jet-set
    who don’t care about nametags
    or seating assignments
    except for who gets to sit next to mama
    on the couch

    in bed that night
    I said
    “My god, it feels so good to be back here with you!”

    My husband said he missed me too

    I told him
    “Honey, I love you, but just now?
    I was talking to my pillow.”

  12. Linda.H says:

    sometimes you call it a day way before evening arrives

    Her Saturday Afternoon Activity

    Upon the flower-patterned sofa,
    wide and well-cushioned,
    she nestles in to nap,
    her aching bones
    slowly sinking
    into the refuge
    of pillows.

  13. Angie5804 says:

    Some say
    Calling it a day
    I give way

    To calling it a year
    I’m done with fear
    Time’s just too dear

    Some say that’s it
    I quit
    But I submit

    It’s time for change
    To rearrange
    Time to exchange

    All things sad
    For all things glad
    In joy be clad

    Angie Bell

  14. LCaramanna says:

    Day’s End

    Birds chorus a twilight tune
    of tweets and twitters,
    a farewell concert to light of day.
    In harmony with street lamp illumination,
    a good night lullaby lingers
    as twilight wanes.
    With a simple refrain
    of tweets and twitters
    songbirds serenade day’s end.

  15. IzzyG says:

    Wine O’Clock (A haiku)

    Uncorked, aerated
    Lovely velvet swirls of red
    Mommy’s happy juice.

  16. aphotic soul says:

    The Drifter – In loving memory of Anne and Joe Ryan
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    It was cloud stained sky, that mid October day,
    The sun was hot and the air – dry, down amongst the Bodega Bay,
    And that’s where I met him, this drifter per say,
    He had a severed limb, and walked with a sway,
    There he stood, staring off into the sea,
    Carrying a burnt piece of drift wood, a mark of his tragedy,
    And as I gazed at him in his solitary still, he resembled a once great – chopped down tree,
    Broken of all hope and will, and further more I’m sure he’d agree,
    There he continued to stand, the ghost of a guardian specter,
    “Excuse me” I posed while my feet dipped in the scorching hot sand,
    “I don’t mean to bother nor hector…”
    Then he turned to me, his face filled with such a loss and woe,
    Of a torment I could not hope to see, of a loss I would not hope to know,
    My words froze dead in their tracks, and the world held its breath,
    ‘So this is someone for who’s soul he lacks, so this is the true meaning of death…’
    For the man who stood before me, was a man I had never met,
    A face that I can still see, but never know – to my regret,
    The portrait of a man with a unique mind, who took dull objects and made them shine,
    Giving a glimpse of beauty to the blind, while his face and heart did not align,
    “Grandpa Joe..” I sputtered, my voice a raspy chill,
    “Why hello Paul” he muttered, with a bemused smile frozen still,
    He then turned back, staring off into the sea,
    Getting back on track, waiting for his loved one to be free,
    I walked up beside him, amidst the forming chill,
    The sky darkened and the sun went dim, and there he stayed – standing still,
    “You’ve been waiting for her all this time?”, I asked with a queryless question,
    He softly spoke, “She is my sublime, without her there can be no secession,”
    “Are you able to see her out amongst the ocean, or is it the waves at which you glare?”
    “I see it all in slow motion, the past and present in which we always share,
    The smiles on her face, as well as the loneliness in her which I could not spare,
    But soon that will be gone without a trace, and we will again be a pair,
    For forever we will embrace, and past this ocean we will stare,
    Where infinity is stuck in place, and together we will be there,”
    And as if by queue, a young woman came wandering,
    The luminescence again grew, and we both stared at her pondering,
    That’s when it clicked, and Joe’s face broke into a heart warmed smile,
    He rushed to her quick, for it had been quite a while,
    And before my eyes I saw him reform, into that great man he had been,
    I watched the two of them transform, as they dove into the ocean therein,
    And there I stood staring, with my own little bemused grin,
    For I had never met a couple more caring, who could shine so deeply from within,
    I smiled at the ocean and bid my farewell, for with a new journey they begin,
    For death isn’t something wherein we should dwell, for life is not meant to win.

  17. IndiFox says:

    All I Knew

    Call it an ending
    A so long
    Or a farewell
    Call it what you will
    My mind is too confused
    As I’m trying to find my way
    Back to myself
    Because all I knew – was you

    See the beginning
    Was not like the ending
    You were charming
    Not condescending
    We were happy
    We connected well
    And months went by
    With no trouble at all

    Then small things
    Hidden behind the eyes
    Behaviour changes
    And rules put in place
    But I was too dumb to notice
    Far too in love to take heed
    Of all the warnings
    Given to me

    More months went by
    Problems emerged
    You tighten the leash
    And I just stood by
    Watching my friends
    Getting taken from me
    Turning to you
    For all my company

    Then all of a sudden
    You were sweet again
    So I thought it was a rough patch
    That we passed through
    Little did I know it was just a ruse
    One day we’d be fighting
    The next was talk of marriage
    Still, I held onto you

    By day, I’d defend you to others
    By night, I’d put up with your shit
    Little pains
    Pains I could handle
    Waiting for my prince to emerge
    Out of the soulless bastard that you were
    Not knowing that I was only staying
    Because I was far too afraid to leave

    Then one day everything changed
    You hurt the person
    I love the most in this world
    So I knew it was time to go
    And you can call it what you will
    An ending, a good riddance
    But I’ve found my way back
    When all I knew – was you

  18. Margie Fuston says:

    First Date

    I didn’t think it would be like this:
    me standing on fake grass,
    watching you aim your ball
    into a tiny cup as a group of kids
    squeal like stuck pigs and run
    around a scratched-up clown head
    one hole in front of us.
    You try to hold my hand as we walk
    from hole to hole, bumping me
    with your pretend 9 iron
    as you point to a yellow-haired girl
    with purple-candy stained lips
    and say: She could be ours one day.
    I resist the urge to puke in hole
    number 6 of an endless course.
    I think we should just call it a day
    before it’s time to call it a night.

  19. Shennon says:

    It’s time to call it a day
    au revoir
    It’s time to call it a night
    bon soir
    It’s time to call it quits
    c’est fini
    It’s time to have a drink
    du vin ou martini?


  20. Heidi says:


    Tonight the trees whisper.

    The moon’s silver spray
    dances on you as your feet
    dip into the cool ripples
    of a season’s change.

    Tonight the trees whisper.

    Autumn slips into our lives
    a soft song the crickets sing
    of new beginnings and the
    heartache of years past

    wither and drop from
    limbs of a life now changing.
    Tears wash your feet as this
    door shuts into silence.

    Tonight the trees whisper.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  21. mshall says:

    Day 30
    Four minutes to midnight
    Now I lay me down to sleep
    I pray to lord my soul to keep
    Far from my hips the cake I ate

    Three minutes to midnight
    If I should die before I awake
    I pray The Lord my soul to take
    The wrinkles from round my eyes

    Two minutes to midnight
    Now I lay me down, I cannot sleep
    A hunger through my soil runs deep
    As I strive for perfection superficial

    One minute to midnight
    Would I die and not awake
    Peace with my body, my head will make
    I’ll finally have my fitting clothes

    Time marches on with steadiness
    Cares not for mortal restlessness
    Only death can bring a solemn rest
    Ending the worries of the best

  22. PSC in CT says:

    Vacation, Day 1 Succumbs

    The sun sets westward into the bay,
    moon rising behind, over the ocean.
    Calypso music gambols, glides,
    buoyed on the silky breeze.
    Toes settle into sand.
    You sip, savor a swallow
    of fruity, coconut concoction,
    inhale the salt scents,
    exhale your last care, spent.


  23. LeeAnne Ellyett says:

    Calling it a Day,

    It’s sad to say,
    It’s the last day,
    Thirty days of prompts,
    What a romp,
    My first go,
    Amongst you pro’s,

    of brilliant prose,
    rhyme, haiku,
    words that grow,

    I’m glad to say,
    I’m not calling it a day,
    Poeming away,
    Imagination on display,
    To bare our souls,
    To make us whole,

    of free verse,
    rhythm, lyric,
    Poetic Curse?

  24. Azma says:

    I scanned the table
    studded with the beauties on platters
    Finally! some excitement at this party!
    I picked up the plate
    which seemed like the largest serving
    I moved with dainty swiftness
    trying to hide my eagerness
    and started at the masterpiece made with finesse
    I was lost instantly
    in the alluring delicacy
    and got back only when
    the plate was wiped clean
    I went for seconds
    and then for thirds
    each bite more enthralling
    than the last
    At the end of the fourth serving
    I realized
    people noticed
    My gulping down
    had become less lady like
    My tender berry lipstick
    was now fudge
    My mauve lacy gown
    had a loud irritable chocolate drop
    and my insides
    couldn’t take any more sugar
    That’s when i decided
    to call it a day

    -Azma Sheikh

  25. d dyson says:

    We painted the wall apple green because I liked it.
    We lived on your land because you owned it.
    We met each other in a strange foreign place because fate chose it.
    We wrote letters filled with love because we wanted to believe in it.
    We spent hours talking on the phone because our hearts wanted it.
    We drank each other’s words because we yearned for it.
    We sat for miles in silence because our mouths ordered it.
    We spent more and more time apart because your work insisted on it.
    We decided for me to leave (secretly we both hoped for it).
    We called it a day eventually because our lives depended on it.

  26. FaerieTalePoet says:

    Closing Time

    It’s not what you see.
    It’s what you don’t see.
    What goes on once the door is locked.
    Cashiers sweep and place products back on shelves.
    The manager collects the drawers,
    wheels them into the back room,
    locks them away,
    to be counted in the morning.
    Computers are turned off.
    Trashcans are emptied into giant dumpsters.
    These are the things you could guess at,
    the procedurals.
    But when the door locks behind the last customer,
    something else happens.
    The workers become people again.
    You hear the laughter of inside jokes,
    the sighs of those who find themselves weary.
    You may even spy the clandestine kiss of cohabitating coworkers.
    You hear stories about people’s kids,
    and about their parents.
    Students talk about what they’re studying in their off hours.
    At closing time stores come to life
    in a way most people would never imagine
    and no that isn’t a joke about mannequins.

    Dana A. Campbell

  27. Nanamaxtwo says:

    There Is Never Any End to Paris
    A Moveable Feast

    I hold memory of each person
    we met on the streets, in salons
    cafes, wine like a food
    when we were young
    holding my liquor carefully
    a pad of paper and stub
    of pencil writing good work
    as if we would always be young
    poor and very happy
    remembering Paris

  28. Connie Inglis says:


    I’m calling it a day
    a year
    a lifetime
    with this terminal

    I lie in bed defining
    verbs and nouns, unable to

    “Call it a day,” I whisper
    I state
    I explete;
    my mind refuses

    The linguist responds:
    logolepsy–the awe-full

  29. beachanny says:

    Commencement’s No Ending

    Your years at school are coming to a close.
    So difficult to leave and say goodbye.
    In your young life, this time was as you chose.
    By concentrating on this stage of life
    you studied courses you should know about.
    You found the friends who satisfied your needs,
    you conquered insecurities and doubt.
    You met those challenges with skill and ease.
    Your path ahead is buried in the mist;
    more choices there will limit what you’ll do.
    For now, depend upon experience,
    and those you love and trust who love you too.

    Accept your future’s the oyster’s pearl.
    You’re meant to be a leader in this world!

    Gay Reiser Cannon

  30. Mustang Sal says:

    One Yankee’s Prayer

    Lord, if you’re about to call the whole
    ballgame, please give me one more hit.
    Let me tag all the bases.
    Forget all my strikeouts.
    Forgive my errors.
    And then let me
    slide safely

  31. GirlGriot says:

    every space,
    reminding us
    of childhood rhymes.
    their promised
    apple blossoms,
    and lilacs. Fresh, clear
    of Spring.
    Water calls,
    this season to bloom.

  32. Closing Lines

    Memorial Day is devoted
    to the dead, to those who fell,
    long before their natural closing hour.

    Too many have fallen
    for the sake of the living,
    and for concepts oft forgotten.

    It’s the duty of the living
    to remember the dead,
    to feel blessed by their parting gift.

    We can honor the dead
    by caring for their families,
    and for their comrades, left behind.

    Our most useful, caring duty
    is to never forget,
    even as the nation seeks to heal.

    With war still fresh upon us,
    we can still strive for peace,
    yet never forget the dead, those who fell.

  33. robinamelia says:

    Call it a Night: a Pantoum

    Let’s call it a night or the end of an era
    We’ve been as fabulous as Fitzgerald legends
    Call it another fragrant dissolution
    We’ll always dream of what’s not done

    We’ve been as fabulous as Fitzgerald legends
    Let’s call it a terabyte of mortality
    We’ll always dream of what’s not done
    Name it our bright forgotten baby

    Let’s call it a terabyte of mortality
    Let the day pass through eternity’s wringer
    Name it our bright forgotten baby
    Entering the wormhole of wet bathing suits

    Let the day pass through eternity’s wringer
    Gripped by paroxysms of paralysis
    Entering the wormhole of wet bathing suits
    Watching cell phone videos of tornadoes

    Gripped by paroxysms of paralysis
    The utter truth made manifest
    Watching cell phone videos of tornadoes
    Confirming it all spins past so fast

    The utter truth made manifest
    Let’s call it a night or the end of an era
    Confirming it all spins past so fast
    Call it another fragrant dissolution

    Let’s call it a night or the end of an era
    We’ve been as fabulous as Fitzgerald legends
    Call it another fragrant dissolution
    We’ll always dream of what’s not done

    Robin Amelia Morris

  34. BDP says:

    Thank you to everyone for a memorable Poem-a-Day April. And a special warm thanks to Robert for hosting us and for his encouragement. This has been my second year on this site in April, and it’s full of splendid poets. I’m in awe.


    “One More Scrawl”

    Dear Dave: The Stuttgart Expo spotlit homage to a French
    surrealist’s book of poems: signed names on frontispiece,
    indelible black starbursts, penworks on display
    in clear glass case. Miró, Picasso, Ernst, Chagall,

    twelve others who could swing for big bucks off the bench,
    a dead team’s autographs—crabbed hand, looped, swept, neat freak.
    In these thick, quick, light, dotted swipes I saw heyday,
    each signature a lens that widened to a style,

    which segued me to thinking of a scholar’s hunch:
    Napoleon was nuts before his shock and awe defeats.
    The library could sync up dates of ink swords—way
    fried brain, then battles. You’ll see. Tomorrow Schiphol,

    I’m home, will catch you soon. And paint my cursive, please.
    I’d love to know your eye view. Just don’t turn my pairs to threes.

    –Barb Peters

  35. jsmadge says:

    Thank you, Robert, for 30 days of oppportunity. Thanks to everyone for making me feel less alone in poetry.

    Day’s End

    After the whirring winds down,
    Whether lathe
    Or shop fan
    Or wheels in your head,
    All stretch and walk away.

    As the last bus pulls away
    You sit, temple against glass,
    Eyes watching others watch you.

    The overness of day lies
    On each mouth,
    Worn but sure,
    As if to smirk at death
    Once more, ha-ha singsong, I won.

    Jo Steigerwald

  36. EeLas6678 says:


    Scratch that,
    Start over
    from scratch.
    Something about these ingredients doesn’t appeal-

    Gather the organic,
    more expensive,
    more time spent digging deep into
    hard soil and empty pockets.

    Full soul,
    a seemingly unfair ex-change,
    yet, one I prefer
    none the less.

    Gather my daily manna and walk away, thankful,
    No need to hover over with water,
    No need to protect from thieves,
    Trust is all that’s required.
    I’ll be back tomorrow,
    nourishment will be provided,
    I can already taste it.

    -Emily Lasinsky

  37. Lori DeSanti says:

    Thank you again to Robert Brewer for his hard work, and the opportunities in the PAD Challenge, and to all of the contributors. I’ll miss all of your work! Here’s a short little poem about creative writing as a metaphor.

    Trickster Tale

    We are all blankets of truth, a mouthful of fable;
    what is the moral of a wives’ tale, anyhow? I tell
    you that I knew Chaucer personally, you tell me

    I taste like a citrus field; we both know oranges
    grow on trees, but we smile about it, anyway. No
    one ever told me the same lie twice, but I was a

    simple fool to believe them. How is moon dust
    hallowed and white, I ask you, if the story of the
    moon rabbit isn’t true? But I think I knew the

    moon was half wisdom, a half-guilty fool. Did you
    know that fables are origins of a truth, that there
    are morals in the moon? The stories we grew up

    with as children: blissful fictions for our youth.

  38. sbpoet says:

    this budgie sings

    in his cage

    & i in mine

    poem after poem

  39. Fanny Pad says:

    PAD days 28 and 30 28 settled 29 call it a day 28 settled when I first settled in Wellngborough I was new to it and I loved the terraced house with its big picture window overlooking the street which is only a few minutes walk away from the town centre shops. the Swansgate Centre as it was named in memory of the swans that were got rid of to build it. Before that it was called The Arndale and lots of folk still call it that in memory of things gone by.

    30 call it a day She decided to call it a day Nothing had worked out really Despite the fame and fortune The lovely family despite her hardest efforts and successes things weren’t right she could no longer fight
    See more
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    29 April · Edited
    DAY 29 PAD 2 4 tuesday
    write a real poem and/or a magical poem

    In the real world boring things happen
    like cloudy cold weather, drizzling rain and soggy sandwiches, lots of chores to do like hoovering, washing up, getting wet washing in and getting wet feet and then getting chesty and not being able to get out.
    But sometimes, as if by magic, the sun comes out and we can cut the grass, never mind… See more
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    28 April

    It was the monster mash
    they said a graveyard smash

    but that was yesterday
    I used to dance that way

    I waved my hands about
    I used to scream and shout… See more
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    Creative writing chum
    25 April
    DAY 25 PAD write a poem ‘The last resort’

    Prayer – the last resort of the sinner; the last refuge.
    For we have no other help but thee oh Lord,
    Down on our knees we go on Sunday
    Let it not be too late
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    24 April
    PAD day 24 write a poem….’Tell it to….’

    Tell it to my face; don’t tell facebook
    Don’t tell our friends; it never ends
    Am I still your friend? Then why did you unfriend me?
    Did I tick the wrong box? Do I need to detox?
    Did I fail to comply or not see eye to eye
    on some vital matter
    Oh natter my natter
    scatter the gloom of my doom… See more
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    1 person saw this post
    Creative writing chum
    23 April
    DAY 23 A locomotion poem

    come on then..
    do the locomotion with me…I’ve had a busy day; first I did the washing then I cleaned the house and changed the sheets. Then I went to Derngate to see ‘Fiddler on the Roof’
    strangely topical – all those Russian soldiers chucking folk out of their homes…
    Now I’m watching Jamaica Inn on TV. those poor shipwrecked peopled being drowned and stripped of their jewellery by the smugglers.
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    Creative writing chum
    22 April
    DAY 22 2 4 tuesday write an optimistic poem and/or a pessimistic poem

    optimism – look on the bright side’ I will get better. I will cut the grass at last. Raise a glass or a flag up my mast, fast, no need to. I shall think myself slim on a whim, just thinking of Him.

    No point in trying, I know I can’t win. Twin misery I feel in my bones and my skin. My bones are weak my skin is too and that is why I say to you. ‘Can’t get away to play with you today, my life won’t let me.’
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    Creative writing chum
    21 April
    PAD 21 back to basics

    I hear them cry
    spoil the rod and spare the child; musn’t let them grow up wild.
    but I rather like to see Children running free having fun and laughing wheee!
    rolling down a green hill; climbing out of a window sill.
    getting muddy in a puddle
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    Creative writing chum
    20 April
    there;s a beatles song ‘…some are here and some are not … in my life, I love them all…la la la lala la (repeat)
    I phone my sisters and my friends, my children. My cousin posts his family pics on facebook. The shops are shut but the pubs are open. It’s Easter Sunday and it’s cold and rainy. The church is open and the flowers are lovely – yellow and white, perfect… See more
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    18 April · Edited
    coton manor gardens – best I’ve ever seen them – bluebells coming out – terraces gardens immaculate – flamingos flaming.
    PAD day 18 write a weather poem

    Carole is the weather lady
    bouncing through some scottish heather, wading through those jolly puddles
    muddied wellies sploshing gaily
    never whinging never wailing
    always makes yoy feel you’re sailing
    over seas of blue rain rising, waving … See more
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    Creative writing chum
    17 April
    PAD 17 write a poem about pop culture

    do ah diddy diddy dum diddy dum
    manfred man was once my chum
    Paul Jones is a handsome man
    he is not an also ran

    there he goes just a walkin’ down the street
    leaving me and my two left feet
    … See more
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    16 April · Edited
    just getting today’s PAD prompt which is to write an elegy, which is a love poem for a dead person or thing.

    an elegy for my old man.

    Your sun has set these seven long years
    and I no longer hear
    your voice as I used to
    reminding me to remember you.
    But I miss you more than ever because you are no longer
    here to quell my fears…. See more
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    1 person saw this post
    Creative writing chum
    15 April
    DAY 15 2 4 TUESDAY write a love poem write an anti-love poem

    Gentle Jesus; full of Love

    Keep my thoughts right; up above

    I hate it when the cold wind blows and makes a chimney of my nose.
    Penicillin saves my chest from falling down inside my vest.

    Rest is a change that does you good… See more
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    15 April
    DAY 14 APRIL PAD write a poem starting…

    If I were…
    If I were in heaven I would look down
    and around

    I would see you trying to write a poem and I would say to you

    ‘Get on with your work; Do not shirk!
    … See more
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    Creative writing chum
    13 April
    PAD day 13 is to write a sestina or an animal poem

    I haven’t got a cat any more and what is more
    I haven’t got a dog either.
    I like to see them run about like little children; shout
    for joy whether girl or boy.
    It is nice to see them getting out
    having fun; eating a sticky hot cross bun.

    Would you like one?
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    12 April
    i have been to a concert

    DAY 12 PAD write a city poem.

    Do not pity
    me for not living in the city.

    I have a good life here in the small market town of Wellingborough. Huh!

    We have a castle with a moat and a bar and a theatre inside… See more
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    9 April · Edited
    I have been ill.
    DAY 8 FOR PAD APRIL 2014 also DAY 9
    a shelter poem

    day 9 a shelter poem

    from the noise of day; don’t get in my way!
    It is not the month of May.
    … See more
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    29 March · Edited
    I have been to The Castle to book 6 film tickets with Mary
    It was quite exciting choosing the films even though She has a bunion coming with her new shoes she bought to see Subo in Cheshire. Also she has sinus trouble and the little boys were bored. I feel sleepy writing this so I think I willl have a snooze….

    and then write an excited poem…

    I am excited by the bees outside on my rosemary b… See more
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    26 March
    What would you put into Room 101? Dishwashers.

    As I sit here by te water; thinking of my daughter, waiting for my pub lunch, I play old memory films:

    ‘What a lovely llump of water’ she cried aged tfree standing on a kitchen chair to do the washing up;
    loving the freedom of it gushing out of the tap and splashing into the bowl; splinering into the remnants of breakfast’ scrambled egg and toast crumbs; fluffing up the white foam lather
    ‘Now hands that do dishes can be soft as yur face with mild green fairy liquid’.
    We wouldn’t swap that for a dratted dishwasher any day!
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    21 March
    homework haiku
    Monday February 3rd.

    I cannot get my email messages
    I sit here eating mash and sausages.

    my screen is now blank
    ev’ry day I sit alone
    while house dust gathers
    … See more
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    16 March
    eating Monica’s fantastic, enormous lunch and then sleeping for3 hours! Time to catch up now.
    Like · · Share
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    12 March · Edited
    ‘Forward Poetry’ competition closes 28th March

    love is in the air ….
    over here, over there, here we come chums
    get your guns; kill the huns!

    Once in a lifetime comes a chance lke this…
    over he hills and far away his
    kiss was lost in a cranberryl mist
    i raised my fist… See more
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    23 February via Facebook for Windows · Edited
    for feb homework write a story uing only one syllable words

    While I sit here in the dark I think of larks gone past. There have been such good times I can see them now in my mind’s eye:
    That day I lost my swim suit in the sea and you found it next time in a rock pool where a crab had used it to hide.

    True there were bad days too like when I fell and cut my leg on a sharp rock and lots of thick b… See more
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    3 February via Facebook for Windows
    homework haiku
    Monday February 3rd.

    I cannot get my email messages
    I sit here eating mash and sausages.

    my screen is now blank
    ev’ry day I sit alone
    while house dust gathers
    … See more

  40. Lori DeSanti says:

    This was my first PAD Challenge and I have never been more inspired. Thank you to everyone for writing fabulous work, I looked forward to browsing through everyone’s poetry every morning! Thank you again to everyone who took the time to comment on my stuff, it is greatly appreciated… until next year!

  41. lidywilks says:

    Done and Done

    At last
    this blustering,
    icy, unspring like
    is over
    and done with

    Finally April’s
    been pushed out
    by May
    and what may come
    ( about damn time),
    is our delightful spring
    followed by a
    most desireful summer

    But most of all,
    is that after slaving
    for 30 days of extra
    winter, seeking warmth
    anyway I can and
    30 days of see sawing
    from staying on top
    and playing catch up,
    of this 30 days poeming
    challenge, that I can
    call it a day
    with this poem
    and shout out,

    by Lidy Wilks

  42. alana sherman says:

    day 30 calling it a day

    before the poem a quick word of THANKS
    to everyone for great poems and inspiration. Thanks too to everyone who commented on my work and others’ “stuff” so thoughtfully and intelligently. It is humbling to know I am in such company as this and I look forward to next April.
    And especially, my grateful thanks to Robert Brewer for undertaking such a Herculean task.

    From The Word Go To Goodbye Is Just 5 Letters

    What is the expression?
    It’s an old story.
    Water running down a rock ledge
    dribbles and plashes, settles into a ditch
    becomes a river of poison.
    Tell all that to your disappointment.
    There is no charm to make a lune
    and every line is a lie or a question.
    In an age of distraction pistachio
    and damson have no importance.
    We voyage on that river (remember it?)
    regularly with our hearts and souls
    aflame. The night comes again (and rain).
    Since nothing is real (or magical) we build
    what we can to spite our bitterness. Seek
    shelter in elegies and sestinas, hold umbrellas high
    against the rowdy weather. Oh, Starry Night
    (remember it!) all the flowers of spring
    are melting into pretense though perfumed
    air and delicate litter drench my
    unremarkable path. There is no escaping
    the currents and eddies, no escaping
    the songs that river (remember it) carries
    no matter what you call them.

    See you here next rear


  43. Liliuokalani says:

    Thank you, everyone, for your inspiring poetry. I have a had so much fun this month!

  44. Liliuokalani says:

    Swimming in The Vedas

    Palms scoop a surface
    that propels her in
    from the middle of the lake –
    a whale snorting
    staccato breaths
    and brine-spun propellant
    warding off the bladderworts
    fertile with water fleas.
    The floor close to coast
    unrolls a tapestry -
    the warp, a music stave
    of wave action in sand
    paralleling the lip of land -
    twisting toes interlace a weft
    with Sanskrit snail doodles
    but tattered
    from sunken hunks of machinery.
    She wedges free the face of a Philco air cooler,
    and the base of a TV set
    where freshwater clams
    once delved and spit.
    Children in diapers
    stomp at the brink
    of the lake’s eroding letters
    - tip a little -
    then grab fistfuls of sedges into pigtails
    grappling for balance.

  45. Kevin D Young says:


    Lewis and Clark, making their way across eastern
    Montana could see, fetched closer day by day,
    what we now call the Rockies, which they
    considered the end of the world, or at least

    the end of the road. Been gone a year, at least,
    out of old St Lou Mo, their gateway before it was
    The Gateway, the last respectable eastern
    civility they’d know for two and four, but who

    there could’ve known that at the time? Who,
    indeed, knows anything any of the times
    anything is going on? All they could tell was
    they couldn’t see any farther and if they couldn’t

    see any farther then there probably couldn’t
    be much farther. The sea would be there
    or a river would run like all the other times
    from the mountain to the sea. Easy.

    At the pass, Meriwether Lewis knew easy
    wasn’t his lot. No one knows, but maybe there,
    on the knife-edge of the continental divide and hell’s
    own question, is where he started down the side

    to meet the bullet in his own hand, on the side
    of the Natchez Trace. Would going down the other
    have prolonged or hastened that race (but who in hell
    knows anything at the time)? Life is nothing if not

    short and full of second-guessers and conspiracy nuts, not
    to make too much of his contemporaries or ours. But
    nowadays, in the comics, an old, fat, bearded, other-
    worldly, white-robed, wild-haired guy carries a sign

    proclaiming “The end is near.” Where was that sign
    when Lewis needed it? And, if he could have but
    one, did he call for it four years later, in a dark
    second story room, or now, here, at the peak of his life

    looking westward at the seemingly eternal life
    his men would spend on one infernal mountain
    after another? How many times when that dark
    yawned did he stop for the night, but walk at dawn?

  46. mrs.mjbauer says:

    Finish Line by Mary Bauer

    So easy to begin
    Excitement at the start
    In the middle
    Joy turns to work
    A pile of incomplete grows
    Time to pick it up and begin again
    Time to cross that finish line

  47. AleathiaD says:

    Roses in My Hair

    Before I go to work
    my mother’s final box
    of possessions arrives
    in the light evening rain.

    After swimming through
    packing peanuts,
    I get to the center box.

    Inside it smells just like her.
    Roses waft up and crush
    my heart. I had felt so prepared
    for this last treasure
    full of the jewels
    she loved to wear.

    I didn’t expect the smell
    of her perfume to send me
    back to the beginning.

    I sit there on the floor
    in the dark, breathing her in
    sorting through her finery.

    I decided to call it a day.
    I closed the box and get ready
    for work.

    The smell of roses
    sticks to my fingers
    and in my hair
    and I’m not sure
    how to let go.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 30 Calling it a day

  48. Shell says:

    Until Next Time
    By Shell Ochsner



    Mother; Great and Grand.

    Among the angel’s,

    With your palm in God’s hand.

    Watching patiently,

    You’ll guide us with your love.

    Your light forever shines,

    In the stars above.

    The day will soon come,

    When we will meet again.

    Briefly separated,

    However, this is not the end.

    Nor is this our goodbye,

    But see you soon enough.

    When it is our time,

    To You we will rise up.

  49. Eve calling it a day

    When the boss Adam said let’s call it a day,
    I’m sure Eve wondered what he meant by that phrase
    given she was expected to prepare them both dinner,
    feed and put the children to bed, clean up the dishes
    and please her husband before his loud snoring
    finally allowed her to rest,
    or perhaps he was back at his old inane hobby-
    the naming of things-
    which made a lot more sense
    here in the hard scrabble world than it
    did back in the unchanging garden,
    it did not help however that he kept renaming the
    same things over and over again to suit his own purposes
    or to pretend he had not forgotten
    what he had called them originally -
    the only constant she could count on now
    his constant complaining about
    her “nagging”
    when all she ever really wanted was clarification
    of her place in his growing hierarchy of creation
    and of all things – his love

  50. drwasy says:

    Calling It

    Let’s call it a day,
    a night, quits,

    and move on with
    out the other,
    without better

    or worse, without
    health or sickness.
    Let’s call it a day

    and leave with some
    thing akin to grace
    and keep the kids
    out of our fray.

  51. poet42 says:

    The End of the Day

    My mind whirls as
    I spend 12 hours
    caring for dimentia patients–
    floated from my floor
    where I care for the
    depressed and psychotic.
    These patients wander
    the halls confused
    and bewildered
    searching for their rooms
    and their real selves
    that are locked in
    some corner of their minds.
    One who is confined to
    a chair shouts at me,
    “Bitch, bitch, bitch”
    even though earlier he
    had asked, “Will you
    say a prayer for me?”
    He tries to kick, punch
    and bite as we attempt to
    hold him still for an injection.
    We walk from the room,
    and he calls my coworker,
    “a fat, ugly nigger”
    while he spits my way
    and misses, then hisses,
    “This is all your fault.”
    As shouts, cries, curses
    ring through the halls,
    I pray for grace
    to make it to 7:10pm.
    Then I can call it a day–
    even though their words
    will echo and pained faces
    will flash across my mind.
    On the way home I pray
    that me and my loved
    ones will be spared–
    that we will stay in our
    right minds on our way out
    of this life.

  52. KatNalley says:

    (Two days’ prompts in this one.)

    Calling It Done

    If I were a homonym,
    I’d say what I mean.
    I’d mean what I say.
    You might find me mean.
    The mean of two parts of dialogue
    would equal stalemate.
    You would create a meme
    and spread it all over
    Facebook. I’d say pair;
    you’d hear pear. I’d say tear;
    you’d hear tear. I’d say sore;
    you’d hear soar. I’d say I’ll;
    you’d hear aisle. I’d say alter;
    you’d hear altar. I’d say except;
    you’d hear accept. We tear
    apart at the seam; you
    seem to not care. I wish
    to elicit truth from your illicit
    affair. I call you out on your lie.
    You think I want to lie down
    with you one last time. My God,
    you’re so vain. The vein in my temple
    begins to throb. Look, we’ve
    grown apart. You groan. Hear me, I say!
    There’s a lesson in this madness! Here,
    with me, you feel like a man lessened.
    The past has passed. Neither one of us
    has won. Just get out. I hope
    you can find a piece
    of peace without me.


    Keep your strides long,
    after April is gone.
    Like the little engine
    that knew it could;
    conquer the mountain,
    and descend the valley.
    Need I say more?
    It should be understood,
    that muse is not the 110 hurdles,
    nor a lively sprint.
    But a life long marathon,
    a day that never quits.


    The PAD is stocked,
    and the cats in the bag.
    We’ve poemed our hearts out
    we’ve all been had.
    Not by trick;
    but by the tasty treats,
    of the skills of every poet
    offered sweet.

  55. lily black says:

    At the End of the Day
    At the end of the day
    It’s usually just me
    Two dogs and probably TV

    At the end of the day
    Too tired to walk
    The poodles they wish they could talk

    At the end of the day
    I wrote what I could
    I wonder will my mind turn wood

    At the end of the day
    I hope for the best
    Morning comes fast putting hope to the test.

    ****Thank you for a wonderful month! I ope this time it sticks in my blood for the whole year! Thank you all so much!

  56. bethwk says:

    Calling it a Day
    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    I came here because I thought–
    oh never mind. You see,

    it’s been on my mind to–
    well, you wouldn’t understand.

    The band is packing up.
    We’re totally out of peanuts, and
    someone spilled wine
    on my yellow dress.

    I thought the dancing was fun.
    Didn’t you like the dancing?
    And the music kept it lively.

    Were you about to say something?
    Oh, I thought I heard you start to–
    it doesn’t really matter now, does it?

    Good night.
    You sleep well, too.
    Drive safely, now.

  57. Streaming

    eyes open on a new world
    eyes dim, time done here
    milk bottles chinking
    clanking bin lorry
    bird noise
    rain drenched roads
    the swoosh of cars
    train rumbles
    freezer hums
    computer high-pitched
    barely audible to
    human ears
    dogs barking
    merchant seamen work
    giant ships
    seagulls swooping
    whales, sharks, dolphins,
    uncountable fish,
    gunfire, explosions,
    screaming, sobbing,
    an orchestra plays
    a phone rings,
    shirted man stretches
    in front of a screen
    a welder wipes the sweat
    from her eyes,
    toddlers play in the sun,
    stairlifts slowly upwards
    teenager gritting teeth
    against pain and impatience
    damp room father’s tears
    run like the water
    down the walls.

    All of this and more than this
    infinite experience
    endless life force
    too big to name
    let’s call it a day.

    Michele Brenton 30th April 2014

  58. jean says:

    The hummingbirds all have gone to war.
    Their territories shift every Spring.
    The Ruby-throateds wish to score
    The All-greens’ lilacs near our porch swing.

    Marshall Rouge musters and murmurs, “Attack!”
    He wants it early on this year.
    General Emerald buzzes right back,
    “Tizzz ourzzz! Tizzz ourzzz! Get out of here!”

    The Ruby-throats in formation dive
    Starting from above where the bats all nap!
    The All-greens go in (ten on five!)
    Forcing their opponents all over the map!

    There’s no mistaking a courting dance
    For this melee in the afternoon.
    If they just broke their bellicose trance,
    They’d be singing a different tune –

    Some neighborhood cats are waiting, quite still.
    Two red-tailed hawks spiral down from far away.
    Cats and hawks close in until
    Each hummingbird decides to call it a day!

  59. Scott Jacobson says:


    It is my last day writing to you
    and I have had an awful day.
    There is a fire up in the mountain
    and there is the smoke that clouds
    the words passing behind my eyes.

    Outside the wind is helping the trees undress,
    by stripping their branches of white flowers.
    The heat has the pedestrians taking
    their shirts off, but they haven’t exposed their feelings
    about how they want to touch the Pacific ocean.

    Tomorrow May comes in like a sun spot,
    so I will bring you some iceberg rose pedals.

    The song “I want to get better” plays on the radio,
    and all I want to do is dance with you
    one last time before I am forced to leave.

  60. P.A. Beyer says:

    Robert – Thank you for the daily spark that starts the fire for hundreds of poets.

    And to my fellow poets – Thank you for teaching me so many things with so few words.

  61. P.A. Beyer says:

    A Good Life

    A good life is
    a collection of friends
    who enjoy the dumbest of activities –
    Like hundred yard dashes in flip flops
    Like happy hour bowling leagues
    Like goldfish races at the neighborhood pub
    Like singing “Can’t touch this” at karaoke
    Like writing poetry for thirty straight days
    So I raise my glass (red plastic of course) to
    The cavalcade of misfits and oddballs
    Who refuse to call it a day, because deep
    Down inside we all know there’s a bookend
    Out there, but we’re still too busy writing
    that next chapter to take notice

  62. PKP says:

    He winked – She blinked

    She sat parchment
    hand holding a sheet
    of paper
    His signature looped
    strong in black fountain
    penned ink
    He thought he had
    made it easier above
    the whirr and clank of
    the machine
    For years – after he
    had thrown his hat
    on the door peg
    showered and changed
    into comfy clothes for
    dinner – for years before
    during , and after the parade
    of children and dogs and
    one cat came and left -
    midnight had come and
    he’d wink, with passion,
    with exhaustion, and finally
    with an ironic twinkle
    of possibility – reach for
    her hand and say
    “Let’s call it a day”
    and now as midnight
    approached – sitting on
    a hard chair in frigid air
    blinking at that damn paper
    with his own words
    written just below all
    the DNR gobbledygook
    she could not
    she could not

    • There you are! Pearl, I have been through a few of these with you, and I have enjoyed each successive one more than the last. This year has been exceptional and you have added greatly to my inspiration. I couldn’t let April slip by without telling you, I think you’re Fab! See you on the Street. You know my corner!

      • PKP says:

        Hi there Walt – well this has been quite a year on ye ole “Street” I do know your corner and I am always in it – my talented friend… I think this makes our sixth challenge? Long ago and it has been incredible to walk this path and see how far we have all come. Thank you :)

      • PKP says:

        Benjamin – thank you and just in case it has managed to slip by this year – once again it has been a delight to write beside you and once again you need to hear again and again and again how wonderfully versatile and talented you are :) As Walt would say “Write On!”

    • julie e. says:

      WOW. I just love this, it really stirred me Pearl….

    • julie e. says:

      WOW. I just love this, it really stirred me Pearl….

      • julie e. says:

        Apparently I loved it twice…

        • PKP says:

          It’s great to be loved once – but a to be loved twice?! – lol – Fantastic .. Thank you so very much julie e – have greatly enjoyed your work this month and so very much appreciated your comments. It was more than a little overwhelming and wonderful to see “The Street” as I like to call PAD so busy – as compared to the early days when there were many poems but just a handful of poets and we could comment each day on each other’s work – I wouldn’t trade having you here for those “good ole days” but I do miss being able to tell you each day and specifically how talented you are and what a pleasure it has been to write beside you :)

    • PressOn says:

      This is mildly stunning. Wonderful.

  63. julie e. says:


    She’s called on a Tuesday,
    she’s called on a Wednesday,
    she’s called all her children up.
    She’s called on a Thursday,
    she’s called on a Friday,
    while washing her coffee cup.
    If she calls them again
    she’s afraid she’s a nag,
    but her heart wants to do what it wants,
    So she’ll call them on Saturday
    for lunch on Sunday and
    they’ll say, “Mom, it’s all set up!”

    She’ll call on a Monday
    she’ll call on a Tuesday,
    just to hear the sound of
    their voice

  64. Calling It A Day – Amirae Garcia

    I’m calling it a day. I’m calling you, I’m willing you.
    Come to me. Please come to me. My mouth keeps
    forming your name and my eyes flicker to the door
    like any minute you’re going to come around. Are you?
    I’m waiting for you. My back keeps arching like your
    hands are already holding me. I’m too used to you
    in my bed at two in the morning. The room smells
    like coffee. And you. This room always smells like you.
    This room is the only place where I can be me and
    you can be you. We don’t have to hide. We don’t have
    to pretend. We can call it a day and just go to bed.

  65. Pengame30 says:

    “Call it a day”

    The sun sits high in the sky.
    The dew hasn’t yet dried.
    Roses pedals react to the light.
    Worms sift through soil that is air tight.
    Trains move over ancient tracks,
    as you slide hangers left to right on the clothes rack.
    Bees suck on nectar,
    while professors give lectures.
    The addict falls asleep,
    after a night of partying.
    There’s nothing left to say.
    Might as well call it a day.

    Written By: Sean Drew.

  66. msmacs3m says:

    PAD Day 30
    “Calling it a day” Haiku
    by Sandy McCulloch

    Write a poem a day -
    April writing challenge done!
    It was a good month.

  67. Mickie Lynn says:


    Let’s just call it a day
    Let’s throw in the towel

    Let’s call the day just
    Let’s towel off the throw

    Put it back where it belongs
    Put off until tomorrow

    Put belonging back
    Put tomorrow off

    Live for today
    Live life

    Life lived today
    free to unravel and be done

  68. phocus says:

    Call It a Day

    Let’s call it a day.
    For a moment, forget all the awkwardness of life.
    Leave the surreal images alone that you see everywhere.
    Halt your thoughts about unpleasant moments of the past and hopes for the future!
    Stop the long train of weird memories
    and take a break.

    Cautiously, lay your tired head down on the pillow
    while breathing calmly in and out.
    Listen to the regular sound of your heartbeat
    through your eardrum.
    Envision the mechanic sound of moving waves
    or the monotonous tick-tock of the big clock downstairs.

    Imagine yourself totally relaxed;
    stretched out on a warm beach,
    the sun shining directly onto your face,
    forcing you to keep your overactive eyelids shut.
    Can you still see the shades of orange passing by the inside of your closed eyes?
    And do you still smell the salty ocean air with a pinch of sunscreen and a touch of sweat?

    Very quietly,
    curiosity escapes you
    and with it
    all the questions and doubts that live in your brain.

    the forces that make you move have vanished.
    Absence of will is what is left.
    All turns to silence.
    And you can finally rest.

    ©Uta Raina, April 2014


    has been finessed
    with a sexy prompt.
    We came, we saw
    we wrote, we stomped.
    Like a mad herd blitz,
    straight from the pen;
    thirty days well spent,
    and next year, we’ll do it again.

  70. De Jackson says:

    Many, many thanks to all who took the time to read and comment this month. I was a bit selfish in taking on 3 daily challenges this year, which didn’t leave time for much reading. I am so looking forward to giving the keyboard a rest, and feasting my eyes on sooooo many incredible poems. Congratulations all. You rock.

    And Robert, this was my 6th PAD Challenge. Can’t ever, ever thank you enough. I feel like parts of me were actually born here on this site.

    • PKP says:

      Yes, De… I so agree with all that you have said – it was a little difficult to comment on even a sizable chunk of the wonderful work here on The Street this year – For those of us who were there when there were many poems and few poets – it was different – not sure I would trade the fresh outpouring of enthusiasm and the whirling of new words and fresh voices …. You are and shall always be my favorite mermaid and RLB … yes, I feel as you that parts of me were brought to life on this site :)
      See you sunning over on the next rock :)


    Its PAD day number thirty,
    so roll up yer sleeves
    and get your hands

  72. James Brush says:

    Thank you so much for these prompts. I didn’t write to all of them, but I did write 30 poems this month, and I very much appreciate the inspiration and ideas you’ve provided. And so, here’s my last one for the month before I call it a day…


    The old man lost faith in rain,
    stopped praying, whispered soft,
    I’ve had enough. I give.

    How many poems can you give,
    brother, to call the goddess of the rain?
    A shadow in a sheep’s clothes, soft

    wings flutter, a sound so soft
    you stop the car, pull over and give
    a listen to the whistle of a train.

    To hear the rain fall soft again? I’ll give.

  73. “Calling it”

    One thing about hospital walls—
    They attack
    Like with pepper spray
    every Incoming patient
    every Incoming visitor
    Huge red arrow> East Elevator
    take the C-2 Entrance behind
    The Belvidere wing> This way. No,
    that way. Big arrow pointing to Icons
    of heads with gears for brains and shadow
    bodies filled to the neck with striped ribs. Red X No
    Smoking but if there is a fire RUN down
    THiS stairwell. Caution. >>BioHazard. <parking garage<
    upthesestairs, downthishall, takethiselevator

    ArroW ArroW Turn around.
    Turn off your cell phone. No guns.
    STOP Contact Infections. Finger
    point to STAFF Bathroom where you
    get your staff infections. For Free.
    Please use this door. Not that door.
    And no footwear, please. (That's nice
    and polite.) Follow the signs and be lulled
    by the intermittent recording of a lullaby
    announcing the birth of a new baby
    who will grow up some day to labor
    to follow the arrows to find us in a room
    and bring us home to feed us to monitor
    our meds to dip our dentures in cups
    to transfer us to hospice
    where we'll call it a day
    when we finally quit
    following all the

  74. Rolf Erickson says:


    Today a single tree
    released to the wind
    a thousand seeds
    with wings that flutter
    to spiral in the wind
    seeking to be received
    by an open spot
    to take root and grow.

    Today my heart
    released to you
    a single poem
    with wings that float
    to spiral in your mind
    seeking to be received
    by an open spirit
    to be heard and known.

    Whatever your dream
    released to the world
    let it float and flutter
    to spiral in your life.

    May it be received.

    Like this poem.

  75. April’s PAD Finale

    The tree outside my window flutters green.
    She’s pregnant with Bach’s flute sonata soon.
    Delighted with her lofty leaf, she leans
    as poets rapt within her branches, croon.

    You’ve had the better hour of my bright morn
    and still I pause and hear you play your part,
    enticing birds; those jazz-men with a horn,
    that play for you and bring to you their heart.

    Lush tree, framed in my window, I confess:
    I understand with mystery we’re bound;
    art captured by some joy that you profess
    in your melodic, beaming, mellow sound.

    Oh, solid kin, if God be anywhere,
    he’s in this leafy poem that we share.

    (My favorite form remains the sonnet. I never lose patience with my trial and error attempts. That much I have learned about myself while doing your PAD’s for the past few years. Thank you, Robert, for the opportunity to share and learn.)

  76. PKP says:

    Bon Voyage to The Street

    I walk this now nearly
    quiet cobble stoned Street –
    lamplit incandescent
    with the wattage of words
    walk this now nearly quiet
    Street waving Mused arms
    whispering wavery phantasms
    tip toe touching the tops of
    chestnut trees, floating as
    white blossoms mystic,
    drifting, melting
    on this now nearly quiet street
    leaving our human footprint
    on these wet cobble stones
    gleaming under my footfall
    as I walk this now nearly quiet
    Street again and turn
    for one more look as our
    individual voices lift and rise in
    collective gossamer glimmer
    weaving in lyric silvered strands
    a single celestial cape drifting
    above it all brushing each spirit
    revealed on this, in this
    blue marble
    this spinning blue marble that
    we all shared for a singular time
    and in the way of mystic magic
    know that for a single instant all
    pause in perfect poetic synchronicity
    our own footfall lingering echoing
    on The Street
    forever – etched
    as the clock clicks and
    yes, the time has come
    to call it a day

  77. Kit Cooley says:

    Long Day

    Not one more thought,
    or nimble rhyme,
    can be squeezed out.
    It’s quitting time.

    ~ Kit Cooley

  78. Call It a Day

    goodbyes are infinite
    as loving has taught me
    countless times a day
    in so many silent
    useful and useless ways
    I say goodbye and I love you
    when I close the dryer door
    fold another shirt
    switch off a light
    every kiss goodnight
    a tireless tiresomeness this
    a putting away of past me
    donning the temporarily
    clean-shirted self of today
    how caring for family
    is a willing sacrifice
    that’s never done
    made continually
    in our own ways
    one on one
    or alone
    I was always afraid
    I would be
    sometimes I long
    for it now too
    it’s true
    I may give up on the day
    but I won’t surrender
    the me I used to be
    who scoffs at the me
    I’ve become
    or the me I mourn
    long for and say goodbye to
    so many times a day
    a bittersweet delight
    so that we
    can continue loving
    each to each
    in our own
    farewell ways

    (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

  79. Sara McNulty says:

    End of the Line

    The black sky winks with stars
    The red barn door closes
    The bees have hived it
    The dog is curled up, eyes closed, legs twitching in dreams
    The book has been marked and set on the night table
    The television screen is dark
    The computer is powered down
    The bartender removes his apron and locks up
    Another day is done.

  80. flood says:

    Bloomington, To Be Exact

    We were shooting pool the night
    Princess Diana died. We were
    three or four drinks in by the time
    the story started to hit the airwaves.

    Bottom shelf bourbon and cokes
    for me and some green-bottled
    beer or another was in your hand.

    Televisions, normally tuned to
    a ballgame, were all turned to
    the same station while bartenders
    scrambled for the remote controls.

    We were in the middle of Illinois -
    Bloomington, to be exact – and
    probably shouldn’t have laughed
    at the woman crying by the bar.

  81. bethwk says:

    Calling it a Day
    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    I came here because I thought–
    oh never mind. You see,

    it’s been on my mind to–
    well, you wouldn’t understand.

    The band is packing up.
    We’re totally out of peanuts, and
    someone spilled wine
    on my yellow dress.

    I thought the dancing was fun.
    Didn’t you like the dancing?
    And the music kept it lively.

    Were you about to say something?
    Oh, I thought I heard you start to–
    it doesn’t really matter now, does it?

    Good night.
    You sleep well, too.
    Drive safely, now.

  82. jasonlmartin says:

    Acrostic for April 2014

    A lot of us cleanse our colons.
    Plenty break bread sans gluten.
    Rare that we are free of technology.
    In bed or on the toilet, we are connected.
    Lip rings are hip. Poems fill our attention spans.

  83. SestinaNia says:

    At the End of All Things

    Linger here a moment
    longer and weave
    your soul into mine—
    let’s create a tapestry
    filled with the rich colors
    of whispered truths
    and secrets shouted across
    the universe.
    And while we are
    at it, let’s intermingle
    fingers and fortunes—
    let me stitch up
    your broken dreams
    with the ribbon
    of hope I keep around
    my hair—oh please,
    linger here—
    as the sun settles
    herself onto the horizon
    and nestles down for a night
    of rest, cradled in the mountain’s
    mighty stone arms,
    as she lets the stars
    orchestrate her lullaby—
    linger here…

    with me.

    – Sara Doyle

  84. dandelionwine says:


    Day’s barely dying
    in the west when we’re rising
    with it in the east.

    Sara Ramsdell

  85. EbenAt says:

    Reading past midnight,
    head full
    of Thailand.

    Three am alarm comes
    too fast.
    At four something,
    on the road,
    shaking my head
    to wake up.

    Five to two is
    café blur,
    catering, missing staff,
    listening, coaching,
    sweating all of it.

    2:30 I need training wheels,
    real ones.
    An hour later
    they’re on Ivy’s bike.

    Four hours of the three Rs,
    readin’, writin’, an’ research,
    M and Ivy and Dawg
    happy and dirty
    in the garden.

    Dinner by M, Casey and Ivy
    ‘you’re silly, Grampa’.
    Off they go to see
    if we have
    a new granddaughter yet.

    To bed at 9
    to read until
    I can read no longer;
    put down the book,
    squeeze M’s shoulder
    Sigh and smile and
    call it a day.

  86. inkysolace says:

    five hours since I learned of my mistake
    and I have built myself a trap
    wrung the pity from my hands
    molded spikes out of my own litter
    I thought I was more forgotten
    than a black-and-white dream
    but I never woke him up

    I look at the hands the wrought his bruises
    I have stolen the solace from his smiles
    made my happiness into stained glass with
    the shards I snapped off his presence like thorns
    I called them sharp but the rose missed its protection —
    it was too much for someone with
    a head and a half more height than me
    and the same ocean of sadness

    I sink myself into the shade, brush against
    broken columns of grass, leaves let go
    by a family that doesn’t want them
    these are the last lives my hands will touch

    I wait for the sun to wake up my trap
    and call shoos to the birds that
    want to make a nest out of my regret
    the culprits hang in the shade of my folded
    legs, packaged thoughts
    one grap and I can ruin myself
    for the crutch of forgiveness

    the metal holds my hand
    a blush against the tin scraps
    that cradle my fingers
    I look away, spread imagined wings
    this is comfort, the caress of strength
    that locks me into inertia and writes
    my pleas with threads fallen
    from the bloom between handmade jaws
    if I can’t reach, I won’t hurt him

    –jessica marino

  87. Yolee says:

    Calling it

    Hot shower. Thank You, God. Drink bold coffee by the sink. Kiss. Rush. Love. Adios
    Office. Glass Cubicles. Good morning. Deadlines. Love my kids. Interruptions.Type.
    Blueberry yogurt with a red spoon. Write. Love him. Slammed. Insert headphones.
    Here, There, Everywhere is a cupcake taken out of the oven 5 minutes too soon.
    Phone. Salami Sandwich. Computer glare. Sitting too long. Afternoon buzz.
    Tree shadows. Storm artistry. Adios. Umbrella. Family. Frizzy hair. Shoeless drive. Jam
    without jelly traffic. Bank. Market.Tuna, dish washing liquid, tomatoes, lip balm.
    Double rainbow. Wet palm trees. Kiss. Smile. Eat. Topical talk. Dance. TV light. Wash.
    Read. Pray.

  88. elledoubleyoo says:

    A quick one from me on this busy, busy day. I want to do something better on our last day, but a little play with words instead, unless inspiration strikes. Thanks everyone for a great month! I’ll come back next year!


    With no damper-pedaled diminuendo
    of melancholy chords, I didn’t
    know we had come to an end.

    Oh, had I but known, there would
    have been a black-and-white montage
    on grainy film and drolled quips

    on rougéd lips to let the audience in
    on the fact we were finished. Instead
    it’s me stuck with the irony–dramatic,

    it turns out, because everyone knew
    except me, that you, this tragic end
    had wrought and written.

  89. ninocka says:


    Over. It’s over.

    We have woken up, eyes dull,
    took first steps, coffee&all
    climbed up the high noon
    and slid down the afternoon
    even ate dinner together

    but now, my friend,
    I can’t anymore.

    It’s midnight,
    to our delight
    and we shall say:
    Let’s call it a day.

  90. ninocka says:


    Over. It’s over.

    We have woken up, eyes dull,
    took first steps, coffee&all
    climbed up the high noon
    and slid down the afternoon
    even ate dinner together

    but now, my friend,
    I can’t anymore.

    It’s midnight,
    to our delight
    and we shall say:
    Let’s call it a day.

  91. Finished!

    Standing over thirty pots of clay
    she she rubs her palms together.
    I have done all I can do.
    Planted in neat and crooked rows
    it is up to nature now. Let’s see
    how many April showers will spill
    into May. And how many poems
    will bloom in the hearts of strangers.

    Thank you for a fantastic PAD Challenge. I can tell that a lot of hard work and time is involved it pulling a challenge as grand as this off. I’m already looking forward to next year. Cheers!

  92. Himanee says:

    Quitting Time
    A bellow through a conch shell,
    the blowing of the factory whistle,
    the ringing of a bell –
    once signified an end of work, a time for home, a time for play.

    The warming seas have eroded lands where conch shells once held such a role.
    The factories have closed,
    and while the school bells still ring, the meaning of the sound has diminished
    as working parents tell their kids to stay behind
    for after school.

    With the end of the assembly line came the start of 24/7.
    The work can start anytime, and end anytime.
    Security is unassured,
    even as we think we live more freely.
    We work long into the night on devices of our choice,
    marveling at the ease of Internet
    while our family lives erode.
    We fall asleep on sofas, or during films,
    with our laptops in our laps, and our smartphones whispering into our ears.
    Without the old bellow, it seems that quitting time is no more.

  93. jacq says:

    Remembered Soldiers by Jacqualine A Hart

    youth with bravery
    serve and protect our country
    boys are they no more

    donned with stripes and brass
    blues, dress whites, camo filled bags
    pride and dignity

    M16 in hand
    chosen for front line battle
    witness senseless death

    the world remembers
    once-invincible soldiers
    now outward heroes

    honored with medals
    flags at half-staff and silence
    never-ending love

  94. Linda Voit says:

    let’s call it a day
    balm of sanctioned completion
    blessing of enough

    Linda Voit

  95. Sharon Ann says:

    Farewell, my poeming friends

    It is that time,
    the final day.
    My entries to this challenge
    I move on now
    to write more words that form
    a book.
    Thank you all
    for the creative cohesiveness
    that this challenge provides.
    Adieu, my friends
    until we meet again.

  96. Slowed to Still

    It took a fall for the man of Tarsus
    While nothing could break Job
    Unshakable faith is
    A calling card has-been

    We want miracles
    We want glories
    We want to hark
    To the herald angels’ song

    To move farther away
    We’d have to first move

    We’ve been buried in complacency
    And grounded in mundane
    And shadowed from the light

    How can we aid ourselves
    How can we return
    Free will free choice are
    Nothing without action
    And action is nothing
    Without the will the choice
    The hope of heaven

    Where does this light go
    When it’s off
    And what does it show
    When it’s on

    Move me please
    For I am unable

  97. carolecole66 says:

    Sonnet to My Youth

    Some days I’m tempted just to call it quits
    and hang up racquets, skis, and other toys,
    take to the couch. It’s time I learned to knit,
    to find my happiness in other joys.

    I’ve been on tennis courts most of my life;
    I’ve hiked the Appalachian Trail twice.
    Now every night my back feels like a knife
    runs through my spine. It’s pleasure for a price

    I’ve always paid. I really don’t believe
    that I’m too old to play these childish games.
    I’m still so youthful I cannot conceive
    of stepping to the side, of seeming lame.

    I’ll stay out on the playing fields until
    I’m on my knees, until I’ve lost my will.


  98. Going Home

    It is time to leave.
    No point lingering in the forest
    now that the party is over.
    It is downhill from here and
    I can see the village in the distance.
    I am grateful to the night creatures
    and to that pack of wolves that adopted me.
    I will miss you all.
    Now I have to go home.
    Hopefully I will know how to behave
    when I get there.
    I’ll have to remember
    that I am supposed to be afraid
    of the dark.
    I will need a new hobby.
    Knitting or gardening
    might be a good choice.
    I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror
    for a month,
    but I am sure it’s nothing
    that can’t be fixed
    with an elegant dress and
    some make-up.

  99. gmagrady says:

    (This last submission uses all 30 prompts in one poem)


    Never have I watched
    so intently
    the blooming of a seed.

    Never have I witnessed,
    so naively,
    the growing of its need

    to sink into the soil
    so deeply,
    on dirt’s nutrients to feed.
    Its VOYAGE.

    Never have I noticed
    so blindly,
    the green hints. Clues. I did not heed
    its MESSAGE.

    SINCE then, I’ve been in awe
    so profoundly,
    of its birth, a flower freed.

    at daybreak, the peeping,
    so anxiously,
    having pushed through the weeds
    through the NIGHT.

    The tiny bud, herSELF, bright as the moon
    so PEACEfully,
    joining the new day and pleading

    for SHELTER when it rains
    so continuously.
    Now into the FUTURE, the clouds bleed

    worked up, hard working, CITY or field,
    so strong,
    but the stem stands straight, a new BREED
    a new lyric, IF IT WERE a song.

    Someday, it will be used to show LOVE
    so tender,
    when framing the coffin, where one stands to read
    the EULOGY.

    Years past it made a peace sign
    with petals in hair and strung to beads.
    on a WEATHER perfect day.

    Now, no matter the HUE, a FAMILY of aqua-sky-baby blues,
    so fresh,
    the blossom is simple, BASIC, and proceeds,

    OPTIMISTIC about this place where it resides
    so plentiful,
    no longer buried, indeed,
    in that barren LOCATION

    of dirt and seeds,
    so lonely, so desolate,

    As if TELLING IT TO the garden,
    and anyone who will listen
    so happily,
    “I am ready!” is the fragrant decree.
    Little did they know that a flower could fill their needs.

    With sorrow in his heart,
    his girl having said it was THE LAST STRAW,
    so gloomily
    he walked through the plants
    sprinkling WATER,
    from a spout, reflecting in woe,
    and when his girl trudged through the door
    after a MONSTER of day,
    she SETTLED at the table
    head bent, fingers rubbing her temples,
    and he waited,
    She looked up to see him
    with a beautiful, MAGICAL

    He held her, and they

    • Pat Walsh says:

      What a great idea! I’m not sure I could have gotten all those prompts into a single poem — it’s such a nice summation of the month as a whole, and a really neat narrative. I am going to miss this! It’s been great getting to read your work, and I appreciate all your kind support and encouragement. All best wishes for all your future writing endeavors!

    • PKP says:

      Soooo lovely! In times when there were far less poets and poems – there were a few times when I tried weaving the lines of poets and prompts together – This is delightful – Great fun being here with you :)

    • gmagrady says:

      I must have called it a day too early. “to read the eulogy, or maybe an ELEGY.” (I remember people getting mixed up during PAD, and here I am doing the same thing!)

  100. CathyBlogs says:

    Thank you, Writer’s Digest, for the forum; Robert, for the inspiration and enthusiasm; poet/judges, whose jobs are just beginning; and most of all, every poet who’s written here so beautifully and honestly. This poem is for you.

    My Last Poem
    Apologies to Robert Browning

    That’s my last poem lying on the desk,
    looking as fresh as when first printed. I call
    That piece a wonder, now: I worked on it
    for days, and now there it lies.
    Won’t you please sit and read it? I said
    ‘my poem’ on purpose; unread
    strangers like you who hear free verse,
    the depth and passion of its unmetered lines,
    then to myself they turn (since none quick get
    the stanzas I have written for you, but I)
    and it seems you would ask me — and you can –
    how come a word here, or there; you’re not the first
    to ask about it. Well, it wasn’t some
    unknown muse alone that made me write
    of my ‘dark desire’: perhaps
    like Shakespeare, I might have said, ‘In colour black
    why wrapt she beams so bright?’ or ‘She,
    even in black, doth make all beauties flow!’ such
    stuff now seems formal, even florid, but then,
    some are not easily impressed.
    Though the paper lies so still,
    the poem lives upon it. Won’t you please
    pick it up, and give it speech? My muse has known
    munificence, although this poem has no pretense
    to greatness. Let’s read it together, and see
    if, for once, this one exceeds the mark,
    or if it is — how shall I say? –
    a verse too soon made glad.

    by Cathy Dee writing at http://www.CathyBlogs.com

  101. fahey says:

    Call it

    The day that I call it
    a day you must promise
    never to call me one night.
    Unless -
    you promise to call me
    at twelve, so then
    we can call it a night.

  102. RuthNott says:


    I think I’m ready to call it a day.
    The sun is long gone
    And tomorrow’s anon.
    The crickets are chirping out in the field,
    Squirrels have bedded
    And night bugs are headed
    To dance in the street lights glow.
    This day has ended
    As the hours have wended
    To the tick, tick, tock of the clock.

    ©2014 by Ruth Nott

  103. beale.alexis says:

    “I’m Calling It A Day”

    Because my step dad needs brain surgery
    for the third time,
    my parents never stop fighting,
    my best friend hasn’t spoken to me
    in almost three days, I have IB exams
    next Monday, Prom is three weeks away
    and I still haven’t got a fricken clue
    what I’m doing before or afterwards,
    and for the past week
    I’ve been cheating with this whole poem-
    a-day challenge because I’m so
    stressed and my inspiration tank is on

  104. Linda Lee Sand says:

    Red River of the North

    The house sits on a river that
    rises like a red bear
    awake in spring,
    hungry for room,
    ready to roar.

    There’s little more
    we can do.

    Time has come

    The other houses are gone
    And now it’s our turn to
    To say good-bye and
    let the river be a river,
    let the bear run.

    We’ll be safe away

    From this river lot,

    We’re done,

    We’ll call it a day.

  105. rachfh says:

    Just For Today by Rachel E. Hicks

    Phone it in, no matter
    what Jillian Michaels says.

    You donned sports bra
    and a ponytail. Shoes made it
    onto your feet.

    Every intention.

    But both-ends-burning
    leaves you a shriveled wick.

    The kids are reading
    new books on their beds

    and there’s a Good Housekeeping
    in the mail slot

    and hot-diggety dogs
    in the fridge.

    Call the game.
    Call it a day.

    Feet up, baby.

  106. cbwentworth says:

    Orange and coral
    caress the sky with goodbye
    A blue moon rises

    - – -

    C.B. Wentworth

  107. Blaise says:


    always the hands
    feet of the arms
    that walk me through
    a day of tasks
    friends and loss thereof
    the hands speak
    a mouth more
    eloquent than words
    through time’s etching
    skin cracked
    nails chipped
    fingertips still tingle
    give me something to do
    our day is not done

  108. tunesmiff says:

    G. Smith
    We hit the ground at six a.m.
    We’ve been going ever since;
    Loading up that old pick-up truck,
    Working on this old fence.

    But it’s quitting time and I’ll call it quits,
    Without putting up a fight.
    Let’s call it day;
    But not call it a night.

    Let’s call it a day,
    But not call it a night;
    Let’s head into town,
    Where the lights are bright.
    Let’s agree on some neon,
    With no end in sight;
    Let’s call it a day;
    But not call it a night.

    Let’s pack it all in,
    And head on out;
    Let’s kick up our heels,
    At the twist and shout.

    Tomorrow morning’s just
    Five minutes away;
    Too much work,
    And you know what they say.

    Let’s call it a day,
    But not call it a night;
    Let’s head into town,
    Where the lights are bright.
    Let’s agree on some neon,
    With no end in sight;
    Let’s call it a day;
    But not call it a night.

    Let’s call it a day,
    But not call it a night;
    Let’s head into town,
    Where the lights are bright.
    Let’s agree on some neon,
    Till we’re feeling right.
    Let’s call it a day;
    But not call it a night.

    Let’s call it a day,
    But not call it a night;

  109. Blaise says:

    Lights Out

    One last sweep of eyes
    to places where memories
    were forged tonight,
    ears still ringing,
    counters wiped of spills,
    tips split in thirds,
    front door bolted,
    sidewalk chatter fades.
    This is my favorite time.
    I still see the smiles
    and flirty glances,
    the dance moves,
    how the band pulled them
    like moths to the edge of danger.
    I even caught a rare joy
    on the drummer’s face
    packing out the last of his gear.
    Now silence prevails
    and – click – the darkness.

  110. pamelaraw says:

    At the happy hour, I’m still suited up
    in dress and heels while the office men
    have put their neckties and jackets
    at ease and lowered their beers to half-glass.
    I sip mine slow, order garlic fries to sop
    up the rest of the liquor before the drive
    to my empty home, calculate 30 minutes
    as the remaining time I need to listen
    to the banter tossed across the table
    about FIFA brackets and Brazilian babes.
    My boss tells his favorite story about the crazy
    old lady who scared neighborhood boys on bikes
    into buying her beer from the package store.
    My mind wanders to the other women
    in the office who excused themselves to tend
    to picking up children from daycare or parents
    from the airport. At the end of my day, I get
    to kick off my shoes, while they still wear
    the wardrobe of their other roles.

  111. Julieann says:

    It’s 5 o’clock Somewhere

    The week has been hectic
    Deadlines and rush orders
    Meetings with “the boss”
    Among other things
    The phone is ringing
    People are walking in
    Just another normal week
    Made up of normal days
    In paradise
    But then comes the clincher
    Budget cuts have to be made
    Down goes one department
    Then another one
    Friends, co-workers,
    Now are unemployed
    So I guess there’s nothing left
    To do, it’s Friday, and time
    For a round at Slippery’s –
    Surely it’s 5 o’clock somewhere

    • Julieann says:

      I almost forgot I wanted to say “thank you” to you Robert for another successful PAD and want to tell everyone how much I enjoyed reading and experiencing your work. Thank you, until next April (or November). As the cliche goes, “parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  112. Le Sigh. Le Fin.

    I’ll call it a day when I can get the mixed
    metaphors out of my head

    the prairie is not a girl
    with scars on her wrist

    the city is not the skin she
    tried to slash in the tub

    and I’ve got to stop assuming
    my split ends and bad posture

    mean I’m going crazy and lonely
    or going crazy with loneliness

    although that’s technically
    the truth. Le sigh. Le fin.

    Not quite ready for it;
    I still call the moon

    my mother or a poet
    I once loved or a bald man

    with dirty teeth. Everything
    depends on what time of night

    you say your prayers
    and insomniacs have their pick

    of all the hours. First I learned
    French then forgot it on purpose

    now I’m scared I’ll have La Belle
    et Le Bad Boy stuck in my head

    while I watch the new cows
    turn to old women by the window.

  113. Alpha1 says:


    dearest lover
    by the time you receive
    this note
    sweet joy will be over

    yet i thought you
    might wonder why
    this happiness
    has to die
    so i sat and wrote
    this going away note

    but who would have thought
    coming to an end
    and after all we’ve been
    to each other

    not us
    not never
    our love was once

    and life without you
    dearest lover
    what would i do

    so i hope you
    understand my pledge
    to live without
    your love
    i’d rather be dead

  114. Vince Gotera says:

    Merging the “a ‘calling it a day’ poem” prompt with the NaPoWriMo “farewell” prompt in a curtal sonnet.

    Fare Well
                                    for KL

    Was it the ancient Romans who used to say
    ave atque vale, hail and farewell?
    Poetic, it seems, written by the poet Catullus.
    Kathy, when you and I call it a day,
    In your queen in New York or in my double
    in Cedar Falls, or on the phone, with us

    in thousand-mile-apart recliners, I say
    farewell. Not as in goodbye, like we’ll
    never meet again, but just good wishes:
    May our life be evergreen, fresh. And may
                                                      we always love us.

                                    —Vince Gotera


  115. ina says:

    Thank you, everyone – I read much more than I wrote, and it was really and truly a wonderful experience.
    A little poem for day 30:

    Mockingbird at night

    The day does not close here.
    Instead, the night is how we dig to its roots,
    this is where we find its heart, hidden in chest of darkness
    and dreams. The moon clarifies, like alchemist’s silver,
    all the colors and dazzles that daylight throws in our eyes,
    to keep us from seeing
    the bare, branching truth of the world.
    The mockingbird sings alone
    no longer singing someone else’s song
    but perched in the dark on the fence by my window,
    finally itself.

    Ina Roy-Faderman

  116. It’s been a very busy month for me in many ways. I haven’t been able to read and comment here anywhere near as much as I’d have liked. But the archive of all this extraordinary poetry remains! While I look forward to the anthology, I’m also glad of the full record here, to browse through at my leisure in the weeks to come. :) Thank you all, and thank you, Robert!

  117. Gwyvian says:

    C’est fini

    My Muse and I danced amidst fairy lights, but almost
    all that had to be said had been—
    his supple lips had whispered secrets of the universe,
    but always colored in his personality, and now
    we come to an end; harsh words were exchanged in
    the heat of our metaphysical battles, and sweet
    lover’s kisses to assuage our hurts, and now
    only the aria of the spheres bridges our silence—
    until the dance is finally done, and I remain
    but a moment longer in his arms, till we are
    to part ways, for a time at least; as his eyes voiced
    a final affection that he would not speak,
    I kissed him gently and whispered c’est fini—
    and woke from the magical dream…

    April 30, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  118. rebrog says:

    Lovely to be a part of this, thanks to Robert and to all the poets who’ve shared their work and comments.
    It’s interesting how certain screen names become familiar so that you start to look for them and wonder what they’ve written each day.
    I wish you all good luck and good writing.
    Robert I don’t envy you the mammoth task of wading through these thousands of poems.

  119. Margot Suydam says:

    Farewell to Red

    You took me, when we were
    young, into your bare bone

    apartment, above the Communist
    bookstore on a ragged downtown

    street, not yet on the rebound.
    In your single bed, I found

    refuge from clattering children
    and banging dishpans. I melted

    into the crooked staircase,
    the tattered volumes of Marx,

    Hall, and Chairman Mao.
    A castle with one quiet room,

    you held guard under high
    ceilings, an ancient chandelier,

    and an antique bathtub,
    rusted at the root. Once

    you drove all night to rescue
    me from my mother’s knife-

    sharp words, that gripped
    the fabric of our heirloom couch.

    But your firm hand pressed
    close against an itching heart,

    and your silence swelled
    —became a bundle

    I soon put out on the curb,
    next to my red leather book.

  120. anneemcwilliams says:

    the worst has already happened

    you must go on,
    out thru the harbor
    past bobbing boats and
    rookeries of sea birds
    past the barnacled
    remains of rotting docks
    past fisherman with nets

    you have to get over
    the blues, the sad songs,
    endless yearnings,
    that small ember that remains
    after the blaze

    you must go
    into the great blank
    past the glassy surface
    and the waves
    into the unblinking eye of
    the moody, changeable O

    son, you have to get over
    the resentments, those shadows;
    leave them and go

    from where there was something
    and now if it’s gone
    you must move on

    you must get over
    where there was something
    now that it’s gone

    first draft 04/30/2014

  121. DanielAri says:

    “For edification, not for consideration”

    Had a good National Poetry Month:
    63+ poems drafted
    74 poems submitted for publication
    6 poems declined
    3 readings/speaking gigs booked
    6 blog posts
    2 writing jams
    2 book proposals sent to publishers
    1 notebook filled
    +176 hours writing copy

    Here’s to April. Here’s to those I shared it with. Here’s to what’s ahead.

  122. hojawile says:

    To Begin With

    Was there any movement?
    Was there any sound?
    Deep waters…
    The Spirit moved over the face of them.
    A word was spoken
    and instantly the darkness was banished
    to rule but a portion of the kingdom rather than
    continually cover the vastness.
    Instantly there was LIGHT!
    And it was GOOD!
    And God called it a Day.

  123. Gwyvian says:

    The moral game

    I witnessed that killing so monstrous, exacting justice
    that should not be dealt by mortal hands—
    yet, I learned what he was, and found myself in
    agreement with his assassin: and the thought squirmed
    uncomfortably in my sagging mind, the pressure of
    infinity split by a moral divide; I know he was
    imperfect, yet he had good in him still, whether or not
    he was mistaken, misguided, done unforgivable deeds—
    what, then, should his fate have been, had the decision
    been mine? I list pros and cons, black and white,
    and still can’t make up my mind… I’ve done things
    that perhaps deserve a consequence, yet I have been forgiven,
    should he not have had that chance? but there is blood on
    his hands, blood that cannot be erased – what is his fate,
    just and pure or a malicious end to a callous disgrace?
    the moral plateau drops the horizon beneath my feet,
    yet always stretches to meet my eyes dead center: however
    I twist, I cannot escape it, just as I believe there is no answer…

    I have done things that served an end, but they send
    ripples of disquiet in an untainted corner of innocence,
    yet when asked how far I would go, what I would do—
    my answer is never lightly given, but always
    without question: I have done things, and said things
    knowing the outcome before they left my lips, but what
    would I not do, indeed, when everything
    hangs in the balance? yet, there is always another side,
    a mirror of shadow that rests on my soul, and only
    at the end is there opportunity to give as much as I took:
    the final moment where it is only sacrifice
    that can achieve all I’ve worked for, and to justify
    all the things I’ve done that served this end, sending
    quiet ripples of contentment that I’ve fulfilled my promise,
    the contract with the universe that said one day, there will be
    a price I must pay – now gladly given, for the small corner
    untainted and still bubbling of hurt innocence: now
    like a quiet pool, mollified at the very end.

    The board is contemptuous of our plight, always seeking
    black or white, never knowing the weight of true
    relativity – the dance is one of forgiveness and revenge,
    never one without the other, never joy without sadness,
    anger without fear, pain without contentment – yet we keep
    distinguishing, measuring and outlining our worth with
    hollow words, ambivalent noises to sooth the hurts
    we cause for feeling so powerless;
    but the true power of the game is not on the board,
    the true high ground is outside this fiction we call reality;
    what is always misunderstood, is that black is white,
    white is not good and black is truth, white is black,
    black is the hidden heart and white is the calm voice,
    and neither black nor white ever
    escape the board…
    contemplation dies down after uncomfortable
    silence shatters, and the last seed of thought is planted:
    now all that remains to be seen is how the balance tips
    in each and every moment of existence, for
    at the end of the day, life is a game of tactics—
    and until we end that game and call it a day,
    we are always a little out of practice, and life
    will always beat us to it…

    April 30, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  124. Feel like giving up

    It doesn’t just sneak up on you.
    It’s handed to you in a flask
    on a bus, in a paper bag, incognito.
    If I could, I’d smack it out of your
    hand before it had the chance to turn
    you into the slurred version of you
    that stumbled in the background with
    the lights dimmed, your microphone
    shut off. The feet that once lifted
    you would betray you, but there was
    still your baritone, the pain echoed
    how your body was beating you to a
    pulp, how you dulled it in the bottles
    hidden around your house, in your car.
    You sank money into a failed venture
    with a mistress, bred uncontrollably
    but never found contentment. You found
    an alley, and the second shot put it
    forever out of reach.

  125. Amy says:

    Thanks for a great month of poeming, all!

    La Fin

    The sky heaves a sigh,
    pressing rosy gold into hollows.
    I feel the air fall
    and come to rest on my tongue.
    Night is rising, young-
    raw from a worldly womb.
    I will bask in its birth;
    listen to the latent lullaby
    of cicadas and dreams
    that begin with eyes open.
    The slow cadence of evening

    comes before me,

    lays beside me,

    and falls beneath me.

  126. Grey_Ay says:

    Ending Haiku

    Ending this poem
    a day challenge with haiku;
    Calling it a day.

    -A. Ault-

  127. Gwyvian says:

    Author’s note: This is the third, and final, sequence of the ‘discards’ – for those who haven’t read the previous post, my explanation:
    The “poem” below is actually a mélange of all of the ‘discards’ and trial poems. The sheer vastness of those makes this an incredibly long piece, and one of three – some didn’t make it in here, and the coherence is probably minimal as this does not come from a single idea – I tried combing the other two together, with this third one, I made no effort whatsoever to make it as coherent as the previous ones, since it’s a long blob of pure abstraction that doesn’t make much rational sense anyway. It’s more of an experiment than a poem, but I thought it would be fun to revisit all the different prompts in this month.

    So, without further ado, here is part three, the last part.


    The Discards: abstractions

    I stopped in splash of brightness, and though
    my heart may have a comfortable snuggle in the
    lush rains and warm breezes of the world taking a
    deep breath of wakening, what truly stitched
    closed the gaps was the thrumming beneath, the magic
    flowing from the core to the callous skies… and I was
    sure that with this, I could not desire your cold kisses,
    given only grudgingly – and somewhere a clasp
    loosened inside, rusted with an age of uneventful and
    wily hours that strip away meaning from sunshine and
    sunsets; only regret remains, reaching back, only
    that has the true grasp of it… there was a prayer whispered
    in the fog of saturation, lights and scents to bury
    the mind and heighten emotion: I thought I had it all
    figured out, but I see now that I’ve just been seeking
    the unknown… not the concept, not the void in which
    I find myself time and again, simply: more…
    I feel the hollow rasp on the cheek, just
    a breath of that gray fog—
    where passions dim into a soothed indistinctness,
    and the voice carries a familiar warmth…
    out here, in this cold, I do not grow old nor find myself
    in tight corners of duty and abandon; out here, in this world,
    there is nothing—
    no weight, no long suffering silences, no expectation, only…
    a dream…
    I sought the rivers of chance in the deep and
    to escape from shackles of affection placed on myself,
    just to see what I could have done differently: but answers
    kept eluding me… I was the sojourner, taken a quest upon
    myself to discover treasures lost, not the lush palaces of
    my fantasies, but to tap into rivers of magical reality: but
    I was lost in the surging forces of time eroding myths,
    and returned resentfully to the beginning… I was
    the hunter, without a quarry and brimming with doubts,
    but I sought time in the skies—
    if it is that which hinders me, surely it is where I must go:
    but as the skies opened and haunting silence surrounded me,
    I realized that time only existed in the encumbrance
    of change, the answer one within the other, and
    untouchable by my mortal comprehension;
    I thought briefly of what the others might say—
    but the moment passed quickly, for my heart does not
    answer to their expectation; since that caring died down
    to an ember, I floated on a summer breeze
    without encumbrances of what must and should,
    and life still miraculously continued: since
    I stopped thinking, feeling has taken its place
    and worry is a figment of my imagination,
    a sickness deep in me that festered long, but now,
    since I began to see more clearly: worry and me
    are old friends… distant ones,
    across oceans of difference, but I still reminisce
    on special occasions, for the time that has since passed
    and elapsed in waves on my shores, so high and deep
    that a few words could not begin to describe them, so
    I summon a few to put behind my quiet smiles:
    since we said our farewells, there is no room left;
    but something occurred to me, and
    since that guilty thought gripped,
    time seemed to slip through fingers dripping
    with intentions that would never come to fruition,
    all for a delicate quiver inside: eyes drinking,
    lips moving in silent reverie, the hills swelled
    and a mist cloaked it all in a mystery, but just beyond,
    the sands gusted forth, consuming like a strange dream…
    Moonblush makes a stained-glass pattern fall over
    my still form on the cool stone floor, I am
    a wild huntress who wiles away time in this corner often,
    I say I am recharging and the moonshine seems
    so radiant through my fingers as I peer betwixt them—
    moving softly and with bubbling mirth, to woo the night itself
    with promises of desires fulfilled, and—
    …and I awaken with a groan, the hour late, head spinning
    with a dull ache of resounding emptiness, and the most
    I hunt for here and now is a resigned sigh,
    in the hopes that it can express a sliver of feeling, inside this
    cage of existence where I dwell, in this land that holds
    not a shred of myth and magic, only sullen glares and
    fascination with the petty squabbles: a distorted mirror
    of the miasma of immaturity that hides their starvation…
    and just then, asteroids invade softly in the vision of a map,
    falling like a gentle rain down to gravity’s embrace—
    yet there is no doubt of the shock, the fire mirrored:
    there is nothing quite like city lights ablaze, they said,
    set against rustling green trees, nor the brief
    glimpses of a canvas of stars peering
    between buildings, but nothing can give that hum
    of surprising death—
    he was an abstraction, a visitation from
    a place beyond the fern and ivy, inside
    the ruins – my skin pebbles as my fingers
    run along the toppled tower, still a piece, though
    with a jaunty lean that seems a mockery, and
    the eyes stared at me, behind blades of grass
    determinedly invading every nook to be had;
    the eyes implored me closer towards a patch of mist,
    and as I touched it—
    desire shivered through me: desire to know,
    to feel again, to see the tower standing tall and
    reflecting light like a brilliant beacon—
    as a gasp left my lips, vision doubled, I fell
    to stare at a canopy of stars chased by moonlight,
    and the eyes hovered over me…
    an essence manifested, he was a metaphor
    for what once was, yet his flesh mortal, his eyes
    sorrowful pools; the emperor of a city of the dead,
    trapped forever in an eternity of loneliness, and
    I found myself wishing to set him free—
    but before I could stand, he vanished,
    the night empty once more, a crumbling ruin
    to mark his grave and prison;
    still, I knew those eyes would haunt me
    until I could summon him again…
    the abstract liquid like a bitter honey
    makes me keep listening to my blood rush—
    that small almost-sound that comes again and
    again, I think it’s a hook of a madness;
    perhaps I am ill, perhaps this is a nightmare,
    with a shadow suddenly teasing me with an
    almost-kiss – but if it is a nightmare, I think
    I must be a masochist…
    the pulse was a wave that rippled through me,
    and the sound caught my attention again—
    for a moment I was less than solid in that embrace,
    and caught in the wave, I thought I saw a face
    just at the corner of my eye—
    but whenever I look, all I see is an empty place
    filled with curious filth and mannequins, but
    then I feel I might be one of them…
    my blood tells me maybe I am right, someone
    is tugging a string attached to me somewhere;
    It was agony and sinful delight—
    a crescendo of new life,
    after the bitter pain kept swelling,
    the moment was forever building higher,
    and finally the pain subsided into numb
    disbelief: the waves kept
    crashing and I think the lights went out—
    that’s when
    culture popped out:
    the ice was smoking in the village square
    silk hats flapping in the gusts of winter’s breath,
    the substrata heat was unexpected – but hardly
    anything difficult to deal with; spring was all in a rush,
    forcing out blossoms to cheer the hopeless who stood
    mournfully ‘neath the cherry tree’s branches
    yet the icicles were still keen to find heads,
    dropping with the crack of a hard fate met
    but the pavement was set to bubble
    like an overwrought cauldron of anger:
    it boiled into spring breezes laced with chill, winter’s fall
    a mere pittance compared with the gales of
    a spring thaw come to thwart the still dark days,
    the underside of civilization heaved
    and its temper cooled only high in the skies;
    where comets met its red glares with indifferent shrugs
    storms and fair days alternating to harry the nobility
    and press down on the little folk into utmost misery:
    crops sitting in stagnant pools of attention,
    this spring marks a strange occasion of
    sublimation to challenge all seasons;
    when that sun goes down, my steps are lighter,
    city lights like fairy bubbles swimming in vertigo,
    this place is outside of time on summer nights
    where the river is black with delights simmering,
    buildings quivering from the kicking beat of relaxing,
    and we’re never in one place too long; there’s always
    a festival raging, a quiet affair in analogy:
    the vertigo of exhaustion never dulled fear,
    in that place where I was walking the clouds;
    maybe somewhere there’s danger lurking, but
    I never felt its presence—
    yet the river of suffering flooded
    through the valley of agony, they told me:
    shore the sides up to the standard,
    fold the flagging textile of bled dreams,
    and finally, there was a releasing feeling:
    I drank from the stream spilling from the mountains,
    and felt the coolness spread across my inner heat—
    with startling clarity, we agreed
    that justice was something we want,
    and it was settled – so we gathered around to hear
    the pronouncement of the weight of what was done;
    yet justice does not weigh deeds as we do,
    justice is merciless, even cruel, to strike down
    those you might forgive – so justice was thereafter
    an ideal shelved…
    vices creep in the mirror,
    sneaks preening with slant-eyed gloats
    positioning pieces, so red, so nimble,
    those bleeding voices in my head
    the word doppelgängers march on the fort:
    vision expands, but riddled with
    original clichés – their slap smarts
    with flushed witticisms and catechisms
    that spell a nuanced plague;
    I spilled fantasy salve to cure the infection:
    mythical beasts groaning, and I hold my
    breath as the storm broke down weeping;
    nature bent backwards and snapped—
    severed at the base, the sapling wilted
    and the vices snickered in delight
    the ominous words triumphed….
    tangled wits and slow eyes, always
    the eyes are lidded in the smoke
    sultry scent and sheen of sweat, the work
    spirals into completion; knots of hair,
    jars of pickled sensibility
    tossed onto the flames of quiet spells…

    I wandered enchanted forests and spun tales
    to tell of it, but always I was silenced by
    an imposing cloud of disinterest—
    so I kept it to myself, and called it a day:
    ‘neath a glib gibbous moon, I know the time
    has come: I exit my mind, for
    my work here is done.

    April 1-30, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  128. James Rodgers says:

    Calling It

    She was calling it a day
    Even though it was technically night
    While everyone else called it wrong
    She defiantly called it right

    Every time her mother said, “No”
    She would smile and say, “Yes”
    While all her friends wanted more
    She would nicely ask for less

    They would drive in their cars
    And she would reach for her bike
    While others were afraid to speak
    She’d stand up and reach for the mic

    They called her contrarian
    The say she likes to disagree
    She said, “You are all the same
    And I am just being me.

    Just because you all say it
    Definitely doesn’t make it right
    And since it’s now finally daytime
    I think I’ll call it a night.”

  129. lionmother says:

    Ode to April

    Don’t want to call it a day
    for April has been a
    resurgence of poems
    and a refill for my
    soul as each day
    brought its prompt
    I charged into the
    words as they came
    to me sharing all I
    wrote for friends
    and yet to be friends
    in a secure bubble
    of acceptance and
    friendly discussion
    Never thinking for
    a minute that this
    wasn’t ready for
    all to read, though
    some might not have
    been honed as well
    due to the hastiness
    in which they were
    But thank you for the
    outlet for I feel without
    it I might have dissolved
    into a gooey mess and
    sat alone wondering
    how long I could take
    this endless illness in
    my husband and feeling
    sorry for myself like a
    petulant teen
    With my words flowing onto
    the screen my mind
    unleashed and all went into
    my poems a melange of
    pain and discovery, frustration
    and rare moments when
    I remembered the before times
    when life was ebullient and
    When he was a young
    dashing man and I a
    mere slip of a girl and
    we were enclosed in
    each other’s arms
    I am not ready to call it
    a day to write a poem
    a day for it soothes me
    like a warm cup of tea

    • lionmother says:

      Robert, I wanted to thank you so much for this April’s PAD. For the last three days I have been preoccupied with my husband’s health which has been deteriorating for four months. However as I say in this poem I felt so much better writing each day. Your prompts were great and though most of my poems won’t be considered for the Challenge, I still feel I learned a lot from you and your poetry. Each poem you wrote for the prompt was so helpful.

      I tried to read as many of other people’s work as I could and there is a great deal of talent here. I didn’t always comment, because of my situation. So nice to meet new poet friends and hope to see many of you again here.

    • PressOn says:

      I think this poem is magnificent in its simplicity and heartfelt expressions. Thank you for it.

      • lionmother says:

        Thank you so much, PressOn. I have read so many of your beautiful poems, but I had no time to comment on them. I am very happy you enjoyed this poem. I am very sad to see this month end, but I hope you will be a part of our Poeming Friends.

    • nmbell says:

      Lovely poem Lionmother! You are as talented a poet as you are an author. Hugs Nancy

  130. candy says:


    Poems explode like
    fireworks raining words
    upon my heart
    I take them in and
    they become part of
    my global memories
    The whole community
    celebrates holding virtual
    hands in support of one
    We reluctantly watch as
    the last missives signal
    the end of the party
    and call it a month

    Thanks to everyone for all the poems that enriched
    my soul and for the kind words that encouraged me.

  131. Remembering the Dead

    It’s the night of Samhain
    here in the Southern
    half of the world.

    I find photos
    of my dear dead,
    going through old albums.

    Two were my mother’s,
    which I inherited; the rest
    cover most of my life …

    most of my loves —
    but there are two faces missing.
    I scrabble through shelves and drawers.

    A whole album, I realise
    has been mislaid.
    The big one with the red cover.

    In that, my children were little
    and there were many shots
    of their handsome father

    (my second husband,
    the one I had the longest,
    who died in January ’95).

    It was the only place I kept
    pictures of him. But he was a friend
    and should be honoured.

    And my beautiful Nana,
    who died when I was four —
    where is she?

    She hated being photographed.
    So the family had only one:
    official, serious, in her nurse’s uniform.

    I’ve put my copy somewhere safe.
    Too safe, and now I can’t
    discover the hiding-place.

    Eventually I call it a day —
    late into the night — and go to bed
    after finally casting circle.

    I tell the Listeners
    what I choose to discard
    at this time, from my life,

    and what I choose
    to bring in. (Life, and all
    its varied memories.)

    Then I dream all night
    of old homes, old dramas,
    ghosts who demand their due.

    When I wake, I see
    it rained while I slept; the sky
    is still grey, the sun

    struggles through cloud,
    and Samhain leaves me a task:
    write the stories.

  132. Gwyvian says:

    Author’s note: This is the second sequence of the ‘discards’ – for those who haven’t read the previous post, my explanation:
    The “poem” below is actually a mélange of all of the ‘discards’ and trial poems. The sheer vastness of those makes this an incredibly long piece, and one of three – some didn’t make it in here, and the coherence is probably minimal as this does not come from a single idea, but many ideas that I tried to comb together. It’s more of an experiment than a poem, but I thought it would be fun to revisit all the different prompts in this month.

    So, without further ado, here is part two.


    The Discards: lovers

    Remembrance held me still at that edge: where I was
    next to you, but that was not meant for this moment—
    yet I still dreamed often of you… I held back
    what I was, reserved for your eyes alone, but I
    might as well have claimed to show no one at all—
    for of all that wished me open as everyone else, you
    held the least interest: our tale was not unheard of in a
    world filled with identical copies of that archetypal angst;
    it shamed me so to beg, but I surrendered myself to
    the banner of your sheer existence on my battlefield—
    in imagination, I touched the beauty cupped in your
    calloused palms, a gift of dying hope, but there was no jolt
    of acceptance in my mind, and I spread regretful sighs
    over the flicker, gone again; I imagined a heartbeat pulsing
    between us, joined as lovers, before the first rays of
    moonlight brushed away the figments, and just so:
    the beauty was gone… I drank from the beginning of time
    and swirled the universe on my tongue, a whisper
    of ageless morning, betrayed by nightmares manifested,
    where solitude became loneliness, and I was compelled
    to resentful searching… somewhere amongst all these
    dream sequences, you must exist, real for my eyes and
    untroubled by your reality—
    I returned with a jolt, startled to see you: the words were
    ever left unspoken whenever we met, as they are now,
    despite the chiding voice in my head every time we parted;
    so, I tried a small conspiracy, involving notes, empty places,
    companions to distract and a moment to give you my words
    without ever voicing them, but instead…
    I entered a memory at the cusp of a dark age,
    and became a shadow between flickering torches, and I wonder
    what you say when you gaze at the stars, when the voices
    stop in your mind and the emptiness stretches unbearably… do you
    conjure a ball of light and hurry back inside, back where
    the musty bookshelves spread warmth in your bones? or do you
    wonder, like I do, about where I am, beyond those tall walls and
    over the forest where the tricksters lurk? I am sleeping by a river
    shivering beneath my cloak spread over bushes, wishing
    to be in your chambers, with the warmth of your smiles—
    but reality crashed back: I was bleeding thought into a patch
    of moonlight and thought I saw a reflection catch somewhere ahead,
    my considerations cut short with one, breathless snap, and
    the cord of initiations into the secrets of the night fled;
    footsteps, glances, hesitation – I drew closer, thinking:
    perhaps it was a twinkle, a lost gem unearthed by the rain,
    and perhaps it was a wish fulfilled by the moon I contemplate…
    I was drifting on a tide of nocturnal feelings, a seed
    of tiredness seeping from my soul, but the glint came again,
    and I could not draw away, nor stop my approach—
    had I been discovered by another who pondered as I?
    soft breathing, remembrance of intrigue – I hid where I could see:
    perhaps it is a man – or not – with a feather step and aura of peace,
    but perhaps it was simply an interloper, only just like me…
    I felt that gaze turn and it froze me in place, like ice and
    sweltering heat molded into one, I had to draw closer and feel
    recognition or…

    The princess cooed through the bronze cage
    and thought herself the same, she is weeping,
    the canary is sleeping and dreaming
    of the taste of freedom’s sweet, cooling air
    but come morning, both will sing for the heir;
    master of the land: callous, and ambitious
    his smile belying his name: Nightingale.

    She once loved the song of the nightingale,
    yet now his plumes were that of a steel cage,
    and were she but courageous, a tad ambitious,
    she would set her canary free, never weeping,
    and reclaim the throne to which she is heir,
    not stifling tears and endlessly dreaming
    of the world outside swathed in night’s cold air.

    Love is a jealous mistress
    that bubbles up at even casual strings:
    you may not be my lover, but I wish you
    all to myself – that’s a kind of love,
    that’s what I love you with – that’s all I have,
    this is what I call friendship…
    he comes like a shadow, love does
    and slips nimble fingers into your pouch of treasures,
    netting strings around impossible things,
    spawning dreams and planting dangerous seeds—
    what care has he for right and wrong? love
    is a force beyond reason, a rage that cannot be stopped,
    a fire that consumes and yet,
    douses warmth with its cold jealousy… love is
    spread evenly in a mosaic of utter chaos, love
    is a trickster who plays idly with all: a string plucked,
    a stray arrow to take away the pain—
    indecision is not his way, he would rather us
    flounder in a sea of desirable anguish, and he
    is a creator of the void: that yawning emptiness
    where he stuffs others in your head,
    without regard for common sense: if it cannot be,
    then at the very least, drink of a failed tie’s misery…
    I say the most important thing is
    the love lacing between us, but perhaps
    it is your absence which is most eloquent—
    but I will always be but a heartbeat away,
    where I met you on a green field dabbled with lights,
    little fireflies like fairies illuminating patches
    where your light step took you out of sight,
    melting into a deep shadow…
    I can see the scent of lavender swirling around you,
    a sharp merriment hidden in lush softness, that
    combination as easy to breathe as desire; lavender
    is passion ignited, a purple flame kindled
    in the heart of a midnight blackness, a warm place
    where nothing exists except shapeless blurs;
    and the texture of skin, lavender’s essence tingling,
    for lavender fills your breath,
    as you whisper sweet nothings in my ear;
    I should not, yet I know I will indulge it, that
    treacherous hope that keeps building, heedless—
    each time it is trampled, buffeted by winds of change,
    slaughtered and dumped into an unmarked grave, it just
    keeps growing stronger, its taste always lingering on
    my tongue, and the suffering is always correspondingly
    more dire – yet I keep thinking: sometime it has to end—
    at least once, come a new turn, dumb luck has to work
    in my favor; I may have quashed naivety, but hope
    just refuses to bleed out: it is a snuffed candle
    with a flame that burns in vacuum and not air, balancing
    power that is a soft moss growing over shackles of despair.

    You gave me a cup of sunshine and had
    a dress of faded pink made for me to wear—
    I was incredulous, but I saw in your eyes
    that you were quite sincere; you said that I
    was the stars in the sky to you, a brilliant comet
    of talent and wisdom – I thought you were joking,
    but then you bent lower to kiss me, and
    I knew this was really happening: a dream sequence
    from a bizarre lover’s tale that involved
    fluff laced with lust, absurd obsessions and
    a general directionless vagueness; you said
    that my advice resurrected your heart,
    gave it a beat that it might have never had
    from the very start, but you fancied yourself a prince
    saving a sleeping beauty—
    I was never enticed by empty understanding and
    the diminishment of my pain into something inflicted,
    but easily mended by a kiss or two; I have need
    of my blue, and little of your pink frill; still,
    you persisted…
    I gave you a smirk, but you gave me flowers, even
    though the whites of your eyes were a faded pink
    with the glassy film of tears drying; but
    you kept implying that there was something here—
    and I know that your pretty haze is going to
    evaporate one day and reveal that I’m just not
    the princess you want—
    but against that day, my work is done, and I depart
    to rest in the solitude I’ve wrested from your arms.

    April 1-30, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  133. Brian Slusher says:


    If this is it, dear
    Throw me a kiss and leave all
    My Elvis records

  134. Pat Walsh says:

    Thank you, Robert, for a terrific month of poeming! And thank you to all the wonderful, gifted poets who have read my work, and particularly all those who have shared their comments. I am so grateful to have had this experience! Here’s my ‘calling it a day’ poem:

    These Days of Poems
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    With nimble fingers flying
    caressing glorious alchemy
    I chart a plot of days to come
    in anodyne itinerary

    seeking only the poet’s pence
    to keep together body and soul
    with glee I hie to the open path
    where poems and poets go

    Days of wonder are transformed
    in word and phrase and poem
    amid the rain of image ink
    and in gently settled creative loam

    I pass in grateful gratitude
    sheaf of songs in hand
    like a nodded valedictory
    or trailing echo of marching band

    and in days and eves to come
    these songs will climb and soar
    in flights renewed and glorious
    that these days of poems endure

  135. Call it what you want

    You will find a half empty
    glass of water sitting in
    the bathroom. I had to blow
    dry my hair and I was thirsty.
    I scatter things when I can’t
    focus. I’m missing a coat and
    my two favorite Chapsticks.
    There are two poems in the
    kitchen that need editing. Send
    your notes to me in an email.
    I wanted to run every day this
    month – just get in my car to
    forget that it (we) ever existed.
    I can’t write if my hands are
    on a steering wheel, are holding
    a goodbye I can’t let go of.
    This time, the watch hands are
    creeping towards the dark. The
    movie is over and there will not
    be a sequel. I took the last four
    Double-stuf Oreos for the drive
    and let an “I’m sorry” in crumbs
    on the bed.

  136. Call it a Day

    Jerked awake at 8am sharp
    Like falling off a tree
    Some part of my body
    Knew I was late

    After a night
    Laying sleepless
    Lights out
    Indigestion burning
    Mind spinning
    Plans regrets fears
    Until my phone
    Warned of a tornado
    Deflecting east
    At 5am

    When sleep descended
    This foggy morn
    I don’t know
    But with work emails
    Piling into my smartphone
    At 8:03am
    I decide
    To call it day

  137. Call it a Day

    I believe I’ll stay around awhile, you go on ahead.
    I must complete my finished pile, before I go to bed.
    I haven’t sailed the ocean blue, or counted every star,
    taught the boy to tie his shoe, or traveled very far.
    My clients have been pampered; their numbers crunched just so
    to spend their days enamored with everything they own.
    But I have so much more to do, to feel, to share, to see
    where obstacles are small and few, to work on being me
    and check in on the characters I’m sure have gone astray
    and written their own chapters since I’ve been away.
    Such inspiring time it’s been; within the realm of poets,
    I dared to dabble my own pen and relished every moment!

    diedre Knight

    Thank you – one and all, for your gracious acceptance of a newbie
    in your midst! This has been truly memorable 
    ~ diedre

  138. DanielR says:

    I whisper into the wind
    watching my words float away
    waving goodbye as they drift
    in a fog of cold, stiff winter
    until they slowly disperse
    falling gently to the ground
    and it saddens me to know
    my words are gone for good
    never to return, having escaped
    these lips of mine one final time
    before there was nothing more to say.

    Daniel Roessler

  139. Alfonso Kuchinski says:

    The right hesitation 

    101 winters wait
    never a sign
    of the slightest fatigue
    and this afternoon
    magnolias bloom
    a celebratory signal
    though I do hope
    sweet floral petals 
    delicate bodies
    do not find themselves 
    by treacherous storms
    looming in the margins

  140. MyPoeticHeart says:

    Calling It a Day

    You know the time has come

    Where we draw the line

    It’s over

    No where else to go

    I’ve done as you asked

    Followed you


    Sometimes you hurt me


    Your demands brutal

    So uncaring

    My heart in your hands



    You! You did this to me

    Thank you for showing

    How ruthless and uncaring

    You really are

    I leave now


    I will come back again

    Fate being what it is

    Begging you

    Pleading on my knees


    I must

    April 2015

    A PAD Challenge

    Just for me

  141. Gwyvian says:

    Author’s note: The “poem” below is actually a mélange of all of the ‘discards’ and trial poems. The sheer vastness of those makes this an incredibly long piece, and one of three – some didn’t make it in here, and the coherence is probably minimal as this does not come from a single idea, but many ideas that I tried to comb together. It’s more of an experiment than a poem, but I thought it would be fun to revisit all the different prompts in this month. So, without further ado, here is part one.


    The Discards: death

    Death’s Transition:
    I shudder at the edge of the clock, where
    the new blood has come: red blossoms to quench
    the thirst of ancients carved seemingly in stone,
    unmoving faces welcoming me to a home I
    do not care to know—
    just then a voice calls: so soft, so stark; I move,
    but even as the deep velvet shroud is dropped, I know
    that time finally stopped…
    …and the voices consumed that vain hope I
    kept fanning alive, that there is still a way out:
    this cycle has an end, but their dreams only
    keep beginning, and the clock’s hands
    just kept moving… fingers tense with insufficient
    loyalty, thoughts swirls of incomprehensible shades
    of dark: I lose myself and pretend to a design, to
    cunning stealth born from a desire to hide… I realize
    there is no beginning to this, and I fear it will never
    taste the relief of an end, because each time I spot
    the oasis, the shore, the light – I find myself
    still drowning where I began…
    moments glitter in this medieval tapestry that
    swallows my mind in a joyous breath, I saw it first
    in a place of learning, but will remember it as my own
    till my death, because it is there that I rebuilt myself;
    what place is there for me in this great world, where heart
    and soul are joined inside at last? I sought in deep places
    and found a road, but on arriving I clung to times past—
    that sinuous fire licks around tortured limbs, the breath
    of majesty: breath of the dragon, sapphire eyes haunting…

    I asked death whether it was meant to be, and he
    took me in his arms to soothe, telling me of places
    where we would meet and I believed him—
    what else could I do? if all that is left to me is a deck
    of cards, no other soothing could give me peace;
    perhaps a blade is a more poignant killer, but it is
    by far not the worst enemy to face – I set out on a quest
    to see the true face of death, seeking answers
    floating outside existence—
    tubes and shocks forgotten, sore limbs ignored,
    encumbered mind resting and heart free for a moment—
    I sought in a place to know a name, what else would be
    given in this space? but I sought more than identity:
    I sought an answer to lord death, that calculating lover
    of all creation, a bastard child of life and time, tyrant and
    sweetest courtier with sultry smiles, and I wonder what is,
    by his standards, senseless hedonism; first I placed a finger
    on desire, the instinct to test strength against strength, wit
    against a lack of it—
    but soon I realized that is not the game we play, the truly
    terrible place to meet this lord is when senselessness is
    the compass to sate bloodlust, when ignorance is the virtue
    to guide to the board, where we are pitted against one another—
    am I fated to be a tale of old told of his previous mistress?

    The maiden is a sprite of the dark woods
    her heart of anguish given to the earth
    yet she oft ventures forth struck by a mood
    to witness the merriment where she was birthed
    a child returned and now unrecognized
    discouraging lads who ask her to dance
    they all feel a stranger behind her eyes—
    yet she mourns she cannot give them a chance
    but what man could accept her blood that sings
    a maiden promised in marriage to death,
    of terrible lusts and wicked dreams
    and fated to wander till her last breath?
    You were an avatar of strength,
    a sapling planted in a parched land, yet
    you touched the sky with memory reborn
    and the petals of your blossoms were the
    purest light to shine in the darkness of
    the days in which you were born: you were
    satisfying as humility did not break you,
    and arrogance dimmed to clear sight—
    you were an idol, you could do no wrong;
    but bravery has its own fault, when
    the scorching sky demands sacrifice—
    with defiance ready, your course was
    true and steady as you made the final leap…
    and a hero’s death takes not a shred of the
    pain of your loss – but, perhaps,
    you have found healing at last.

    The Minion:
    Death sent me with a message, with the instructions
    to tell it to the vampire, for his ears alone, but when I
    arrived he took me, the ritual death truly intended—
    yet I could not protest with those eyes on me:
    he told me he was irreverent of some delights of
    mortality, and scornful of what else his kith did;
    all he asked for was blood,
    but that was not all I wanted – with
    eyes that had a velvet sheen, shifting
    in the moonlight as they drank me in,
    with his cool fingers hesitating just
    short of touching—
    no, I wanted more of him, the thrill
    of the terror, a polite predator
    with his Victorian smile
    I knew the pain would be slight,
    such a charming monster would surely—
    but as he snatched me close,
    agony exploded and I jumped convulsively…
    he is a monster disguised as a smile,
    a whisper that digs fingers into your heart,
    he is a delicious and slippery trickster,
    and I found regret too late… his chant filled
    my heart with dread, that now I am truly
    just another minion of death, as he said:

    There is a beauty to the lines of your eyes,
    the corners of your mouth, the line of your jaw—
    but I do not know you behind that gaze, looking
    at me with the glance of a disinterested stranger;
    you are one of us,
    you share our blood—
    but you are the individual…

    There is something in the way you move that
    strikes a chord and seems familiar; your hair is just
    the shade of a long lost memory outside of time,
    and the things you do are what I do in my mind;
    you are one of us now,
    you share in our blood—
    but you are forever apart…

    There is death clinging on the underside of creation,
    your fingers feel it, yet keep moving to complete
    the sequence and finish the weave; you are a
    woman of the soil, man of the skies, a daughter, a son—
    you are of our kith,
    your blood sings connection,
    but you have forsaken what we were: just human…

    Colorless Death:
    Bakkheia is the voice of the spheres this night
    limits snapped in frenzied dance: feet aching,
    a soreness creeping across our bodies, we
    did not feel the rumble beneath as anything less
    than Bacchus himself joining our feast—
    we were lost in meandering streets of obsidian dreams,
    and a kiss of ecstasy brushed across our lips, the deep
    pulses hummed desire – and we were lost in a pure white
    of lusts exploding into a numbness beyond thought:
    the dusky blue of the sunset cooled, but we
    twisted with heat from our hearts, heat from beneath,
    but before the frenzy could die down, our heads still
    swimming in a golden completion—
    the ground began to bleed, the soil’s veins emptying
    hot red – the skies would turn gray with ashes,
    a cleansing roar to be followed by chill silence
    and colors drained from the moment in stillness
    as we saw Vulcan’s ire pooling to surround us—
    feeling pulsed from the deep: this soil
    bleeds hot red, but the skies are still not yet the gray
    of destruction, cleansing…
    toxic water spewed to settle the dust—
    there is no trust for the likes of such, but
    without a voice to speak, there’s no need to argue;
    the lyre plucks hauntingly at the plight of the few,
    raging against a mechanism greased with blood
    and covered with lichen as it is, sitting in its
    hidden dank cave… cunning pulsed ‘neath your breast
    airborne grace fallen from the high mist, dew corrupted:
    that inconsolable depth is what draws eyes to you
    without meaning, kindling a wanting to fill it, though
    there is nothing to say; you have grudging admiration
    in your enemies and startlement in your victims silenced—
    I should abhor you, your instincts callous, your hands
    falling with quiet malice, and yet—
    I feel regret for the need for you the most; and
    perhaps more that you are what we wrought
    at the very first as your mother cloud descended
    and spread her dew across our quiet meadow…
    I believed, but not enough to try to stop this day
    from coming; it did come – and for all the horrors
    that would be done, my part is the true tragedy—
    I chose a medieval moon to oversee,
    with rhapsodizing vines to undress the source
    a pool of vibrations that hum with delicious zing, and
    I commanded an elegy spoken: the storm swept
    a corner of its cloak over the sky above, and we
    soberly bid our farewells, hearts opening to the moon
    witnessing this rite of rebirth, destruction pooling and
    vibrating with delicious shivers, yet – none of that power
    sparked the words I needed just yet: I just stood, grieving,
    nestled in a cold space where I prepare, hands
    outstretched… then I began, and I caught the first swirls
    of rain to string them together into a column of
    violent nurturing, and felt my thirst quenched in a dark
    and hazy relief, before it changed to a hammer to pound
    the gates of the underworld where I would take them as
    my own minions… and the work was done with no more
    than an indecently hasty flash—
    my work is done, and I can rest at last…

    April 1-30, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

    • MyPoeticHeart says:

      If I may: Bravo.
      Seriously, your words danced across the fields of my mind. I am and always have been a person who van visualize every written word from age 7 when I first read Black Beauty. Seeing what you have written here brings a smile to my lips and a hope that the next time I write that my words will dance across the mind of another.

      I feel honored to have read your last April 2014 poem.

      I hope to again one day in 2015

      • Gwyvian says:

        Thank you, I’m so pleased that this jumble actually made sense to someone – so many visions, so many different directions!

        There are still two sequences to post of the discards, however, this next hopefully even more coherent… :)

        As to the 2015 challenge – I’ve had so much fun this year, my first time participating, that I’m already looking forward to it!

        • PressOn says:

          Your “jumbles” make more sense, with sinuous sounds, than most writings, i think. Thanks for these, and all your works. By the way, Robert offers another 30-day challenge in November, I believe.

          • Gwyvian says:

            Haha, I’m glad you think so. :) I am so pleased that even something like the Discards is appreciated here, I’ve had it said many times before that my work is just “too much work to read” and thus kind of gently pushed aside indefinitely. So thank you, again, as I said, if even one person gets a kick out of one of my works, it was worth writing it.
            Oh, so there are actually two challenges per year? I’ll have to check that out!

  142. PressOn says:

    Robert, Thanks for hosting this challenge. It’s a seminar in poetry, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t envy you or the judges, trying to make decisions amidst all this talent.

  143. (I can never think of “call it a day” without thinking of the lines from Robert Frost’s “Out, Out–”

    Call it a day, I wish they might have said
    To please the boy by giving him the half hour
    That a boy counts so much when saved from work.

    “And they, since they / Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs”

    After Robert Frost’s “Out, Out–”

    Every creak becomes a swinging rope, the halo of light
    cradling him as he hung in the barn’s large doorway. The way
    her screams felt like they were coming from somewhere else.

    She remembers everything about his neck. Putting her nose
    into the crook between head and shoulder, breathing him in
    the first time. All the times she worried when he would wear

    her necklaces, play with neckties. All her fears about that fragile
    stem. When he was first learning to sit up, she would put him on
    a blanket, watch his head follow her like a flower tracking the sun.

    Later, it was sunscreen and aloe, it was learning to tie a tie,
    then medals for track and senior keys, straightening his bowtie for prom,
    and lastly the purple when the paramedics cut him down—

    How do the mothers go on? The ones who still see the ball chased
    into the street, who pass the bike helmet on the hook, dust the trophies
    on the shelves of bedrooms never, ever entered, except sometimes?

  144. Hannah says:

    So this one might make you smile Robert…a response to one of your favorite books!!

    Happened to be the challenge elsewhere today…Thank you for all the inspiring poems you’ve written all month and for the prompts and technical aspects of holding this space and facilitating a BOOK, ( Wow!).

    Thank you to the gracious 30 judges and their time and expertise!!

    AND a BIG kudos and thanks to all my friendly poets new and old…it’s been such a joy to poem alongside everyone again!!

    Here’s the poem. :)

    Ode to a Little Prince

    Lasso a streaking star
    or a flock of feral sparrows
    forget the flower that knew your name
    on the only planet you’ve ever known
    but keep her close to your soul.
    Overlook the baobabs threatening
    always resurrecting, sending roots,
    embrace odd planets and strange snakes
    set your gaze upon the untamed fox;
    win his friendship and bid him farewell
    hold him in your heart for he’s yours now.
    When the day is done and silent poison spills
    and sun streaks canopies of flesh and sky
    we’ll despair in your departure but await your promise;
    listening for your laughter – for the little bells strung –
    hung from every star, tinkling a joyous song.
    We’ll know you’re home doing your good work
    and remember the wonder and beauty of a young explorer
    we’ll find courage for the journey in you.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    • PressOn says:

      Thanks so much for this poem. The Little Prince is one of the few books I’d call indispensable, and your poem is a virtual precis of it. Masterful, as indeed so much of your work is.

      • Hannah says:

        Your comment is such a welcome sight and heart warming sentiment…thank you so much Bill for this and all of the kind support that you’ve offered to me, (and everyone), all month, (and all along), it means a great deal to me, (and I’m sure many others), truly.

        The latter part of your words to me here…I’m utterly humbled, thank you so much it has been such a fun month here!!

    • Hannah Smiles! That’s all I need to say. You know how I’ve always loved your words and images!

  145. To End is To Begin
    Lydia Flores

    The end has begun.
    where the sunsets
    night wakes its stars.
    Where relationships come
    undone the soil opens up
    and time plants its seeds.
    blooms come soon to tie up
    the corners tight with its vines
    and a new love finds its home.
    Call it the end, call it the beginning
    the exordium crawls out dead ends.

    Foot prints in the sand washed out by
    the beckoning ocean, calling you to ride
    the waves tonight. you have nothing to lose.
    Start over, start again, end it and begin it.
    the cycle turns over and over and you
    find one door closed in your face but
    a road leading out into a new door frame.

    The world is open, call it day or night but
    The light fades and bleeds into itself again.
    Morning wakes it all yet puts it all to sleep
    you start here but you end up over there.
    Love unearths the secrets and flips the
    hour glass yet your dreams keeps it turning.
    From a distance you call it day and let the
    night in but from here you call it the beginning.
    The light blue evanescing at the touch of stars.
    Light is light, day or night and time is time
    so where it all comes together it all comes apart.
    where it all ends is where it all begins. You call it
    a day and they call it a night but it all calls for
    a chance. Take the sun or take the moon.
    Because where the sun sets the
    moon arises and it’s never too late
    to end or to begin.

  146. Ravyne says:

    So Long, For Now

    The lights go out and I sit
    in the dark, reflecting…
    30 days and 30 poems
    have bled from my fingertips
    my typewriter is bloody and bruised
    my brain rewired and abused
    I have over-extended my quota, but
    Oh, what a glorious gift I’ve been given!
    And now it is time to close
    not forever, just for this day
    As May stretches her arms and legs
    and April curls up to slumber

    Copyright 2014
    Lori Carlson

  147. Deri says:

    So Long and Thanks for All the Fish

    I wish I could just go
    outside in my bathrobe
    wave my towel
    stick my thumb in the air
    and hitch a ride
    to a faraway planet.

    Or maybe a mad man
    in a blue box
    will swoop down
    and rescue me
    from mediocrity.

    I will confess
    to poking around
    in the backs of closets
    or peering into mirrors
    and rabbit holes
    for far too long,
    hoping to see
    my way out.

    I dream of wizards,
    elves, magic dragons,
    friendly aliens,
    or maybe not so friendly,
    vampires and werewolves.
    And I imagine myself
    a superhero,
    leaping over this life
    in a single bound.

    I pity those who live
    only in solid reality.
    The fact that my adventures
    exist solely in my mind
    will never make them
    any less real.


    He closes his eyes and
    tries to forget
    all the times it was someone
    else’s eyes closed
    forever in front of him

  149. laurora says:

    Night Time

    It’s when the sun and light has set
    when the blowing wind has settled

    when the lovers show they care
    when the pillows are caressed,

    it’s when the cats go out to hunt
    and your words make me feel haunted

    when there’s quiet all around me
    when a pencil’s all that’s needed

    when the dark consumes and enters
    when my mind is more than injured

    it’s when logic’s caught in lock
    but imagination feeds on logic

    it’s when thoughts all run in streams
    and when feelings they feel screamed

    that I sit to write poems
    and ignore I am condemned.

    Laura Andersen

  150. pcm says:

    Beyond Uffish Thoughts

    The last time I smelled beach oil like that,
    I lost all sense of direction. The world turned
    upside down and the stars became starfish tangled
    in my seaweed hair.

    My anemone fingers, fluttered in de wabe
    far from Jabberwocks and Jubjub birds
    —it was just us and we were all mimsy.

    No frumious thing could enter there where we were
    on account of the scent of that oil. It cloaked us
    with frabjousness, all chortley.

    No vorpal burble could whiffle through and slay
    that brillig moment. We slithy toves would just
    gyre and gimble away upon the moonlit sea.

  151. Mustang Sal says:

    Call it a day or call it a night,
    it’s over, it’s done, it’s all out of sight.
    It’s finished, diminished, put to an end.
    I can do no more.
    I will not extend.
    Good-bye and good luck,
    but with you I am through.
    Ta, ta, see you later,
    adios and adieu.
    A lengthy farewell
    just prolongs all the sadness.
    To write any more
    would be simply madness.
    So, thanks everyone for
    your voice and your song.
    It’s been great writing poems
    with you all month long.

  152. HoskingPoet says:

    Farewell to Silence

    A proper send-off
    A fond farewell
    Farewell to rhyming
    Farewell to April
    April showers bring May flowers
    April thirty days I wrote
    Wrote in verse
    Wrote the long and short
    Short can infuriate
    Short lines begin to climb
    Climb a tree
    Climb a mountain
    Mountain goat
    Mountain trail
    Trail of tears
    Trail ends here
    Here we go again
    Here and now
    Now we are free
    Now is the winter of our discontent
    Discontent to stop
    Discontent to continue
    Continue writing poetry
    Continue to wax
    Wax on wax off
    Wax away the hours
    Hours spent in seclusion
    Hours wane until I fall
    Fall head over heels
    Fall into step
    Step lively
    Step up or fall behind
    Behind in the polls
    Behind the eight ball
    Ball rolls down hill
    Ball filled with hot air
    Air grows stagnant
    Air carries off your dreams
    Dreams of being rich
    Dreams of better future
    Future is uncertain
    Future is not written
    Written in stone
    Written words read aloud
    Aloud one hears the truth
    Aloud one cries for silence
    Silence too great an expectation
    Silence is golden

  153. Emily Cooper says:

    When the Street Begins

    It is 5 o’clock somewhere
    but the hangover
    is somewhere too

    and there are places
    where the bad news
    has been learned from already

    so the people
    from the recent past
    can wise up

    learn from the headache
    and not make
    the same mistake

    of underestimating
    their bad reaction

    and having to clean up
    way more puke
    than they expected

    once they and their bar buddies
    have parted ways

    and find themselves
    too alone again

    and this is all in fact true
    not one of those
    wild ideas

    a crouched-in-humor
    serious idea

    that seems only to come up
    when 5 o’clock rolls around
    in our time zone
    when you’re channeling Shel Silverstein

    and catching a glimpse of that adult world
    in some far-off land

    which is a healthy mix
    of logic and compassion

    and is in fact
    still happy to break your fall

    when the sidewalk ends.

  154. SuziBwritin says:

    Just want to say this was an inspiring, hectic month and I can’t believe I was able to write 30 poems, all because of you guys. Robert, thank you for doing this challenge and it truly was, for me – in a very good way! I will spend the next few days trying to read as many as I can. Wish I could have taken more time throughout the month to offer encouragement and gratitude for the good works here.

    • Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      SuziBwritin . . . please keep on writin! Wonderful to have you here!

      • SuziBwritin says:

        Thank you Janet and I feel the same about your work. Been such fun. So much good company. I’ve done these challenges before but not for a long time. It’s influenced me so much I’m thinking in verse these days. :)

  155. Zart_is says:

    L for F

    I could slam a door
    or do something equally expressive
    I could be a loud reflection of rage
    fire fury out of my hands, be scary
    be that person everyone knows to avoid.
    I’m unstable unpredictable
    flying in a rant
    turbulent trouble.
    I am out and I am angry,
    mad and perhaps just a little insane.
    My power stolen,
    absorbed while I was down
    writhing helplessly, pinned
    losing, frustrated.
    I can be an elephant when it matters
    long memories
    big thoughts of revenge.
    Just overcome by this weak moment
    while I recover from this abuse
    restraining my anxiety.
    Just sitting here seething
    taking a breath, thinking
    about trading out the L for F in luck
    saying it out loud, a lot.
    I settle for grumbling to myself instead
    gaining composure momentarily resigned,
    this assault on my dignity
    this big bad luck [sic]
    will not be long out of mind.
    I’m only momentarily done.

  156. JRSimmang says:

    4:30 ON A MONDAY

    We were men
    once the lights hit
    the gravel
    and the chalk-white lines
    drew reflections
    on our dirty faces.

    Under the Arizona sun,
    the heat baked us
    into beasts,
    beating the ground like apes
    and twisting our bodies
    into leather.

    But, we were men,
    with grit cursing through our veins,
    until the only desire we had
    were the open bellies
    of our enemies.

    Fight we did,
    drowning out the noise,
    washing ourselves clean in the mud
    while flickered the lights
    cracked the bones
    spun the palms and eyes

    when at last
    we found that the candle
    is both ours
    and the flame consumes as quickly

    so we shake hands
    content with one another
    that we shall never eat another
    while we both
    remained men.

    -JR Simmang

  157. rachelgrace says:

    at the end of it all

    He felt as he looked out at the sea
    Waves coming and going from a distant land of unknown
    Feeling the pulse of life
    He let it wash over his senses
    You’re just like me he silently cried into the air
    Engulfed in a rage he took another drink from bitterness.
    How could this be happening to him?
    How could he forget to live?
    How could there be such a cruel loss of his doing?
    This was his life to be forgotten
    Love was a past that was denied him
    He smirked at the thought of it
    Shaking his head he realized this was truly his end.
    He sighed in the night.

  158. SuziBwritin says:


    Here it is!
    the last round-up
    the last go-around
    the end of a chapter
    the straw that broke my back

    Your lack of love
    your lack of caring or anything
    remotely resembling gratitude
    You have pilfered away your good health
    your legacy and
    your economic wealth
    for the immediate pleasures of
    and the lack of awareness they bring

    I know it’s an illness
    I know you can’t help it
    I know the treatments didn’t work for you
    But know this
    Watching you go the same way as our parents
    watching you in and out of hospitals
    with life-threatening crises
    bankruptcy and foreclosure
    And the total disregard you have
    for the consequences of your actions
    has pushed my compassion to the brink
    forced my psyche to go numb
    and out of self-survival
    made this
    the last go-around for us

  159. susanjer says:

    Marilyn Monroe Calls the Mocambo Manager

    Hello, this is Marilyn Monroe.

    I’d like to make a reservation for a front row table.
    For several nights running. I’d eat. I’d drink.
    I’d bring the press. I’d bring fans. I’d bring publicity.

    Now here’s the problem.

    I’ve heard the Mocambo thinks Ella Fitzgerald
    should not appear in the club. I only hope
    that is a rumor.

    Please let me know when Ms. Fitzgerald
    is booked for the Mocambo. Then, my manager
    will book the table.

    Good Night.

  160. azkbc says:

    Call it a Day

    After your dinner with carrots and peas
    and after the ball game which was played in the breeze
    and after your bath with your boat and your duck
    and after pajamas, the ones with the trucks
    and after a song or was it two
    and a quiet-down talk with just me and you
    and after four books all about this and that
    and then just one more, The Cat in the Hat
    and after a drink
    and one more trip to the potty
    and after you snuggled with teddy and bunny
    and after I thought sleep was more than ready
    you called for your baby to be wrapped in a blankey
    and booted out bunny with a pat on the head
    with a snuggly hug and a kiss on the way
    only now were you ready to call it a day.

  161. Kimmy Sophia says:

    To Robert and fellow poets

    This was fun, I have never done a poem a day challenge before. I wish I had had time to read each poem for each day, time is what it is though. To all of you who are adding beauty and contemplation to the world I salute you, and I thank you Robert for the time and investment and your poems too, and this space to gather and use words in the best way possible. Adieu. Good night sweet princes and princesses!

  162. Angela Kidd says:

    Your Words Are

    Don’t kid yourself a moment
    when you’re writing.
    You are going to die—
    And however impermanent
    you are, your words
    are even less so—

    They won’t survive fire or torture
    water or glacier
    meteor or meltdown—

    But don’t let the transient
    nature of words
    stop you from writing,
    for they are carried ear to ear

    They live in the present
    moment as you do—
    In each and every cell,
    they hold up the world

  163. nmbell says:

    June Day

    The heat blurred orange ball hovers on the horizon
    Signalling the end of a long June day
    Sweat itches down my back and in my shirt
    Bits of hay dust cling to my forearms

    Early evening softens the glare of the sun
    Though humid heat still blankets the fields
    The hazy mist rises from the newly shorn hay
    Waiting for the swather to rake it into windrows

    Fantasies of falling into a cool spring-fed lake
    Tantalize my heat fried brain
    My thighs burn with hay slivers rubbing through my jeans
    Shoulders ache from throwing bales over my head

    A single star pricks the pale blue of evening
    The hay wagon creaks and sways as it bumps
    Across the stubble toward the bank barn
    Hay loft doors gaping darkly in the fading light

    Why is it always hotter than the hobs of hell
    And too hot to live every June at this time?
    First cut haying time comes around every year
    Alfalfa’s purple flowers ten percent in bloom

    Far away the bell-like tones of the triangle
    Drift across from the home quarter
    In counterpoint to the cries of the gulls overhead
    Slapping my shoulder with his gloves

    The boss declares it’s time to call it a day

    Nancy Bell 2014

  164. cmjones says:


    One could see young men and women running up and down,
    lots of partially blind children, what appeared to be
    an abstract sculpture garden, visionaries
    on the roof of an abandoned school, talking, gas
    masks hanging from monkey bars, and so forth.
    Something like music wailed from all
    the local hospitals. It was advertised that all
    the chemicals were locally sourced. There was
    one vegetable market offering discounts
    to the shrapnely wounded. People often
    looked out on the horizon, the smoke
    intervening there. People often hallucinated
    bricks where there weren’t any.
    The military occupation had balloons.
    Slow orations confirmed darkness
    would no longer live in fear of street lights.
    A quiet tree-lined block suffered a minor stroke
    and had trouble remembering. At night the
    oak trees looked more like faraway mountains
    and the grenades had personality.

    Chad Jones

  165. Anvanya says:


    Honey, I’m hitting the sack right now.
    Got that “crash and burn” thing going on.

    Okay, Babe. I’ll be in as soon as this program ends.
    Gotta find out how the battle ends.

    As if – he didn’t already know. As if – he wasn’t
    already as tired as I am. But he’s a visual learner
    and sits transfixed by the television screen.

    I used to believe that I was one, too.
    Until I moved up here and discovered that
    just one word from his lips could stop me
    in my tracks. All direction and plans cancelled.

    So I’m an auditory learner – egad! Spent all those years
    listening AND taking notes at the same time in
    seventeen years’ worth of classes that I’ve got my
    very own library of notebooks, arranged by year.
    Can you retrieve your class notes from biology???

    Wot Larks! I wrote my English Lit notes in peacock
    blue ink. Psych and Soc got black; so very serious were they.
    Maths were always in pencil … who knew when the numbers
    might slide about on the page and I’d stumble over them?
    Sciences mixed up pencil with ink – so many drawings of
    squiggly creatures squishing about in the slides.

    These days I leave the TV and radio off, and have
    developed the skill if writing cum libero, on the computer
    itself. No more notebooks, just files folders on the
    machine. I can change the color of the text from black
    to teal or rose or plum if it suits my mood. When I can’t
    stay awake any more, and he has to see the entire show,
    a brief word completes the day and all’s well at home…


  166. acele says:

    This experience has been humbling and inspiring! I can’t wait until next year! Thank you for hosting this creative collective experience! Thank you to all those who encouraged us with fortifying comments!

    Calling it a Day

    April entered dusty and dull
    with the inkling of something new
    and the ghosts of the past
    caught up
    like torn rags in my bare branches.

    Day by day voyages ensued.
    Mixed messages and modest discoveries were unearthed
    as I submitted myself,
    constraining my heart to prompt and
    timely penned words.

    And therein I discovered
    violence and peace, storge,
    philia, eros
    and agape which banished hate,
    specs of faith stored away like the wrinkled packets of seeds
    in a box in the corner of the mudroom.

    I was apprehended by memories of
    sunny yellow days on long ago distant
    shores mingled with small scurrying
    worries underfoot.

    And discerning, too,
    that the hanging of hope on false hooks
    and imaginings of forgiveness will
    not make me
    For in reality there are no magic
    wands to chase away the monsters

    Lord, I can’t feel the sun today!
    So I’m crawling under the covers and I’m calling it a day,
    calling it a month!

    But I’m holding on to the hope that whatever the weather
    and in every season whether fall-
    ing down or rising up,
    You’ve apprehended me and I am held secure in your sheltering arms.

    And I remember my sister
    holding her hands out wide and singing
    with every sinew of her soul,
    “Lord, we need your rain!”
    And I know that tomorrow will come
    filled to overflowing
    with Your immeasurable love.

  167. utsabfly says:


    Calling it a day
    Before the day is done
    Rushing into tomorrow
    Before the morning sun

    Unable to sit still
    Unable to settle
    A future on fire
    From today’s candle

    The distance traveled
    Is all in the mind
    An illusory existence
    Of a machine, bending time

    Calling it a day
    Before the day is done
    Negates the present moment
    Leaving life’s songs unsung

    ©E.D. Allee
    April, 2014

  168. feywriter says:


    Five doomed us—
    A council of greed
    turned to the dark arts
    in their attempts to cheat death,
    but only gods can grant immortality.

    Foresight could have saved us…
    the oracle’s visions
    blinded by gold,
    she bought a ship
    and left us to our fates.

    Thrice the waves came,
    each more deadly than the last…
    slammed through walls,
    flooded streets,
    pushed us to the heart of our island.

    Too little, too late,
    a sacrifice was chosen
    to appease the scorned gods:
    I was merely a child
    thrown into volcano’s maw

    One last desperate prayer,
    I cried out in terror
    as I fell to certain doom:
    this wasn’t my fault,
    wasn’t my fate!

    Zero hour had come…
    Hades embraced me,
    blessed my sacrifice;
    I arose a phoenix,
    reborn as Atlantis crumbled.

    by Mary W. Jensen

  169. novacatmando says:

    Kate is coming
    she will arrive overnight
    we are told
    by the man leaning in with a bulbous nose
    a dubious source
    the kind trusted only for Mardi Gras tips.
    might be true
    given the line down the sidewalk at the K&B
    the gulf drizzle
    the obscenely larger than usual after work crowd
    at 3 p.m.
    someone plays carnival barker, updating now-empties
    the water,
    bread, Spaghetti O’s, flashlights, Old Bay, kerosene,
    the grain alcohol.
    dang. we wait, wanting the Jax or the Dixie, end up
    with Milwaukee’s Best.
    responsibly we add a couple cheap candles
    purple haze
    to extinguish the brewing storm.

  170. mzanemcclellan says:

    Count My Blessings
    My soul feels as if it has gained a ton.
    I have dragged it down life’s road far too long.
    Added to weariness, my body spent.
    I now wonder where all the good times went.
    I just want some rest from my earthly toil,
    close my eyes, sleep, then slip this mortal coil.
    Tired of disappointment and frustration,
    right now I don’t care about damnation
    Frankly I think that ship already sailed.
    A kick when down thanks for my travails.
    This world is a mess, I leave it to you.
    As my mind ceases, I bid you adieu.
    New thoughts intrude on this dire reverie,
    perhaps there is more to this world I see.
    I just need rest from these troubles that weigh.
    I’ll count my blessings, and call it a day.

    ~ M. Zane McClellan

  171. DanielAri says:


    it’s late as you dock the truck and see the forms home.
    Then you pull out in your old Fiesta that feels even more
    cocoonish than it is anyway. Pilot down Adams where
    only one other car travels, to your neighborhood where
    all wheels are still. In the refrigerator, the light makes
    you feel like you’re going forward into the cold. Your hand
    gets a slice of cheese and one of ham, which you roll up
    and chew with water from the tap. You brush your teeth
    and undress in the dark, trying to damped the sense of
    forward motion; but even after you lay down, you can
    feel miles and hours pouring out of your body, not like
    syrup from a jar, but more like light from a candle, how
    it pours its own substance up through its burning wick,
    drinking and draining itself into a steady, gold flicker.


  172. mbramucci says:

    Free Enterprise Debauched
    By: Michelle Bramucci

    “And we’re off!”
    Scrambling again.
    All to appease
    The ramblings of men.
    As they all sit quite contented,
    Our body fatigues.
    Our minds are tormented.

    What do we seek, praise?
    We jump through blazing hoops
    Till the end of our days.

    Did you get a pat on the back?
    Atta good boy!
    You’re on the right track.
    You just keep running those legs.
    Then turn a blind eye
    When the hungry man begs.

    You cannot afford the distraction.
    Failure to launch is a major infraction.
    Met with more
    Than a slap on the wrist.
    What’s that coming down?
    An iron fist!

    And then you will be the panhandler.
    That’s not for you.
    That’s for junkies and gamblers.

    “Come, come, now.
    Oh, how you jest!”
    I’m sure you’re aware,
    There won’t be any rest.
    And no.
    There won’t be time to play.
    There’s my money to launder.
    Your taxes to pay.

    Don’t let the fools lead you astray.
    When you’re on your death bed,
    You can call it a day.

  173. geetakshi says:

    Turquoise Heartbreak

    It’s been a long, long day,
    with its set of fascinating discoveries
    and heartbreaking epiphanies,
    a smoke ring, for example,
    can exemplify a life’s century;
    a wound long healed, unscarred,
    can carry phantom pain within;
    a trace on the surface of grass,
    moves it to a shiver,
    a ripple can crush a butterfly,
    happily resting her new wings,
    crushed in the cruel heat,
    she seeks to rush to someplace cool,
    but concrete seems to be her gravestone,
    and she spreads her wings
    one last time,
    embracing her lover,
    the cosmetic grey soil;
    her turquoise luster
    engulfed in a bone-crushing kiss,
    burning her
    in a rapturous goodbye

    © Geetakshi Arora
    April 30, 2014

  174. Dan Collins says:

    Day 30: – for Becky


    Although I miss her,
    there are still more samurai
    movies to be seen

  175. 4/30 Calling it a(rainy) day :



    rainy day
    a blurring of lines
    this fragile poem
    just out of my reach
    watercolor dream

    Thank you for a lovely month of prompts and poetry!

  176. DCR1986 says:

    End of the Roll

    Oh, Pen!
    Oh, Pen!
    Time to rest up, rest up!
    Here, lie down from PAD.
    Clock out your ink.
    “Call it a day” on what mind think.
    Relieve your point,
    Recap your crown,
    and refill your soul
    from the “thirty day” scroll.
    Pause. Wait. Quick.
    Before we end this last roll,
    Recall the routes of prompt per day,
    the tue for Tues,
    Portraits of nouns and sounds as ink ooze,
    New pen pals in the playpen of expression,
    and the memories of thoughts bundled
    in heart’s possession.

    Oh, Pen.
    Oh, Pen.
    Whether we lose or win.
    We can resurrect and ink again!
    We clear?
    sign your name as “I was here”.
    And PAD, mind you,
    see you in another year!

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  177. Building a Fence

    We’ve clung to either side
    of the post hole digger
    with its thick bit, drill the size
    of my thigh and your neck
    corded. We hit water
    like blood so close to the thin
    surface, membrane of skin,
    dirt, dare of a crust floating
    on incomprehensible
    magma. Water cooled like ice
    in a glass, like the nod
    of your head from across
    a room. We call it a day;
    the bed is showers away
    from earth-rimmed nails, the body
    like the grind of metal
    through clay. We say goodbye,
    farewell in grass clinging.
    Sheets across skin skimmed
    in sheets of gracious grit.

  178. PowerUnit says:

    Every time I try to find myself
    The things in life that agree with me
    That make me smile
    I run into one of those big walls
    That knock me backwards
    And make me think
    Oh what a joy to be searching
    For a life that doesn’t stink
    But at the end of the day
    As I sit and listen
    The my world as it settles
    I know deep down it doesn’t matter
    If I ever find my pot of gold
    It’s the journey that counts.

  179. Deborah Hare says:

    Call it Done.

    Let’s call it a day.

    Don’t you mean,
    Let’s call it a night?
    It is after nine.

    Call it what you like.
    A horse of any other”color”
    could still win the Darby,

    Don’t you mean Derby?

    Are you still undecided?
    You mean “unsettled”?

    You must be living in a “fantasy”.

    You’re only as “real” as you feel!

    Don’t you mean old ?

    If I were “magical,” I’d wand myself young,
    and you too if you were nicer to me.

    I’m tired, let’s just call it a night.

    All right, if you insist
    but tomorrow is another
    fiddle de dee day.

    Okay, you call it,
    heads or tails?

    You aren’t using that two-headed coin
    again are you?
    That’s cheating you know?

    Don’t you mean fudging?

    Chocolate has nothing to do with this.

    Stop! I’m done.

    Don’t you mean finished? completed?
    out of here? kaput? fini?


    I don’t know why you say goodbye,
    I say hello.

    Night Fred.
    Night Ralph.

    This has been a very enjoyable month!
    Thanks everyone!

  180. madeline40 says:

    No I Won’t

    We could call it a day right now.
    We could let her declare victory
    in tearing our family apart
    and vow never to see each other again.
    That would be easy to do.
    We’d just drift away
    simply, slowly widen the breech.
    But I don’t want to do that.
    You are my son, the boy I raised,
    the one I choose to live for.
    I cannot let the woman
    you married, call our love
    a day and take you
    for her own.

  181. candy says:


    She could not remember
    her children’s names and waited
    restlessly by the front door
    for a husband who died ten
    years ago.
    Her car was missing and the
    stove didn’t work.
    People she didn’t know brought
    her foreign food.
    Her mother looked back at her
    from the mirror over the
    bathroom sink and it comforted
    her to talk to Mother again.
    She forgot whether she ate breakfast
    or if it was lunchtime but could sing
    all the words to You Are My Sunshine.
    She could no longer tie her shoes
    so wore her favorite green brocade
    slippers to check the mail box.
    But she never forgot a smile, gave
    the best hugs and joyously laughed
    out loud at jokes she didn’t understand.
    And I became the keeper of
    her memories.


    The day lasts long after your light dies
    as grains of slumber entice you to your sleep,
    but fight the urge, don’t close your eyes.

    Our lives are rife with hellos and goodbyes,
    and offers of friendships that we keep.
    The day lasts long after your light dies,

    and friends remember how you were wise
    beyond your years, and your loss they will weep.
    But fight the urge, don’t close your eyes.

    The end of life’s long day is smattering of highs
    and depths of despair that run deep.
    The day lasts long after your light dies.

    And those left behind will want to wail and cry
    as remnants of you lie fast asleep,
    but fight the urge. Don’t close your eyes

    lest you be forgotten and your glad surprise
    fades, as into their lost memory you seep.
    The day lasts long after your light dies
    but fight the urge, don’t close your eyes.

  183. Michelle Hed says:

    Robert – Thanks for another excellent challenge! I’ve enjoyed myself immensely this year.

    “Thank you” to all my fellow poets for sharing your words, commenting when able and continuing the sense of community. Cheers to all of you!


    It cuts to the bone, marrow dripping,
    mixing with every drop of blood purged
    from a heart so battered; worn. This
    link of passion sets sail on the seas of love.

    An uncharted course, not knowing
    what was in store for young lovers
    with dreams to raise anchor and navigate life,
    leaving the past in their wake

    and their future dreams on distant horizons.
    The turbulent churn tosses and the vessel will pitch,
    sending hearts to the rail to purge insecurity and fear
    and setting feet firmly of the deck of heart’s desires.

    From stem to stern, their pulses quicken,
    a feeling that will sink, motionless and still
    finding a harbor loving and longing;
    a port most welcoming and wanting.

    All seas crest with gentle waves to soothe
    battered and time-worn hearts; homeward bound.

    • PressOn says:

      I can see this on a plague at a wedding, or an anniversary. Beautiful, and beautifully written.

    • Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      Yes, definitely on board with this one, Walt. Especially like, “hearts to the rail to purge insecurity and fear” and “from stern to stern, their pulses quicken” . . . beautifully done!

  185. Clae says:

    Doing Your Best

    You cannot halt the change
    of seasons or of time.
    Stop clocks, don’t turn the calendar,
    the sun will still set and rise.
    You cannot pause life, it continues.
    You can only try to keep up
    and when the day calls it a day,
    hope maybe you’ve done enough.

    T .S. Gray

  186. Domino says:


    Red-shelled wonder,
    eating all the sweet aphids
    in my garden, your super-
    heroics please me, and I would
    never harm you, my delicate beauty.
    In fact, I will carry you home myself,
    hoping you will make a nest, or whatever
    you lady ladybugs do, stay here and live with
    your lady-bug husband and children, and
    generations of ladybugs would stay safe
    here in my garden, feeding on all the
    aphids. But there you go, flitting
    off to some other yard. I will
    miss you forever. please
    come back soon, soon.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  187. jakkels says:

    The last line   

    The sun was warm in the small study

    Easing the aches in his bones 

    For a moment uncertainty clouded his eyes 

    Then he shook his head like a wet dog 

    And reached for the cardboard shoe box 

    He opened the lid and there they lay 

    The creased and grubby papers 

    He took out the pen and the sheaf of paper 

    Then shook out the slips on the desk 

    Apprehensive now, would he have enough time He started to arrange them on the side 

    Reading and moving and rearranging ‘Till the layout satisfied him 

    Then he took up the pen, pulled the  blank sheet close 

    Read the first slip and began to write 

    A pause then the second then the third and re-read 

    Then slip followed slip as the writing crept down 

    And the poem grew as thoughts flowered 

    Then the last and he added a line, 

    sat back and considered the whole 

    Satisfied, the pen and slips went into the bin 

    And he smiled as the nurse came in 

    Post this to the usual place he asked 

    I fear it’ll be the last 

    You shouldn’t give up, its good for you 

    Now swallow your altzheimers pills.


    Breath and heartbeat.
    Every new day is an event.
    Hell bent on staying the course
    with this life-force surging,
    and purging every last bit of
    fear and confusion; these intrusions
    on a battered mind.
    The lessons finally learned:
    What matters, matters -
    all else pales in comparison
    in this garrison of vitality.
    The reality of seemingly endless days
    finds ways to enliven; given
    to make these gifts a cause
    to rejoice; a loud voice
    in the wilderness, thankful
    for all that has transpired.
    As tired as it feels,
    a good deal of these days now
    are spent in praise of Being.
    Seeing the forest AND the trees,
    with knees to ground to pray.
    This magnificence in relation.
    The end of every new day – an elation;
    a life spent in celebration.

  189. shellaysm says:


    When do you say when
    Which hour by clock’s hand
    tuned in synch with sun’s rotation
    Which grain of hourglass sand

    When you cannot change
    what most needs changing

    When is enough truly enough
    Which second’s tick, tock, tick
    Will there be some hidden or obvious sign
    that the moment is right to pick

    When what needs erasing
    simply cannot be erased

    Michele K. Smith

    • shellaysm says:

      Scrap that….this is the right version:


      When do you say when
      Which hour by clock’s hand
      tuned in synch with sun’s rotation
      Which grain of hourglass sand

      When you cannot change
      what most needs changing

      When is enough truly enough
      Which second’s tick, tock, tick
      might offer some hidden sign
      that the moment is right to pick

      When what needs erasing
      simply cannot be erased

      Michele K. Smith

  190. Jane Shlensky says:

    Cows Come Home

    We call the lead cow on the hill—
    Yoohoo, it’s time! Yes, come on in!
    She lifts her head and nods; she knows
    to guide the girls on to the barn.
    The dogs would like to nip and bark;
    the bull would like to strut and fret;
    but all the cows feel milking time
    inside themselves. They don’t forget.

    They queue and make a single line
    like perfect words met on a page
    and move so gently, we incline
    toward them as if they presage
    some life-affecting change, portend
    a final couplet dressed in gray,
    a wistful silence without end,
    the close of yet another day.

    Robert, judges, and you wonderful poetic friends, it has been a pleasure reading you and sharing another month of poetry. Write on, all!

  191. poetrycurator says:

    Here is my Calling it a Day Poem for day 30

    The Power to Write

    National Poetry month may be over,
    but I’m ready now for writing daily,
    since Writer’s Digest got me started.

    The writing prompts are a great way
    to kick off the day.

    I’ve got my ballpoint pens and my journal.
    I’ve got my sticky notes and my notepad.
    I’ve got my Roget’s Thesaurus and
    my rhyming dictionary.
    I’ve got my magnetic poetry kit and
    my Portable MFA book.

    Now I’m ready to get started writing on
    a daily basis thanks to Writer’s Digest.

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  192. mzanemcclellan says:

    Meetings, Meetings, Meetings

    My boss is such a moron,
    that’s not just my opinion.
    Meetings about having meetings
    as he lords over his dominion.
    Redundant reports in triplicate
    had better never be late.
    His appraisal I need for my raise,
    three months overdue, has to wait.
    I’ve already kissed his “Postdoctoral”,
    given audience to his ego’s rants.
    It’s Friday, I want to go home now,
    but this idiot gives me no chance.
    Email is full to overflowing,
    the Inbox is screaming for relief.
    Voicemail ran out of room yesterday.
    These meetings are a time thief.
    I stand and step out of his cubicle,
    signing, “bathroom”, as I walk away,
    grab my things, head for the elevator.
    Forget this, I’m calling it a day.

    ~ M. Zane McClellan

  193. Jane Shlensky says:

    Curtain Call

    Sometimes I don’t remember lines
    I memorized and made my own.
    They tiptoe at the edge of sleep,
    teasing my lips and then they’re gone.
    They bloom like lilies on a pond;
    they buzz like bees in honeyed day,
    but when I call, words won’t respond
    but lift like birds and fly away.

    I am no rookie on this stage:
    I make my face and dress the part;
    let silence scribble on a page
    convincing me it’s from my heart.
    At best, the others on the boards
    soothe and amuse me for a while,
    wielding their pens like wings or swords.
    They’ve made me envy, think, and smile.

    I’ve made some friends, I like to think,
    amid a thousand fits and starts.
    I’ve touched the gods; I’ve wasted ink,
    a poor player bruising her parts.
    I have no other legs to break,
    no great reviews, no last bouquet.
    The words I give are what I take;
    It’s time to bow, call it a day.

  194. shellcook says:

    Prompt #30
    Calling It a Day Poem

    Or ‘If You Get It, You Get It,
    If You Don’t, You Don’t ‘

    Days, like warm breath on tender skin
    Come and go so quickly now.
    Days, like butterflies lives,
    so miraculously beautiful,
    so heartbreakingly short.

    Tomorrow feels like yesterday,
    As each new story unfolds.
    I know what lies in front of you, little one.
    I know what lies behind you too.

    So, will you take a minute with me
    and let me know your heart.
    Let me know the magical you, my funny little friend.
    Tell me that you talk to trees and listen to the wind.
    Tell me of your special fort, no girls, as yet, allowed.

    Tell me who you want to be,
    then tell me what you want,
    If i can, i’ll make those dreams come true,
    I’d like to see that happen too,
    but even if it doesnt,
    I’ll forever share that bond with you.

    I am yours, to the moon and back,
    forever times a gagillion.

  195. ToniBee3 says:


    …next to the streetlight on the right
    seventy five degrees forward to
    the chain-link where jasmine is dense
    and anoints the mood on graffitied asphalt
    sun drops a hint to the marked spot
    where I should stay awhile and muse
    I stand there…

    …and press replay of my glory days
    ball-passes and pulverizing rivals
    now gone with the death of sinew
    knees gone kaput and swapped out
    adrenaline pervades my veins immortally
    as I decline the invite to alley-oop
    I miss there…

    …but nowadays I live in a new chapter
    reinvented and utterly gratified
    a maven to the raw talents and loudmouths
    of the streets where prospects are deficient
    blowing my whistle between rough housing
    fostering a new generation of beasts
    I stand there…

  196. Thanks, Robert, judges, and my fellow poets. It’s been another wonderful April, thanks to all of you. I’m glad I stuck with it, and I’m glad I have all of you to share the experience.

  197. miaokuancha says:

    April 30, 2014

    Prompt: Calling it a day

    At daybreak
    When everyone else is waking
    That’s when I drag myself home
    Glad to call it a day
    As light breaks over the hills
    Spills in at the edges
    Of my windowshade
    Stripping off my scrubs
    Washing the smells of illness from
    My skin my hair
    Making peace with muscles
    Joints and bones.
    It is a day.
    Rising as I fall
    Into the soft
    Into letting go
    The lives
    The deaths
    The cycles that can’t be broken
    The care I couldn’t give as
    Blackberry-toting number jockeys
    Wrote checks for
    A fatter bottom line
    Then skipped town
    Left us with bare hands
    And barer hearts
    to bridge the gap
    Between factory whistle
    And human need.
    The soul cannot serve two masters
    And yet that is what we do
    Day in and
    Day out.
    Under fluorescent lights
    Through the night
    to daybreak.

    It is a day.

    ~ miaokuancha

  198. Day 30

    Write a calling-it-a-day poem.

    I’m Thru

    reading political rants on FB
    wearing clothes for anyone’s approval
    but my own or not wearing my faves despite those looks

    sticking with books I’d rather not finish
    donning makeup when not in the mood
    not speaking up when I disagree

    skipping naps when I need them
    excusing plans I don’t want to make
    writing poems only in April.

    I’m thru not being the me
    I want to.

  199. shelaghart says:

    It’s Over?

    Please don’t end this yet,
    While haikus burst out my head.
    Death by poetry

  200. GarrinJost says:

    The distant boom of unknown mechanic
    muffled by walls in lefts and rights
    taken away over darkening water
    echoing slowly in the murky din.
    Wet chill’s uniform settles exposed
    damp wick collars of shirt linen thin.
    The sun is gone to another place
    shining tropical gold and bright
    rays diffuse and warmed throughout
    sinking slowly in the deep water bend.
    It’s touching my eyes in one way or another
    but no matter my effort I can’t catch it all-
    I suppose to myself that’s the beauty it holds-
    you wake up in dark and you look:
    the sun climbing brilliant on preened mountain edge
    fed fat by the world and the sky.
    You walk down to the water- it salting your nose
    dog laps longing for craned neck and face.
    You catch what comes and trust in your bones
    there’ll always be another days worth
    hiding expectant with the setting sun.
    I’ll walk these sands all the days of my life
    and build a dock between the earth and me-
    until that dock washes away with the breakers
    pieced and useless in the ending sun.
    And when I sink below the dark water
    and my rays all diverge and spread like hope-
    I hope that someone comes to the edge
    and watches me set for my time and theirs
    and sighs silent beauty for the life that swims
    and rests before tomorrows constant yoke.
    I hope that someone catches it all
    and holds the world in a mother’s embrace
    and trusts that each wave was me and I was it,
    and that in dark water, I rest.

  201. Mr. Take The Lead says:

    When it’s my turn to Call it a Day
    Daniel R. Simmons
    They want me to call it a day
    But I simply cannot let go
    Writing is my passion
    The heartbeat of my soul
    A treasured chest
    That I keep close
    And in hard times hold
    The writing
    The poetry
    Talks back to me
    Like an unsolved mystery
    Its messages comes back to haunt me
    Sending my heart in a delightful frenzy
    The words on the paper causes a chaotic peace
    They joyfully dance on the page as I pen my emotions spinning out of control
    I breathe life to the words as they speak the language of my soul
    Sadly however, I cannot write forever
    Must put the pen down from time to time
    And venture out on my endeavors
    When my official end has finally come
    When all my writing works are done
    When they close the casket to remember me no more
    I’ll have the words on the paper that will tell you there’s yet more in store
    Because when my heart stops in my body it will beat, breathe and live on through my words on the page
    Yes my words will live on forever
    When it’s my time to call it a day
    Never to return

  202. lethejerome says:

    “Continental Drift”

    Flown into a sunrise that separated us
    Flown into a sunset that separated us

    Hurled myself against references signifiers
    of our difference

    to deference.

    From across the river
    Promised eternity
    Lured you in
    with cheap rent, late mornings,

    Saliva flew your way.

    Invitations were stalled.

    Isolation beckoned.

    There was never a plan.

    As simple as leaving
    a continent


    we packed the useful

    and saw it on our way,

    bottled up air

    let distance do its work.

    There will be words, blood, calm, there will be

    We know the avenues, we will make
    Our vocal borders

    Let them know.

    Jérôme Melançon

  203. Eibhlin says:

    Yes, let’s call it a day.
    Let’s go our separate ways
    sure in the joy of our time together,
    free from the bonds that did not give life -
    yes, let’s call it a day.

  204. dextrousdigits says:

    OK, I just clocked out
    yet, I still have to update the schedule
    and send that e-mail
    Oh yes, I have to call the Speech Therapist
    and alert her to the change in her schedule tomorrow.

    Ok, I think I’m done now,
    let me just tidy up my desk so that it is clear tomorrow.
    Oh, no I forgot to put this note in the chart,
    better go up to third floor and do that now.

    Ok, that’s it.
    Grab my stuff
    the door is locked.
    I’m out of here,.

    Hey, you look lost, I can I help you.
    Let me show you where that department is,
    it’s so easy to get lost around here when your new.

    Along the way, I’ll point out a few places you will want to know about.
    Those doors right in front of us are the cafeteria
    and if you need some refreshment and nutrition
    or to get to know others
    and find similar interests and experiences
    this is where you come.

    We are almost there now,
    Just across this hall,
    lets go through that green door
    and walk into the outdoor patio,
    where we have this marvelous Zen Garden,
    You can come here any time to rest your mind
    and open your senses.

    Here’s the office you were looking for.
    Hope to see you around again.

    I maybe calling it a day for now,
    but I will be back tomorrow
    to finish jobs undone today,
    this week, this month.
    To check in on other poets.
    To greet new poets finding their way around.
    To feed my soul.
    To rest my mind, and open my senses.
    Hope to see you too wandering these halls.

  205. Janet Rice Carnahan says:


    Light is what I call you by day
    Bright, fresh, uplifting inspired thought
    Darkness to me goes the other way
    Light is what I call you by day
    Bringing in positive, clear words to say
    Without a blackened cloak, leaving nothing taught
    Light is what I call you by day
    Bright, fresh, uplifting inspirited thought

  206. Janet Rice Carnahan says:


    Sunset on the sea
    Ushers in the closing day
    Calming down the pace

    Sailboats heading in
    As fog horns bellow their call
    Billowy sails down

    Soft flower petals
    Instinctively curl in now
    Awaiting night fall

    Venus twinkles high
    After the sun has gone down
    Echoing love’s rest

    Fierce winds blow by day
    Moonlight brings gentle rocking
    Soothing us to sleep

  207. returning home
    to your arms
    my footsteps become
    the shape of the woman
    I am meant to be

  208. Tracy Davidson says:

    A Note to John Explaining Why He’s Dumped

    I’d like to say “It’s not you, it’s me”.
    But in this case it’s definitely you.
    I hate to break it to you darling
    but you’re an arsehole.
    Everybody knows it, except you.
    Your phoney surface charm and too-bright smile
    had me fooled for a while.
    Little did I know all the beautiful things
    about you were only skin deep.
    What lies beneath that lovely layer
    is a spoilt and sulky little boy.
    What my lust-filled brain first mistook for wit
    revealed itself as a cruel, malicious streak.
    You blunder on, oblivious to the hurt
    and offence your ignorant words inflict.
    What I once thought a winning smile
    I see now as an arrogant sneer.
    You look down on everyone around you,
    consider them well below your lofty height.
    Even me, once you had me under your spell,
    you considered unworthy, inferior.
    You expected me to wait on you hand and foot,
    a replacement for your ever-loving Mom.
    Treating me like some kind of pet who should
    be grateful for the occasional kind word or pat.
    You talk about yourself far too much,
    think yourself much better than you really are.
    So thick-skinned, you never note the bored looks
    of acquaintances who long to run away.
    You never think to ask anything of them,
    listen to any view contrary to your own.
    You’ve never asked me how my day was,
    where I want to go, how I’m feeling.
    And as for the bedroom – well, there’s a sorry tale.
    I don’t think you paid attention in sex ed.
    There’s more to it than a quick feel, fumble, thrust,
    and you fart as loudly as you snore.
    So dear John, this note is my farewell to you,
    though I doubt you’ll understand my words.
    I left your dinner in the oven and ‘Sex for Dummies’ by your bed.

  209. Janet Rice Carnahan says:


    Gone soon the hype
    Fingers halting the type

    Time to relax
    The incessant syntax

    Say done, period,
    To each comma and period, I did

    Quiet down this wild pacing
    Smooth out the fast spacing

    Give the mind a well deserved rest
    Let it know it did its best

    Comfort each and every word
    Truly it was written as heard

    Any more words that come demanding through
    Tell them to be patient for a day or two

    Rhymes still being generated to speak
    Tell them to return in a week

    Anything wanting to express on paper
    Tell it to go to town on some crazed caper

    Put down the computer
    For the poet in the mind just mute her!

    Not that there isn’t more to say
    It is just time . . .

    To call it a day!

  210. Secret Place

    Long shadows pass, the night envelops me
    My fragile self meets mixed peculiar dreams
    My real world shatters like a long-stemmed glass
    Thoughts tumble like round stones in countless themes

    The night facade blocks out my daily life
    A strange unstable refuge, truth in part
    The vast array of worlds converge in time
    I toss and turn the secrets of my heart

    Like delicate rose petals with their scent
    A whisper spirit wind breathes soothingly
    With love embraces me in peaceful sleep
    Brings balance to chaotic fantasy

    Like treasured rubies in a hidden space
    His comfort comes within this secret place

  211. adultfiguresk8r says:

    Closing Time

    The end comes at me in intervals.
    A regulated trickle of sand squeezes through the hourglass-
    Flip it.
    My life is a cycle of beginnings and ends.
    The world is drunk and it sways around me.
    I am the horizon that bleeds into the earth.
    The sun trips over me, repeatedly.
    The black sky cloaks me but never fails to recede.
    The sand is gone, the glass is empty-
    Flip it.
    Bells ring, books shut, pencils down.
    5 pm comes but so does 9 am.
    Absurdity and impossibility collide.
    Is this what life feels like or is it death?
    One day the hourglass will be flipped sideways; closing time.

  212. priyajane says:

    Season Ends?
    They say this season ends today
    tomorrow brings the winds of May
    These growing buds that started blooms
    will sing in sun and changing moons
    So fill your songs with magic hues
    and pluck its heartstrings with some tunes
    No end of day, appears in sight
    just melody that’s changing light !

  213. Bruce Niedt says:

    Thanks for another great month of poetry, Robert! Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is very similar: Write a “farewell” poem. So I decided to add additional challenges for myself: (1) Write a hay(na)ku, as suggested earlier this month by guest judge Vince Gotera, and (2) since I didn’t do it on Day 1, I will use NaPoWriMo’s prompt for that day, which is to take a random quote from the website “Bibliomancy Oracle” and use it as the basis for a poem. My epigraph is from that source.


    a squirrels’ dart
    the gravel path
    -Lidija Šimkutė

    loud goodbye
    stirring up stones

    my attention
    toward the path

    to the horizon

    I leave
    I’ll make noise

    remember me
    from the ruckus

    can follow
    the crunchy road

    stay there
    wishing my return

    don’t expect
    my dark silhouette

    back over
    the shouting hills

  214. Monique says:


    It feels like forever

    As much as staying around appeals,
    It’s time for me to click my heels
    Because I’ve been craving those “being home” feels

    So please take me back

    Back to the place that I call “mine”
    Back to a small glass of sweet white wine
    Back to where everything is perfectly fine

    It’s been a long day

    The only reason that I’m wearing this smile
    Is because it’s only a matter of miles
    Before I’m back to that place that makes me feel worthwhile

    So please take me

    Back to the kitchen for a nice home-cooked meal
    Back to the place I can kick off my heels
    Back to the place where my soul can heal

    I am at the airport

    The flight attendant beckons and I board the plane
    It’s time to call it a day
    Let that song from Semisonic play

    “Take me home” the song says

    Back to my blankets and slippers so fuzzy.
    Back to a warm cup of chamomile tea
    Back to the home that is waiting for me

  215. lionetravail says:

    “Trauma Pod Three”
    by David M. Hoenig

    I ended up on call today
    to handle just one trauma bay.
    I started prompt at six o’clock;
    by ten, we’d handled stabs and shock,
    by two, the medical ballet

    had added gunshots to the fray.
    We handled all without dismay,
    including skull crushed by a rock-
    in all, we were on call today.

    But three AM saw child’s play
    become an all-out gangland fray.
    The victims came in chock-a-block-
    Pod three got a young ‘fighting cock’
    whose back of head was blown away.
    We sadly called today a day.

    • Wow, vivid, powerful, and sad, yet with professional detachment, too.

    • PressOn says:

      This piece is a bit astounding: the light-hearted (or light-feeling) rhymes contrast so strongly with the images. Mastery is at work here, in my view.

    • Well done, David. A good month over-all! Enjoyed them all.

      • lionetravail says:

        Thank you gentlemen! I’d argue that I’m not so sure mastery was at work here, but I appreciate the very kind thoughts.

        And Walt, OMG, I’ve shown pretty much every shape piece you’ve done here to my wife, and we’re both constantly amazed. You’ve inspired me to start off a couple attempts, but that’s about as far as I’ve gotten so far- they are tough! You make them seem so effortless, so I know I have ever more to strive for.

        To Robert Lee Brewer and fellow poets, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the Challenge; it’s forced me (or maybe that’s just my OCD) to not only poem every day, but to try experiment with new forms and ideas. It’s been almost like a poetry skills clinic, and just an amazing experience to learn from others and put my stuff out for others to see. Thank you, so very much.

  216. Debbie says:


    The moonlit shadow, with signs of movement,
    did brightly glow with each new light.

    Seagulls sweeping briskly over the ocean
    cry to their ultimate delight.

    Corn-stalked pastures show signs of harvest
    and breezes atop fields, freshly plowed.

    A friendship has been borne of trust and good times
    with these moments greatly endowed.

    Happiness is a sign of life,
    to which each should be given a part.

    I, for one, am thankful
    to remember these times within my heart.

  217. MaryAnn1067 says:

    It’s Over

    we’re calling it a day
    on bigotry
    on violence against women
    (children, and animals too)
    on hunger and want in the midst of plenty,
    on pay inequity,
    on the thousands of thoughtless, petty, cruelties
    (on organized cruelties, too)
    on the dehumanization of
    the other
    on the countless insults
    expected to be borne silently,
    on pogroms,
    on the makers of lists,
    on the organizers of ethnic genocides,
    on restrictions imposed on
    mind, body, spirit,
    on wire-bound reeducation camps, thickly seeded
    with graves
    on the prison-industrial complex,
    we’re calling it a day
    on hatred

  218. DanielAri says:


    It’s dark. It’s well after dark. It’s bed time.
    All day—all day? It’s been weeks that I’ve watched
    Water gather into one pregnant plum
    of a droplet, one fat cocoon attached
    to the northern eave on its bottom rim.

    I’ve checked and rechecked through the cross-hatching
    of the window screen, and I was resigned
    knowing I’d likely miss the detachment.
    Yet when it was all at once not pending,
    that was the last thing before slumber. So

    I couldn’t recall why there’d be fanfare
    beyond voicing the event in a yawn.
    Maybe if I were the dimple of ground
    where the drop splashed, I would party ‘til dawn.
    Quivering anticipation is scratched,

    sunk into the calendar-careless lawn
    like a spark of green in a sea of brown.


  219. pomodoro says:

    My Heart Unto Yours Is Knit

    If you ask me
    how my knitting classes are going
    I’d say that I like the orderly progression of the stitches,
    each row of loops on the needle,
    posed like a chorus line facing left.
    I love to slide my fingers over the alpaca,
    to feel the rhythm that builds with needles and yarn.
    I am mesmerized by the subtle dance of knit and purl,
    the growing weight of the piece as it shifts on my lap.
    I clutch the bamboo needles
    like a Newfoundland trucker who knits while he drives.
    My hands explore new territory and acquire their own memory.
    I work the fibers of Incan royalty
    and the stitches leapfrog into stockinettes and ribs;
    slip, slip, knit, slip, slip, knit
    the thin wood pursuing strands of pistachio, poppy and purple.
    I start the hank with a long-tail cast on,
    then selvage the place where seams disappear.
    I want to knit one, purl one, laugh one.
    I want to make gloves that start with my fingers
    when I lift the strand between the needles
    and embrace yours when you split wood beside the barn.

  220. On All Poems Stop Day

    It’s packed
    used cups,
    spoons, forks
    in the kitchen
    all ready
    for someone
    to come
    and do the dishes,
    remove the bottles
    clean the fridge
    and though
    I know this somebody
    likely is me
    I’ll probably go for it
    after posting
    my last April poem.
    Got to.

  221. LizMac says:

    [Thanks for the ride, and for 'making' me do something I've never done before! Thanks for the compliments and for the tactful silence on those days you *knew* I just had to be blushing behind the virtual veil - those days I ran out of time, and staggered away from my desk in Frankensteinian horror. ;-) Good luck to all in your continued experiment with words and wisdom. I've been astounded at the inexhaustible supply of masterful talent you have collectively displayed.]

    Roller Coasting (A Wild Journey through Poesying)

    Slowly starting
    Engines groaning
    Topwards tending
    Tossing, turning
    Nonsense spinning
    World viewing
    Angle skewing
    Upside downing
    Inside outing
    Down whizzing
    Warp speeding
    Lungs screaming


    Dazed queasing
    Head spinning
    What thinking?
    Out stepping
    Earth swaying
    Path surveying
    Ego smoothing
    Tactics reviewing
    Honesty brewing
    Resolve directing
    Courage supporting
    Pain forgetting
    Chapter closing…
    The end?

    • LizMac says:

      [Trying this again - formatting didn't paste through the first time]

      Roller Coasting (A Wild Journey through Poesying)

      Slowly starting
      Engines groaning
      Topwards tending
      Tossing, turning
      Nonsense spinning
      World viewing
      Angle skewing
      Upside downing
      Inside outing
      Down whizzing
      Warp speeding
      Lungs screaming


      Dazed queasing
      Head spinning
      What thinking?
      Out stepping
      Earth swaying
      Path surveying
      Ego smoothing
      Tactics reviewing
      Honesty brewing
      Resolve directing
      Courage supporting
      Pain forgetting
      Chapter closing…
      The end?

  222. De Jackson says:

    Last Call at the Space Bar

    It’s the witching hour,
    and we’re all punch
    -drunk and stupid with phrase,
    and spent.

    Rhyme and rhythm and
    reason have all long
    left the building, and the band,
    the Enjamb
    -ments, has hit the road.
    If you’re not careful, this
    is the time when the dactyls
    and the spondees and the trochees
    all come out, fill your heart
    and mind with doubt,
    just one more…
    just one more…

    -kering with the bartender,
    a surly lot
    who finally squalls,
         Drinks on the house.
         Name your poison.

    One last shot
    of Poetry, please.

                                 Straight up.


  223. k_weber says:


    Last night I dreamed
    about someone else
    after two years
    of being in love
    with you: he kissed me
    and didn’t leave
    and held me where his hair
    itched my neck
    and the skin turned
    blue-black from the stain
    then we sweat
    and dark grey dew
    slid down my body

    I have only thought
    about you once today
    for the first time
    in two years and I
    can breathe but admit
    I want to call someone
    else and invite him
    to my floor with knees
    for a film and a pillow
    and play the record
    he gave me in 2008
    when I went away
    and I haven’t seen
    his broken sweatshirt

    The cruelest month
    ends, but rewards me
    thoughts that distract
    from my own heartache
    and make me wonder if someone
    else has hair so ink-drenched
    it only looks like dye
    or dying but I just want
    to sit in the part
    and write him free verse
    and blow jazz as easily
    as bubble gum snaps

    I’d mute his trumpet
    because these matters
    are mostly moot: in this season
    I made friends whose
    heartstrings pluck
    in tones of poems
    that bend themselves
    as notes into one
    thousand shapes of April

    – k weber

    this has been extraordinary. thanks to so many of you for really great comments and interactions here! i read a ton of wonderful, inspiring poems this month and have been really wowed by all the talent and unique perspective of the writers here!

    if anyone would like to keep in touch, i am midwesternskirt just about anywhere… gmail, youtube, twitter, soundcloud, pinterest… midwesternskirt dot com is my website… i am on facebook hiatus right now but will return in the next few weeks.

    if you’d like to make contact through linkedin, i am “kristi weber” and i am in the cincinnati, ohio, area.

    thanks again to all and to robert and writer’s digest and guest judges and my family and pals and tater tots and expired sinus medication and car troubles and matters of the heart and unsweetened iced tea and bill callahan (smog) and the academy and little chocolate donuts.

    – kristi weber

    • I enjoyed this poem, kristi. It feels like jazz with a muted trumpet.

    • Linda Goin says:

      Oh. My. There are so many lines that take my breathe away. You make me want to love my exes again, and I really can’t go there. But, you gave it the best shot of anyone I’ve ever read. Ok — one of the best: “I’d mute his trumpet/because these matters/are mostly moot:” The inner rhyme, and the lead in to the end. Perfect.

      Now I see all your contact points. But, we’re already there. Excitement over not losing track of you and your poetry! <3

      • k_weber says:

        Am thrilled we can stay in touch and share our poems and encourage one another! This has really been quite a month. So very motivated to keep up the writing routine.

        You poems have so much depth and width and expanse Dizzying beauty and an unfolding of mystery. You’ve kept my writing on it’s toes!!!

        • Glad to have had the pleasure of reading you, Kristi. Enjoyed every word. You surely have a way with them!

          • k_weber says:

            Thank you! I have really enjoyed reading your poems here and seeing your many takes on a prompt each day. Quite fun to see the serious and comedic sides that poetry can take and all the forms and wordplay that can come along with it.

          • You surely learn something here. That’s how I started out. Be a sponge and soak it all in. We’re all better for it!

  224. dixonlm2 says:

    It is All Over!

    Duggan worked at the grocery store,
    In Produce. Always putting out more.

    He spoke with a nice, strong accent,
    His fruits and vegetables never bent.

    Duggan was jolly and free,
    He simply wanted to just be.

    He greeted all folks the same,
    Never showed any inner pain.

    When the store closed its door,
    His hands would raise and soar.

    He’d shout, ”It’s all over!”
    Duggan- a true four-leafed clover.


  225. foodpoet says:

    in the night of the full moon
    when you can almost hear
    the wings beat of the owl
    sifting the moonlight down over your shoulders
    soar on the upwind of dreams,
    only to squander another night to work dregs.
    Cloves and cinnamon thoughts are spiked by malice.
    In the Mercurial blasts of today
    there is no time for self
    only the artillery of me next tasks.
    The sea is full of salt seaweed
    even here
    I cannot escape the ego of paper.
    The elusive path of peace
    makes me only a ghost of what I once was.
    I close the computer,
    sign my life off for another day
    to face

    Megan McDonald

  226. YEAH! We made it! Thanks to all who were here on ‘The Street’ once, thirty, or many more times. I enjoyed reading and being inspired by all your ‘wit and wisdom.’ I appreciate all of you who had time to comment on my efforts. Thanks to the daily judges, and of course to Robert for providing this opportunity for all of us to challenge our skills and expand our poetic connections. Keep poeming, my friends!

  227. YEAH! We made it! Thanks to all who were here once, thirty, or many more times. I enjoyed reading and being inspired by all your ‘wit and wisdom.’ I appreciate all of you who had time to comment on my efforts. Thanks to the daily judges, and of course to Robert for providing this opportunity for all of us to challenge our skills and expand our poetic connections.

  228. Karintha Valentine says:

    El Dia

    Lying sick as un perro
    in Valladolid while my buddies watched bulls
    being chased the plaza in Opichen
    six miles away, I heard outside a voice
    chanting El Dia, wondering
    if what I heard was El Dios, the Daygod
    invoked as the day lingered longer
    than I’d wanted, poor light
    through cheap hotel curtains. An old man
    who chanted this day through the streets
    woke me up from my misery
    long enough to look down at his clean
    campesino garb, fresh from his milpa,
    I poeticized for a moment
    before I felt last night’s tortillas lay
    siege once again to siesta. El Dia be
    damned, I cursed, just get me through
    this day, wreaking its ancient revenge
    on my Gringita appetites.

  229. Robert, as always, thanks for coordinating this month’s festivities, and congrats to everyone who completed all 30 days!


    The heart cannot decide
    which it will prefer:
    city afternoons dripping rain,
    rushing with taxis and wire,
    or the slow sweep of
    what comes after:
    jazz on the radio and a pipe
    and chocolate on the fire.
    The heart knows all music
    must carry some noise,
    that there is punctuation
    fizzing through the phosphorus
    in every voice.
    The heart longs for the dark
    to better know how
    cathedrals and subways
    refract the light; the heart
    will pump in and out
    with all of it, and not
    fear the night.

  230. Lindy™ says:

    Until Next Time…

    30 days and 30 nights
    painting pictures
    with words I write;
    recreating thought forms
    from inside my own little world
    for public consumption.
    Writing, editing, illustrating, posting -
    all loves of mine,
    I do them mostly for me.

    PAD is a wonderful catalyst
    (inspiration for aspirations)
    tricking the muse
    to come out and play.
    I get so used to it
    by the last day.
    Then it’s done
    and I can say I’ve won
    if I wrote a poem a day.

    Tomorrow I will wake up
    looking for a prompt
    that isn’t there.
    A little downward spiral
    will cramp the fond routine.
    It will take about a week or so
    to get back on my feet
    and write free
    without the brain-jog safety net.

    For now, I’ve finished
    the last poem on the block.
    I can call it a day
    and celebrate
    30 poems in 30 days,
    30 dreams in 30 ways,
    by coming up for air,
    walking outside
    and relaxing in the shade.

  231. lina says:


    I’m fearful of those hoarding shows–
    the man who can’t open the door to his apartment,
    or get into his van,
    the woman who can’t move back in
    because the floor of her house
    has rotted
    under all that stuff.
    So I dutifully toss out old socks
    and broken keyboards, coffee table books,
    and letters from people
    I can’t remember.
    I vacuum spider webs from rafters
    and sweep up the heaviest dust;
    but my notes and papers stay,
    curling at the edges,
    yellowing in flattened boxes,
    until they turn to dust
    or I do,
    whoever goes first.