Editors Blog

2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 5

I’m glad you’ve made it over today. Over the years, the weekend has been a time when some poets fall behind in keeping the daily poetic pace (though it’s totally cool if you’re getting caught up on Monday morning). I don’t think I’ve mentioned it yet, but I actually have a little challenge going on related to my debut poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems. The winner of that challenge gets $500. Click here to read the guidelines.

For today’s prompt, write a discovery poem. The narrator could discover an object, a person, an animal, a dishonorable deed, or any number of things. Poets can focus on the discovery, examine the aftermath, or even just mention it in passing.


wd-83annual-iconCompete with other writers in a variety of genres!

Enter the 83rd Writer’s Digest Writing Competition for a chance to win a variety of prizes in 10 categories, including rhyming poetry, non-rhyming poetry, magazine feature article, genre short story, mainstream/literary short story, and more.

Grand prize wins $3,000 cash, a paid trip to the Writer’s Digest Writing Conference, national exposure, and more. First place winners in each category receive $1,000 cash; second place $500; and so on.

Click here for more details.


Here’s my attempt at a Discovery Poem:


in the beginning i googled diet
& diets populated the results
which was good because i wanted results

one after the other i tried them all
with some success before an epic fail
every scale had a story to tell

so i searched for new types of exercise
to combine with diets and was surprised
that the results were easier to find

when i let my body work with my mind
i’d walk then drink water with lemon twist
’til i told my old self you don’t exist


Today’s guest judge is…

Patricia Fargnoli

Patricia Fargnoli

Patricia Fargnoli

Patricia Fargnoli, from Walpole NH was the New Hampshire Poet Laureate from 2006-2009.  She’s published 4 books (including Winter and Then, Something) and 3 chapbooks of poetry and has won The May Swenson Book Award, the Foreward Silver Book of the Year Award, the NH Literary Award for Poetry and the Sheila Mooton Book Award.

She’s published over 300 poems in literary journals such as Poetry, Ploughshares, Massachusetts Review, Harvard Review et. al.

A Macdowell Fellow and retired social worker she now teaches poetry privately.

Click here to check out her most recent collection, Winter.


PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

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

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

Click to continue.


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. He thinks the best poems are self-contained discoveries. Learn more about him here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


Discover something new at one of the links below:


You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

693 thoughts on “2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 5

  1. IndiFox


    Upon reaching the cliff
    I stare up at the sky
    As grey storm clouds
    Float by
    Distant ship sirens
    And the crashing waves below
    Do not drown the sound
    Of nearby crows

    Here, I must end my search
    The quest of a lifetime
    For years passed by
    As I slowly lost my mind
    Gazing across the sea
    I spot a flicker of green
    And my last shard of sanity
    Pops at the seams

    I hear a roar
    It sounds so clear
    The time to go
    Is soon I fear
    So with great haste
    And no hesitation
    I jump from the cliff
    To hell’s imitation

    Down in the depths
    I reach out for it
    The Loch Ness holds me
    And I submit

  2. bxpoetlover

    A Discovery

    A favorite restaurant of mine closed down that had
    the best banana pudding. I decided to make my own but
    I had to stop eating dairy. Thought I could never have dessert again.

    But thank goodness for the internet. Vegan banana pudding!
    Bought a pound of bananas and blended 3 of them
    with soymilk, vanilla, cinnamon, and cocoa powder. Chopped up the rest.
    Poured half the mixture in a dish, layered the chopped bananas. Twice.
    Sliced up strawberries and put them on top. Let it chill.

    Took pictures of it. Offered it to loved ones who took polite spoonfuls.
    More for me.

  3. TuLife

    “Lyrical Integrity”
    By: Tuere Aisha

    He gets lost in his rhymes
    and it scares the kid.
    Only the lyrics add up.

    Thump. Bass. Pump.

    His words surrender to sound –
    fears dispelled and caving in,
    the clap of his instrument is relentless.

    It’s the pitch that paints his portrait,
    the rhythm that blazes his rage,
    drums that detain his distress,
    beat pumps his veins,
    stills his tempest,
    sets his sun,

    unveils his tale.

  4. Snow Write


    My right side hurts, said she
    So get it tested, said he
    The doctor performs the tests
    Results come back
    The right’s benign
    The left is not
    What do I do, said she
    You get it treated, said he
    The doctor gives options
    Which do I choose, said she
    Whatever saves you, said he
    The doctor operates
    Treatments follow
    I feel so weak, said she
    You will make it through, said he
    The doctor finishes
    Results come back
    Long recovery
    I’ve lost my strength, said she
    Your soul holds it all, said he

  5. Phil Boiarski


    When the road grows
    familiar enough, your body
    remembers the turns,
    and as you traverse
    the old bridge and
    hang a left at the lane
    that leads to your drive,
    reminds you how long
    the trip has been.

    The latest illness
    has brought us,
    the next stage
    of decay and
    now familiar
    to all of us,
    as the frail
    have forgotten.

    Here, is the path
    we will follow. We
    glimpse it, but turn
    away, who wants
    to see the last few
    turns in the road?

  6. ambermarie

    Fountain of Youth

    Oh vanity
    I seek my reflection in the great pool
    Losing the time I seek to stop
    As I listen for guidance

    Worlds apart on the same quest
    Looking for each other inside ourselves
    We once heard rumors of water
    With the power to wash away the sins
    Committed by all humanity

    Cleansing my soul with holy tears
    I sit on the seawall, patiently waiting for explorers
    So that I might lead them to discover
    The eternal spring within

  7. Anders Bylund

    I hate these stupid shots, fewer is sweeter
    A daily routine, a torment by the liter
    Now they’ve come up with a brand new regime
    Take a shot, skip a day — lather, rinse, repeat

    Sounds awesome, except that the patent is dead
    So the looser routine will just stretch out some profits
    The quicker I get this fact into my head
    The better I’ll live with a cheaper knock-off-it.

  8. Khara House

    a primer

    that each body has its own way of mourning—
    a prescribed pattern of pain: a thrust, a curvature of spine
    bending in its own sambic design back toward its norm.
    that the dance of life strums cacophonic.
    that each day is a lion: that death is merely a lion in winter,
    chilled to the bone, waiting for that triumphant
    dawn of savannah in the inner chambers.
    that pulse keeps time with the cosmic sway,
    and we are merely objects in space.
    that nothing learns us to choose life,
    to breathe—yet somehow we each know
    we are not islands but tectonic plates,
    sliding over each other in passions and rages,
    gripping and binding until eruption soothes
    the shudder within our spines and smooths our surfaces
    to soundness again. that only the body knows
    what the body can endure—what no lisping hills or rolling tongues
    have ever— until the final break. that in the end
    the earth holds our secrets, silent as the grave.

  9. azkbc


    Your teacher at day care pasted Cheerios
    on an octopus which she then pasted
    on blue construction paper
    (to represent the ocean)
    to teach you to count to 8
    but you had counted sheep
    and apples and bunnies
    (you liked the bunnies the best)
    in your books. “Cheerios are to eat,”
    you said as you pried worn out
    Cheerios from the page.

    But money! You learned to count money
    for what it was worth.
    You shook pennies and nickels
    and dimes and two quarters
    out of the fat sky-colored pig
    with the painted-on black, twisted tail
    that someone gave you when you were born.
    You said, “a nickel is five pennies
    and a dime is ten pennies”
    and I wondered if we should round up
    a load of pennies and put five pennies
    by the nickel and ten pennies by the dime,
    but we didn’t.

    Mommy helped you count the coins
    and put them back into the pig
    each night before you went to bed.
    After counting your money
    you ran to the bathroom calling out,
    “dirty money” though I watched you
    look at your fingers, puzzled,
    as you washed them.

  10. Emma

    Discovering no

    I’ve always been a little cautious;
    Overly polite, sometimes bordering on obsequious.
    “I’m a people pleaser” I say.
    It takes a lot of people to make me
    That I have a right
    To have an opinion,
    To live for myself and not for others.
    “no” – I test it out,
    Get used to the feeling on my lips,
    Let it fill my throat.
    It’s the beginning of a new age –
    One where I am strong
    And opinionated
    And very, very contrary.

  11. Jaleese Nicole

    That night I could
    smell her name on your breath.
    I knew you tasted different.
    My stomach felt off
    as if the butterflies
    had turned into birds,
    beating their bodies against
    the walls of my stomach
    trying to get out.
    That night you apologized
    for things I hadn’t known.
    That night we passed around Bacardi and
    I guess drinks weren’t the only thing
    she and I shared.
    I guess my balance wasn’t the only thing
    I lost that night.
    -Jaleese Nicole, That Night

  12. blacksnark

    the moment he discovered
    language, he called me by name
    asserting himself, carving forever
    his place as the man who stole my heart
    even as a boy
    his baby breath mingling with mine as
    we slept, side-lying
    the way the books tell you not to
    and they didn’t tell me you would love me like this
    your infant glee turned toddler tirades that left you shaking,
    thunderous in my arms
    built just for moments like those
    and these, your little boy independence
    stretching our arms between us
    power cords on a post
    you are filament
    ever brighter

  13. Julieann


    She holds her father’s finger
    While studying her mother’s face
    The mobile moving with the air
    Catches her attention
    She watches in rapt wonder
    As light bounces off the shiny baubles
    Music plays softly near her bed
    And she seems to move her arms and legs
    To its subtle beat
    Simple, everyday things, yet each one
    A moment of discovery in her newborn

  14. ehauswald

    Sunday Nights in Mount Pleasant

    Are a thrifter’s dream:
    lost syllabi washed up
    on the curb with a panoply
    of mismatched silverware and some
    custard glasses, a dismantled
    record player and a stack
    of faded restoration magazines –
    the surprise of
    warm air, still,
    like the smell of
    laundry through a vent,
    the warblers and
    nuthatches, the late-
    day light taking up
    residence in some
    clean, white room.

  15. Snowqueen

    It’s delicious by itself
    With nuts…..it’s nuts
    With bacon….it leaves me shak’n
    Combine it with graham crackers and a marshmallow
    Trust me, you’ll like it my good fellow

    Pour it on ice cream, a spoon or right in your mouth
    There’s nothing better – west, east, north or south

    It adds to your joy when you’re happy
    Cheers you when you’re sad
    It even does the trick when you’re feeling a little mad

    It’s bitter or sweet
    It’s liquid, it’s solid
    It’s dark, white or milk
    It’s chocolate
    What a discovery!

  16. ERavagniCarter

    This Heart

    I reached my hand into my chest uncertain what I would find

    the jagged edges of my ribs left red drops decorating my wrist like a wreath

    then I eyed my prize in amazement
    as it shuddered and pumped its life

  17. stepstep


    Hand in hand, we walked and talked
    Followed by laughter and reminiscing
    Of old times and memories
    Our friendship ——— priceless.

    We stared into each others’ eyes
    For a moment we were kids again,
    Carefree, fearless, full of life
    Spontaneity is a second nature friend.

    We trusted without question
    We bared our souls without reservation
    To discover no matter how many years have passed
    We can always console one another.


  18. geraldbarr

    On Safari

    Vast expanses—
    diligently scoured for
    treasures great and small.
    On Safari across savanna

    a wealth unearthed—
    new species and specie
    collected and catalogued in
    pockets and pant cuffs.

    Back from safari—
    to reveal vast treasures for
    inspection and reward
    in time for lunch:

    three earthworms
    two buttons
    a twisted paperclip
    on the table by my soup.

  19. grcran

    Watergate: Watershed Moment
    By gpr crane

    Nixon lied.
    What a discovery
    For Woodward and Bernstein
    For Congress
    For America.
    On the highest level,
    In a criminal way,
    Nixon lied.
    Americans thought we were better,
    Most of us did,
    Until then.
    Our country peaked in the 1970s.
    It was the height of our leadership
    Our prosperity
    Our integrity
    Our culture.
    World civilizations come and go in their dominance.
    American civilization is now in decline.
    Everyone found out.
    Nixon lied.

  20. theDolphin

    you, Husband.
    sprawling lion in a red leather armchair,
    are reading the Times
    curling chestnut beard on chest
    stern brow
    your wife
    your baby
    can see you
    from the kitchen
    when I pass
    putting away
    pots and pans,
    how many years I spent
    secretly resentful
    of various inequities,
    the little losses
    of a little life,
    still startled by
    tonight’s discovery:
    I’m not

  21. PenConnor

    Keys (A Pantoum)

    There are keys to loving well.
    I found them tucked inside my heart.
    There is life in loving, too.
    In truth, there’s no room for regret.

    I found these truths in my own heart.
    Love in all these broken pieces,
    leaves no room for sad regret.
    My heart’s not untouched by grief.

    There’s so much love in brokenness,
    in accepting pain and loss.
    Any heart untouched by grief,
    cannot know full joy in love.

    I’ll not numb the pain of loss.
    These are keys to loving well.
    I will know the joy of love,
    find more life, in loving more.

  22. Delaina Miller


    It was hanging about
    for anyone to see
    but no one seemed to notice
    it was even there.

    Despite the chatter
    and the sonnets
    the words seem to fall
    upon deaf ears.

    Until a hand outstretched
    fingers narrow took hold
    pulling the fallen to their feet.
    Or fingers wide that broke the fall.

    A handshake, the touch
    enough to fill a spirit with hope
    add some bills to an empty palm
    and watch the wealth roll in.

    A kiss upon a scraped knee
    a hug sheltering a wounded heart
    a cool cloth placed upon the bruised
    the battered but not beaten.

    Once it’s discovery was made
    it could be seen everywhere
    to those that took the time to see
    past the hate, past the fear

    to the light that burns so bright
    in our eyes. The passion to survive
    is the same we give each other to thrive.
    The discovery that love is alive and well.

  23. clcediting


    She knew she was different–
    other people were complete
    they didn’t have a missing piece
    a jigsaw hole of emptiness.

    Children were cruel
    and taunted her
    calling her flimsy or fractured
    or completely undone.

    But sometimes she caught them staring
    with a look in their eyes
    that might be

    Maybe they weren’t all
    put together either.
    Maybe their missing pieces
    just didn’t show.
    Maybe everyone
    was a little

  24. JayGee2711

    Discovering Bon Appetit

    There are a few recipes here
    I want to try, and they
    aren’t just ordinary dishes.

    Beef tartare with a raw egg?
    Well, probably not, but maybe
    I should be more daring.

    There’s flaky bread and cabbage chips,
    spiced labneh and herbed feta dip.
    Even the radishes look good.

    Who doesn’t like a good radish?
    Even the veggie-averse will eat
    them like candy with mayo and sea salt.

    I’ll roast a chicken, make purple
    sprouting broccoli with
    marjoram and lardo,

    Creme brulee for dessert, it’s
    my favourite, and I’ll
    pour plenty of wine. It can’t hurt…

    Julie Germain

  25. Yolee

    Poor Things

    It was the way she looked at me with eyes
    framed in pink and fatigue thru straw-colored strands
    of hair. They pleaded”I know you judge me, help anyway”
    I never read the entire message on her cardboard sign
    because my quick examination went to a healthy looking
    dark-haired baby in a stroller, a pre-teen girl with mousy
    hair and a cell phone. Were the kids even hers? I bent
    over, stretched my hand out the passenger window,
    gave her a bill I found in my wallet, then mouth the words
    sharpie’d on the bottom of her sign: God bless you.
    The light turned green. We were both facing different directions.
    I drove off wrestling with what to say if I turned around.
    A stone inside me rolled off the hill of doubt; a trapped
    leaf began to drift between shadow and light.

  26. jean

    She found it on the tip of her tongue
    It was out before she knew it
    Her friend stared back as if she was wrong
    This time she really blew it

    The thought, the truth, the discovery
    Was real and ripe and raw
    Would friendship find recovery?
    Or was this the very last straw?

    She thought it was reasonably tactful
    She did not intend to offend
    The hurt far too impactful
    For meaning to come out in the end.

  27. lily black

    Step Back Quietly And Run

    Walking two poodles after school
    Along the dry creek river bed
    Searching as always for heart shaped stones
    Finding as always ceramic glazed shards
    Scampering poodles off-leash gleefully sniffing for squirrels
    Through lantana and ancient mullein growing fuzzy faithful leaves
    Foliage thickened
    A stiff plastic grocery bag crackled in the tree
    Mulberry trees struggling for light and space
    The forest fought me ducking and dividing tree branches
    Stepping into a clearing
    Three blue tarps hung by yellow ropes from taller triumphant trees
    Ancient stones created a hearth
    Surrounded by broken Mickey green glass bottles
    Tired tattered tents together
    In a remaining city-forest
    (urban speak greenbelt)
    Snapping fingers backing away quietly
    Without a silent exhale or inhale
    Stepping back to the old weathered path by the dry creek bed
    We three rant home and stayed away
    So close it was to the elementary school
    I hope the kids keep off the path by the dry creek bed

  28. Blaise


    Campfire dances first along bark, sap pops,
    flinging embers at this city boy,
    soon branded by shooting flames
    and crackling sparks, tracer bullets to the sky.

    Hours later, stack of wood we gathered
    a glowing orange congregation of coals,
    my face toasted, eyes fatigued, fascinated
    by the beautiful bright destruction,
    I stretch out on the ground,
    glow now in my chest and mind.

    Above, uncountable stars astound me.
    Sure I’ve seen the Big Dipper
    in my small slice of city sky but
    this mountain blackness arrays infinite stars
    to startle my eyes and ignite my soul.
    Falling into velvet infinity
    I think of how distant each fireball is
    and how long ago its light
    began its journey to me.

    In a flash, I grok the Milky Way
    as the edge view of our galaxy,
    earth and sun held by gravity
    among other campfires in the sky,
    at home on our galaxy’s spiral arm.

    No longer a city child encased
    in plaster and brick,
    now a son of stardust
    gazing at the cosmic furnace
    from which he was flung.

  29. bookworm0341


    To locate or find
    Realize with an, “Aha!”
    Or perhaps, “Eureka!”
    As the light-bulb flashes
    Neon sign-esque above the head.

    A discovery has occurred.
    “What’s that?”, you ask.
    “A discovery!,” I say.
    but then,
    who discovered the
    meaning of the actual word?!

  30. KiManou


    Amid the storm
    tossed in vehement winds
    torrential rains
    the adversities seem to be killing me in slow motion
    the mortality of feeling couldn’t come quickly
    to save me tears
    a drought
    would have been
    intervals of beams
    through an empire of clouds
    within the crest of the rainbow
    I discovered
    an ancient covenant
    He is always with me


  31. SugarMagnolia


    Walking along the path that was carved out of this place on Earth
    Engulfed in the sounds and sights of nature’s beauty
    I breathe in the clean air and take in all that surrounds me
    Let my thoughts wander to other places in time
    And wonder how I came to be here, in this moment
    Smiling. Peaceful. Calm.
    I look to the blue sky and imagine the endless possibilities
    Of the years that lie ahead of me and the years I left behind
    I think of the happiness in my future and the pain of my past
    I walk along this present path of discovery
    I let go of every stress, of all anxiety, become this moment
    Smiling. Peaceful. Calm.

  32. lethejerome

    “History and the Elimination of False Solutions”

    They came with their posters their websites their ads their spots their airtime their campaigns
    Their campaigns full of optimism of togetherness of warning of hope of unity
    They made their speeches their appeals their claims their replies their reassurances
    They laid bare their determination their calling their convictions their values their values their values
    Their values as they ought to be shared be learned be acquired be upheld be defended

    or else

    and they were sent away.

    Jérôme Melançon

  33. foodpoet

    Secret worlds
    Wait discovery hidden seen unseen
    Apple words red crisp
    Tart hard soft
    All waiting
    Crunch bite juice dripping verse
    Landscape mind fractured
    In Seurat points
    Blurring into impressions
    Monet landscape
    The painted words can be collected
    To reveal

    Megan McDonald

  34. danceoftheletters


    as if the orb of purple clover
    were just created yesterday

    when I saw it captivate
    the hovering honey bee—

    everything I see amazes me.

    Imagine sucking nectar from
    a single whorl of clover.

    Imagine finding nectar
    in each word uttered—

    grace in each moment found.

    The blue sky is more beneficent
    the gliding hawk more

    graceful than ever. Vast
    gratitude leaves me silent,


    I long to tell because
    telling is my habit

    as if beauty were more real and lasting
    when wrapped in words

    and offered.

    Now everything
    is wrapped

    in the silence
    from which it was


    There is a dance
    spiraling into my cells and muscles;

    I step and fly in rhythm
    to its undercurrent—

    a pulsing that never ceases.

    Ani Tuzman

    1. breeswitzer

      I Love this Ani! So beautiful. It’s so hard sometimes to express what you love about a poem! Especially with a time constraint as I have now. But basically, it speaks me. thank you.

  35. Mywordwall


    So this is how a dream feels like – a ray of sunshine
    that filters through my hands, illuminates it for a while
    with a million stars exploding into dust before my eyes.
    What a lovely phantasm that brightens the earthbound
    and elevates the mundane to the Ethereal. Rather than
    vapors, I wish for dreams that rest upon my hands
    like a rose, its velvety petals caressing my palms with none
    of my blood kissing the rose’s thorns. But where could I
    hold the sun and be not burned; where could stars dance
    in my eyes without me being plunged to darkness.
    Tell me where the ideal and reality are the same
    that I may find my way to that blessed place.

    ~ Imelda Santore

  36. Grey_Ay

    I have discovered.

    I’ve discovered
    that the things in my life
    that mean the most
    aren’t things at all
    but emotions
    and I collect these emotions like girls collect shoes

    And some of them, I didn’t want
    but I told myself I did.

    I’ve discovered
    that these experiences
    with which I’ve built my collection of emotions
    shape not only who I am
    and who I will be
    but also who I was

    Once I was broken
    Once I was better off than I thought
    Now, I was only young.

    I’ve discovered
    that there is no better way
    of accomplishing
    than by just doing
    like Nike
    like the people in the movies, in the pictures, in memes
    and that those people
    are just as scared, just as uncertain
    as I am
    as you are
    as are we all.

    I’ve discovered
    that I am not only ignorant
    but selfish
    and incredibly human
    and that sometimes, at my worst
    I love all that I am

    and then, I am at my best.

    I’ve discovered
    that it takes two minds
    to completely understand, anything
    and that this duality
    this struggle against extremes
    against myself
    is exactly what I needed.

    I’ve discovered
    that time moves two ways
    backwards, and forwards
    and that ‘now’ is only an illusion
    a memory
    my imagination

    Now is a vehicle we use to move life with our minds
    until we lose our place, and remember, we are alive.

    I have discovered.


  37. jadetney

    In the bitter crack in my voice
    and the angry twist of words
    flung with suppressed rage;

    In the mistrustful jerk away
    shrugged off eye contact
    and the fanciful dance of escape;

    In shame playing at defiance
    uncertainty creeping under perseverance
    in a lost and found tenderness
    she found my fear.

  38. Nanamaxtwo


    Circled by fellow addicts,
    I lay the blame on my mother.
    Their eyes lowered in disgust
    reflect the rising phlegmon from my heart,
    as my anger, the waste of what I might
    have become slavers out my mouth:
    denial, defense, forgiving neither
    my mother being the horrid best
    she could produce on any given day, nor
    myself for wallowing in our swamp, the hurt
    I choose to drown in my drink. Too late.
    What do they know.

  39. breeswitzer

    You are new to me
    again. The water is running downhill
    again. Droplets on green needles of trees
    baptize me
    as I walk under.

    The first time
    you were so new
    I was bewildered again and again
    as a baby may be
    with a dripping pear.

    your voice is familiar
    but the way you kiss me
    is like a train that is almost late.

    Your hands
    that draw my hips closer
    move of their own accord and I sense I
    am more woman now, while you
    have a different deeper yearning.

    You say your current state
    has nothing to do with you and me
    and I believe that. Also
    I am not hurt by it, while
    that ealier version of me
    would always have been.

    Do I regret our partings? Not even
    a little.

    I am running downhill like the rain
    your voice so familiar when finally we speak
    after weeks
    your eyes even more so —
    that love in them
    washing over me and through me
    like the warmest heaviest rain.

    I am here.
    I tell you this over and over, hoping
    that one of the repetitions
    will be remembered
    when it comes time for you
    to need someone.

    – Bree Switzer

  40. dolsz35

    Letter to a Stranger

    I’ve been thinking about you lately
    I’ve been imagining what you’re doing
    Coloring in the details of your life
    Shading in the parts that I like most twice

    I want to know what you look like when you’re happy
    I want to know the little creases that your face makes
    When you’re upset
    Does your expression change when you’re embarrassed?

    Do your eyes shine the way the sun makes mine?
    I wonder how you whisper
    If you’re silent with your pleasure
    I want to know
    Just how you like to be touched
    How much is too little and what is too much?
    What are you afraid of?
    What do you when you’re sad?
    Do you write? Do you cry? Do you go for a swim? Do you sing lullabies?

    My soul is dichotomized
    I have one piece and you have the other
    Have you ever heard The Symposium by Plato?
    Has anyone ever loved you enough to read it to you?
    Well I do.
    According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created
    With four arms, four legs and a head with two faces.
    Fearing this power, Zeus split them into two separate beings,
    Condemning them to spend their lives searching for each other.

    Now let’s not argue about it
    Let’s not even label it
    No, I’m not going to call you my soul mate
    Or my other half
    All I’m asking is for the piece of me that resides within you
    To come home where it belongs
    You’re a little piece I need to be complete

    I’m ready
    I’m ready to be with you
    I’m ready to be true
    To be there
    To not be scared
    I’m ready to give
    To give you whatever it is you want
    Whatever it is you need
    I know people just say that
    But you could tell me
    “Baby, catch me a star”
    And I would try to do it like it wasn’t impossible
    I would go to the hardware store
    And tell them “Hey! I need to catch a star for this really special girl that I wanna spend forever with”
    And they’ll sell me a special rope
    And I’ll drive to high ground at night on a full moon
    And throw that rope so hard in the sky and pray to God
    It lands on your star
    And pull it down close to my heart
    To give to you.

    I want to be your secret keeper

    I want you to count on me like the pages in

    Your diary

    I want to be the proof of your existence

    I want people to know that you lived just

    By looking at me

    I want you to be
    My one and only
    My forever truly
    My soul complete
    The reason my heart skips a beat
    I just want you to be
    With me.

  41. rferrier


    i dreamt of meeting your parents for the first time,
    though in reality
    i’ve known them for almost a year now.

    in the dream…

    your parents were the same.
    your sister, different.
    an entirely different person.
    different hair.
    in college.
    i’m not sure why.

    you had 5 dogs.
    i remember that clearly.
    5 of them.
    though i can’t tell you what any of them looked like.

    i let them —
    your parents —
    into the building.
    they didn’t know it was me.
    the one they were there to meet.

    when they discovered we were the same —
    “her” and “me” —
    they were shocked.
    i’m not sure why.

    then, i woke.

    what do you think it means?
    that i remembered this dream.
    but no others?

  42. kimberleetm

    The Ship of The Bed

    Everything half-grasped
    in morning sheets, the clock
    not sought or thought
    of yet; why doesn’t the terrain
    appear, oasis-clear at three
    p.m., when clocks slow down
    to keep us at our desks
    til the day spits us out
    weary, homebound
    without invention,
    sleep still
    an evening off.

  43. elysebrownell

    If this wasn’t going to be how we ended
    I was going to have to find another way
    Elyse Brownell

    Last time you opened your mouth,
    I fell into it

    It was dark, and the walls
    were not easy walls to climb

    I touched each part of you
    hoping that would be enough

    I opened the side door
    hoping the rain would cause flooding

    but the flooding only convinced
    us to build a boat from our bodies

    to float inside this shallow cave
    and use our bellies as cushions

    if this wasn’t going to be how we ended
    one of us would have to drown

    sometimes, that is the only way to
    exit each other.

  44. emmaisan0wl

    Today I Discovered I Don’t Feel Guilt
    “This morning, at five a.m.
    among tangled blankets and hot breaths
    I rediscovered the spark in my stomach.
    My god, I hope you don’t regret it,
    even if that makes you as terrible a person
    as I am. The road to hell is paved
    with good intentions, they say.
    But unless the road to heaven is paved with bad ones,
    I will burn in your arms all the same.”

  45. carolemt87


    Walking the creek bed
    looking for fossils
    after the spring rain
    we found the boy’s body.

    Faded Kansas City Chiefs
    baseball cap over curly blonde hair
    brown jacket unzipped
    one of his blue sneakers untied
    little fingers reaching upward
    right hand almost grasping.

    As I look down at the dead boy
    silent in the leaf litter and broken branches
    missing since last fall, I think about my son being born
    and how in the first few minutes
    his tiny hand curled around my finger.

    I think about the boy’s mother
    her greatest fear in front of me
    and wonder what she will do
    with that empty space where
    her little boy used to live.

    Carol J Carpenter

  46. breeswitzer


    You are new to me
    again. The water is running downhill
    again. Droplets on green needles of trees
    baptize me
    as I walk under.

    The first time
    you were so new
    I was bewildered again and again
    as a baby may be
    with a ripe, dripping pear.

    your voice is familiar
    but the way you kiss me
    is like a train that is almost late.

    Your hands
    that draw my hips closer
    move of their own accord and I sense I
    am more woman now, while you
    have a different deep yearning.

    You say your current state
    has nothing to do with you and me
    and I believe that. Also
    I am not hurt by it while
    that ealier version of me
    would always have been.

    Do I regret our partings? Not even
    a little.

    I am running downhill like the rain
    your voice so familiar when finally we speak
    after weeks
    your eyes even more so —
    that love in them
    washing over me and through me
    like the warmest heaviest rain.

    I am here.
    I tell you this over and over, hoping
    that one of the repetitions
    will be remembered
    when it comes time for you
    to need someone.

    – Bree Switzer

  47. modscribery

    Day 5: Discovery poem

    “You Are There”

    You say you are moving away,
    but I say that away is moving with you.

    It is only now,
    warned of your absence
    from the place I called haven,
    I realize it is you
    I have longed to revisit.

  48. jclenhardt

    Ship of Dreams

    It was here;
    in the mass expanse
    of the rocket boosters,
    in the counting
    of the tiles; in their
    hopeful ability
    at deflecting heat,
    so long as none
    were missing,
    and they weren’t,
    as we cocked
    our necks backwards,
    our faces turned up
    towards the very
    meaning of the word
    itself, “Discovery.”
    And this is what it was,
    as we stood beneath
    in awe and thought;
    of all the places
    it had ventured,
    of all the places
    it had gone,
    men, who, at one point
    or another had
    only dreamed of;
    until they built
    this; their ship of dreams,
    and it became
    the very definition
    of what it was,
    tile by tile,
    and took them with it.

  49. TomNeal

    Quhy Sowld Nocht Allane Honorit Be

    We turned and there it was, unexpected,
    A path following the field’s southern edge,
    a hidden track parallel to the road
    That runs from the farmhouse to town and back:
    A road that runs to, it runs fro.

    However, I digress from my story
    About the secret path beside the field,
    Its grass and flowers mashed brutally down
    By treaded black tyres, wheels bearing a load:
    A wheel that turns to, it turns fro.

    The field, unremarkable pastureland,
    Covered with crop circles in old barley,
    Has secrets, but merits no description,
    Its Icons point to nothing undiscovered:
    An icon that points to, it points fro.

    I don’t expect to discover a clue
    That reveals the force that surrounds the field,
    Creating paths, pointless paths, to nowhere
    But this field of Barleycorn’s; John Barleycorn’s:
    A clue that convicts may also acquit:
    A road that runs to, it runs fro.

  50. gus

    Day 5: My Eyes Are Open

    What has happened?
    What is wrong with the world?
    Too much is wrong,
    And we are oblivious.

    We go through the motions
    Day by day, never knowing
    That the motion of the world
    Is moving us to madness.

    There are children starving
    And women being shamed;
    There’s hatred in our hearts,
    Yet we call ourselves saints.

    My eyes have just been opened
    To what’s happening today.
    But most people don’t see it,
    It’s hidden from their eyes.

    You see, in their brains,
    Everything is fine.
    But I know that’s not true,
    I’ve opened my eyes.

    I’ve discovered the truth
    About this messed up world,
    And I intend to do something
    To fix it for good.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  51. Mark Conroy


    That’s who you and I turned out to be
    It didn’t start out that way
    We charged into each other nothing could keep us apart
    Our hunger was only for each other
    My hands moved over you—pushing and pressing into every part
    My mouth kept you wet—licking and sucking whoever you were
    I needed you more than myself. You were everything else to me
    Then we’d sleep in peace—stuck to each other so tight—it was painful to peel us apart.
    When we awoke all we wanted was more
    My life was meant and spent only for you.
    Then we had to go away—you first—me a little later
    There was the rest of the world the world that wanted to kill us
    It was a battle to stay together whatever the cost
    The cost wore us away—kept us from each other—because
    We still needed each other more
    Now I wonder why we had each other—until there wasn’t enough
    I watched you and you watched me We didn’t touch
    I wasn’t enough. Everyone including you wanted more so you drifted away

    Mark Conroy

  52. Jaywig

    Day 5 a discovery poem


    As rivers stop clapping
    over rocks and stepping stones

    As dams slide, exposing
    results of activity formerly hidden
    beneath apparent stillness

    As waters of all kinds
    appear as merely ordinary
    rather than the subjects
    of gratitude we’ve made them
    for several years now

    I discover I am tongue-tied
    unable to counteract
    the sacrifice of ancient grassland
    to industrial mullock heaps
    unable to address
    erosion as a state of being
    for human being.

  53. Alaska Christina


    Like ancient petroglyphs scratched across rugged, rocky surfaces
    A crisscrossing pattern of lines juts haphazardly outward from the corners of my eyes
    As the days and months, moments and years pass, these wrinkles etch themselves Deeper and deeper
    A pronouncement of reconciliation for the chronicle of my life
    Hope and hopelessness, health and stress, wonder and fear, joy and anger
    Great choices, poor choices, choices not made and choices made without my say
    No archaeologist invades my face seeking knowledge
    No friend
    No lover
    No child
    I am the keeper of these tales
    They are my rite of passage
    These lifelines
    A legacy hard won
    Creases marching across the landscape that is mirrored back to me
    Displayed for public consumption, reverence or shunning
    Listen, listen they whisper
    My own story folding and unfolding
    Bow down to me and I will bow down to you
    These ancient petroglyphs scratched across rugged rocky surfaces

  54. cdonnelltx@yahoo.com


    Hiding behind the public me

    Is one I was supposed to be

    Then my parents always said

    In a fantasy world you tread

    Why can’t you just be a girl?

    Cook the meals. Don’t read a book

    Music’s not important enough

    Now rusty bits and pieces seen

    here of what might have been.

    Whatever happened to me?

  55. Shell


    Lost is all by the moment of discovery,
    your valued worthless.
    Not worth fighting for.
    Not worth loving.
    Not worth upholding vows.
    Begging in earnest for meek’s sake,
    shattered reality never to be good enough.
    Willing to die inside for consequence.
    An empty shell once a bright light,
    blackened by not being worthy.

  56. Scott Jacobson


    The never never brides with blue hair
    dance and kiss and fall into the scaffolds
    of their glittering platform shoes
    and rainbow fairy tale wings.
    The guys with the mohawks start a hand
    hold revolution as they try to remove
    the exquisite layers of clothing
    resting on their hidden taboos.
    A search engine of lips repeat
    the chorus to the song sung
    by a certified voodoo hypnotist.
    Lasting love does a table dance
    as my mistress forces my ragdoll
    to kiss and caress her neck.
    Then a girl in a white slip touches
    my hand to tell me I don’t belong here.

    Off day. Been rewriting this all day. Got such a headache.

  57. AC Leming

    As with yesterday’s post, written day of, posted day late. Ah, my chaotic life…

    When Galaxies Collide

    **********************for Anna

    cattails form
    *****long trails of stars.

    Suns follow their own light —
    **********disappear down the maw
    ***************of a galaxy killer.

    Sipped down the straw
    **********of a black hole,
    ***************how does matter unfurl

    when gravitational forces
    **********tear it down
    ***************to its building blocks?

    Physicists know the equation
    **********has to balance:
    ****************A + B = C
    ****************E + MC2

    even when drawn down the rabbit hole
    **********into the realm of fairy tales, fantasy
    ***************and astrophysics.

  58. hohlwein


    When a woman’s email starts with xox
    and ends with xox
    and includes her hair color
    it seems safe to assume
    she is loving,
    not bald,
    can type.

    It also seems safe to assume
    we can’t help ourselves,
    no matter the love
    or tresses or words
    we already have.

    If there is chocolate within reach
    it is soon dissolving in the heat of our mouths
    – but only if no one is watching us
    give ourselves our every satisfaction
    as if we will tomorrow be bleached, nameless bones tumbling unassembled on the deserted shores of eternity.

    As long as we can see
    we risk our kingdoms for a filthy word
    mmmm yes
    – for our eyes only.


  59. Beewrite

    By Michelle Starks Murrish

    A challenge presented itself to a child
    And I judged it to be much to grand
    Her eyes were determined, excited and wild
    Yet I stepped in with a wave of my hand

    I immediately saw my fault in her frown
    It’s a moment I’ll never recover
    Watching, I saw the fire die down
    I have stolen her chance to discover

  60. Reynard

    Bottle Hunting

    glittering gleaming
    in the fading sun
    bits of shiny treasures
    most would pass by
    but to us
    these bits of broken
    left behind discarded
    100 years ago
    they are history
    we brush away the
    that has buried them
    that we will
    discover a whole one
    a rare one
    a find of a lifetime
    and it’s me
    and him, my father
    collecting not only
    memories from those
    before us
    but our own too

  61. Liliuokalani

    When I Met Great Grandma Louise – Pantoum

    My great grandma
    wore a black dress.
    We met her on silver dollar paper,
    seams in tact.

    In a black dress,
    the silent ink blot
    with seams in tact
    unhinged with the tenth child.

    Silent ink blot,
    motherless in two days,
    and unhinged with the last child,
    my grandma, unfurls her fingers,

    opens and closes a book,
    my great grandma,
    the invisible story –
    we met her on silver dollar paper.

  62. Melahlah

    When I discovered writing
    Was a journey,
    A discovery in itself,
    No longer mere duty,
    I did not fully realize
    What I’d stepped through:
    A portal into a new universe
    With wondrous and infinite new worlds
    Waiting in the void to be born.
    All of my own making.
    The borders of this universe,
    Ever expanding
    At the rate of my own imagination,
    Sometimes slowing to almost nothing,
    At times hurling through time
    Almost beyond my ability to keep up;
    Often playing crack-the-whip
    With me as the tail
    Holding on for dear life
    With what little bravery I had,
    Until I gained more control.
    Learning how better to navigate
    The geography of one planet
    Before transporting to another.
    Funny how once I stepped
    Over the threshold of that door
    I never could come back fully.
    Physically, maybe.
    But every other bit of me still inside
    Would leave that door cracked open
    At least a little.
    Always within reach,

  63. Zeenie

    deviled heart

    The first time I see someone dying,
    I do not recognize it as that.

    I do not understand how insides
    can melt, though outsides remain whole,

    how wires behind metal-bone
    eyes fizz and crack, the look

    of someone believing in nothing
    but their own destruction.

    I could not see what happened
    to my skin when I started dying –

    pieces of my cheek chewed out,
    forehead splitting. I came to know

    the jarred teeth inside of me
    as the grief I swallowed whole –

    jaws blooming with seeds of pain,
    I discovered my heart had horns.

  64. Daniel Boster

    Turkey Vultures
    by Daniel Boster

    Seconds ago,
    he discovered,
    by two shadows,
    that the gliding
    arcs of vultures
    are as graceful
    as those
    of eagles,
    of hawks,
    of falcons.

    And, now,
    he wants to
    for his
    when he thought
    he was only just
    doing his part,
    when others
    must have dreaded
    his slow circles.

  65. dextrousdigits

    Dis Cover

    Spread apart the curtain
    Remove the veil
    Unlock the door to see what is there
    Unwrap the present to see love or guilt manifest
    Watch a hummingbird, butterfly, koi fish, or spider weave
    Open a book
    Try something new
    Blow bubbles, play peek a-boo, rock a child
    Go sit by a stream, tree, beach
    Close your eyes and see with your ears

  66. David Walker

    The End of Things Before They Begin

    As a child, we would catch
    our own bait.
    My father would upturn
    a rock after a rain
    and point down.
    ‘Grab one’ he would instruct
    me and I would reach
    deep into the sleeve of styrofoam
    cups. Handing it to him,
    I would stare into the dirt
    writhing with worms. He shoveled
    earth and its passengers
    away before clapping the mud
    from his jeans, the ground looking
    less alive.

  67. Jane Shlensky

    Divinum Mysterium

    Sometimes a stream goes underground
    and flows into a waterbed,
    its tracks covered with prairie grass.

    Years pass as cedar saplings grow
    with briars on this patchy place
    where only dowsers sense a stream.

    Divining rods of hazel, peach,
    or willow bow where water lies,
    twitching as living nerve revives.

    Men with water wizardry
    will walk a wasteland guided by
    a slender branch of memory.

    The way the rod dips down to drink
    at what is absent makes us think
    that spirits flow beneath the soil.

    We watch as water wisdom’s tapped,
    as dowser resurrects a soul
    we felt but never saw.

  68. amaranthe

    Here is mine. It also takes the poetical form of a golden shovel:

    An entomologist after an apocalypse

    They told me don’t
    go there. Don’t weep.
    Millions of insects;
    many of them lovers
    dead under blasted stars.
    Little creatures hiding themselves.
    But I must
    piece to together each part for part.

  69. Nancy Posey

    I had lots of time to write yesterday at the Gathering of Poets in Winston-Salem, but no chance to post. (Is it acoustic when I write with pen on paper?)

    Easter Surprise in June

    Weeks after they left
    she found them there
    under the dried leaves
    where the daffodils had grown:
    two plastic Easter eggs,
    one lilac, one pink,
    both empty, the candy
    eaten, surely, after the first
    round of the egg hunt.

    She could have, should have
    picked them up, saving
    them in the baskets kept
    on the top shelf in the room
    upstairs, taken down
    on just such occasions,
    children in the house
    on holiday, never long
    enough. Their leavings,
    surprises discovered
    in the flowerbeds,
    under sofa cushions
    kept surprising her
    as long as she left them,
    one bonus of her new
    shorter memory.

    1. dextrousdigits

      beautiful and poignant.
      I used to put cards to my dad in new envelopes regularly so that when he went to get the mail, he would always have a card, note, or letter. He had always loved to get the mail, especially when there was something personal sent to him.

  70. madeline40

    Did you know
    scientists think microbes
    own the earth
    and we only live on it?
    Those little things have been
    here 250 million years
    and caused the largest loss of life
    our planet has ever seen back then.

    Did you know these tiny microbes
    never go away?
    We can’t just vaccinate
    ourselves against them
    or eradicate them
    with a spray can.
    They cause an epidemic,
    hibernate like bears for a while
    and then attack us again
    with more vengeance
    the next time.

    I’d say that’s a huge discovery.

  71. JamesW


    The makeshift pleasures in which my mind sought refuge
    I sought to stitch together closer and closer
    Sop from pressures in which hid an ominous deluge
    Lurking darkly unseen but faster and faster
    Its discovery was rest to a wearied mind
    Sirens lulling gently into death-dealing bind
    Sweetly eating the will, that I none could find

    Missing the treasures of my wit that were soon to be lost
    But bowing disinclined my need to feed
    Sentries of my bounds that would desert their post
    Setting aside the fetters of seed and creed
    Descending, heart-rending, end impending
    Trying, crying, for control dying
    Falling, failing, gracelessly flailing

    Finally I sought the Sirens’ enchanting voices to drown
    If I wasn’t then I couldn’t falter
    On their foamy rocks my jaded ship willfully thrown
    To sink a last time without a halter
    My last thought before it was all over,
    Right before final stupor would my mind cover,
    Was of the day, this slow death I did discover!

  72. Pamela


    It lay obscured in a dark corner
    The beautifully crafted wooden chest
    We were packing up grandma’s things
    It had been a week since we laid her to rest

    A brooch, three rings, an old journal
    Nestled among mothballs and scraps of lace
    Below the diary lay an old photograph
    There stood grandma with a smile on her face

    She was young, maybe eighteen or twenty
    A young man had his arm around her
    Tall and handsome, in a well cut suit
    It was a shock to see it wasn’t grandfather

    ‘When was this taken’ I wondered aloud
    ‘Turn it over, there might be a date’
    Lo and behold, there it was
    In faded ink, January nineteen fifty eight

    The mystery photograph intrigued us
    We read the journal for a clue
    It spoke of a love story hitherto unknown
    Sentimental and sweet yet tragic too

    They were in love, Gran and the man
    When Fate destroyed their plans
    A fatal accident took him away for good
    Leaving Gran to nurse her broken heart in silence

    Then one day she met my Gramps
    His love helped her overcome her sorrow
    Together they build a wonderful life
    Creating a legacy that lives on, today and tomorrow

    With the last breath that left her body
    I wonder whose face did she see
    This unexpected discovery in grandma’s attic
    Suddenly became so very special for me

  73. Megaparsec

    Africa 2009 in Present Perspective

    I went on a trip called Discovery
    In a journal I wrote my discoveries
    But it is only in reading them now
    That I have truly discovered

  74. Debbie


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

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

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

  75. Vince Gotera

    Forgot to post yesterday’s poem. Mashup of PA prompt for a discovery poem with Maureen Thorson’s prompt from NaPoWriMo to write a “golden shovel” poem, a form invented by Terrace Hayes: each line ending with successive words in a poem. Hayes’s example was a poem built from Gwendolyn Brooks’s “We Real Cool” (source also of the form name “golden shovel”). I wrote one also using Brooks’s “We Real Cool.” Hope you enjoy it.

    “Discovery — A Golden Shovel”

         after Terrance Hayes
         and Gwendolyn Brooks

    Friends, what can we discover if we
    think only about what’s real?
    Or worse yet, what’s cool?

    No, no. let’s stretch our minds. We
    can look beyond right and left.
    Forget all we learned at school.

    Geometry, civics, chemistry we
    detested in high school. There lurk
    old bugaboos and heartbreaks. Late

    friends, relatives, and enemies we
    had forgotten have died. Let’s strike
    out into perilous wilderness, straight

    into rapacious light of the sun we
    take for granted every day. Let’s sing
    of flames and waterfalls, saints and sin.

    Seek the exotic, delicate axolotl we
    have glimpsed only on the internet. Thin
    tall sequoias. Rare Tanqueray Malacca Gin.

    Whatever elegance and bright glory we
    can chase. Rockabilly and acid jazz
    in the voluptuous summer daze of June.

    Fiery spaceships. Icarus wax wings. We
    need to jump without looking. If we die
    we die. Let’s live, live, live . . . and soon.

         —Vince Gotera


    Robert, since I’m a guest judge, no need to consider my poem in the competition, unless you think it’s okay. —V.

  76. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 5

    Write a discovery poem.


    as I am,
    I didn’t make the discovery
    of unwanted water pooling:
    top shelf, bottom shelf, and crisper.

    I now observe,
    no later,
    we shall go refrigerator shopping,

    hoping to discover an unleaky one.

  77. Jenn Todd Lavanish

    I have discovered that I am not a morning person.

    For years I get up,
    Start my day,
    Have coffee,
    Skip breakfast.
    Look disgusted by my wardrobe…

    But all that happens after the snooze on my alarm clock blares
    Sometimes an hour before I get up.

    If the sun isn’t up,
    I don’t want to be either.

    And the most awful truth,
    Is chirping birds in the morning
    Really piss me off.

    And I have discovered
    That my offspring feel the same way.

  78. Richasapenny

    Tandem Lovers

    It will never be warm enough
    Leaving me alone
    No more cuddle comfort
    The temperature of all of you
    I’m so green with envy
    That no one will ever sea
    I swallow the ocean of the truth
    Choking on the depth of it
    Pounding me on passion beach
    The waves have left me gasping
    I have swallowed every grain of sand since
    I lost sight of the sails of your hair in the wind
    I live here anchored
    Both arms reaching toward the sun
    I’m ready to hold you again
    Longing to discover new warmth
    And the old comfort in your green eyes
    Like moon coupled jewels in the night sky
    The tides of euphoria I feel
    Will you….. come pull me in
    And see me now!
    Floating over all of you

    My sweet lover persona poet
    I hear you now your waves
    Are so rich with emotion
    You crash against my shore
    With each letter…
    Secret lover of words
    Streaming from your well
    Dredged up melting my senses
    Taking us to timelessness
    And the turning page
    Finds us found in thin air
    Gasping for the next words
    On our breath on our lips
    Lovers discovering
    The insanity of beings in love
    Repeating time and space
    Reading feeling our creation
    Knowing it is real

  79. Taylor Emily Copeland

    Attempt #4, Saturday morning

    The kitchen floor cradled you like
    a newborn, impossibly twisted, your
    legs like scissors in repose.
    We searched your neck, your wrist
    looking for the faintest pulsation
    before we lifted you up, not able
    to bear the sight of your dark hair
    spilled across the linoleum like
    a shattered bottle of nail polish.
    One, two, three compressions and my
    lips were on your face, as they were
    months before. There was a twitch
    and a groan. A hard shove and no
    gratitude. “You should have fucking
    left me where you found me.”
    I knew it was the last time I could
    save you from what Minnesota winters
    do to you, from what your broken
    brain wants done.

  80. Gabrielle Freeman

    Driving East

    I should have known how it would turn out
    when I got so sick in Vegas, I couldn’t
    eat much less drive, so my dad drove the way
    he always did – without stopping and fast.

    By that time, his car was fuel-efficient,
    small, and we made it to Pennsylvania
    in short time on little sleep. His great aunt
    gave us sandwiches, beer, and old photos.

    People I’d never met, but they gave me
    the shape of my eyes, the length of my bones.
    Then the picture on the courthouse steps.
    A discovery – black & white first wife.

    My grandfather smiling in uniform
    next to a woman not so different
    from my grandmother, perfectly curled
    hair, pencil skirt, heels. Her name forgotten.

    The next day, we were in Virginia
    and I was well on my way to being
    a first wife. I haven’t thrown those photos
    away, swords raised, white dress, dress blues.

    They sit in a box and grow brittle
    with change, heat and freezing cold. I wonder
    if somewhere my smiling face will be unearthed,
    studied over lunch. Brief shock, mild interest.

    by Gabrielle Freeman – see the post at my writing process web site http://www.ladyrandom.com. Thanks!

  81. jsmadge

    Nothing Has Changed Except You

    They’ve always been around, these truths.
    Cooking is the ultimate performance art.
    God too far to believe in? Try the military. Or sports.
    The local bodega fills its windows
    With oversized pictures of food
    Because your neighbors can’t read.

    Open your eyes, Sunshine.
    The old world just became new.

    Jo Steigerwald

  82. Brian Slusher


    Like Dante in his dim wood, we wander
    the morning mirror, trying to stay lost
    in the image we remember, the smooth-
    skinned version, burnished and blithe,
    quick as a bullet through the butter of life,
    but then in the thick of the beard or buried
    in the curve of the baroque curls shines
    a silver line, a gray path into the shadows
    our eyes start to walk, and the weight
    settles in our face, the burden we pack
    for the pale road we take into the dark.

  83. keepkeepingmesane

    “With Horns”
    By Jeremy Johnson

    I often wonder what it must be like
    to be so brash as a viking
    wearing horns on their helmets.
    Then running out to get the mail in the rain
    I fully understand why …
    I own an umbrella hat.

  84. drwasy


    Even now, slush puddles
    yellowed grass,
    the cold-frame leans
    against the shed.
    By the fence, stale
    leaves left from autumn,

    pine needles mildew
    splintered, skeletal
    tomatoes still
    tethered to cages.
    In the darkest corner
    winter smothers

    all but azalea and hosta.
    There, pink spears poke
    past black rot,
    and I remember:
    rhubarb rising,
    red and triumphant

  85. gl86


    I lit out to that spot along the Bayou,
    unpeopled and unmarked but for a furcated,
    half-ruin’d Cypress, ever leaning.

    Here is latent and lush with the unwanted,
    all tuned into the same mired pulse
    of this thick, black water bog,
    slowed to a listless still.
    A place where the barely breathing remain
    evermore as they were
    in sickly air and
    humid oppression.

    Here is a place weighted with mossy memories and abundant lost time.
    Here is a place to avoid discovery; a haven and a curse.

  86. robinamelia


    Nothing to see here

    The state of total surveillance
    makes no difference
    to the writer

    She has always felt
    her thoughts were broadcasting
    to Somewhere

    even when they only bounced
    echoing back
    from infinitely distant walls

    Robin Amelia Morris

  87. Ciel_


    I had to peek when you weren’t looking.
    What are you hiding in that drawer?
    I saw the box.
    And then I saw the ring.
    I have to call my mom! I have to call my sisters!
    I have to call everyone.
    Oh wait. I have to wait.
    I have to pretend I didn’t see anything.

    By Ciel Haven


  88. claudia marie clemente

    The Scorpion and The Print

    This morning I found a scorpion —
    the first I’d ever seen —
    but I had not a moment to marvel;
    Aurelio was scrambling about barefoot, anxious
    to slide a cardboard box to the hall.

    I snatched it up in a tissue.
    It crumbled, almost ash,
    but its tail was erect in a stinging arc,
    as if frozen in attack.
    It had died hidden

    by a portfolio leaned on the closet wall;
    I have been meaning to unseal and roll
    Anita’s Billie Holiday —
    signed and dedicated for the wedding:
    the artist’s proof

    I was already pregnant when I packed up
    the last bits and left the country, en route to new
    life in another, and dropped the print here
    One day, I thought, a new passe-partout
    can cover Anita’s scrawl and Daniel’s name.

    I’ve been emptying my mother’s house in slow motion.
    One day stuffing donation bags — hanger-fulls
    of pink synthetic shirts,
    One day recycling
    cases of “Healthy Heart Drops”

    The portfolio remains here,
    standing alone in the closet so large
    it reminds me of a bedroom
    in my fresh-out-of-college apartment, the one
    I shared with Daniel

    I am still not quite sure
    what to do with it –
    certainly not hang it on my new wall,
    not with that inscription – best wishes for your
    marriage. What would Billie Holiday do?

    A passe partout, a passe partout,
    but right now, I thought, we leave this for another time;
    the baby’s got bare feet and poisonous insects
    crawl from cracks — shiny eyes in the dark.
    The closet door closed. It’s almost empty.

    The scorpions will soon have nowhere else to hide.

    *** Claudia Marie Clemente ***

  89. FaerieTalePoet

    Aphrodite’s Mirror

    I saw you,
    before we met,
    glimpsed you in
    Aphrodite’s mirror
    midst meditation,
    felt your hand
    on my cheek,
    heard you whisper
    So beautiful.

    It was months
    before energy
    entwined and I
    connected the dots
    and realized you
    were the one in
    Aphrodite’s mirror

    Dana A. Campbell

  90. Mariya Koleva

    Here is my Discovery poem. Strange enough, it came out rhymed. I don’t do rhyming much, but voila :-)

    Blinking in amazement,
    or shuddering in the cold –
    harps don’t sound so sad
    when you’re not alone.

    Full to the brim of the smiles
    we plucked from lips and cheeks,
    our ocean will disguise
    what we have sought and never seen.

    Somewhere on the beach
    sorrow lies asleep.
    Hush! Don’t ever wake it –
    of it, we have no need.

  91. donnellyk

    ~~Discovering Who the Real Hero is~~

    Marked fragile,
    they wait patiently.
    Souls screaming,
    arms outstretched.
    Here’s the paperwork to sign
    to allow me in.

    Sit quiet,
    size each other up.
    In the air,
    building trust.
    Waiting for the dam to break.
    Blankets in the wings.

    The tales told, tears spilled.
    Breath hitching.
    Grounding now.
    I need gather the fragments.
    Oh and paperwork.

    Who hears me,
    weary counselor.
    Give me grace,
    to fulfill
    their heart’s desires for freedom.
    I ask you humbly.

    ~Kimberleigh Donnelly

  92. tbell

    Beneath the Heap

    Dare to remove
    what you don’t like
    from your life then

    squirm and squint
    bend down, look close
    press against the window
    pane of what’s left over

    buried somewhere
    within the heap, you
    will find yourself

    dig Her out
    and dance.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  93. Jay Sizemore

    Disco ver(ses)

    Cocaine between her breasts and my tongue is numb,
    the moon is a fucking glitter ball with stars for reflections.
    Pants stretched tight over this atomic bomb,
    I’m driving fast, I don’t ask for directions.

    Gutterball, speedball, figure eight, funk bass,
    I left a fork in the microwave.
    Yellow-tinted sunglasses the size of my face,
    smoking cigarettes in an aeroplane.

    The mob’s smuggling heroin into the city,
    shaking hands in the alley, buying off the cops.
    Hanoi Jane’s riding an enemy aircraft gun,
    but the real traitors knew the Gulf of Tonkin was a lie.

    People so high their bones are neon,
    the television rolls without vertical hold,
    visions of bloody flesh shredded in green fatigues,
    the Beatles have broken up.

    I’m ready for it to be over,
    ready to come down off these platform shoes
    and walk barefoot through a cemetery of fresh graves and roses,
    tip-toeing around memories too painful to relive.

  94. utsabfly


    Now, in emerging full light,
    I’ve started discovering me.
    She has been waiting many years,
    Desiring to be heard and seen.
    Now that I’m looking straight at her,
    And the veil is finally lifting.
    I seek to know who she really is
    Through truth and lies I’m sifting…

    ©E.D. Allee
    April, 2014

  95. mfitts847@gmail.com

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

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

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

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

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

    The brilliant light
    From heaven above
    Shinning down
    A radiant love

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

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

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

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

  96. Mariejoy

    “Grandmother’s Library”

    At night my grandmother filled the house with otherworldly noises. You could hear each inhalation struggle its way up her face, vibrate in the back of her throat, and settle in a tired sigh. Perhaps my dad and my uncles and my grandfather cried, to hear each painful breath. It never occurred to me to cry, during those summer visits; I was too young and happy. She never spoke much after surgery damaged her voice. In the mornings she fried eggs for us and made cups of hot chocolate. For the rest of the day she seemed to fade into the walls. On an afternoon hot and bright like the fried yoke of an egg, I roamed the house, liking the slap of my footsteps against the wooden floors. In the attic I found a wardrobe of chiffon flower girl dresses and a painting of the face of Jesus my father did when he was a teenager. But it was a bookshelf hidden in a corner of my grandparents’ bedroom that stopped my tramping. Among two-hundred year old British novels and volumes of poetry was a collection of Greek myths. I wish I had spoken to grandmother about her books and her favorite writers. All I did that summer was take down the Greek myths, settle on a comfortable armchair in the sitting room, and read about Aphrodite and Adonis’s love affair, and Arachne challenging Athena.

    -Mariejoy San Buenaventura

  97. DanielAri

    “Free Creek”

    Thousands of purple dragonflies
    attend the lilliputian snake
    of water under buckeye shade.
    A glass bottle stuck in the bank
    has trapped a dogwood root. This prize

    was dug up out of railroad tracks,
    from truck yards and junk yards. Dusty,
    flat acres had covered trickles
    of fresh, high aquifer. The mud
    of decades—up through the nineties—

    shrouded the flow like an umbra.
    I’m one of those folks offended
    at the idea Columbus
    “discovered” anything. “Arrived”
    is what we’d say. But Baxter Creek

    was at least re-discovered by
    local explorers of Richmond.

  98. CristinaMRNorcross

    To Be the White Orchid

    Your newly polished self –
    it shines in light
    and in dark.
    It rises above.
    Your newly polished self
    knows no boundaries,
    because you have come
    full circle
    to the lightness of Being
    that is you.

    You surge
    like the streamlined, silver power lines
    of the city –
    all jet stream
    and mercury.

    You wander into the self
    with eyes wide to truth –
    knowing that
    this sometimes isn’t pretty –
    this sometimes tastes stale.

    Your newly polished self
    wants to tango –
    wants to leave town –
    wants to be the white orchid –

    You are true blue –
    newly polished.

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  99. SestinaNia


    Swallow me down—
    I want to traverse
    veins and arteries,
    and swim in red rivers
    alongside platelets—
    let me navigate muscular landscapes,
    spelunk through systems of alveoli,
    and dance within
    the mitochondria.

    So swallow me down—
    because this explorer
    wants to chart the unexplored
    universe of you.

    –Sara Doyle

  100. Kendall A. Bell

    Right side revelations

    The nightmares continued for weeks.
    Curled on my left side, my face
    molded into a memory foam pillow,
    I was stalked by a knife wielding
    maniac, pushed into the path
    of the light rail and chased through
    the woods by a Piney with a shotgun.
    These scenarios were on endless loop
    until I switched to my right side
    on a chilly April Saturday night.

    Under the perfect placement of blanket
    and comforter, the oil fueled space
    heater sending waves of warmth over me,
    the woods became a field of thick grass.
    Barreling down towards me came a herd
    of puppies, leaping at me and licking
    me uncontrollably. The maniac killer
    traded a knife for a perfect blue sky
    and a kite and looked a lot like Kate
    Upton. The light rail was made of bubble
    wrap and I took turns throwing myself
    into its path with my friends.

    Sleeping on my back brought nothing
    but dry mouth.

  101. Shennon

    The day I discovered I was crazy
    Something snapped, I just went numb
    The world became a delightful hue
    Of colors that blended and struck me dumb

    My cares, they subsided
    My worries, they fled
    Responsibilities forgotten
    I lay for days in bed

    Now life’s become a paradise
    I coexist with the human race
    With only a fixed stare in my eyes
    And a smile upon my face


  102. briehuling

    April 5, 2014

    Day 5

    I have discovered when I say words
    like gladioli or aubergine
    out loud, feeling all their consonants
    and vowels full and round and foreign
    in my little peanut mouth, it sends me
    directly inside a chlorophyll fantasy.

    All the skin stripped back– two thousand tulips,
    stamens erect- wild, cardinal, poppies everywhere
    from which the pedals have already fallen.
    Native grasses and unripe seed pods
    braying against my stark naked body
    as I lie there impatient, absorbing the strange light.

    The shrunken portal between my wet lips whispering,
    begging– make love to me, make love to me like a perennial.

    By Brie Huling

  103. Erica

    At age seven it was
    Jack and Rose in the
    back of a steamy Renault
    sealing their love
    with a simple hand print.

    At age ten Charlotte
    sat around a table of
    girlfriends and
    described her night
    as the reason for
    her soreness.

    At age twelve HBO
    taught me that
    size matters and
    the “money shot”
    is centered for males.

    At fourteen I got
    too close with a
    second cousin
    and tattooed
    shame on my

    At sixteen it
    was at the back of
    the bus and
    Miguel’s hand
    up my skirt.

    At twenty three
    it’s the furthest
    thing from my mind.

    “When She’s Ready”

  104. Kevin D Young


    It never ceases to amaze me when
    she leaps into my lap. The story she retells –
    Mother’s lissle dance, her nature tipped against

    my cheek, the bit of me that grins
    bit by bit upon her turning, the cells
    never ceasing to amaze me when

    each, connected to the others, upends
    everything I knew I knew until it gels.
    The dancing trips again, Mother’s nature

    unsapped by Father’s fluidless feet, man’s
    wishes all unmatched to all her wonts. So the bell
    never ceases to amaze me when

    once more it sits astride my head, descends
    synapse/synapse along the cortex and sells
    a little strip of nature’s dance again. Mother

    let me want, to reach, to upward bend
    until I drink from upside wells.
    It never ceases to amaze when Mother
    Nature does a little dance and strips again.

  105. Deri

    Ode to an Unnamed Lizard

    The first thing I loved
    about Florida
    were the lizards
    to watch in a child’s fascination
    the green or brown blur
    of their sleek, low-rider bodies
    scaling the stucco walls
    their throat flaps flashing red
    sometimes tilting a kind black eye
    to look back at me

    My mother screamed
    when one ran across her foot
    She cursed at them
    tried to kill them with her broom

    I found one lounging in the sun
    on our sandy back porch
    warm and happy
    it didn’t protest when I picked it up
    and put it in a small plastic container
    for safekeeping while I ran to ask
    if I could keep him
    (of course the answer was no)

    When I opened the lid to release him
    he was dead
    my youth and inexperience
    didn’t know the lid needed holes
    and my hot tears
    could not revive him

    I felt my mother’s
    velvet-lined jewelry box
    made a fitting casket

  106. lidywilks

    to you who was always there

    the path i walked laid clear
    and unbroken and unchanging.
    so much so, that i marched
    further on, unguided, with eyes closed.
    until one misstep
    granted the sight
    of crushing darkness
    and hollowed cold.
    i stood alone,
    in a hole
    of my own
    making. lashing
    against it,
    i try to
    climb out
    only to sink
    further down.
    bruised and battered
    i cave into my despair, welcoming it
    as a treasured friend. but then
    you called for me, with your worried voice in open display.
    despite the burden we each had to bare, together i climb out
    and as i grab your hand, i wonder why had not discovered you sooner.

  107. carolecole66


    A long bike ride took me through a neighborhood
    of compact houses huddled in the sun, cowering
    beside broken driveways trembling hedges, no one
    in the yards, windows a blank threat, a stillness like winter.

    All winter the feral cat has slept on the porch, still watches
    us, hangs at the edges of the yard, a young boy, lonely,
    afraid of raccoons that come each night to steal his food.
    We set it out each night. He wants to be rescued,

    wants the domestic scene he see at night
    through the glass of the door we leave open for him.
    If only, he thinks, they would not try to touch me,
    if only I could sleep inside. He coughs through the night.

    Last night my sleep was restless, the stillness
    oppressed, dreams were threats, peace eluded me.
    This winter has been hard. Everyone’s been ill.
    Gangs roam the neighborhood, watching, blank-eyed,

    the neighbors going in and out. We all watch
    behind our shuttered windows, watch
    them ride by in their white t-shirts. One spoke,
    quite pleasant. You have a lovely house, he said.

    Inside that house, we curl on the couch, enjoy the quiet,
    cat beside us, well-fed, sleeping, the stillness
    like paralysis, uneasy, restless air. The feral cat
    is at the door; we watch it blankly through the glass,
    and do not see the thugs on bikes glide by.

  108. Stephanie Geckle

    The Discovery

    Am just one of
    Many and yet still I pull against the tug
    And tug against the pull so that when I 
    Flounder at least 
    I’ll know that I put on a good
    Show for the one who’ll one day discover
    He, too, did not get away.

  109. lionetravail

    Rediscovering a New-Old Recipe (with a volta at the end)
    by David M. Hoenig

    – Two cups of all purpose nastiness flour
    – Add four extra grade A large arguments
    – Toss in a pinch of bitters (extra sour)
    – Fold in one cup of overconfidence
    – Add one tablespoonful of mean extract
    – Stir in half cup aggressively made points
    – Add four ounces of chilly lack of tact
    – Then pour in pan greased with nose out of joint
    – Last: stew for thirty minutes at high heat,
    and watch for dish to perk and start to boil.
    – Lower the flames once you accept defeat,
    before entire dish has gone to spoil.
    Then serve, immediate, the humble pie;
    feeds one absolutely regretful guy!

  110. mshall

    The discovery

    Iin the bottom of my cup I discover
    Three grounds of coffee
    The dregs of bitterness enjoyed

    They dancing in delight
    As they tell
    The tale of where they’ve been.
    An inconspicuous bush between luscious palms
    In Ethiopians rolling hills
    First flowers white, the berries green,
    Then reddened in the sun,
    Till calloused fingers snatched them ‘way,
    And left them drying on bamboo mat.
    From mat to vat their journey went,
    From village to town to city.
    In trucks and trains they traveled to
    Ancient Addis Ababa,
    From Addis to Cairo they flew third class,
    Then further to on to Rome.
    Into the roasters, into the fires,
    They leapt massed with them the might
    Of many brothers from many lands,
    The power of many suns.
    Mixed and blended, roasted and tasted,
    Then packaged in plastic.
    From Rome they trucked across the land
    As food distribution goes,
    Passports in miniature acquired the full bevy of stamps.
    They finally flew to Narita,
    In the land of the rising sun.
    Customs cleared, to the shop they went,
    And finally to my home.

    How many people have touched these three precious grains?
    How many lives are made and broken in this production I take for granted?
    The whole wide world
    In three tiny grains
    In the bottom of my cup.

  111. daydreamwriter

    Tonight I had discovered.
    On top of the world.
    As we danced amongst the stars.
    The earth shine of the moon.
    The rings of Jupiter.
    Held a mighty spot.
    Within her heart.

  112. veronica_gurlie

    Discovering The Distance Between Us.

    There’s all this space between us,
    just so cool and clean,
    yet, we stay bent in corners,
    like half-smoked cigarettes,
    still burning for nothing.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Like your image of something bent yet still burning, even if for nothing. Great way to express how even with plenty of space, people might not actually open up to it. Clear and succinct, nice job!

  113. GirlGriot


    hands mask
    anger, fear.
    tell their own story.
    Gesture up, left, right,
    I look
    calm. But you
    Must ignore that.
    See under my gloss.
    what’s real
    in here. See
    what your eyes can’t,
    won’t. Unmask. Reveal.

  114. Linda Voit

    Sidewalk Discovery

    Still in diapers, chubby legs, he sits
    near the front porch, content
    on a warm summer day, when movement
    draws his attention to the ground.

    He reaches a tiny index finger,
    trails a black ant across concrete,
    his eyes full of curiosity. His big sister
    watches him in wonder

    until he lifts his finger and pushes down
    on the ant without warning or malice
    and it stops. He looks bewildered
    until another one comes along.

    She takes his hand, helps him keep
    his finger behind this one,
    explains how fragile
    some things are.

    Linda Voit

  115. Scott Jacobson


    You descovered the devil in the wood.
    Petted his purple fur, scratched him
    behind the ear, and sacrificed a small
    cupcake to him so he could get stronger.
    You gave him your coat to keep warm
    and your phone number so he would
    never be lonely during long walks scaring
    the souls out of the school girls that came
    to steal the flowers from his garden.
    The romantic in you wants him to change
    his ways. Move to the city, start a punk band,
    so that you two can date. But the woods
    needs its devil. So you put on your lipstick.
    You put on your red dress. You bring
    him your sacrifice. A cupcake and a kiss.

  116. rhiain30

    “Oh, there you are. I didn’t know you had left.”

    “I did. I came back, but you weren’t looking.”

    “I’ll never take my eyes off you again.”

    “I hope not. I’m supposed to die in seven minutes and thirteen seconds.”

    “I will approach Time and ask for a hundred times that number.”

    “…You know her?”

    “Yes. Don’t you?”

  117. flood

    Columbus In Reverse

    The day I found the nest there,
    I immediately wanted to undiscover it,
    to be Columbus in reverse,
    to peel my footprints from the earth
    back into my boot bottoms,
    to have this oblong accident
    in the shrubbery spool away from
    the smell of man.

  118. toujourskari

    A life of Discovery

    Gaiman unveiled that one
    Strange I had never heard it before
    Knowing the thing but not the word
    Tasting its food but never stepping foot on its shores

    I was 15 when Sting whispered that one in my ear
    The encyclopedia became my vessel
    as he took me on a worldwide hunt
    with Mephistopheles and alabaster and
    Brimstone and Treacle
    Leading me to new horizons

    Rolling it around on my tongue like an exotic fruit
    At age 8 when Benjamin Bunny was my friend
    I savored its aftertaste
    With every page came a new delicacy
    to relish

    Words are Worlds
    Meant to be discovered

  119. MichaelMcMonigle

    Hate one own
    Never spoken
    Never alone
    Lasting idols
    Fleeting, false
    Early influenced
    Simple hopes
    Rhymes are poison
    Spoiled fruit
    Hell held captive
    Nothing new
    Lyrics end
    Song dies sown
    Loathe the intimate
    Cancer grown

  120. georgiana


    We threw a bag together,
    leashed up the dogs
    and headed south,
    Because the clouds looked thinner there.

    Needless to say, we got lost.
    And it rained.
    And while we listened to the Beach Boys
    And the dogs slept,
    we watched the green get greener
    And technicolor wildflowers brush the ankles
    Of contented cows, and happy horses.

    Then we headed back home,
    And the clouds turned into popcorn

  121. Amirae Garcia

    When We First Discovered Happiness – Amirae Garcia

    We were sealed off, folded into ourselves
    like flowers in the deep of winter.
    We couldn’t reveal ourselves. Not now.
    Not yet. Not when there’s still time left
    to ruin the good that we have with the
    bad and the ugly in our hearts.

    We were fools. We tried to combine our hips,
    always together and locking lips
    like it’s the last thing we’ll do.
    Like, “My God, if the world ceases today,
    if it all stops now, God and all of man will know
    that it was you, is you, and will never be anyone else.”

    We were petrified, gasping every single time
    our fingers brushed against each other.
    This sensation that fizzes in the pit of our bellies
    couldn’t possibly a sign of love.
    It couldn’t possibly stay.

    What did we know about love anyway?
    What did we know about sacrifice?
    The raw act of sacrifice is not synonymous with happiness.
    It does not promise us endings of ever afters.
    We were lucky to get out alive.
    Right? We were lucky to get out alive.

    Sacrifice. Surrender. Yield.
    I didn’t know it then, but I could have done that.
    I could have bled and broken and given myself up for you, for all of you.
    I’m ready now. I’m changed.
    I’m too late.

  122. peacegirlout


    Today I discovered another
    Piece of evidence to support
    My growing suspicion:

    I am dissolving.

    While my body and I were making
    The most out of a fairly routine yet
    pleasurable underwater grooming ritual

    It happened:

    With the first two fingers of each hand,
    I was able to ride smoothly up and down
    the bony ridges of my pelvic roller coaster
    without so much as a bump or interruption.
    The explanation?

    I’m falling off the bone.

    The soft pads that used to provide cushioning
    For the one or other ticketed thrill seeker,
    have melted and left behind mere paper thin remains.

    The amusement park formerly known as:

    -The Carolina Cobra,
    -Shivering Timbers, and
    -the Zambesi Zinger,
    Will have to be renamed to:

    -Nightmare at Crack Axle Canyon,
    -Blackbeard’s Lost Treasure Train, or
    -Lucy’s Crabbie Cabbie

    Check schedule for weather related outages.

  123. lionetravail

    “Discovering You Missed the Moments”- A Sestina
    By David M. Hoenig

    Having in the fire one iron
    too many, one might pray that time
    were a commodity one might purchase, as on trial.
    Crippled by a lack of awareness of self,
    the spirit’s far and lonely fall
    is like snow, the silent sob of heaven weeping.

    Straying far from course, ignorance of heart’s weeping
    causes magic to flee from needle’s iron.
    Summer’s smolder soughs to Winter’s whip without ‘tweening Fall,
    and, too busy to notice the passage of time,
    the self-absorbed and selfish self
    misses gavel’s irrevocable bang at end of trial.

    Like ancient column’s neglected trial,
    where sandy tears trickle through centuries of weeping
    before ultimate collapse, comes a time to doubt self.
    Of how much value is working will of iron
    if that base metal is corroded and weakened by time
    misspent? All that it might have supported would fall!

    Then, overbrimming salty nectar will fall,
    when aged bloom’s tribulation and trial
    has just about said last farewell to time.
    An empty house, an empty life, inspires weeping,
    with all the inexorable grace of molten iron
    spilling through cold, abandoned furnace of inner self.

    Pray, rather, that timely, sharp scrutiny of self
    recognizes the impending, precipitous fall
    prophesied in wrinkled deficiencies which no iron
    could smooth. And though introspection may prove trial
    both painful and embarrassing, no useless weeping
    could possibly atone for mortal sin of wasted time.

    It might reveal, instead, for the very first time,
    the fragile and naked core of long-walled-away self,
    tempering the wild sorrow of soul’s weeping.
    Then, how to stand tall once again after the fall
    can be learned only through error and trial,
    long after impotent regret has cleaved like iron.

    So do not wait for last moment’s trial, when regret’s fist of iron
    forsakes the velvet glove to fall hard, scourging and chastening self
    for wasted time, as you lay on that final threshold, ruefully weeping.

  124. JoCam

    Since I missed PAD 4, since “since” could not generate
    any bright ideas
    since I was preoccupied by searching without finding
    a critical mass of loss,
    since I had spread it all out, trying to resolve a problem,
    without success,
    since I lacked the perspicacity to see a solution,
    I went to bed.
    Since I arose this morning,
    I have spent every minute looking, looking, looking,
    without seeing,
    since, after all, what I had lost had billowed up
    from its black hole
    back into the file drawer where it belongs,
    the solution with it.

  125. Clark Buffington

    Little Man’s Discovery

    What is this?
    Oh, it floats
    Oh, it moves
    OH! I moved it!
    OH! OH! It’s mine!
    It’s me!

    I see you staring
    Holding out your hand
    Such focus and intensity
    Laughing as you wiggle fingers
    Ah, you figured it out
    I Love your discoveries

  126. LeighSpencer

    Strength Discovered

    It’s not like it was some foreign land
    awaiting a flag

    Or even like a buried treasure

    I was the only one
    hiding it

    that’s also not entirely true
    (neither is anything else)

    You suspected it was there first

    It scared us both so
    that you handed me the mortar
    of all our daily fears
    and I dutifully trowled it over
    until no one would ever suspect
    it existed at all

    Least of all me
    seeing only this perfectly crafted edifice

    But then
    there is was

    Maybe a hairline crack
    started the first time I thought
    I could run
    I could turn left instead of right home
    I could be gone

    And even if you noticed,
    you would wait until you finished reading the paper
    cover to cover
    before looking for me

    On Sunday
    I could make it halfway to China
    if I were so inclined

    You said the most hateful things then

    I picked up our trowel
    and you were satisfied
    to see me back at work

    But this time
    I chipped the façade away

    For the better part of two years
    bit by bit

    Each fortified fear
    Each spackled doubt

    I fully expected that when it all was gone
    there would just be nothing
    that I could just cease to be

    So beaten down then
    it was a comfort, really

    Like your easy chair
    paper spread from arm to arm

    And me
    thinking of China

    When the last bit chipped away
    there was so much more than nothing

    There was me

    When I asked for a divorce
    from the other side of the newspaper

    Didn’t you feel it coming?

  127. sharon4


    I did not know
    anything but that I wanted
    to hold his silky
    heft in my small hand.
    More than a plum,
    less than an apple.
    I made a scoop
    of my palm, fetched
    the weeks-old rabbit
    from the well
    of dirt he huddled
    in with five siblings.
    Above the burrow,
    dandelions buff
    with yellow, burned.
    His small ears,
    skeleton, the fur
    against my thumb
    the color of pecans.
    He shivered and coiled
    tight, snail-like
    nose to tail. I felt such
    joy and named him
    April. I held his
    quickened heart,
    instinctual shudder
    against a wind
    dipping down below
    the sunny day’s sixty

    Before I found him
    the next morning
    holding the whole night’s cold
    in his hard frame,
    I was boundless:
    Spirit and mother,
    seven years old
    and god.

  128. DCR1986

    Short Notice of Harmony

    With minutes left,
    it is almost time to resign stale melodies.
    For once, no notes performed in despair
    or synthesized in foul air
    between series of
    sharps and flats.

    Within seconds,
    Over the souls of 52 whites and 36 blacks,
    4 strings attached,
    One sax and trap,
    Highly pitched in,
    Mr. Alto found a fine tune.

    -Danielle C. Robinson

  129. Michael Wells

    I Discovered the Impossible During My Morning Walk

    It was orange juice time of day.
    I latched the door behind me
    spent the next forty-something minutes
    walking about my neighborhood.

    I saw two dogs off leash and unattended.
    Another, a retriever of some flavor walked
    beside a man off leash but they were together,
    clearly. A litany of other dogs in yards

    made themselves known as they saw me.
    There were newspapers in most drives
    Daffodil periscopes rose out of some yards.
    I was certain the subterranean spies were watching.

    There were a variety of birds up. Not that I saw many
    different ones, but I’m judging from the wide variety
    of bird calls that I heard. And the train, sometimes
    I forget it, taking the whistle for granted this time of day.

    The sky had a single eye slowly opening wider and wider
    until it was staring at me and I was unable to stare back.
    People waved, most anyway. I tried my best to lose myself
    in the walk. Try as I might there was life all about me.

    I realized that life was not dependent upon me.
    It was flaming all around me and I could not contain it.
    The harder I tried to ignore the busy world I realized
    I only became more fully engaged in it. Not only

    were people like myself waking up to the world,
    but nature all its own too had a cycle that was at play.
    I sensed I could hear the grass growing on my walk.
    Even in solitude, It was impossible to be alone with myself.

  130. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    Like Columbus
    viewing the Bahamas
    I was certain
    I hadn’t found a new world.

  131. Quaker

    Waiting For the Bus That Never Comes
    Based on a “discovery” about Alzheimer’s on NPR, Radio Lab program

    The patients get confused some times,
    forgetting where they are
    and why they are here.
    The world has left them behind.

    The worse cases, we used to lock up.
    The mild cases would sometimes escape
    and they would be found miles away,
    lost in their own loss, with no idea
    how they got there. Then came the bus
    to nowhere, and our problems ended.

    We put a bus stop in front of the building,
    complete with bench and bus sign.
    A wandering-lose patient would end up
    sitting on the bench, stressed out,
    wanting to get home or thinking
    their parents (long dead) expected them.
    They would sit in pajamas and slippers
    wearing overcoats, waiting for the bus
    that never would come. The waiting
    slowed them down, birds relaxed them.
    A nurse would sit next to them.
    They would wait together at the fake stop.
    Sooner or later, they would go back.
    Whatever set them off was over.
    Isn’t this better than strapping them down?

  132. DizzySparks

    Title: Discovering faults in strength

    I gaze out the window as sun sets,
    The breeze before me a torrent of wind,
    Rising the Iron pillars out from the ground,
    My hands bleed from gripping double-edge steel,

    Red droplets fall beneath my feet yet,
    I feel no regret in my soul only rage that never fades,
    Training all my life for war ending like this,
    Not on the battlefield, but by there own hands blinded,

    By greed to retain ones self image dying a dogs death,
    Never to be noticed by anyone never to be found,
    Buried in a mass unmarked grave betrayed,
    Gray Men wearing hollow masks smiling in zeal,

    With my remaining strength and breath,
    I open the window and jump with bliss,
    Free at last to put my life on the line in a bet,
    Putting myself in natures watery embrace,

    Cold seeps into my skin losing myself in the deal,
    I will no lose an give in to mind,
    Quelling my rage I cannot accept,
    Fight against the wave for I am not swayed,

    For I have not the heart to face,
    The bittersweet end to this dark abyss,
    I swim for shore to my once so called enemy,
    My only shred of hope to be found,


  133. CLShaffer

    The Same Year The Only Black Family Left Town by C. Lynn Shaffer

    I turned 6 and my parents divorced,
    I watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind,
    and the nightly news reported
    a scientist exclaimed Wow! in writing
    at a 72-second signal from another world.

    I read about a man
    making things happen with only his thoughts,
    watched silverware melt beneath his gaze,
    collected stories of creatures
    lurking in faraway woods and lakes.

    A teenaged cousin planned a trip
    across the river to hunt
    a man with the face and wings of a moth.
    Aunts and uncles talked about
    the ones who didn’t fit in,

    bless their hearts,
    they’d be happier with their own folk,
    and wrinkled strangers in town
    kept smiling at me, hugged me
    to their peppermint, mothball infused chests

    asking the same question
    Whose girl are you, now, honey?
    There were sightings of my father in town
    but I waited for Walter Kronkite
    who came every night to give me the facts.

    Walter looked me in the eye as if to wink,
    his eye like the one star
    in millions across the eastern Kentucky sky
    that I was certain would separate,
    descend, make its way to me.

  134. PSC in CT


    Descrying daylight’s demise,
    she espies approaching evening.

    Hours later (realizing midnight is imminent),
    this poet ascertains she’s too damn tired
    to ferret out a decent idea,
    and wanders off to discover some shut eye.


  135. whatevertheyaint


    The sweets were tempting, Ma said they’d stick
    She warned the frown lines
    would become permanent,
    that creases would deepen,
    crow’s feet grow
    bulge ’round the middle would never go
    I stare in the mirror and see she’s right
    Gone is youth, as if overnight
    These gray strands? Once a glossy black.
    The sagging breast? A “nice rack”.
    Any semblance of sexy is a wish to be had
    as I dab on concealer to cover the bags
    beneath worn eyes from lack of sleep
    I prep and wonder, “is this really me?”
    It took a while but now I know
    I should have listened when she warned me
    ’bout getting old

  136. pcm

    Finding a place in this world

    Walking down the staircase
    Back behind the bar
    Sax whining slowly
    No need to go too far.

    Feet amid the shadows
    Flickering to the beat
    Breathe in the rhythm
    As your cares walk the street.

    Candlelight soaked cognac
    Slips down through your throat
    Burns into your heart
    The truth of every note.

    Caresses no one sees
    Stroke your every pore
    Claim you in their world
    A spirit ever more.

    Why dwell upon this earth
    When love waits beyond?
    Circling to the beat
    Your touch says, Steady on.

    A mortal reaching out
    Through the haze and fear
    Past self to other
    Creates meaning so dear.

    Your true self reflected
    From a source sublime
    Yet bound upon earth
    To create here in time.

    Heart in hand together
    When two join as one
    A new history starts
    That love once had begun.

  137. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    When did this happen?
    After being “Dad”
    for so long I find
    that now my kids are
    all older than me.

  138. Kit Cooley

    Lambing Season

    A lamb last night from a first-time ewe,
    had me out in the cold for an hour or two.
    In the morning all was well, so off I go,
    to town for supplies, a quick to and fro.
    And what do I see when I drive up to the yard?
    The ewe’s twin sister pulled a wild card,
    Another little lamb is toddling around.
    I feed hay to the sheep, throw grain on the ground
    for the chickens who are hungry, then try to sit and eat
    my own lunch at the table, but I’m soon back on my feet,
    for another ewe is bleating, the birth is drawing near,
    no rest for tired shepherdess, it’s getting mighty clear,
    that the season is upon us, the lambs drop like the rain,
    I better get some sleep tonight so I don’t go insane.

    ~Kit Cooley

  139. jasonlmartin

    Monody for Mother

    I imagine she was thin, thin,
    as a lotus stem, maple twig,
    when she was younger
    before I knew her
    before she was my mother.

    But her skin thickened
    over time, time, she hardened
    like the earth that is calloused
    from a drought. She lost

    many of the battles before they started,
    but in her eyes she was never the victim,
    and long before the victor was decided,
    she showed us how to win each of them.

    A single mother, alone, with two boys
    doesn’t expect the weather to be fair,
    but braves it all to make life a bit easier
    for the children she didn’t give away.

    How do I say thank you? She is gone.
    Gone long before I had the wherewithal
    to appreciate all her wounds, to tell
    her that nothing, nothing was in vane.

    I’ve lost her.
    If only a storm could loosen the earth
    if only, only,
    I could mend her soul, to finally utter

    the words I am at long last able to unearth
    for my mother.

  140. Genevieve Fitzgerald

    Day 5 – Discovery shadorma

    A small bird
    Trapped in the garage
    Crashes against
    The window
    In vain, in confusion, too
    Afraid of my hand

    With my own entrapments but
    Fearful of
    Both draft and
    Unexpected hands of god
    I find I’m like the bird

  141. Alfonso Kuchinski


    Mocking crows make inside jokes
    imitation objects reproduced
    symbols signs of animation
    meaningless features
    formed hydrocarbons unevolving,
    an insult piercing the
    skin of discovery

    Short selling all life
    severed connections
    lacking biographical attributes:
    change, propagation, decomposition.
    Fake plastic flowers caricature
    the impulsive desire
    to break through
    winter’s hardened crust

  142. Earl Parsons

    The Older I Get

    The older I get
    The more that comes clear
    The more I discover
    What’s always been here

    The more that I look
    The more that I find
    Some good and some bad
    Some boggles the mind

    The more that I listen
    The more that I learn
    So much more uncovered
    So much of concern

    The more I discover
    The more I surmise
    The future’s been written
    By those much more wise

    The more that I read
    The more comes to light
    It’s all good and evil
    The everlasting fight

    The more that I pray
    The more that I see
    That God’s in control
    He knows what will be

    The more that I trust
    In His amazing grace
    The less that I worry
    About trials that I face

    The more I believe
    The more that I pray
    The more that I trust
    In Him every day

    The older I get
    The more that comes clear
    The more I discover
    What’s always been here

  143. gmagrady


    I see you
    sitting there
    in the corner
    of this all-night
    dragging away
    on that cigarette
    silent thoughts
    of ingenuity
    trying to fade
    into the wooden
    beams which stand
    at your side
    hiding from
    the world
    yet yearning
    to be seen
    and wishing that
    your smoke
    which is dispersed
    throughout the cafe
    by the rotating
    hands of the ceiling
    fan could also be
    your words
    and insights
    being picked up
    to travel
    through the
    stagnant air
    so that your
    could be lifted
    and spread
    for all to hear
    ever having
    to speak
    a single sound…

    I see you
    sitting there
    with only a mug
    and pen
    for companions
    searching for
    in a cruel
    ignored by
    those you long
    to love –
    sitting unnoticed
    just gazing
    out the window
    into the streets
    as desolate
    as your home
    as lonely
    as your bed
    as defeated
    as your dreams –
    those streets
    crying out in
    the hours
    of night
    for discussion
    but left
    in the solitary
    within your mind…

    I see you
    sitting there
    fate and fantasy
    your purpose
    for your

    I thought I saw you
    sitting there
    across the way
    in the corner
    of this all-night
    dragging away
    on that cigarette
    but realized
    the room
    ends here
    at my chair
    and the way
    I was looking
    is only a
    mirrored wall
    my mug
    my pen

  144. Funkomatic

    The Day We Discover Our Parents had Other Lives

    Twist of confusion, a spark falling
    From a faulty circuit into the walls,
    Lightning signals in the brain seeing
    A former lover in the dairy section.
    The old house is a different color now
    Postcards on the fridge yellow, not
    Matching the scenery anymore
    The bodies we loved are phantoms.

  145. brandonspeck

    tomb raiders

    the only good thing about the world’s rulers
    is that they die like the rest of us.

    we spent our most romantic years stealing the past
    and dreaming about destroying the future.

    I still think that discovering the tombs of civilization
    and swallowing all their jewels into our starving satchels

    wasn’t shit compared to learning
    the hieroglyphs of your spine.

    //brandon speck

  146. Astrid Egger

    An Address from the Members of the International Placeholders Association

    You probably are familiar with the emotions when you have been taken
    for granted and your mouth tastes like dandelion greens;
    There is so much bitterness in this world already and we
    can ill afford to add to it; besides this isn’t our natural
    disposition; we like harmonious relations as much as you do.
    For years, we have been protecting you from harm;
    We stood in for you and stood by you without much fuss.
    We even allowed our names to stand for the many times
    someone had to be shown how to fill in a form.
    We taught by example, quietly and unobtrusively.
    And we would love to be there still, and are prepared
    To stay for pay, ready to vanish, leaving your name as a trace
    We are Jane Doe, John Smith and Kumar Ashok, members
    of the International Placeholders Association.
    Collectively, we have a conscience, and propose a sliding
    scale for the poor and children, a cent for each page.
    When they tell you that there is strength in numbers, they
    are partly right, but do not try to replace us with combinations
    of numbers and letters: our techies are way ahead of you there.
    Make your payment by midnight of next month or find your
    names in spaces we once inhabited. We will leave quickly.
    We are prepared to stay for pay, ready to vanish, leaving
    your name as a trace. We are Jane Doe, John Smith and Kumar
    Ashok, members of the International Placeholders Association.
    Rest assured, we are more than ciphers and have found common
    cause. For those of you whose proper name is Jane Doe, John Smith
    and Kumar Ashok we demand compensation, for all the times
    you have been delayed in an airport, when your tax return was withheld
    because someone thought it a hoax. No longer shall you suffer so, and
    we want you to embrace your name, our name and feel our power.
    Prepared to stay for pay, ready to reveal all and leaving your name
    as a trace, we are Jane Doe, John Smith and Kumar Ashok,
    Members of the International Placeholders Association.

  147. J.lynn Sheridan

    Discovering my seed
    of contempt

    We’ve entered this door before.
    Once when all we knew was what
    we were taught but now that we
    are the teachers of the hopeful
    and ignorant, we’re standing
    before it, reverent with sentiment
    and all its loveliness glowing
    on our insides even though we
    escaped the trap of all the unfinished
    lies. The hundred lies we chanted
    from memory and recited into pink
    ears like sages. We should have
    gone away from this dead space
    years ago, before the tremors,
    before we fought the memories.
    We should have gone to a river,
    laid down our swords and spears—
    where have all the flowers gone,
    singing first in our minds then
    out loud Gone to young
    men every one—my dad, your dad,
    absent in body and mind, alone
    in their wars. The door doesn’t bow
    before us and I won’t bow to it.
    It is stiff like our respect. I pluck
    a white carnation from the bouquet
    and leave the lilies bound in a
    thin silk bow.

  148. destinywilliams

    You’ve found Pandora’s box
    but there’s nothing left.
    Humanity is left by itself.
    The humans are filled with

    strife as they always were.
    So you lie and tell them
    there’s something there. So
    they choose to believe instead.

  149. matthew

    That Back Breaking Job With Great Union Pay
    It isn’t as difficult
    as some would have believe
    I had been told years ago
    that you had to be related
    to one of the old timers there
    or you had to have a friend
    in management to get in

    And I have heard all those rumors
    about the long list of people waiting
    for their one shot to get above minimum wage

    All that crap about how it will be years
    before I got my chance to show them
    what I am capable of

    And that even when I get the chance
    to operate those machines and produce
    a great number of perfectly made parts
    one of the old timers will sabotage
    my press before I make can be made permanent

    And all that crap about those skills
    being out of fashion and untaught
    so the company is about to fold up shop
    and move the operation to China

    Well I will let you in on a little known secret
    There is no such long list
    It is much easier than anyone might guess
    None of those skills has been lost
    in our industrial education
    as a matter of fact
    It is easy to get one
    of those back breaking factory jobs
    with the great union wages

    The old timers are more than happy
    to watch the fresh young new hires
    bust their ass

    That is what I discovered
    after I took the time to fill out
    the application

  150. cobanionsmith


    Gathering the eggs
    was my big-girl job.
    Sister could take them

    while the hens still sat,
    but I couldn’t look
    the chickens in the eye. So

    I let cowardice
    turn me cruel.
    In a flurry

    of feathers and shrill
    cackles, I would scare
    the nests empty except

    for the mottled browns,
    soft blues, and varied
    whites of potential

    progeny turned treasure.
    This one speckled.
    That one oblong. I

    inspected every one
    The white enamel bowl

    full, the spoils
    shamed me;
    each so smooth, still warm,

    evidence of God’s
    creation, my little
    miracles interrupted.

    (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

  151. kmb3

    Over a Corona in Upstate NY

    I sat at a bar
    After at particularly bad day
    Completely bitchy
    And raw
    And real
    Masks laid aside
    I vented about the world
    To the poor unfortunate soul
    On the next stool

    She listened
    And patiently drank
    Beer after beer
    Until the angst
    Had past

    Landmark day

    I discovered that
    I didn’t need
    To be someone
    Or make grades
    Or achieve
    Or win
    Or succeed
    To be considered a friend

    I only needed
    To be me

    It was good enough
    For those
    Who mattered

  152. dandelionwine


    I’m supposed
    to be free
    from attachment
    and aversion,
    only noticing
    the thoughts
    as an observer
    and returning
    to the center.

    Still, it thrills
    me to know
    I’m a being
    with thoughts
    to observe.

    Sara Ramsdell

  153. Linda Hatton

    Discovering I Am Not over It Yet

    I sit alone in my Jeep with no words
    at the ball field, wind so strong it sounds
    like the stormy ocean waves splashing
    twenty feet above the jetty the last time
    we stayed there. Off in the distance
    crowds cheer. And behind that, a jet
    full of travelers invades the sound
    barrier of my private time, the only place
    I allow myself to cry anymore. A lone
    red-headed hummingbird takes a quenching
    sip from a bird feeder like the one in your prized
    rose garden. I imagine you pressed into the seat
    next to me, breathing, being proud of my son
    the way you would if you were (still )
    real. And then it hits me
    all over again. You will be dead for the rest
    of my life. And I must be part of the living.

    -Linda G Hatton

    1. tunesmiff

      I don’t what to say beyond I am in a very similar place just now…

      Thank you for this honesty/openness… though you didn’t know you were writing it for me…


  154. Angie K

    Dawn of Spring

    Brown, just brown.
    For months, that’s all the ground has been –
    Just brown.
    Mud, withered sticks of grass,
    dirt, eroded by streamlets of melted snow and chilling rain.
    Trunks of trees, bare branches both spindly and wide,
    all brown, just brown.
    Where is the spring?
    April has come, and the proverbial groundhog has lied, it seems.
    But wait – what’s that I see, inserting itself between the blades of dried and faded grass?
    It isn’t – it can’t be – what am I perceiving?
    A tiny sprout, almost imperceptible, but shocking in the midst of the dismal remnants of autumn.
    I look more closely – the ground is covered by almost microscopic beginnings of a new bed of grass,
    soft, green, and emanating with new life.
    Then I listen – a robin’s song is lifted on the breeze,
    and I start to believe… spring is really here!

  155. DamonZ

    “Infamous April”

    I used to enjoy the month of April.
    So misleading with longer, warmer days.
    Budding trees and sweet syrup from maple.
    But for man she has quite nefarious ways.

    So deluded was my impression
    I set my wedding within her thirty days.
    Thankfully there has been no transgression.
    Neither of us has chosen to stray.

    But I can imagine the heartbreak one felt.
    John Smith having been saved his life.
    By little Pocahontas it was dealt.
    When in April John Rolfe made her his wife.

    The most famous maritime disaster,
    R.M.S Titanic reduced to flotsam.
    It was In April the captain said, “faster.”
    Thousands dead, their lives never to blossom.

    The twentieth century’s most evil man,
    Adolph Hitler was born on the twentieth day.
    He almost erased a whole people with his plan.
    His end came not in April, but merry May.

    A lot can be said for April’s hard time.
    Jesus died on the third or seventh.
    Jack the Ripper began his gruesome crime.
    Apollo 13 launched on the eleventh.

    On the fourth, Martin Luther King Jr. Was Killed.
    So many have died and wronged these days.
    Are these destinies just being fulfilled?
    Or The devil just doing his evil ways?

    There are of course two sides to every coin.
    Titanic made travel more secure.
    Jesus died but his father he rejoined.
    And as a race we are somewhat more mature.

    I think my issue with April is this,
    The worst April I can remember,
    Is every one my dad has missed.
    He died in April and my mom in December.

    By: Damon Zallar

  156. seingraham


    Was it the Spotted Cat’s phenomenal jazz or
    the fact that they also had non-alcoholic beer?
    Now that was shocking — the beer, not the tunes…
    Or the bayou blessing us with breezes, and not walls
    of humidity, and no bugs?
    And Tremé, did we know about this slice of history,
    before our tour guide explained it to us?
    America’s oldest surviving black community, it’s
    also the first place where there were
    “free people of colour”, as well as the first place
    where blacks could own property
    I do know I didn’t know that before…

    Did we believe DuMonde, one of America’s-
    if not the world’s-most famous cafés, would live
    up to its reputation?
    Coffee with chicory, and freshly-made beignets,
    hot from the oven, and with so much powdered
    sugar, it appeared to be snowing on the table
    — yeah, that was well worth the trip

    As was the time spent in Presbytere, a museum
    just off famous and beautiful Jackson square…
    I don’t know what I was expecting from a museum
    housing info about Katrina, but not the breath-stealing
    display of real-time videos and eye-witness reports
    from the time in question
    It was soul-destroying, heart-breaking, and at the
    end, life affirming

    The second story of Presbytere houses what at first
    seems an odd juxtaposition for this museum
    One half is costumes from Mardi Gras parades, and
    the history of that tradition
    The other is similar-type displays of the balls that
    took — and still take — place, with regularity in
    New Orleans
    After the tragedy that was Katrina (amongst many
    other but still terrible hurricanes)
    This show of ostentation and tawdry over-the-top
    spending, and craziness, seemed almost cruel

    However, when we got back downstairs, there
    was one last video to view before we left the museum
    It was just ordinary citizens of New Orleans speaking
    directly into the camera, and explaining who they were
    and how they manage to come back from disasters
    such as Katrina
    Each and every person made it clear that it was
    because of things like the parades, like the balls,
    that they were able to be themselves in this place
    This perfect place of all places – a city where everyone
    is encouraged to be whomever they are
    And if that’s a little bit over the top, a little bit crazy
    That’s alright, that’s acceptable, they can be that here
    That’s why they stay here, that’s why they rebuild
    It was an absolutely perfect ending to that tour

    There were so many surprises in New Orleans, it
    would take a book-length poem to enumerate
    all of them
    It is a city like Paris, Rome, or New York – that we
    could (and hope to) return to again and again
    There is so much to see and explore there, and we
    feel as if we barely scratched the surface

    Still, the one thing that happened that surprised me
    the most—my own personal epiphany—
    Had to do with the New Orleans’ Pelicans…the city’s
    NBA basketball team
    I had the opportunity to see them play live at a place
    with the unlikely moniker, the “Smoothie King” Center
    Not really a basketball fan, I still couldn’t see being within
    walking distance of this chance, and not taking it

    Well, knock me down and smother me with molasses,
    (oh, but I love southern colloquialisms, too bad
    this isn’t truly one of them) –
    It was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever witnessed!
    The game came down to the last minute, the last basket
    really…and the Pelicans won it right at the final whistle.
    I didn’t realize it then, but I was a goner.

    It wasn’t until a few days later when my daughter and
    her Dad were tuned into a college game;
    something called the “sweet sixteen”
    I found myself settling into the couch beside them
    And suddenly, I was also hooked on college ball
    In fact, I ended up paying to continue following it
    on the plane’s tiny screen, flying home
    The so-called “final two” play off tomorrow
    And guess what I’ve discovered?
    I won’t be doing anything else…I’ll be watching b-ball.

    *the correct pronunciation of New Orleans, especially by
    locals, and about how tourists mangle the pronunciation,
    is such a hotly contested topic, I might be inclined to refer
    to the city by one of its many nicknames eg. Crescent City,
    The Big Easy, NOLA, etc. – when, and until, I find out
    this is more or equally offensive.

  157. Emily Cooper

    Here We Are Now

    This poet can appreciate
    the sentiment behind
    “hoping you die before
    you get old”

    and leaving a world
    that feels deaf to your art
    before you resign yourself
    to them.

    Twenty years on
    we have new photos
    of your death
    and the world

    the world is wiser
    and not.

    You did what you thought
    was right at the time
    and we understand why

    while still missing you terribly

    and wishing we could
    talk with you.

  158. julie e.



    listen: I found out a
    terrible truth that
    I seem to exist solely
    for you to


    so that I may make
    your life comfortable.
    What a terrible reason
    to be loved. Love


    because I’m funny or
    deep or mysterious or
    just plain awkward
    just love me




  159. silencebreaksyourheart

    It hasn’t quite been twenty years, but there is discovery in the air.
    Give me wanderlust, let me dust off these wings before they rust.
    Knowledge refuses to suffice for experience any longer.
    The places that once comforted my soul with their familiarity
    are scowling at my curiosity for the untested.
    I’m still waiting to find out which story will win.

    -S. Monahan
    All Rights Reserved

  160. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    Till I met you
    I never knew
    how many different shades of blue
    one pair of eyes
    could have and hold;
    flecks of silver,
    flecks of gold,
    wet paint fresh,
    weathered old,
    so warm, so cold,
    deep as secrets,
    as stories shared,
    crisp as the early morning air;
    light as the sky,
    bright as the sea,
    deep as the bond
    between you and me,
    Till I met you,
    I never knew.

  161. bethwk

    Susquehanna Dawning
    by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    Stand just there on the sandy bank of the river.
    there, where the water laps over the roots
    of the ancient sycamore. There, where the bridge
    and the memory of a bridge run over the waters.

    Listen for the rustle and murmur of dawning,
    the whisper of wavelets, the groan of the trees,
    the sudden wild call of robin: thrush of morning,
    leading the dawns chorus, unwrapping the day.

    What will you discover this daybreak, this borning?
    What stories will otter bring you? And heron?
    What are the words that the river will give you
    there, as the sun spreads the golden road before you?

  162. Natasa Bozic Grojic

    The Expedition

    Midway across the field
    I turn and look back.
    Our footprints are gone.
    No one is holding my hand
    and I have forgotten my backpack.
    The field is not a field.
    The walls are closing around me.
    You were never there
    and my burden is my own.

  163. cbwentworth

    I have no faith
    or golden egg
    My heavy head,
    hangs low and dead
    These bloodshot eyes,
    burn with regret

    There are no steps,
    just worn out shoes
    The doing years
    are empty time
    My hollow clock
    has twisted arms

    Through rusted gears,
    comes a faint sound
    Listen closer,
    footsteps echo
    A lifted gaze,
    a brighter view

  164. Christine Sutherland

    Dreaming Of You
    by Christine D Sutherland

    I dreamed a dream,
    A dream of you,
    With purple skies,
    And a desert moon,

    An owl cries out,
    To a wolf below,
    “Where is my one true love?”
    “Can you tell me?”
    “Do you know?”

    The wolf looked up at the owl,
    And started to sing,
    His lonely night cry,
    Of sad and dark things,

    “I can tell you where your one true love hides,
    The moon has him;
    In that big purple sky.”

    The owl looked up at the moon above,
    And demanded it release,
    Her one true love!

    Suddenly, the purple sky changed to orange and red,
    As the sleepy owl rose from her feathery bed,

    She looked towards the sky,
    And couldn’t believe,
    There was her one true love,
    High in the tree,

    “Why did the moon take you away?” she asked,

    Her love he laughed, and shook his head,
    “You’ve been dreaming my dear, go back to bed.”

  165. MaryAnn1067


    stitching that would cause blindness
    finished almost invisible seams
    of a hidden pocket, the
    photograph, twice-folded, a
    man’s face, quartered

    pressing her fingers along
    the lines of creasing, hoping
    to read in the texture
    who he was, who
    he had been, tucked for
    safe-keeping into the pocket of
    a coat of autumnal haze, now
    turned out to
    see the light, sepia facing the
    blue of sky mottled by white

    discovery of this unnamed
    fellow, forever young, bereft of
    even a frame, a name, secreted
    all these years, mothballed in
    cold storage,
    oh, my lost, my lovely one, you
    stare with the sincerest of eyes

  166. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 5 Discover Poem

    You Know What I Meme

    Little children are allowed discover
    with great abandon
    throwing their arms up
    and twisting their faces
    into new configurations
    as they convulse
    with spastic tremors,
    all from the taste
    of their first sour pickle,
    while the people around them
    hide their smiles
    of delight.

    But try that when your fifty-six,
    and your face becomes
    a pervasive parasitic code,
    one crude joke
    after another
    onto a friend
    of your friend’s page,
    until it finally
    is regurgitated back to you,
    and you have to fake a smile.

  167. lshannon

    4.5 discovery (at an exhibition of science as an influence in Edo period art)

    Magnification of a point view
    one point perspective
    and vanishing points

    A world revealed by science
    becomes art
    snowflakes discovered

    the miniature flea
    becomes mighty
    and beautiful

    scroll after scroll
    of black ink characters
    explanations and instructions

    curved glass telescopes
    and bronze and washi
    science and esthetics interwoven

    worlds changing each other
    and re-evaluating
    big pictures are the smallest of things.


  168. inkysolace

    I found your other half for you
    Discovered her in your early morning smiles
    and the fingerprints you traced on the hem of your shirt,
    wide-eyed and oblivious to how closely
    you hugged her shadow when you walked

    You came over to crushed beer cans and untied shoelaces
    lay down on a bed that shrinks like lost hope when you’re out of it
    You kept your shirt on and combed through the air
    as if it held the bangs that kiss her eyelashes goodnight

    I found your other half a month before you did
    and pushed her in front of you like a queen
    on sacrificial duty
    and let my own plans fall to pieces

    Friends was the name I called us
    friends was the name I called wanting to tear
    into your sweater when I hugged you
    what I called forgetting there was more to life than watching your eyes
    and remembering what they sought out when you stood up
    I made her! I gave you hope
    that she had a smile as bright as your own

    But I only discovered her
    the key that matched the rusted plating under your arms
    I found your other half for you
    and you let me slip between the cold sheets of the ocean
    to search for my treasure chest alone on the cracked hulls
    of the oxygen I had left

    I could’ve given you myself instead

  169. susanjer

    Found On Steps Of NYP Library

    Designer jean jacket, labels torn out.
    Grass stains on back. Medium size.
    Unisex. Lingering fragrance of papaya,
    pineapple and jasmine blended with green
    tea and amber. After research at Macy’s
    cosmetic department narrowed to one
    of those unisex perfumes called Unity or
    Infinity. Love note inside left breast pocket
    addressed to “You” signed “Me.“ Check
    Lost and Found on main floor of library
    for envelope with burning heart logo
    on front for contact info. Intend to plagiarize
    love note if not claimed by February 13.

  170. Bartholomew Barker

    This is a true story. At least as true as any of my poetry.

    On an early spring walk, amongst leaves swept along new grass by the bluster, one caught my eye, too regular, rectangular, even. A “001” printed upon its surface, I stomped down to stop its wind driven journey. Expecting to pull Monopoly money from under my shoe, I was greeted by Ben Franklin.

    The first new $100 bill I’d seen, crisp as an autumn leaf, I snuck furtive glances. Was I being video taped for some prank or might more Benjamins be blowing around? I even took it to the bank, assuming counterfeit which they accepted as legal tender.

    Though fungible, I consider my good fortune shared with strippers.

  171. WakingAntithesis

    “the enemy”

    i picked up a pen
    i placed it back down
    my tears would be ink
    on this blank, hollow ground

    i forced myself out
    and pulled my truth in
    the light would absolve
    the residual sin

    i ignored all the yelling
    the battering and screams
    the pounding on the door
    pulling my heart at its seams

    “open up!” came the voices
    “let me in!” was its urge
    and i nearly relented
    convenience being the spur

    but the pages gripped tighter
    “stay with me,” was the beg
    and like fermented wine
    fate intoxicated my legs

    the question, it lingered
    patiently in the air
    shadow angels and demons
    making desperate, perfect pairs

    “don’t hold back,” sang the moment
    “this will all be done soon”
    “if you will only conquer”
    “this olympus in view”

    “but there’s fear in the darkness”
    “and there’s beauty in hell”
    “if i give all my secrets”
    “i’ll have no dreams to tell”

    but the pounding continued,
    the door out of breath
    a decision must be made
    a storm that only i could quell

    “just one answer,” spoke the question
    “don’t you dare!” came the call
    as the doorway gave in
    and the lie stood bold and tall

    but a decision was made
    a tear fell cavernously
    question gulped the regret
    all in the room made to see
    as the query was asked,
    “who’s your worst enemy?”
    finally, my castle lay bare
    as the tear spelled out…

    -Steven B. Mathis, author

  172. danieletu

    No one’s looking

    Ten little fingers
    Ten little toes
    Perfect little ears
    Tiny little nose

    Big blue eyes
    Soft spot on the head
    Head full of hair
    Lips ready for breast

    God, we done well
    Now I can sleep.

    © Danièle Turcotte 4/5/14

  173. stargypsy


    I don’t remember
    who found
    who first

    It seems you
    were always
    a part of me…
    a soulmate from
    the beginning

    You have been —
    My friend…
    My teacher…
    My love…

    my life…
    my soul…

    You were the
    missing part of
    the part that
    makes me

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


  174. encrerouge

    Between the fern pots in San Lorenzo

    pebbles slipped from the foot
    walkers never know where they end
    to think of puddles is single minded
    they have never stopped rolling
    never been renamed by the blind or the voiceless

    I have seen them
    minerals frozen and heated
    by the corner of the avenue
    the ones we call cities and regrets
    never have they seen flight
    if not by the human hands
    who throw and discard
    expecting trees as atomic gifts

    if it were only rocks on this masthead
    pathways wouldn’t exist
    and neither, walls nor arches
    could declare a room present

    that phrase: “Sticks and Stones”
    has been bruised or reconstructed
    in the souls who have known about dirt,
    the hurt in the base of life’s buildings

    the layers that transcend biology and ideology,
    remain stirred but firm
    rocks are seeds, even when they travel
    by voice, hands or feet…
    be careful to where they stumble
    what is planted will be received

  175. Lori DeSanti

    New England in March

    It still snows, even in the budding
    Spring; tailings of flakes still race
    each other to woo the frozen ground.

    I walk through sugar maples, scrape
    my hands along their bark with my
    gloves, watch a white tail’s eyes dilate

    as I walk toward her. When each branch
    is coated soft as confectionary sugar, when
    it mutes all sound, and the snow preserves

    my footprints like living fossils; I walk
    toward my house, think of shaking my
    boots off when I see the dogwood in my

    garden; its limbs look cold, un-robed, but
    one fuchsia shoot unfurls from its branch—
    even trees light fire to lull winter to sleep.

  176. Alpha1


    Even beneath rubble
    Scuffed and covered with
    Grassy mildew
    A treasure stood out
    Like a shooting star
    Skimming across the
    Night sky
    I caught sight of
    What others did not
    A precious stone shining
    Through the dark
    And like a true explorer
    Staked my claim
    To you my fair lady
    Look what I found
    A diamond in the rough

  177. Roderick Bates


    by Roderick Bates

    Isn’t nearly every discovery
    just an open admission
    of prior ignorance?

    Hey, did you know
    there are additives
    in the children’s cereal?

    Oh, wow! I can’t
    believe it. My husband
    is cheating on me!

    The government is reading
    my email, knows who I have
    called on my cell phone,

    still has a dusty file on me
    from my anti-Viet Nam days,
    generally has it head up its ass.

    I say I just made a discovery.
    You say “Oh really? No shit.”
    You say “Where the hell have you been?”

  178. ToniBee3

    “Mama’s Tumor”


  179. Angie5804

    The Heart

    I didn’t know a heart so overflowing
    Could hold another speck of delight
    Or sorrow
    But it seems it can contain a lifetime full
    No matter how many tears are shed
    The heart generates more
    No matter how grateful
    The heart fills over and over with gladness
    No matter how afraid
    The heart still beats
    I didn’t know I could love so
    Or hurt so
    This heart, this soul
    Is a wonder

  180. rebrog


    Don’t laugh when I say this could be Yorkshire.
    I think it’s the northern light.
    The river’s brown under a thumb smudge sky
    across it some some huge dockland building
    nameless to me, tanks, towers, concrete,
    balances on skew angled rusting pilings.

    This morning, at the Saturday market,
    between rainbow scarves and earrings
    I found a stoneware plate
    glazed with a crow, scratched out in relief
    like an old fashioned wood-block
    children’s book picture. I bought it for you.

    Twenty feet from here a flag,
    wind thrashed, appears to
    towel each vehicle that spans
    the Steel Bridge. First day here.
    It’s all about perspective and illusion.


  181. shellaysm


    Oh, what joy
    to discover
    miracles of spring!

    First buds burst
    to reveal life
    forgotten by time.

    egg-yolk yellow
    trumpets toot, “Spring’s here!”

    Tulips’ silk
    praying petals
    upturn, begging sun.

    clustered bells emit
    sugared-sweet perfume.

    Clumps of moss,
    spring-green’s namesake,
    earth’s area rugs.

    Of re-birth,
    fauna and soul,
    hope returns anew.

    Michele Smith

  182. MMC


    As a four year old visitor I was told
    “Don’t open that door! There’s a big ol’
    tomcat behind it.” And all my life
    I’ve wondered what that cat might
    look like. In my fantasy he’s
    at least as big as a tiger, or maybe
    a mama lion. He belongs at the zoo,
    not in somebody’s back room.
    Today I discovered I could change
    that cat in my mind, make him tame
    and docile, an ordinary housecat
    one who would purr, put out the welcome mat.

  183. Jane Shlensky


    My hands are smarter than I am,
    playing compositions too difficult for me,
    bypassing my brain to partner
    with eyes and ears, feeling their ways
    toward music, blindly finding braille notes
    like reading the expression on a face
    with finger tips. They trip up only
    when mind interferes with its fears.

    Have other organs unionized,
    declared independence like Baltic states
    from the bluster of brain?
    If my body parts protest, revolt,
    form their own alliances and trades,
    exert minds of their own…
    who shall I say is in charge?

    Brain, lofty bauble in the bastion of skull,
    Mind—lawyer aloft on spindled neck—
    negotiates with gut and lung, forever allied
    with heart, rhythm of pulse drumming.
    But what of hands?
    What of wayward dancing feet?

    Minds seek linkage to lesser parts,
    who, like foot soldiers, maintain brain’s power
    and pomp, serving the maker of rules,
    but mind is only mindful in its submission
    to the unseen but deeply sensed.
    the only real control in relinquishing control.

    This revolution within fumbles toward nationhood,
    new flags announcing new freedoms.
    Let appendages live in peace and joy,
    keyed to music of the spirit.
    That will leave mind unoccupied and unrestrained
    to write poetry.

  184. Ravyne

    In Pursuit of Happiness

    I shredded veins for you
    clawed my way through synapses
    in hopes that you would spark a fire
    but I only found shimmering embers

    They swear you exist
    that if I set my mind ablaze
    with meditation — to just Be
    that I will find you

    Such a discovery! to find purpose
    to have a will to live, instead of die
    but Death has never deserted me
    unlike the Angel of Life

    They say this is twisted thinking
    that I continue to live
    that Death has not had his way with me
    Am I then choosing Life?

    O Happiness! how do I approach you?
    how do I dismiss this carnage?
    I am a new born babe — swaddle me
    teach me to mindfully Be

    Copyright 2014
    Lori Carlson

  185. PatsC

    Lucky Piece

    A stone in the pocket
    Found along the way.

    The questioning thumb
    Erodes one side
    The restless mind
    Sharp, seeking, hopeful.

    A wishing stone,
    A worrying stone,
    a necessary stone.

  186. Donna_KM

    The Tumbler

    She will begin to understand
    Why Hemingway drank.

    Her little glass helper, always
    half full of vodka distilled vision
    on the rocks, dulls the blade,
    soothes self-doubt.

    He would say,
    sit at the typewriter.
    Open a vein.

    like condensate slipping down
    the clear side, saturates the page.

  187. TheFlawlessWord

    One Last Ode to Puppyhood

    As his legs grew weak and his breathing rasped,
    I dug inside the corrugated box,
    Discovered the squeaky basketball
    He carried as a pup,
    Gave it a squeeze and laid it down
    Before his dying eyes.

  188. iris dunkle

    We Don’t Believe. We Only Fear.

    This morning, as I walked the marsh, the air
    was alive with birdsong. Brier paths still muddied
    by last nights rain tunneled around the large pools
    that teemed with life. Seems impossible that
    these were once cesspools for the sewer plant.

    Two young naturalists look up into a blue sky
    “What do you see?” I ask. “Not much yet.” They with shy smiles.

    After that, I walk the whole marsh as if I were a cartographer spelling home
    Or I take you back.
    When I reach the end I find the same two naturalists this time holding a four foot garter snake that coils peacefully around the man’s bare arm. And I am surprised not to startle.

    Fear is like that; when you least expect it
    all of the restoration you’ve done
    cleaning up what’s come before
    pays off and suddenly there is only
    the echoing calls of birds, warm strobes of light
    and the quiet naturalist waving to you
    holding a four foot snake
    as you continue on your way.

  189. Margie Fuston

    Jessica Jackson’s Search for Blood

    As a girl, she hears the old saying,
    blood is thicker than water,
    but water gives life from anyone’s hand.
    She takes water from the family
    with too many kids who leave her,
    twice, in the downtown park,
    from the woman who brushes her face
    with shaky fingers and calls her Annie,
    from the man whose fingers press
    her wrist a little too tight.
    She drinks and lives.
    But eventually she realizes
    water only passes through,
    and she will always need
    cup after cup.

    As a teen, she Googles her name,
    knowing names are passed
    from blood to blood.
    They don’t just disappear
    like rain swallowed by dirt.
    She discovers too much:
    Debbi Jackson, Anita Jackson,
    Joan, Stephanie, and Linda Jackson.
    She writes them all:
    Did your blood cover me
    in the womb?
    She finds nothing.
    Turning to her own flesh,
    she digs trenches in her arms, analyzing
    the results like a scientist.
    She studies her swollen scars
    as if they are a language
    she should have learned since birth.

    Out of school and on her own,
    she meets a man whose blood
    goes back generations.
    He promises to make her blood sing
    the same old songs.
    She gives him a daughter,
    but finds old blood isn’t too thick
    to be severed.
    As her daughter grows, she gives
    her cup after cup of water
    from the same steady hand
    filled with the same steady blood.
    But she never tells her daughter
    that old saying.
    After all, blood and water
    can both be spilt and lost.

  190. Michele Brenton


    There were too many buttons
    punctuations interrupting
    the flow while
    Stop hung in the
    background ignored
    for the straps and clasps
    and zips.
    Awkward, awkward, awkward.

    Now as I battle for access
    to impregnable parcels
    or cartons of juice
    I remember those buttons
    and I smile.

    Michele Brenton

  191. LizMac


    I bit into sweetness one summer’s day
    When I tasted first the fruit of our love.
    It was not until years later I discovered the worm
    That lay hidden at its core for all that time;
    The aberration that sat ready to consume – biding its time
    With the patient glee of the certain conqueror
    Smiling at so much assumed certainty.

    What then of all those exquisite moments we shared?
    Was each tainted at its inception with unrevealed corruption to come;
    Can a lifetime of ignorant, innocent, glorious bliss
    Be erased in a moment
    By the blow of the cynic’s brutal revelation;
    Blasted out of existence as though it,
    The summer, the sweetness,
    Had never been?

  192. Margot Suydam

    Under the Hood

    I remember what it means to be green
    standing in the museum amid Buddhas
    of different sizes, all of which I tried on

    like the training bras that once hid the
    budding of my early pre-pubescent fruit.
    The shame was more than I could stand.

    Forever, examining navels for questions, we
    bite fingernails as if we have little else to eat
    twirl into hard knots the unbraided hair the

    teacher demands we cut with a crooked smile
    that soothes us to believe we are better and
    like when Mother cleaned my face with spit

    I discover much more’s required to douse out
    bond fires that whirl blue and red churl on the
    beach, and finally to unclench broken teeth.

  193. DanielAri


    didn’t consider my childhood lonely until prompted
    by a therapist to notice it that way. Dad’s insatiable
    appetite for mom drove him to eject me into the yard,
    the creek or town often and long. Kicking a can down
    Sunbury Drive is when I first saw Boy, his lips greasy
    from the discarded chicken he’d been gorging on,
    tipped from the Olson’s trashcan. Sated, he seemed
    to smile at me, then came right across the street.
    With no thought of why, I pet his head, and side
    by side, we went back to my house. My speech
    was that I couldn’t wait for the long walks and all-
    day adventures Boy and I would share, and that
    made dad agree, with the standard responsibility
    talk to back it up. Boy slept with me, ate with me,
    went with me everywhere, and I’ll give him some
    of his own poems some other time. Now just a sigh.


  194. EbenAt

    Internal Discovery

    ‘Along about 1865
    I left Tennessee very much alive.
    And I never would have made it through the Arkansas mud
    If I hadn’t been riding that Tennessee stud’.

    I’ve not played or sung
    that song in nigh on 30 years,
    yet the words and the chords
    are indelibly printed
    in my brain.

    I’ll forget why I walked into a room,
    but I can recite chapter and verse of
    Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

    I forget my shopping list
    and have no idea
    why I’m in the store,
    But I know the Shimmer skit
    from Saturday Night Live
    by heart.

    What the fuck?
    Is this what old age
    looks like for me?
    Forget my name
    but quote lines
    from Casablanca?

    Oh, and by the way
    Rick never said
    “Play it again, Sam”;
    he said
    “You played it for her,
    you can play it for me!”

  195. EbenAt

    Internal Discovery

    ‘Along about 1865
    I left Tennessee very much alive.
    And I never would have made it through the Arkansas mud
    If I hadn’t been riding that Tennessee stud’.

    I’ve not played or sung
    that song in nigh on 30 years,
    yet the words and the chords
    are indelibly printed
    in my brain.

    I’ll forget why I walked into a room,
    but I can recite chapter and verse of
    Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

    I forget my shopping list
    and have no idea
    why I’m in the store,
    But I know the Shimmer skit
    from Saturday Night Live
    by heart.

    What the fuck?
    Is this what old age
    looks like for me?
    Forget my name
    but quote lines from
    the Casablanca?

    Oh, and by the way
    Rick never said
    “Play it again, Sam”;
    he said
    “You played it for her,
    you can play it for me!”

  196. starrynight3

    Will Ocean Discovery On Enceladus Spur Life-Hunting Missions to Icy Moons of Saturn, Jupiter?

    Enceladus, the enormous child
    Of dickless Uranus
    One of seven moons of Saturn
    Trumpeter to arms
    Has a deep watery ocean
    Beneath his surface.
    Just in time.
    Because the water on Gaia
    Is probably poisoned.
    Better get going guys:
    Head for space,
    But be sure not to leave
    Any footprints.

  197. Domino


    Packing today, for one of my sons.
    Some hand-me-down toys from
    older brothers. Lego scenarios
    still ready to pick up the game
    mid-stream, where it left off
    long years before.

    Books that range from
    read-to-me picture books
    to I-Can-Read
    to Chapter books
    to all the fiction and manga
    and school-required reading.
    All put away into boxes.

    Awards from school.
    Models of the solar system
    and book reports.
    Clothes, once favored,
    not worn for a long time now.
    All the detritus of a shed boyhood,
    now that the man has moved away.

    I sentimentally find myself weeping
    a little bit,
    missing the boy
    who once lived here.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  198. Renada Styles

    Mind Of My Own

    I peered behind the tumult
    Of fiercely gazing norms
    And gleaned by the tier
    Of collared minds

    In the ink
    Of what once was spoken
    I found a place
    Where hearts could ring
    True and free

    Churned by distant dreams

    Their stalwart mouths,
    Bent in disapprobation,
    Had placed a steady hand
    To shield my wandering sight
    Yet I probed further
    Between the lines

    I shook the metal flakes
    From my brain

    I laced my frame
    With dirty hands-

    With a plow,
    With a glowering hearth
    I dismantled the artifice
    Of steel and wealth

    I dug out,
    Deep within my born glut,
    The imagined finery
    And gave my nature
    The flight
    Of unmade thought

  199. BDP

    “Comb your hair, brush Your Teeth—Love, Dad”

    –Ending the reply, January 2005

    * * *

    Discovering Your First Message Home (Triversen)

    Your email states you fast on cigarettes,
    a case of Coke beneath your feet
    helps armor up the floorboard rust.

    Though wishing you had solid Humvees
    (dearly), I give thanks for photos,
    you and youngsters flashing peace.

    Corps gifts of Snoopy packs and stuffed bears,
    they’re cute with them—remember, Nick,
    that kids in Nam drew beads on soldiers.

    Your brother flies his Blackhawk filled
    with muckety-mucks AWAY from your Triangle,
    but would be nice if you could share some brews.

    You’re ground, he’s air: Apache birds,
    he phones, rolled in outside his camp and lit
    the bad guys with (quote) stellar armament.

    Signed off with “Sweet dreams!” (ha!), I have
    deep heartburn (you in bitmapped Kevlar)—still,
    your picture is the best sleep tonic yet.

    –Barb Peters

  200. priyajane

    Above The Fence
    Peeping Toms of Bougainvillea,
    dressed in bold pink ruffles
    and princess pearls
    keep me close to faraway places
    reminding me that the world is round
    and wherever you go
    you look for pieces of home
    to warm your heart

  201. Walt Wojtanik


    Darkness surrounds and the sound of night
    frightened early man. He began scratching
    his Cro-Magnon noggin, trying to find a way
    for the bright light of day to fill his nights
    and keep his cave dwelling less cellar-like.
    Mrs. Magnon and the little Magnettes held
    his fears and the missus hears grunts about
    this new method of preparing Stegosaurus.
    They called it “cooking”. The Cro-Mags
    were looking for a proper way to do this.
    He thought and thought (he had bought
    into the idea) scratching his Cro-Magnon
    head with his club. The harder he rubbed
    the “warmer” his thoughts became. It was then
    his “light bulb” moment came. Actually,
    he had started his hair ablaze. He yelled
    to his neighbor, Grog to get his attention.
    “FYAHHHRRRRRR!” came the refrain.
    “FIRE?” Grog repeated as he held
    his Stego-Steak above Cro-Mag’s
    hot head. Mrs. Grog invariably asked her mate.
    “How you like steak?
    “Well Done” replied her partner.
    Cro-Magnon and Grog perfected the process
    replacing dried grass for hair.
    The discovery of fire made this “cooking” thing
    possible. (And it allowed Cro-Magnon and Grog
    to open a chain of Filet Magnon Steak Houses
    throughout the un-civilized world.)

  202. Penny Henderson


    A child in a sunlit crib
    examines the wriggling toes
    floating over head.
    Sounds straggle in her window-
    pigeons, a newsboy’s call.
    Her mind struggles, her lips meet,
    The tall warm one arrives.
    The face smiles. “Mama’s here.”
    She has found the power of words.

  203. maxie409


    You say you wouldn’t go back
    to those years, not for anything.
    But what about that moment
    of discovery when you were
    what? 14? 15? 16?
    What about that moment
    when you knew he liked you
    more than you liked him
    and you knew in every bone
    and every cell in your body
    that you could rule, if not
    The World, at least his world.
    You wouldn’t go back
    for that one clear moment of certainty?
    I don’t believe you.

  204. jakkels


    The eyes, the ears, the nose perhaps
    Capture an essance the brain can’t see
    A flavour of light, a touch of sound,
    a smelll tied to memories lost and found,
    yet still with the power to conjure emotions .
    Insubstantial crumbs on the plate of Life,
    They feed the streams that run in the mind;
    Streams et streams and with a silent roar
    A river of poetry flows from the hand.

  205. barton smock


    having heard, for example, be quiet your mother’s coma is trying to sleep. having folded like undiscovered pregnancies into verbatim. having had sex that is not the writhing one does, one by one, in dream. this crowing about voice. echo’s elusive scar. voice a sort of god taming. extreme sport of the conceptually stunned. comma. god the sentence fails to recover.

  206. jakkels


    The eyes, the ears, the nose perhaps
    Capture an essance the brain can’t see
    A flavour of light, a touch of sound,
    a smelll tied to memories lst and found,
    yet still with the power to conjure emotions .
    Insubstantial crumbs on the plate of Life,
    They feed the streams that run in the mind;
    Streams et streams and with a silent roar
    A river of poetry flows from the hand.

  207. Sara McNulty

    Pup Rescue

    My niece corralled us–’you have
    to see them.’ We knew we could not
    simply look and walk away. Ten pups
    played in a child’s playpen.
    Their mother had given birth
    in a neighborhood junkyard.
    A community rescuer had taken
    them home, hoping to find kind people
    to adopt them. Puppies of varied
    colors and coats barked,
    and climbed over one another.
    Then, my eyes met those
    of a barrel-shaped pup, wiry
    gray hair on her belly
    like a fox. She looked into
    my soul. I picked her up
    to hold, and never put her down.

  208. christinamcphee

    This poem cannot be written today
    All my thoughts have gone astray
    As scattered leaves on a new spring day
    They beckon my thoughts outside the door
    Am I writing to just keep score?
    I hear my name echo in bird song
    To not join them just seems wrong
    The smell of mud and rotten leaves
    Someone please cure me of this disease
    Now I think I’ll just take a nap
    Wait, what is this, on my lap?

  209. Taylor Mali

    Twin Cribs & Old Baby Toys

    My father was a hider of keys
    in the places where they would be needed,
    never to arrive at, say, a gate
    in the middle of the woods
    to discover he had forgotten
    the key; better if you must
    dust the snow
    off a nearby rock wall
    in search of a certain stone
    with the key gleaming under it
    like a secret coin; better
    even to turn your back
    to the locked gate and look
    for the knot in the nearby tree—
    and you shall know it by its mouth,
    which is open like in forest song!
    My father was a hider of keys,
    as am I now he is gone.

    So when in the old storage stable
    I found our family’s stall door locked—
    we had gone in search of twin cribs
    and old baby toys—I was not surprised
    at all to feel on the dark side
    of the farthest rafter of the roof,
    the one almost out of reach, to feel—
    but not to see—under my fingertips
    the key.

  210. Ashley Marie Egan

    I had some trouble with todays prompt. Usually a theme like discovery would be easy inspiration, but I guess I’m just having an off day. Regardless, here are the two poems I wrote today.

    Discovering Grief
    by Ashley Marie Egan
    From a distance.
    Grief seems constant,
    A never-ending dramatic force,

    Up close it’s different,
    The tear-filled phase is short,
    And soon replaced by something worse,

    Emptiness takes over,
    Like being hollowed out,
    You get used to being numb,

    Until the pain returns,
    At random it fills your hollow chest,
    And echoes in the caverns of your being.

    The Sunflowers Light
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    Deep in her garden,
    Bloomed a sunflower,
    With a center that glowed,
    Bright like a beacon,
    It warmed her bones,
    And washed away her fears,

    She couldn’t resist touching it,
    As her fingers caressed the core,
    She found herself in a different world,
    One filled with possibilities,
    That she couldn’t wait to discover.

  211. rlmatt7

    A whole new world

    Being lost,
    he found
    Mere chance for Leif
    A voyage for Columbus

    West across the ocean sea
    With money from Ferdinand
    Five weeks, a world
    Yet credit to a Florentine

    Five hundred years
    Five Hundred more
    Five hundred still
    and a bit more

    He clambered the desk,
    No ship set sail, he discovered
    Vespucci’s lands
    Child’s play, glued thermoplastic hemispheres

  212. DamonZ

    “The Night”

    The faded trail turning here and there
    The forest at night a labyrinth
    Alone, easy prey must always beware.

    The darkness ever encircling
    Each foot falls, but falls not alone
    Something is out there, lurking

    To fear, you are helpless to submit
    What can it be that pursues you?
    The devil? His beast? A man unfit?

    The night emits its eery chill
    A presence indubitably upon you
    You shiver in fear against your will.

    The something draws ever nearer
    It’s footfalls growing loud and steady
    The sound of rustled leaves, clearer.

    Your pulse throbbing in your ears
    Your senses strain in defense
    What is it that causes such fears?

    The danger and fear now seething.
    You struggle to keep your sanity
    You quake at the sound of it breathing.

    You try to run the desolate trail
    Your human senses overwhelmed
    The thing Is right on your tail!

    You trip and fall to the ground
    Your eyes wide and bright
    You try not to make a sound

    Is this all a nightmare dream?
    Your imagination gone crazy?
    No, for the mountains echo your scream.

    Helpless you become its prey
    The thing has you in its firm grasp
    Perhaps you should have gone by day.

    In these woods people disappear
    You are certainly not the first
    There have been many who volunteer.
    Their fear an unquenchable thirst.

  213. donaldillich

    What’s There

    I don’t captain a boat to find
    what is already there.
    Or snooze so long under a tree
    I wake up to the future.

    I don’t rearrange numbers
    across a blackboard
    to end in a mushroom cloud
    eating the sky.

    Or create a household tool
    to cook bacon in a bowl,
    so someone can bake even more
    bacon inside it.

    Instead, I drowse under
    a window’s stars,
    deep under waves, pretending
    I am a merman.

    I follow you
    with jasmine in the air,
    pollen sprinkling the street
    toward the bar’s cacophony.

    I even step up
    to the mayor’s podium,
    accept a key to the city
    for my ability to make you laugh.

    There are enough things
    that have been discovered.
    With you all I need to do
    is appreciate what’s there.

  214. Eleanore D. Trupkiewicz


    Back when I thought you
    were what was best for me,

    and I can’t believe I ever
    thought that about you,

    I used to dream impossible
    dreams, improbable hopes

    and longings that even you,
    if you had been perfect,

    which you certainly were
    not, could never have filled.

    Then I found out how little
    you thought of me, and by

    then, I was halfway out the
    door, away from you, before

    we, either of us, really fully
    understood our brokenness.

  215. annabyrne77@gmail.com

    This is how it started:
    a cold walk into the lake wind
    hot chai and a handshake after
    let’s meditate everyday for 365

    This is what it was built on:
    lowering eyes, the
    silent sitting with yourself
    releasing and accepting, then

    lifting again, to do the same
    for the one across from you,
    cross-legged too

    This is how it should be:
    warm hand against
    whipping wind
    locating myself to
    love another

    –Anna Byrne

  216. Lindy™

    No More Four-Leaf Clovers

    I walk along
    a lonely trail
    wondering along the way
    If love is hope
    and hope is life
    when the skies are always gray
    Raindrops pouncing
    upon my head
    suggest there’s more today
    I crouch to search
    the ground afoot
    for a sprig of nature’s cliché
    A bit of luck
    to grow inside
    my heart on washed out days

    but I cannot see
    any life of me
    they all have gone away

    There are no more 4-leaf clovers…

  217. intheshadowofthesoul

    Self Portrait
    Lydia Flores

    Mirrors brought me
    portraits of fractured faces
    with embroidered frames
    made by my dirty hands.
    in the irises of glass
    I was the Mona Lisa of shame
    the Jackson Pollock, 1a of sin.

    This was my still life… a
    Cézanne, impressionism
    of my heart basket of moldy apples.

    Until you came along with your paint brush hands
    and stroked me with a kiss of permanent redemption.
    You brought me to my knees at your cross
    in a Cyanotype exposure of all I used to be.
    You brought me a mirror, you brought me
    your resurrection, your sky.

    I was a canvas, new and stretched
    by your hands. I looked into the
    painting, hanging by love,
    there laid a silver
    lining reflective sun,
    And I found myself in You.

  218. Janet Rice Carnahan


    When the world outside us,
    Describes who they see,
    Should we make a fuss?
    Or quietly just disagree!

    Should they define who we are?
    As if they really know?
    Should we claim we’re from afar?
    Or simply whisper, “No”!

    Can we take the question deeper?
    Into our own inner realm!
    Make the moment a keeper,
    Trusting our truth is at the helm.

    To discover where our reality is,
    It is good to look within,
    But how do we balance this?
    Where does it all begin?

    Within us is a reservoir,
    An endless reserve of love,
    It is what life is for,
    Truly stuff we’re made of!

    It doesn’t need definition,
    No need to flash or show,
    It is a constant inspiration,
    Something we just know!

    It unites us to greater things,
    Like clarity and truth,
    Loving connection, it brings,
    Remembered from our youth!

    All it takes is faith and trust,
    An aspiration to understand,
    Joyful discovery a must,
    An inner flame always fanned!

    Once we discover our inner soul,
    There is continual delight,
    It is an achievable goal,
    Never ending, day or night!

    We will smile,
    Once we know it,
    It was present all the while,
    In our life, every bit!

    Our inner discovery,
    Is our self to the wonderful core!
    Found in you and me . . .
    Once realized, accepted, uncovered,

    There is nothing more!

  219. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Peeling back their chosen words,
    Looking at the pauses,
    Discerning through the herds,
    Feeling out their causes!

    Noticing each title,
    Ebb and flow of thought,
    True emotion, vital,
    Every nuance ever caught!

    What is revealed?
    Dancing among the pages,
    Something begging to be healed,
    Hurt all through the ages?

    Is a person hiding?
    Behind the expression we see!
    Or are they confiding,
    What they fear might be!

    Who is really writing?
    Each and every word,
    Who are they biting?
    If its anger that we heard!

    Peeking behind the scenes,
    To see who feels the prose,
    Would we discover their means?
    Is it appropriate, do you suppose?

    Are they revealing their heart?
    Right on their written sleeve!
    Was this the poet’s start,
    And is it what they believe?

    Maybe each poem is the discovery,
    Someone real is there!
    We receive what we each see,
    Meaning, it is enough,
    We come and . . .


  220. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Even as a young child,
    She actively sought the mystics!
    Calm winds or wild,
    Through forests, searching sticks

    Nature silently spoke,
    Somewhere in her heart,
    Climbing every oak,
    Natural beauty became an art!

    Seeking a hidden canyon,
    Watching lofty clouds,
    Under a sacred banyan,
    Often avoiding any crowds!

    Until she met a shaman,
    Introducing her to rocks,
    Going beyond the common,
    Timelessness, beyond the clocks!

    Entering the magical realm,
    Reading etched lines on stones,
    Awareness at the helm,
    Like ancient ones, studying bones!

    Practicing the art of healing,
    Trusting guided intuition,
    Moving with the feeling,
    Being grateful once it’s done!

    A whole new appreciation,
    Broadened out her mind,
    Brand new interest had begun,
    A fresh discovery . . .

    Her greatest find!

  221. GarrinJost

    I have searched
    and I have found nothing-
    and nothing has found me.
    I am still searching,
    but nothing has stopped.

    Nothing does not search-
    but does not know if it will find.

    But nothing is fine-
    with not searching
    and knowing that it may find nothing.

    Nothing will wait.

    Nothing can always wait.

    Nothing waits.


  222. Rodrigo Aleixo

    Our First Kiss
    (by Rodrigo Aleixo)

    My fingers were tenderly tangled in your hair
    while our cheeks rubbed against one another.
    I shivered;
    the warmth of us both increased as to please our
    mutual self discovery. That hug.
    Our lips whispered voices of intimacy
    before mine decided to meet your forehead,
    then your eyes,
    then your nose,
    to finally rest with your own lips in a deep plunge.
    Meanwhile we touched, we breathed, we felt. Everything.
    We loved.

  223. Michele Brenton

    Where am I?

    Under the cushions?
    Under the tree?
    Under the mountainside?
    Under the sea?

    Behind a pillar?
    Behind a man?
    Behind a mask?
    Behind a fan?

    Hidden for so long,
    where can I be?
    Will anyone ever
    come looking for me?

    Nobody looks under the tree.
    Nobody looks under the sea.
    Nobody looks behind a man.
    Nobody looks behind a fan.

    The only hope of discovery
    is if I emerge and say,
    “Look it’s me!”

    Michele Brenton 5th April 2014

  224. julie e.


    Hearing him scream
    across the hospital nursery
    put on Calm to step across
    the baby-filled room
    Smile and say “Hi!
    I’m here for Markie”
    Taking him home to nestle
    baby breath in my neck
    to walk the floor walk
    the floor walk the floor
    sad boy slowly growing
    out of mama’s drug habits
    slowly growing out of
    walk the floor walk the
    floor walk the floor
    finding the bright flash
    of your grin the wild
    giggle of your delight
    Slowly finding you.

    1. Angie5804

      I visited the NICU last year for an article I was writing – there were several drug babies there at the time. It takes a special someone to love on them – bless you!

  225. Lori D. Laird

    What Makes Me Me

    My intelligence.
    Though I can act as dumb as dirt,
    back me in a corner and I’ll
    show you how I can verbally hurt.
    I hide my intelligence
    as a form of protection.
    If you come across as intimidating
    all you’ll get is rejection.

    My sense of humor.
    It’s easy to make people laugh.
    And it’s another way for
    people to think I’m daft.
    Everyone loves a funny girl.
    No one wants someone serious.
    Though inappropriate humor
    can make one furious.

    But I have discovered
    my heart is my greatest asset.
    I know how to love and forgive
    without having a moment of regret.
    My heart is wide open.
    Though it has its scars.
    But that’s never truly kept me
    for wanting to reach for the stars.

    © LDL 04/05/14

  226. rachelgrace

    all enchantments gone

    Stumbling through life he had made a discovery
    Feeling loss was ordinary
    Weeping he held his head in his hands as the world blurred away
    There was nothing more he could do to save himself
    The sky looked down on in with disdain
    Never again would there be another

  227. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    Blue Roses

    Momma was watching TV – late night –
    waiting up for Dad.
    I heard the someone say,
    “I had…blue roses.”
    In my child’s mind I saw
    a garden filled with large, tea cup-sized
    roses of the most ethereal blue
    where deep down in the center
    the moon light reflected – all gold and promising.

    Next day, as children do,
    I asked Momma if we could
    get some blue roses. “Sweetie,” she said,
    “There is not such thing!”
    “But,” I told her, “last night, I heard it on TV –
    the woman had Blue Roses.”
    Momma hugged me to her, tears welling up.

    Years later, bored by local broadcasting,
    I turned to a channel where old movies
    played like skipped records,
    Just in time, I heard,
    “I had an attack of pleurosis.”
    Laughing tears ran down my cheeks –
    but –
    that night I dreamed again
    of ethereal blue roses
    perfuming the world as a gentle breeze
    moved their centers just enough
    to reflect the moonlight.

  228. spiritualpassion

    Self Discovery

    The comparisons I had
    Only made me feel bad
    My internal voice said “If only”
    And I’m not gonna lie- left me feeling lonely
    One day I’ll be
    Was a place always set in my head
    And as soon as I didn’t reach it, it was back to bed
    Why can’t I have those gifts or shine like that?
    Let me pull all the reasons deep from my hat
    Then years passed and passed the years
    My actual truth overcame my fears
    I’m not like you and that’s all right
    It’s actually better my truth gives me sight
    Sometimes quiet sometimes loud
    Better to be me and wear it proud
    God made me this way- Insides, outsides, and all
    I embrace the whole package, for that is the call
    Each one a piece of the puzzle in this adventure called life
    Never let self-doubt fill you with strife
    So don’t give up now, you’ve traveled so far
    Be all that God has called you to be and shine your own star

  229. Rolf Erickson

    Didn’t Know

    I didn’t know I could go there every day.
    It was like, “Who me? Really?”

    So then Mister Bobby Lee says:
    “What you don’t know can’t stop you.”

    It turns out that “There” was just waiting
    For me to wake up and show up.

    And not just once and not just twice
    But every single day and guess what?

    Five days in and suddenly I do know
    That not only” I Can” but “I Need To.”

    Now I know not knowing can’t stop you.
    Not ever, never. Just start. Today.

  230. Melissa


    I was young
    Oh so long ago
    Vainity my vice
    A pretty empty shell

    I studied my reflection
    Several times a day
    Looking for any signs
    Lest age sneak up on me

    One day I gasped in horror
    I saw the faintest line
    A mere crease upon my brow
    Tho a chasm in my mind

    I sent word to my friends
    A consultation was in order
    I needed advice
    From those who remained unscathed

    They arrived the following eve
    After the sun had long since set
    Pristine porcelain faces
    Coming to my aid

    The treatments began immediately
    The women well prepared
    With ancient remedies
    To preserve my fleeting youth

    I closed my eyes as told
    The ritual commenced
    A piercing of my neck
    (to pull the toxins out)
    Then a blissful sleep

    Upon awakening
    Under the veil of another starless night
    I felt reborn
    Rid of my plague

    To celebrate my victory
    We drank a wicked toast
    I raised my glass of crimson hue
    Drank the substance
    Thick and warm

    Youth was mine at last
    Forever guaranteed
    No matter what the price
    Mine eternally

  231. acele

    discovered on the shelf above the kitchen sink:

    Bits of garlic and dried chilies

    layered soup mix in a mason jar which was given as a humble thank you merry Christmas gift

    a pile of cork that I’m not sure what to do with

    a small jar of fennel seed

    2 white lidded jars – one with coconut oil, one with honey that has crystalized

    a salt and pepper shaker that we never use

    a hand poured candle in a little glass teacup

    a square tin with miscellaneous bottle tops and jar lids, and a birthday candle inside it

    a bottle opener

    a sleek little marble

    an icon of the virgin mother from Africa that has faded to blue

    PG tips


    a mesh tea strainer

    ground cinnamon in a wildflower honey jar

    raisins that get quickly tucked in the overcrowded cabinet

    life’s little tidbits…pungent and spicy, nourishing and grateful, regretful and intoxicating, sealed in small
    containers, neglected and at times numbing


  232. Beth Rodgers


    Riddled with guilt
    He lacked the finesse
    Of the dreamer he’d once been.

    His goals long forgotten
    Washed away in the
    Abyss of pity.

    Yearning for a way to
    Re-discover the passion and
    Kindle positivity.

  233. Emma Hine

    ‘Discovering Love’

    I thought I knew
    what love was
    when I met you.

    I had been in the dark
    playing games
    with love’s shadow.

    I thought I knew love
    when your arms
    wrapped around me.

    I was only dreaming
    waiting for life
    to wake me from my slumber.

    I thought I knew love
    until a new love
    opened my eyes and my heart.

    When I heard my newborn’s cry
    and felt her at my breast
    I discovered true love.

  234. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    The Discovery of Light

    Light, light, so much light!
    Suddenly, at the end of the slow process,
    enormous brightness everywhere.
    And everywhere had become larger.

    I didn’t have words, and scarcely thought.
    But I had perception. I perceived
    bedazzlement and my body’s reaction.
    Now I would call it shock.

    Noise, too, was everywhere, huge,
    around and through me. I had, you see,
    no sense of a separate self. I
    was the everywhere, with no edges.

    I began to distinguish voices.
    “She,” they kept repeating, and somehow
    I knew that ‘She’ was me. So began
    the experience of limits.

    In every direction, whiteness — which had
    angles and corners. Heads and bodies
    disappeared behind what I now see as walls;
    but then I had no names, no concepts.

    Movement was happening. Noses and chins,
    cheeks and mouths and eyes, which I did not then
    know or understand, moved close and away.
    There was a sense of speed, of bustling.

    And I felt myself moved (not fast, not a lot).
    I was taken and wrapped, moved further away
    from a part of the everything, a dim lump
    that I knew I needed — my exhausted mother.

    And all the time, startled by light. I kept looking.
    I began to experience my mind’s reaction too,
    which I now identify as awakening
    curiosity, even a beginning of wonder.

  235. anneemcwilliams


    All night I am the cat, hiding
    in a frozen yard, vigilant,
    the small mist of unwanted
    drifting around me.

    She sits in her house
    drinking coffee till dawn
    and I slink through shadows.

    And again I hear foot falls
    and I have gone running
    the heart in my chest
    beats like a pulsar.

    Because of their great beauty,
    some collect cats
    and are lost forever.

    All day, asleep in tall grasses,
    I dream of nothing.
    Not of safety, not of goodness
    Not even of food.

    Because they leave toys in bathtubs
    and water bowls, and on your bed.
    Because even fat, lazy cats
    deserve and want attention.
    Because their lives aren’t easy
    without human caretakers.

    Because cats are strange
    strong-willed and self possessed,
    there are those who do not trust them.
    They appear and disappear;
    like shadows behind, or under places
    They are an absence of presence.

    Because cats require meat and very little else.

    first draft 04/05/2014

  236. RuthNott

    Discovering Truth

    I should have seen it
    But you wove your web so well
    Your lies blinding me

    Pulling me inside
    Entangling me, choking me
    Killing my spirit

    Leaving me lifeless
    Unable to move beyond
    Your web of deceit.

    Ruth Nott

  237. India

    Nod pleasantly,
    listen well,
    gossips not gosip
    with no one to hear it.
    “Can you believe her? How dare she?”
    You’re trying to remember, trying to think,
    what was so outrageous?
    You search and search,
    what did she just say?
    Just now…one minute ago-nothing.
    it isn’t there.
    These little things,
    dirty truths,
    where once stood tall,
    now fall flat.
    As you discover,
    deep inside,
    who are you fooling,
    no one really cares.

  238. veronica_gurlie

    When You Put On the Mask

    I must admit,
    I saw how fast you played in her fire,
    and pretended to be sweet,
    and drank her juicy poetry,
    and called her a thousand times,
    and gave her all the creepy feelings, you gave me.

  239. Gwyvian


    Thoughts slip here from side to side, collision is imminent—
    but there: a hollow space to crawl in, a dividing line
    between the corporeal and those searing essences;
    I curl until they cannot reach me, those claws that glisten,
    hungering to rip into me, the attenuated screams that
    blister with unnatural heat, and
    a pair of red eyes that see me hiding…
    softness came to my attention, so I pressed back into it, and
    found myself submerging into an enveloping wall
    with such a delicious texture on my skin—
    like a sunset of sensations, and flickers of comprehension,
    and suddenly I understood: those feelers seek my flesh, and
    if I think too hard, the eyes will snuff out my existence…
    abruptly the jelly ended, and I stepped into floorless fog—
    curiosity stemmed the shivers convulsing up my throat,
    and drowned out the sharp, dark noises of fear spiking, so
    I kept moving, wandering on, hoping no snares could catch me,
    hoping my squealing instincts are wrong;
    time manifested in my mind as the fog coalesced before me,
    revealing marble floors, twinkling chandeliers and
    a sickly, tangible dread oozing—
    I fled, the eyes hot on my heels,
    its breath panting vivid nightmare:
    bubbles into which I carelessly stepped, until at the last
    with blood roaring in my ears, my fingers scrabbled on wood—
    a door, and there…
    …I found myself in a strange, haunting grove,
    bushes of luscious fragrance, sighing trees and small faeries:
    I knew it some fanciful dream, but real or madness,
    its calm settled into me…
    the path of stone that wound into the deep green
    vibrated softly with an unearthly hum, a beacon calling me,
    pulling me onward, until I found myself before yet another door:
    carved in stone, odd creatures leered from all sides,
    but the sound, that magnificent honey to my soul—
    and I stepped inside a hallway, lined with mirrors of spun glass,
    my reflection hazy and distorted, and the quiet: a deaf pressure…
    but before I could take more than a step,
    my eyes caught on a glint of terrible red—
    I knew I had reached my end as I turned: the doors were gone!
    my reflections swirling, and just as I saw my end approach,
    I noticed something startling:
    these places, thoughts and feelings,
    they are more than mere dreams around me, I…
    am the figment in this place…
    I… am a thought eluding voicing, a vanishing feeling,
    and it is not ubiquitous evil that just grasped my shoulder, but—

    April 5, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  240. PKP

    Under soft flannel

    it was quite a wait with
    baited breath for breasts
    not yet budded
    almost finished with eight
    and still struggled laying
    await in a night starlight
    studded –
    a night in the dark of the
    closed-room door on sheets
    cool over her grazed
    fingertips – just a little
    more – and a gasp – she
    surely heard exploded
    from her open mouthed lips
    surely heard through the house,
    wafting all round the town
    as her own small hand
    found a most definite

  241. HoskingPoet

    If Only…

    To read a poem inside a
    poem, trying to echo voice
    looking at what another said
    I mean sit down and really look
    Can you say you truly know me?

    Words are written on the page in
    a frenzy, thoughts spill out the
    question posed, gazing at the stars

    I am not confident they will tell

    Perplexed, I look within me
    Is it possible to truly
    know all the thoughts men
    will voice over coffee of
    all the poems written on earth

    Powerful two letters holds all
    we have ever pondered in the
    cosmos, we tremble soul-and-body
    lingering on what-ifs scars

    There are many people who were
    consumed pondering the universe, not
    one poet questioned life or love too

    If Rudyard Kipling failed to
    write his verse what loss we’d pay
    searching echoes to answer for
    the confidence of birth

  242. veronica_gurlie

    Loosing My Mind

    You got to shook up,
    so you left,
    and I let it all go tumbling down,
    until it went kersplat!
    and then I got lost and confused,
    and wondered,
    what ever will I do without you,
    my last nerve.

  243. Gammelor

    While watering daylilies,
    shoots half-grown at best,
    sudden motion startles me.
    I wait a moment, hose at bay,
    but nothing further happens.
    “Toad, perhaps,” I lightly guess
    And go back to my spraying.
    A panic of furry, brown blobs
    Scuttles out from leafy hide
    Then huddles in the open.
    Five tiny rabbits.
    Quietly I back away and hope
    no fox or hawk will discover
    the tender prey that I uncovered.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  244. mrnor10

    Recently, I found out the information on my family tree was wrong. I found records (that were always available) that disproved a parent-child connection.

    I found it!
    I figured it out.
    After 100 years of erroneous lineage,
    I figured it out.
    That’s a century of mistaken identity!
    A century ago,
    Someone had to know,
    But I figured it out!
    I found it!

  245. novacatmando

    (after Charles Simic’s Watermelons)

    I remember heading northwest, eager, loaded to the rafters in your green
    AMC Pacer. Remember how much gear we’d fit in those big Buddhas

    of cars? All the camping accouterments of 1976, complete with beanbags on
    the luggage rack, and items less vinyl (and weather-proof) wedged between the
    backseat doors. Miscellaneous food products: Mallomars, Spam and canned fruit
    ate up the hatchback. Real food could come from an errant vegetable stand.

    Inevitably, there were more quilts for wayside sale than kumquats and we
    would grow sick of that ratchety sound of our can-opener each time we’d eat.
    Each day, each detour, and every pit stop grated up our spines, peaking with the
    putrid discovery you were using my toiletries, and you answered with a smile

    just a smile, Cheshire, as if to show me the inarguable affects of your raid and
    plunder. Our last connective neurons swelled and swore and in thunderous spit
    that Pacer swerved to the road’s shoulder along with my shouts— Get Out, OUT!
    In the end: it wasn’t my car, it wasn’t our roadside break-up, it was neither the
    time or the last comb, though in our end it was mostly about breaking teeth.

  246. LCaramanna

    Laugh It Off

    In addition to cupcakes and licorice,
    tortilla chips and chocolate,
    worries weight a body,
    troubles transport a treacherous load.

    As tears behind tired eyes threaten to burst free,
    unleash anguish and frustration zipped into too-tight jeans,
    discover a humorous simple solution.

    Encounters with laughter,
    no matter how brief,
    like baggy sweatpants and convex mirrors,
    comfort the bearer light-hearted.

  247. uneven steven

    grizzly discovery center

    at the grizzly and timber wolf discovery center
    just outside livingston montana
    where they test the latest generation
    of grizzly proof containers –
    none ultimately successful
    given a grizzly’s claws and hunger times time –
    when they offered you and your sister
    the opportunity to hide the grizzlies lunch
    anywhere inside the grizzly enclosure
    it was just too good an opportunity to pass up,
    two cubs alone,
    of course you had to tell your sister
    you thought you saw a grizzly
    in the cage with you –
    you making your sister cry hysterically
    for 30 minutes,
    your grin at once again breaching
    your sister’s defenses,
    your confusion at why you were always being punished
    for doing what comes naturally to you,
    preparing your sister for the real monsters,
    the ones not in cages,
    what any normal brother would do
    to torment and protect the sister he loves

  248. Scribbling Sue


    When Mother turned ninety, we decided to mark
    The occasion in writing. After all, how many do we see
    Reach ninety? Decades of experience, a life story
    Waiting to be learned, a journey of discovery, too.
    What would we find? Perhaps a life less ordinary.
    We all think our parents extraordinary, don’t we?

    Ninety years have blurred her memory; tales we
    Have heard, photos poured over, the casual remark,
    Much of that well worn, much loved story,
    It’s slipped from her grasp. Photos, too,
    They’re beginning to fade, even her ordinary
    history, sepia days of home or holidays at the sea.

    We set about gathering a collection of tales to see
    How her family lived, thrived and died so we
    Could celebrate her birthday with her life’s story.
    Her grandfather was born in Tipperary, an ordinary
    Man who sailed off to Africa to make his mark,
    He was a doctor and an adventurer too.

    He married the daughter of a doctor and had two
    Daughters, smiling angels in frilly lace we see
    In the photographs. But even angels can’t escape history.
    The Boer War broke out and left its mark.
    Shock and recovery. An escape to Liverpool and we
    Know by the photos the house there was ordinary.

    The doctor’s daughter married in the ordinary
    way of that time, a soldier in the First World War, had two
    children. Her sister died from Spanish Flu, we
    believe (our mother can’t remember) but this loss left a mark
    on our grandmother. War claimed her pilot son in Sri Lankan sea
    And wrought the final move in our family’s story.

    Loss and recovery mark the steps of history,
    A circle of loss and recovery. An event that seems ordinary,
    The death of an only son brought them back to
    Tipperary. The doctor’s descendants hoped to see
    A change of landscape bring happiness. And we
    Believe that life here helped erase that dark mark.

    A story of loss and recovery may seem ordinary,
    But we are the family and still feel its mark,
    We see it in our mother’s history and in ours too.

    © Suzanne Lalor
    5th April 2014

  249. Hannah

    Sevenling (Birds Open the Day)

    Birds open the day boisterous and strong,
    little boy voices steal the memory of stillness;
    I’m pulled to the surface by two very different songs.

    And you – you come gently, finding me tucked away,
    where unleashed dreams leap beyond my reach.
    There I chase the remembrance of sleep like lost strays…

    but here I’m unearthed, awakened – I’m found – your discovery.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  250. veronica_gurlie

    When I Met You

    It was last summer when I saw you, burning so bright–
    and real gold, and spit shined, and too slick, and just fine,
    in your good old fashion black handsomeness.
    You kept my attention like fireworks did, when I was a child,
    and when I touched you, my bones vibrated, and I melted down into my shoes,
    It was then I discovered, I’m really attracted to people I don’t know,
    but I feel, like the sun on my face.

      1. veronica_gurlie

        Glad you liked the poem:0). This is actually about someone from last night who I saw again and I saw him first time last summer and I still don’t know him, yet as I said, I’m attracted to someone I don’t know. lol.

  251. James Von Hendy

    Bend Sinister

    I woke this morning with two left hands.

    Were this Athens or the isle of Lesbos
    In ancient days, such a blessing doubled
    By the gods demanded sacrifice,
    Appeasement as much as thanks, for what one
    God gave, another, jealous, might take away.

    In Rome, such monstrosity was not right.
    A sinister appendage, even one,
    Was bound behind the back to teach the right
    Dexterity. The left alone heralded
    Bastardy emblazoned across a coat of arms.

    I woke this morning with two left hands,

    And being a lefty through and through,
    Sided with the generous gods of Greece
    Until I bent to tie my shoes and found
    My other hand, left to substitute for right,
    Hardly knew the knot. Dexterous it’s not.

  252. Anvanya

    I’m Damn Good

    I guess you could say that
    I’ve been skiving off for several years – with
    Respect to my novel, that is.
    After discovering cozy mysteries and bodice-rippers
    Probably six or seven years ago, I have been
    Busily entertaining myself with orgies of Marcus Didius Falco,
    Dianne Mott Davidson, Amanda Quick – and now
    Richard Castle enters the playing field…

    Make no mistake, I have been nurturing my novel and
    Poetry with weekend writing conferences and
    Weeknight critique groups. Meanwhile,
    The book languished, subject to intermittent Attention.
    There are several sections that are not only incomplete,
    They never got beyond the title stage.

    Last week, stirred by the arrival of Spring – finally –
    I dusted the bookshelves in my office and guiltily
    Took down the first binder. Armed with a cup of
    Fortifying tea and a scone, I opened my nascent best-seller
    And turned the pages, pursuing each one with intention.

    Great characters, I thought. Nice dramatic arc. Entertaining
    Setting …this is worth more of my time.

    No more blaming myself for ignoring my masterwork:
    I’ve learned lots while soaking up cozies and romances.
    I used to laugh at my friends who went to the books for
    escape – now I understand that they had their uses
    and I have had mine.

  253. Daniel Paicopulos


    Approaching sunset now, the dawn
    too many years behind. The night
    waits, lingering behind the evening star.
    It was noon a mere while ago,
    brightly shining with hope,
    plans made with future surety,
    more time than dreams to fill it.
    Time spent seems but trumpery
    when placed beside time remaining,
    too much wastage, squandered
    could haves, elusive promises.
    Five or seven friends remain, a thousand
    cronies gone the way of fumes, still
    time for eight or nine, likely no more.
    Poems have always seemed like
    words in flight, now more earthly,
    too often murky, poets in high dudgeon,
    even as they confuse sunset for the dawn.
    Still, there’s work to do,
    and time to do it.
    Living in the past yields little that is good,
    mostly excuses, redrafted memories and
    rust-pitted trophies.
    Future has a sense of promise, of mission,
    too many maybe’s as well.
    What’s left is now, today, this moment,
    sunset, dawn and dark of night the same
    gift of opportunity, like a poem, somewhere
    between a dream and a nightmare.

  254. diedre Knight

    Angst of Discovery
    Lingering scars, enduring resolve, whittle a heart to a pea
    Innocent concepts, blossomed with dreams
    From the core of a twelve year-old heart
    Then crumble to ruins in tear-stained streams,
    When the shard of a dream hits its mark.
    And a young heart dies.
    Astonishment; her fissure, a stranger has taken his place,
    With eyes of a prowling lion, taking his bows on the stage.
    In a cover of off-stage darkness, a kiss and a warm embrace
    Igniting an arctic dawning—it wasn’t her mother’s face.
    And a young heart dies.

    diedre Knight

  255. rachfh

    My Son Discovers Tut’s Tomb by Rachel E. Hicks

    Please, he begs, laughing and desperate,
    read the next chapter! And I turn the page
    to the sandy steps going down, down
    into three thousand years of darkness; then—
    a sealed, hieroglyphed door, the candle to the crack,
    threads of light resting on
    all we value in this world— thrones, jewels,
    chariots, treasure of kings,
    “everywhere the glint of gold.”

    But the young heart beside me isn’t tethered
    yet to all this. He sits quietly, awaiting illumination.
    My voice drains out hollow, even to my own ears:
    The final coffin was two hundred pounds
    of solid gold, buddy. Do you know
    what that is worth?

    And I see in his blank face, with surprised, contented
    pleasure, that it is not worth much compared
    to this: the stubborn shovel blades hunting
    in steaming sand for more than five absurd years;
    the trembling in Carter’s veins
    as he deciphered the name; the removal
    of the last golden lid; the linen, snakeskin
    in his hands, falling away until at last
    he is face to face with another
    of Adam’s sons,
    this young brother.

    It is quiet in the dusty tomb.
    On the wall, a scorpion slides
    into a crevice. Carter wipes sweat
    from his brow and bows his head in his moment
    of justification. My son fingers this page a while,
    breathing exultation in a shallow rhythm,
    the wealth of knowing, of revealing the hidden,
    suspending him while gold litters the floor
    and rests forgotten in corners.

  256. nmbell

    Growing Up

    I have discovered as I grow older
    That I don’t really know my mother
    Rather a startling discovery after 58 years

    I always thought she was the woman
    She told me she was, tolerant, unbiased
    A good church going woman

    The first cracks appeared when she left her church
    Not THE church just her church
    Because they voted to marry gays if asked

    It seems tolerance only extends to those
    Who have the same narrow world view as yourself
    Her church never actually married any gays, just agreed it was okay

    She came to live with us after my dad died
    It was great to know she was safe and well cared for
    Watching how she lived her life was an epiphany

    I never knew she was passive aggressive
    A master manipulator, which she learned at my gramma’s knee
    I never thought she would outright lie to me

    I have discovered we can learn from our parent’s mistakes
    I don’t have to act like “my mother’s daughter”
    I have discovered I love my mother

    But I don’t necessarily like her world view

    Nancy Bell 2014

  257. lina

    Tell Us Why

    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because he is charming.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because he’s threatening.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because her boyfriend
    tells her to.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because he gives gifts.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because he gives cash.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because she’s in despair.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because she hopes
    for the best.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because she doesn’t care.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man
    because she cares.
    The girl’s mother lets
    her go with the man

  258. aphotic soul

    Santa Claus Doesn’t Exist
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    I remember back when I was young,
    Before I had a mind of my own,
    When I spoke with my parent’s tongue,
    Things which I no longer condone,
    For when I was little I believed in Santa Claus,
    Because it was taught to me as true,
    And nothing to that point gave me pause,
    To doubt what my parents rightfully knew,
    Until one fateful night,
    When I was informed by my brother that I was lied to,
    Although I didn’t view it with spite,
    Trust in my parents did no longer continue,
    The next year when I was being driven to school,
    I asked my dad “Do babies go to heaven when they die?”,
    He replied that the unbaptized ones burn in the fiery pool,
    And that’s when I realized that it was all a lie,
    For no just god would allow such a thing,
    Why would babies die in the first place for that matter?,
    Angels would cry, not sing,
    And that’s when I realized it was just all bullshit on a platter,
    At age 13 I realized there was no god,
    No heaven nor hell,
    It’s all a facade,
    A story that my parents would tell,
    Though they believe it to this day,
    It’s a work of contradiction and lies,
    Repeated over and over in an indoctrinating way,
    And to this I cut my ties,
    For there is so much more to life then what they say,
    They just take your money while having you pray,
    Then discriminate against those who are born gay,
    In an unbelievably hypocritically way,
    They promise you an eternity of bliss,
    But there’s no way to repeat love’s first kiss,
    It is always something that you will deeply miss,
    And once it passes it’s forever apart of death’s endless abyss,
    But that’s okay because we only live this life once,
    No matter what they try and say,
    They take you for a fool and dunce,
    And wish to keep you colorless and gray,
    Live this life for yourself and for those you love,
    Not for false promises of a heaven, nor North Pole above.

  259. geetakshi


    A relentless ticking away
    of mortal spirit
    scares all but the wise ones:
    ‘Tis how life is,
    so they say,
    Sipping their immortal nectar,
    Discovered after persistent searching,
    It seems to prolong life
    (A word more profound
    Than mortal)

    ©Geetakshi Arora
    April 5, 2014

  260. Joseph Harker

    (for Nicholas)

    I carry a boat orchid aroused in its pot,
    and put on a surgical mask
    before entering the room. He had TB,
    the nurse tells me as we scrub.
    Elizabeth is already there, washing each limb
    with a cloth as gently as polishing glass
    as he sits up naked in the bed.
    Here there is no wrong way to touch.
    Even the briefest friction of skins is good.
    I put the orchid on the sill, and we talk
    about how tomorrow he’ll be back on solid food
    (while the nurse rigs a bag of slurried protein
    to his drip), the season finale of Dexter,
    how his one cat has taken to sitting
    day and night by the window. The room
    stinks of ammonia and artificial pine.
    He tugs at his diaper and murmurs something
    to the nurse, and all the bones lining his face
    reveal their shapes as he speaks.
    Elizabeth helps move his thumbs so he can text.
    In the legends of our tribe, they talk about
    muscle dripping away like butter,
    dermis peeling, lungs carpeted by microbe fuzz.
    But this happens, on these cold February days.
    We put on a DVD and he dozes off
    while the nurse cleans his ports. These are
    the seasons when we light vigil candles.
    Some things, once you see them, become
    no easier to handle, despite what anyone says.

  261. Heidi

    Behind the Fence on the Asphalt Parking Lot

    Beneath painted toes we squish fallen mulberries,
    Plugging red winedrops into our mouths.
    We open our lips to speak, discovering bees fly out,
    Pollinating our eyes, collecting sweet nectar from our fingertips.
    Their furry buzz droning in our ears a calming Psalm.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  262. candy

    Prodigal Self
    It was pushed all the way to the back
    in the darkest recesses.
    Crumpled by neglect and stained with tears
    I was not sure if it was salvageable –
    would it fit or was it hopelessly out of style?
    I tugged gently at first
    but it wouldn’t budge, buried under
    years of personal detritus.
    Bit by bit I removed pride,
    envy, doubt, and fear until
    it was completely uncovered.
    I shook it out – good as new –
    and put it on.
    It pinched in places but it felt good
    as I stepped into the light
    in my rediscovered self confidence.

  263. Pat Walsh

    Today’s prompt caused me to think about the sense of discovery that we feel when we meet someone for the first time — and how people can make an experience worthwhile, even in strange or uncomfortable circumstances.

    by Patrick J. Walsh

    The waiter picked up the menu
    without asking what I wanted to eat
    and when he took the drink order
    I had to ask twice to get a cola

    You told that story about the band
    playing the upscale nightspot
    where the guys got all the good food
    and you left with warmed over empanadas

    And when they combined our checks
    I fumbled with my wallet
    while trying to square the bill
    without it costing you too much

    Three days later a friend asked
    how was that new restaurant
    and I couldn’t remember
    that that was where we met

  264. Deborah Hare

    Secret Hair

    My normal routine when styling my hair,
    I parted it right,
    And I left it there.

    Then one bright morning why I cannot say,
    I decided to
    style another way.

    I brushed it back for a pony tail twist,
    and what I saw there
    could never be missed.

    While I stared, pondering what I might do,
    I spied one white hair,
    No, now I see two!

    On looking closer, I found a bunch more,
    I locked the window
    and bolted the door.

    Oh, cruel discovery! Old age had crept in!
    What do I do now?
    How do I begin?

    I thought of my hair dresser- she’d not tell.
    She’d dye it!
    I’d try it!
    All would be well.

    So, I brushed it right down- my secret hair.
    I parted it right,
    and I left it there.

    (until I could make an appointment with my hair dresser)

  265. shellcook

    The Beginning

    He was almost three when we finally met,
    The wait had been long, so long I had wept.

    Trembling with love, and some deep seated fear
    I follow my sons truck on the drive, as it nears.
    With a backdrop of pine trees rising behind,
    He brakes then he slows as he rolls to a stop,
    Winter sun on his windshield, can’t see inside,
    Worrying, now, how this all will play out,
    Where is he, this child I know nothing about.

    Slowly his father unbuckles his belt,
    Lifts the lad up, finally turning about.
    He looks tired, he looks worried, he looks frazzled and worn,
    As he sets the boy down, and they walk hand in hand,
    I wonder at the beauty of this child and this man.
    My heart stolen, I reach out my arms,
    Please come, please stay, please sit for a while

    He had the face of a cherub, eyes bright and blue
    Hair spun from sunlight, those golden strands glowed.
    Shyly he smiles, this angelic child,
    As his eyes read mine, i see there is more of this story,
    I must know.

    He says not a word, goes straight for the books,
    by the door on the table by the fireplace screen.
    He reads me the word, that is written by forge
    On the fireplace screen, near the table by the door,
    my two year old grandson reads me a story.

    Every word, every letter, every nuance he knows,
    when reading from stories,
    but not on his own.
    On his own he is silent, as he rocks on his toes,
    Dear God, how they need me, i suddenly know.

    I am struck through the marrow with a loud hollow thud,
    I can help here, by profession, I know what to do.

  266. j.ajabad

    My Home is a Robin’s Spring Home
    By: Jacqui Abad

    I woke in the mornin’
    to a melody
    greeting me,
    “good morning!”

    I pulled back the blinds
    to see three pairs of eyes
    peeking at me
    they rose from their nest
    a new family of robins,
    are being raised
    in a few days they’ll leave the nest
    but until then
    these little fellows
    lay a flutter in my heart,
    I shall watch them grow
    as my anticipation rises
    my feathers ruffle
    that dreary day is nigh.

    The mother robin will be back
    to raise another brood
    after all my home has become her spring home
    and I welcome her
    waiting for her
    for each spring
    a child’s wonder
    hatches in my bossom
    I yearn to learn
    from my annual guest
    she is quite the teacher.

  267. LiveOakLea

    Of course, you, we, that is, all of us,
    Don’t see anything until we’re looking for it.
    Or at the very least, looking for something,
    And then perhaps we’ll find it, or find something.
    So that seems to be the key to discovery,
    Keep looking for something, anything, really, will do.
    A book,
    An author,
    A word,
    A thought.
    And look everywhere, not only where you might expect
    It to be
    For, possibly, it could be anywhere, now couldn’t it?
    Of course, it could.

  268. DanielR

    I walked along a path through forest pines,
    their fallen cones splayed about and nesting
    on prickly needles stippling the damp red clay
    Sunlight rushes through in momentary bursts
    feeding the needs of hungry, eager saplings
    And in the wind, heavy tapping echoes,
    lifting my eyes to branches high above,
    where black and white and red intermingle
    on cap and nape, breast and flank, back and cheek
    My heart leaps at the rarity of sight,
    spotting a Red-cockaded Woodpecker

    Daniel Roessler

  269. Sharon Ann

    Artistic Discovery

    Just past the bend in the road,
    up ahead, past the broken white fence.
    It is there, I am sure of it.
    There it is, I think.
    I see the outline in the fog,
    and then, no.
    It is not there at all.
    Driving, driving, driving,
    gently winding around the countryside,
    slowing here, looking there.
    The clouds are lifting, revealing
    threads of light though trees.
    Further, further still,
    past another fallen tree.
    Then, a family of young ducklings,
    marching through a puddle
    with the light just so.
    Steady, steady with the view,
    align with the light.
    Shutter sound.
    Perfect image in the frame.

  270. Kathryn Stripling Byer

    Saag Paneer Sutra (or how I discovered
    what the taste of cardamom means)

    Taj Palace, Austin, Tx

    Enshrined by the cash register,
    Shah Jahan’s Crown Palace
    shines in facsimile. Ragas float
    down from the sound system,
    sitar with tabla accompaniment.

    We open the menu to more music:
    Aloo palak, kofta, and gulab jamun.
    We nibble papadum
    while the waiter announces
    tonight’s special, Chicken Tandoori,

    but we shake our heads.
    Saag Paneer’s what we want,
    creamy green puddle filling
    our plates. We sop it with naan,
    sip mango lassi and talk about

    classes you take. Mahabarata,
    you tell me, means Great Story,
    India’s epic with God
    knows how many variations.
    Our own story plays out in airports

    and kitchens, by cell phone and email.
    Nothing maha about it,
    though demons inhabit our dark moods
    and fear casts us into the wilderness.
    No crowns await us when we reach

    our denouement. The waiter arrives
    with the bill. And a small of dish of spices.
    “Refreshment,” he offers. Tonight’s story
    ends with the essence of cardamom seeds
    on our breath as we rise from the table.

    (In India, cardamom is called the queen of spices.)

  271. ianchandler

    Prince Drop

    my backyard inkblot,
    edged with fronds and rock,
    stills the sound of no thing,
    forest eyelids half open over crumble of wake.
    where I thought,
    will I cobblestone myself
    into deep?
    and myself cozy in shards of field.
    maybe it’s not too bad
    to be deep azure swell in the youth’s kingmaker
    with a silver ball set in the shire
    of secret garden days in the city’s sister
    now crack-limbed and salt,
    I shake off my shackles of satchel and jacket
    and crawl back into the rabbit hole
    where my time capsule frog
    has not died.

  272. barbara_y

    This form has a name I’ve already forgotten. A sort of Acrostic. The last word of each line belongs to another poem. Read down the right margin for Ogden Nash’s “Old Men” (unless I’ve managed to mess things up)

    What We Discovered

    …while studying The People
    was about what you’d expect.
    Some of The People is old;
    some’s young. And some, men
    or women; both, neither. The People go… To.
    The People leave…From. Want to die

    someday, in clean underwear. They
    (The People) believe they’re what they do;
    respect or disparage what they are not;
    would love, love, really, really, really
    love to be just rich enough. When they mourn,
    they are regretting that they will be old
    without something they loved. Ask men

    (The People) about loss, and their faces turn old
    as rounded mountains. When men
    (The People) are afraid, afraid is what they are.
    Afraid of thunder, being broken or different.
    They are mostly what you’d expect of The People.
    They jump when you shout at them to look.

    And yell back, angry that you didn’t say “at”
    or “out”; always worried that the joke’s on them.
    The People are easier to be one with
    than one against. They get a look in their eyes,
    and a solitary ceases to be “who.” Becomes “that.”
    And as one entity The People wonder
    –not if the one will change, but–when.

    What we found while studying The People:
    that surprise that made us want to watch
    our(The People)selves forever, with
    –sitting in the next seat–an unshocked
    us (The People), with tears in our eyes

    was how much The People are like everything but
    a uniformed, collective noun preceeded by “The.”
    Because–as every old is in its own way old–
    clouds, concepts, nematodes, and men
    are alike in more ways than anyone can know

    and as different as to die and when,
    windows and laughingstocks, “I” and “an;”
    and, as every young does not turn into old
    we laugh at our home movies. Because men
    laugh. Because every one of us dies.

  273. Phil Boiarski

    Lost and found

    “I feel at each moment that I‘ve just been born
    into a completely new world.” – Fernando Pessoa

    Not everything would appear
    to be lost, at first, until needed.
    Then, it was an all-day hunt,
    hours of fretful searching.

    Once they took away the car,
    there was no need to search for the keys.
    After then, the maps were all useless,
    and why insure what gathered rust.

    Who knew what would be lost
    when they moved. Place is not
    important when all you do is move.
    The new seems exciting when
    one is able to remember finding it.

    The camera discovered a lump.
    This tissue tested, opened into
    uncharted territory, the X-Ray
    map, the cat scan screen.

  274. Eibhlin


    I looked you in the eye
    and convinced you with a lie.
    I carried it with confidence,
    good timing, righteous pride.

    It then became
    my truth.

    Years later I discovered
    my convincing words resounding
    in the guilty echo-chamber
    at the edges of a sleepless night.

    I did convince you, no?

  275. JanetRuth


    I have discovered the sultan of pride
    Is not easily dethroned
    Master-mind of a thousand lies
    Though with my tear-drops stoned

    I have discovered love’s great joy
    Is like a quick switch-blade
    For sorrow keens its sharpest curve
    Where joy its acme laid

    I have discovered in your eyes
    How there, the truth oft slips
    Regardless of the syllables
    A-flounder on your lips

    I have discovered beauty’s best
    Is not a thing of skin
    Its fairness is unparalleled
    Where love shines from within

    I have discovered year on year
    That life’s ceaseless return
    Regardless of status or age
    Are more lessons to learn

  276. JanetRuth

    Waiting to be discovered…

    We come, running thought over curvature, line
    Ancient twists, yet never old
    Ink-jeweled buds on an alphabet vine
    What will each flower unfold?

    Discovery is a beautiful rush
    The artist of ink is a king
    See how new empires unfurl from his brush
    Words are a wonder-full thing

    Shuffle, arrange, rearrange; what will be?
    Over and over again
    Message and medium intricately
    Mingling in drops from a pen

    Drawn to this well of infinity
    We know that here we can find
    Unending treasure; possibility
    As broad as the reach of the mind

    Poetry hovers, its fanciful form
    Wafting in whispers unstrung
    Ah, how the surge of its sweet, soundless storm
    Vexes the want on my tongue

  277. Beverly Deirocini

    To My Dearest

    After many years our passion had cooled.
    But when you died
    I discovered the evidence.
    Lipstick on collars, late night calls, love letters.
    Receipts and roadmaps.
    Withered flowers, chess pieces, take-out boxes.
    All things that made me cry.
    Signs that all along, I was yours and you were mine.

  278. lionmother

    A Walk Along the Shore

    A few years ago
    I sauntered along the
    spring bursting shore
    and there among the
    burgeoning rushes
    came upon a white blob
    Venturing closer I saw
    the white feathers covering
    smaller forms and realized
    I had found the swan’s nest
    She was elegantly preening
    her swanlings for their first swim
    Lining them up and making sure
    all were in formation before she
    tentatively touched the water’s edge
    checking for the right experience
    for her young ones
    Then she paraded in with the young
    swans following and they plopped into
    the water their baby feet paddling with
    instinctual movements as they
    followed after the proud mother
    she every so often looking back
    to check for any stragglers and
    moving her position to bring them back
    in the line as they wound their way in
    circles around the harbor.

  279. Cin5456


    A cure for this melancholy day
    yet no energy for the search.
    One passing, then another,
    and still the search unstarted.

    Daring the body to move off
    home space. Toss the dice.
    Step three paces beyond
    my closed front door.

    Sky is still blue. Grass is still green.
    I knew this without looking.
    Back inside – I’ll Google a cure.
    Perhaps it was discovered today.

  280. Walt Wojtanik


    Listen to your own voice,
    discovered quite by accident.
    Far have I searched
    grateful for unexpected blessings.
    The moment could not be forgotten;

    Their search was over

    it took only a lifetime of reaching to realize it.

    Ponder the vision beheld and decipher the message.
    Poets believe all things,
    the divine beloved had been waiting inside me all along.
    I write to discover new worlds, to find emotions.
    This is nothing new, no surprise;
    I want to uncover, slowly discover
    slicing through silence with the clean cold precision.

    These moments of discovery were coming at a slower pace
    rife with the love for becoming.
    a million tiny pearls; golden treasures.
    I learned buried treasures wait,
    If only I could see the secret majesty
    hidden among the azaleas with their purple blooms.
    I’ve missed all that is around me.

    Now without a moment’s hesitation,
    I still long to find the far end of the rainbow,
    peaceful natural beauty unfolding in a peaceful natural way.
    Love freely shared with new found friends.
    The earth is filled with glory.

    Thanks to these poets for providing the brilliant images used in this Found poem: Emily Lasinsky, Linda Rhinehart Neas, dhavid3, Dr. Nurit Israeli, Annell, Dr. Pearl Ketover Prilik, Benjamin Thomas, Taylor Graham, Kimmy Sophia, Walt Wojtanik, beale.alexis, Tashtoo, kelly letky, writinglife16, Elizabeth Crawford, vicki whicker, Tamara Rokicki, Connie Peters, Michelle Hed, Erynn, Jerry Walraven, Linda Lee Sand, P.A.Beyer, elishevasmom, Meena Rose, RamblinRose

    1. MeenaRose

      Walt, truly honored. Zelda Fitzgerald said ” Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.”

      If you ask me, I’d say Zelda would revise that statement if she had a chance to read you, Walt.

    2. drnurit

      So very creative (and so very inclusive…) I found my “grateful for unexpected blessings” here and I am honored (and, once again – grateful for unexpected blessings…)

  281. pomodoro

    Look There!

    Look there!
    Along the shore there floats
    a lump amidst the hull of boats,
    a flash of gray beneath the sky.
    Look there!
    A substance is passing by.

    It is not a rock, goiter or stump,
    but calcified treasure that makes them jump.
    Look there!
    The solidified lump catches their eye,
    But more than a substance is passing by.

    Tis “floating gold” the Australians do see,
    a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
    The folks from Down Under turn ghastly pale
    at the sight of the treasure coughed up by a whale.

    Look there!
    From the bowels of the whale comes valuable stuff;
    for perfumes and medicines, there is never enough.
    Tis what Ishmael saw from his perch on high,
    It is ambergris that is passing by.

  282. LeeAnne Ellyett

    Discovered Myself

    Discovered some wrinkles,
    I still get pimples,
    Discovered some lines,
    appeared over time,
    Discovered some sagging skin,
    a scar on my shin,

    Discovered I’ve reached middle age,
    who turned the page
    Discovered I’m going to be a Grandmother,
    and chauffeur my mother,
    Discovered I want to retire,
    before life expires,

    Discovered there is more to see,
    More to be,
    Discovered the moments we share,
    with care,
    Discovered myself today,

  283. Monique

    The Glass in the Trunk

    I walk up to the attic
    I open a trunk, dusted from years of neglect
    It shone like gold within
    From all the things inside

    All the hopes, dreams, and memories,
    Painted in watercolor
    Disappointment was what took me to the attic
    And I wanted to find comfort in long-forgotten things

    As I look through the things in the trunk
    I notice that the glow starts to fade
    As unboxing these faded memories
    Also reminded me of past disappointments

    There is broken glass scattered at the bottom
    But I notice that these pieces were colored.
    I take out the glass carefully
    I see a beauty in the brokenness

    Assembled together
    The glass pieces become like a mosaic
    I hold my mosaic up to the light
    And the glow finally returns

    The glow from the glass
    decorates the attic in a shattered rainbow
    Reds, blues, pinks, and greens
    Beautiful in its brokenness

  284. laurie kolp

    Editing Misses

    Errors hide like pesky ants
    who unexpectedly appear

    on countertops, pismire
    you think obliterated

    hours spent scouring
    every inch of the kitchen

    but there they are blaring at you
    in the most inopportune place.

    The boss’s wife glares at miniscule dots
    as if harmless sugar ants were cockroaches

    and then puts down her plate,
    exclaims she’s not hungry after all.

  285. Laura Romero

    Finding Sleep
    -Laura Romero

    Sleep escapes me
    twisted sheets and lumpy down
    pillows thrown haphazardly around

    Crickets sings way to loud
    all my sheep have gone astray
    clock slowly tick tock tick tocks away

    Oh, how I long to snore
    long for the REM state of sleep
    where slumber is even and deep

    Is this it?
    Are my heavy lids finally drooping?
    Queen Mab and Sandman finally swooping?

    Then a jerk of the knee
    and I find myself wide awake
    look at the time and it’s 4:08

    If I go to sleep now
    I can still get two hours solid
    those are my… ZZZ…

  286. Clae

    Race Human Race

    In a hurry no time to worry
    our feet race out the door
    All making haste a frantic pace
    like every day before
    If we could take a moment’s break
    we might discover more
    Instead we speed in line to bleed
    as true life waits ignored

    T.S. Gray

      1. Clae

        Thank you, comments are always encouraging, I’m glad it was enjoyed. I wrote it right before I left for work, of course. (I like my job, it’s just been a crazy few weeks). =-)

  287. mindiaust

    –Sometimes feeling goes so far then quits.—Dean Young

    Of all the places for the finger to land
    in the game that predicts where you’ll live,
    you set down, of course, off the coast of Cuba.
    Somewhere mid-Caribbean so you can’t help but see
    your tiny head bob in a tube raft
    like a teething ring for a school of sharks—

    a visual which would upset your Earth Mother friend
    who believes in the alignment of chakras
    and the imagining of positive outcomes.

    But the unevolved ape in you would rather
    swing your monkey-hand in the face of this blue sphere,
    the puzzle pieces of country sides and islands
    make them somehow accountable
    for all this undoing,
    all that’s undone.

    What place is this where even words
    can collapse in stutters
    down the runway-wobble of windpipe?

    Where the only song that sticks in the mind
    is the tortured cat-cry
    of an orchestra that stays in the fourth grade forever?

    Where even the best doctors occasionally
    staple the patient before replacing
    the faulty organ, and somewhere, you know,
    a heart is beating outside of its body,

    which describes perfectly
    your vacancy on the last morning
    with the one you thought you wanted.

    When you wrote the words I love—fingertip to
    chest—so sidetracked on the bump of muscle
    and pink nipple, you forgot to write you.

    Then remember leaving, and, almost home,
    your little car lost itself to the ice,
    circular slip of the tire,
    when you had to not steer and to not cry.
    And you had to believe there was nothing more
    you could do for your life.

    Had to believe it would be more than enough
    to leave only I love
    as your wonderfully unfinished mark on the world.

  288. emsytraut

    2014 April PAD Challenge Day 5
    Prompt: “discovery”


    I’d always been a city girl
    They chose this life for me
    Rushing people, cars and trains
    “They have somewhere to be”

    But the restless soul that stayed within me
    She didn’t want to hurry
    And she longed to travel to a place where “walking” wasn’t “worry”

    For in the city you may find that
    Though we don’t stand still
    No matter where we’re going we never get our fill

    For soon as we may get there there is
    “Somewhere else to be”
    Then we’re overcome with tension and so we never “see”

    We never see the bluebirds
    Or that painting on the wall
    We barely pay a second glance to buildings all so tall

    We’re walking in our blindness
    And we DON’T see where to go
    I finally discovered this
    I’ve told you
    Now you know

  289. MeenaRose

    Discovering Grace
    By: Meena Rose

    Many have yearned and searched;
    Spent their days hunting an
    Ideal that many a time remains

    Just out of reach, a spiritual
    Tip of the tongue syndrome,
    Driving many to seek harder

    And wander more ultimately
    Pondering and doubting that it
    Exists at all.

    Grace is not a where or a when
    Or a how or a why or a what;
    Grace just is – it shows up

    On a heartfelt invitation within;
    The ultimate soul dance – divine romance,
    A tango for two, a celestial waltz,

    A passo doble with a touch of the cha cha cha;
    Dance, whirl and twirl in this private party
    For two – no need to keep up with Jones’;

    That radiance and that glow, that light
    From within bubbles forth unhindered;
    Ten million fireflies lighting up someone’s sleep.

  290. Azma


    The toddler finally free
    at least momentarily,
    from the annoying wet kisses
    and the painful cheek squeezes,
    sets out on all fours happily.

    Across the open room,
    hands and legs working in tandem,
    like an adorable toy
    winded and let loose.

    The baby crawls over tiles and rugs
    and everything in between,
    knowing his bare and delicate knees
    can handle them all.

    He stops abruptly
    and scrutinizes at the tiny vivacity
    scampering towards him.

    His eyes unblinking
    and unstoppable, indifferent drooling,
    he forceps the bug
    with his chubby fingers.

    His mother dusts the bug off
    startling him.
    He starts to wail
    as he looses sight
    of the wonder.

    -Azma sheikh

  291. k_weber


    After two years
    you tell me
    you don’t love me

    I’ve become
    what a bug must
    feel like beneath a boot

    Our friendship
    always remains intact
    despite my hope for a little more

    I can throw myself
    into reverse
    and run over all the mixed signals

    But I can’t
    because I am still convinced
    that what we have is love

    But not a love
    that would chase me
    in barefoot dew under a moon

    Not a love
    that has nervous, wet hands
    and the urge to use the phone

    You are art, music, thoughtful
    and you don’t want children
    and I exist in that space, too

    We want to massage, kiss, have lunch
    and know the heat
    of each other’s skin again

    Yet you can’t give me your heart
    and this explains why you give me
    everything else

    — k weber

  292. Poetess


    Death in the cradle
    Stuck in the womb
    Life seeking light
    House without home

    A three level story
    One two three
    Bearing the climb
    The staircase to me

    Shell-like the hard exterior
    Empty it holds her fear
    Hiding her conscious
    Emerging wholeness near

    Disturbed identity
    Buried inside self-blame
    Mourning new life
    Death just the same

    Idealized figment
    Who is she they say
    Shining brilliant becoming
    Unable to buy the day

    I think therefore I’m not
    The idealized other
    A circle with no line
    Faded and smothered

    Seeking to feed
    Ones needing supply
    Feeding on my self
    Starved how they try

    A language known
    To the lost others lost
    Speaking in thin air
    I fuel the exhaust

    Mirror without reflection
    But somehow found
    A coin with no value
    Tossed to the ground

    Ascension so grand
    This cycle of existing
    Bait and switch reality
    Compassion resisting

    Waving the white flag
    Withdrawing the projection
    The replacement bearer
    Revealing self-protection

    Death to the dead
    My only way out
    Symbolizing my life
    Ending the doubt

    Writing my refuge
    Words my life my home
    Pages touching the self
    This landscape I roam

    Trying to become
    Under construction
    Facing the shadow
    Penniless resurrection

  293. Bruce Niedt

    Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo is to write a “golden shovel” poem. This form was created by Terrence Hayes in his poem of the same name: he took each word of Gwendolyn Brooks’ famous short poem “We Real Cool” and made each word of that poem the last word in each consecutive line of his poem. The poem I used here is Margaret Atwood’s “You Fit into Me”:

    You fit into me
    like a hook into an eye

    an fish hook
    an open eye

    So here is a poem from the POV of a woman who realizes it’s over:

    Breakup of the Hook and Eye
    (after Margaret Atwood)

    Baby, I just discovered that you
    and I don’t work anymore. You’re not fit
    to hold this heart, to slip it into
    your pocket like spare change. Tell me
    you care, that you really like
    my company, but that’s just a
    convenient lie. Don’t think you can hook
    me with threats or pleas. I’ve seen into
    the future, and it’s filled with an
    empty house. We don’t see eye-to-eye,
    and I can’t abide your swagger, a
    selfish air, a lingering lust for all those “fish
    in the sea”. So baby, you’re off the hook –
    I release you; I throw you back. Have an
    incredible life. The door is open,
    the world ready for your unfaithful eye.

  294. Carl Palmer

    Childhood Toys

    After two hours reuniting with
    twenty year old toys stored
    in the attic since he was ten,
    Star Wars, He-Man and
    Transformers, he demonstrates,
    with authentic sound effects,
    how the red car can be changed
    into a robotic mechanical man.

    His wife only sees how her husband
    has transformed into a ten year old boy.

  295. Bruce Niedt

    Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo is to write a “golden shovel” poem. This form was created by Terrence Hayes in his poem of the same name: he took each word of Gwendolyn Brooks’ famous short poem “We Real Cool” and made each word of that poem the last word in each consecutive line of his poem. The poem I used here is Margaret Atwood’s “You Fit into Me”:

    You fit into me
    like a hook into an eye

    an fish hook
    an open eye

    So here’s a poem from the POV of a woman who discovers that her relationship is over:

    Breakup of the Hook and Eye
    (after Margaret Atwood)

    Baby, I just discovered that you
    and I don’t work anymore. You’re not fit
    to hold this heart, to slip it into
    your pocket like spare change. Tell me
    you care, that you really like
    my company, but that’s just a
    convenient lie. Don’t think you can hook
    me with threats or pleas. I’ve seen into
    the future, and it’s filled with an
    empty house. We don’t see eye-to-eye,
    and I can’t abide your swagger, a
    selfish air, a lingering lust for all those “fish
    in the sea”. So baby, you’re off the hook –
    I release you; I throw you back. Have an
    incredible life. The door is open,
    the world ready for your unfaithful eye.

  296. Pengame30

    Title: When I Discovered Black and White

    The sun ablaze, dark skin glistening
    Television screens grey with enthusiasm in the 1940’s
    Brown water plagued with amoeba’s ingested into the bodies of young children
    Bats smash against small balls emoting excitement from a crowd
    Empty syringes cradle slums, scattered all across the ground
    The S&P sitting on the tip of every tongue in wall street
    Bullets disperse, attracted to skin, flesh, and bone
    More foreclosures than any man has ever known
    Geeks and gangsters striving to be about that life
    What difference is there really between black and white.

    Written By: Sean Drew

  297. RamblinRose

    It’s hard to discover something when you’re not looking
    When the eyes of you heart and soul and mind are shut up tight
    From the ravages of the modern madness of busyness
    Being deliberate, opening your senses to the physical
    Leaving behind the virtual world of technology
    The possibilities are endlessly in front of you
    Waiting to be uncovered in the mundane, the routine
    The ordinary of everyday
    In the largeness of a mountain
    And the minuscule world of a stamen and pistol
    In the giggles of a baby
    And the joy and excitement of young lovers
    The earth is filled with glory
    Seen through childlike eyes

  298. MeenaRose

    Cosmic Connection

    By: Meena Rose

    And it was at this age … Poetry arrived
    Neither a he nor a she but something more
    Neither sight nor sound nor exquisite touch
    And it was at this age … Cathryn woke up

    She found herself embracing life
    Smoothing wrinkles upon a trampled garden
    Furrowing brows as she kissed skinned knees
    Smiling coyly at one watching behind the tree

    And it was at this age … Poetry arrived
    Neither a word nor a verse but something more
    Neither form nor medium nor lyrical note
    And it was at this age … Aaron woke up

    He found himself being pulled without
    Sketching nature’s beauty divine
    Biting lips as he captured frowning eyes
    Braving jitters behind the tree

    And it was at this age … Poetry arrived
    Neither delicate nor shy but something more
    Neither hesitant nor timid nor mild pastel
    And it was at this age … they discovered love

  299. SuziBwritin


    All fired up and nowhere to go
    But here
    My fingers on the keys, waiting, listening
    For when the “gush” is finished messing
    and the real stuff comes forward
    Poems, stories, narratives
    as new to me,
    as anybody else who reads them,
    I write as directed

    The Muse waits for me to SHUT UP
    start taking notes
    The first few times this happened,
    like a kindergarten kid, I would exclaim,
    “Look what I did!” – so proud, so excited
    fascinated and amazed.
    And I actually believed it was MINE!

    Fingertips on the keys and eyes on the screen
    She is telling me NO, NONE OF IT IS MINE!
    It belongs to the world
    my only role is to disseminate
    what is dictated to me

    There are advantages to being held hostage:
    I enjoy the process of hearing something
    that hadn’t occurred to me before
    Feel relief that the job I do
    frees me from all expectations and
    I abdicate responsibility for what she says
    (No I’m not schizoid, what makes you think that?)

  300. elledoubleyoo

    Sometime in 1993

    I’m not sure how many weeks it was, or months,
    before I found it in your desk. Or what
    I needed that I couldn’t find in mine
    or Mom’s. The desk itself, rough hewn and strong,
    dented where Lisa hit it with a hammer,
    seemed to me the anchor of the room, the room
    where you spent most your time, the room where
    you spent your last breath in a hospice bed.
    Was it a pen I searched for? Instead, my
    fingers found a frame of popsicle sticks,
    glued by five-year-old fingers ten years before:
    A tow-headed girl squints into the sun,
    anchored and steadied by her father’s knee.

  301. MeenaRose

    Opportunity Comes Knocking
    By: Meena Rose

    Strikes randomly;
    Eager souls ensnared.

    Comes knocking
    On every door.

    To lands;
    Discovering new loves.

    Freely shared;
    New found friends.

    Enriched gratefully;
    Humanity renews hope.

  302. Melon

    The Ocean

    In my youth
    I was never scared of monsters,
    Even when the daffodils began to kiss the ground
    With crooked necks,
    Like praying to the devil and his demons,
    As if the sun was too much of a familiar face,
    And the stars much too cold.

    So, like the flowers, I found a way;
    You see
    You loved like a dead man
    -A butterfly with broken wings-
    Whose bones were much too brittle.

    And the tides within me
    Tore too hard for the dancing cliffs
    And pirouette of gulls amongst the wind.

    Because when the ocean kisses back;
    I bury you in shoals of fish and fossils in the sand.

  303. Mokosh28

    Agate Tides

    They bend under beach wind: old
    men with their rakes, five-year-old
    boys with buckets. Lovers holding nothing
    but each other. Lured by legends
    of see-through stone, they scavenge
    a bed the moon breathed in. This
    isn’t luck, it’s discovery: how rays
    break rock and make it honey. No
    gold here with its miser’s gleam. No heft
    to hoard or even spend. To find an agate
    is to squint into the difference
    between beauty and reason. To
    outwit nature and frame
    between thumb and forefinger
    a souvenir made dear by the angle
    of light, whose shadow casts
    no darkness.

  304. MyPoeticHeart


    Little did I know
    That today’s challenge
    – Discovery
    Would influence the way I truly am.

    Every year from early age
    To the teen years of seventeen
    Were days filled with accusations
    Of things I never did.

    Taken to a special doctor
    To look at (to me) stupid ink splatters
    The diagnosis rare, but true
    Dissociative Identity Disorder.

    Tests after tests, conclusions arrived
    My parents shocked with firm affirmation
    Denial and refusal to admit that their girl
    Was in fact a freak of nature.

    Denial came first from my dad
    Then next from my mom
    The horrid abuse was questioned
    The lies that were told to cover the action.

    For years I was told I did this and that
    For years I said no, I did not
    Almost criminal things I supposedly did
    To several within the family unit.

    In the year 2011 it became quite clear
    when the other stepped out in my place
    She only told ‘one’ who she was
    That one ‘special to me’ became special to her.

    My inner self that cause so much grief
    I wanted and needed her to just go away
    I hated myself for what I was
    To most I was a freak, to all except one.
    For forty-one years she hid inside me
    Only what became clear that 2011 year
    A discovery, our special friend said to create 2 blogs
    And an email for ‘her’ then report back when it is done.

    The hate that I felt slowly dissipated since then
    It now is a deep appreciation and love.
    This girl who is here inside of me, spent her life
    Protecting me, with no love from our bloodline family.

      1. MyPoeticHeart

        Thank you also, Linda Lee Sand.

        For your wonderful comment. I have wanted to share our story for a long time. Perhaps I will take this experience with the PAD 2014 challenge and work on putting our story together in book form.

        You all have no idea how wonderful you have made me feel tonight.

  305. elishevasmom

    Channel Surfing

    998 channels and rising.
    With each pass more are added
    —the surf gets calmer,
    beyond placid, flaccid even.

    And for this I am paying
    fifty seven dollars and forty three cents
    (not including fees and taxes).
    Premium channels extra.

    One day, between SciFi (ch 687)
    and TruTV (ch 688)
    the “next” button yields something new.
    Is there such a thing as ch 687 1/2 ?

    Stunning pictures of Nature, one
    fades out as the next fades in.
    The soundtrack just the natural
    un-silence that belongs with each.

    No white noise tape, this.
    Peaceful natural beauty
    unfolding in a
    peaceful natural way.

    I could get lost here.
    I can hear myself think here.
    Worth every penny of the monthly bill.
    The Self – Discovery Channel.

    Ellen Evans

  306. P.A. Beyer

    When I discovered I was old

    It doesn’t matter
    I like to mix up all the Slurpee flavors
    It doesn’t matter
    Opening day in baseball is my favorite day of the year
    It doesn’t matter
    I still long to find the far end of the rainbow
    It doesn’t matter
    I cry every 4th of July when I hear the 1812 overture explode with fireworks
    It doesn’t matter

    ‘Cause when Doc starts talking ‘bout lipids and beta blockers
    I have to accept the fact
    (even though I’ll never truly believe it)
    I’m not young at heart anymore

  307. kingac

    It Came From the Woods

    The boy turned – glossy eyed
    stare; delivering electric tinges
    to each membrane; overload –
    a whisper: “You’re next.”

    Sheets soaked, quick upright
    jolt – clock stuck at 2 AM.
    Nightly; three weeks now;
    penance for something unknown.

    “Inhale.” A long deep breath,
    “Exhale” – something isn’t right.
    Chest tightens, leg and arm hairs
    rise in static defiance.

    Slow numbing pain crawls down
    every pore until it seeps into bones,
    twisting and snapping, bending at
    predetermined will.

    A blackout is on the way –
    must hold tight; steadfast.
    The moon sits high, mocking –
    I didn’t think I had been bit.

    -John Pupo

  308. alana sherman

    I believe each poem is a kind of discovery: of self, of the world in a new way, of what we truly know. Poetry is the discovery of one’s own philosophy and point of view.

    So, Day 5 Discovery
    A Path Winds Through Scrub

    Everything seems still
    but boughs creak, leaves
    scrape. The stone wall (not breathing)
    put there by once living hands
    is home to the (always
    breathing) mosses quietly

    green and tender to the eye.
    Nothing is motionless
    in the woods.
    A path winds
    through scrub and ponds
    whose sudden glaze of ice

    reveals captured undergrowth
    and frees the bitter spirit.

    and one more because I can’t help myself…

    Winter Birds

    are all around the house
    today. In from the woods
    noisy woodpeckers,
    cardinals and jays.
    Nuthatch, usually tucked
    neatly among leaves,
    is revealed by December,
    perched on the pines’ branches
    eating seeds from cones.
    And crows—
    one for every frozen
    honeycrisp on the tree.


  309. tlafrance

    poem #5

    remember that box
    I bought on e-bay
    you know the one
    when I was doped
    on Ambien and
    buying things
    while eating Capn’ Crunch
    the box
    full of dusty
    pressed vinyl
    smelled like the past
    but it had that
    one song – the
    one that always
    makes me
    wish you were still here.

  310. Linda Lee Sand

    Butterfly Discovery

    Unfolding wings of alabaster white
    so paper thin, impossible
    for flight
    And all this time so safe
    so tight
    so sure that light was never meant
    for me
    so safe, secure
    so wound within
    And now without a moment’s
    hesitation, I am meant to fly?
    This invitation surely meant
    for other wings, and then
    I know
    I know
    I know
    that every preparation
    all the boundaries
    in the dark was meant
    to sculpt this
    wholly utter other self
    I’ve made.
    I’m perched to fly and yet not
    no not
    still not


  311. LCaramanna

    Morning Rediscovered

    Woke up this morning
    to discover
    the sun was undercover
    gray clouds scuttling low

    Woke up this morning
    to discover
    Spring had ducked for cover
    from swirling flakes of snow

    Woke up this morning
    to discover
    robins clutched at cover
    in pines below my window

    Without a sunny tune to sing along
    I tucked back under quilted cover
    happy to rediscover
    Asleep in bed is where I belong

  312. Mr. Take The Lead

    Who should I be?
    Daniel R. Simmons 2014
    Starting at the first day you are born
    Others shout they’re opinions about the person you are to become
    They say you have your father’s nose
    Or your mother’s stare
    Dress you up in the tiny clothes that you wear
    They pick your colors and your style
    As they proclaim ,OH you’re going to make your parents proud!
    They say maybe you’ll be a lawyer like your dad
    Or nurses like your mom
    Because everyone in your family goes to college
    not a one is an uneducated bum
    One you’re first of school
    The big question is asked
    “You do you want to be when you grow up?
    As you pray that you last
    You hear each passing answer
    I wanna be a doctor!
    An astronaut!
    A teacher!
    A dancer!
    Finally its your turn
    You shrug and say I don’t know
    You don’t really know what or who you want to be
    After all its kindergarten
    You just want to get to the coloring!
    You get a little older
    And face those teenager years
    You feel funny
    And just downright weird
    You so desperately just want to be like the cool kids
    You change your hair a million times
    Or go out and buy the coolest ties
    You put on the latest sneakers
    And pick up the latest slang
    Nothing in your life the same
    Now it’s time to graduate from high school
    Time to do the college thing that your parents expect you to
    Filing out the applications is just like your first day of school
    What do you want to major in what is it that you aim to do?
    You pick something that will promise the most money
    You hearts not in it, you’re just identity hunting
    You say maybe if a join this frat or sorority
    I’ll discover me
    Or maybe if with my hair I do the natural thing
    I’ll find my identity
    Soon your college years are over
    But you go back to that little toddler
    Except this time its not your parents dressing you up choosing what you are to wear
    No it’s the magazine and reality shows that constantly grasps your stare
    You’re independent now; yea you have a job and place
    But you still let society dedicate who you are
    What you should do
    Even what to put on your face
    You go into debt buying a sports car
    Or the latest purse
    All the while looking
    Looking for your purpose
    You ask yourself who should I be like ?
    Who do I admire most?
    Who should copy?
    To make others love me more?
    If you find yourself wrestling over these questions
    About who you are to be and what to do
    My friend the answer is simple:
    Simply be and do you!
    Yes through life’s journey of discovery
    I have found that its ok and pretty cool to just be

  313. Jerry Walraven

    “Why I’ve given up on Focus”

    Seven year old feet
    have not yet learned
    to travel in straight
    so a simple trip
    from a –> b
    finds us at a1 (
    a beautiful mosaic
    made from what others
    have thrown away)
    and a2 (a family of ducks
    swimming down the Delaware run)
    to b1 (yes, we passed by b)
    (the 1891 cornerstone
    on University Hall)
    and I wonder how long
    have I let these blinders
    build up around my eyes
    that I’ve missed all
    that is around me.

    I blame all of those adults
    who kept telling me to focus.

  314. Jacqueline Casey


    Discover claws as your critique unfolds.
    Though prisoner , I know not my accuser.
    So doomed, indeed, deserve to see who told
    this banning of my words by that abuser.

    Alas, he may be coward, I surmise
    for address is unknown as is his face.
    His judgment and my plea is no surprise
    I stand among his poem in disgrace.

    Oh, heaven help if I should falter now;
    plead guilty to my cowardice of soul!
    Allow the judge’s gavel, damning how
    my puny metaphors should not be told.

    I shy away and slink behind the Truth:
    I must bite back, myself, with firmer tooth.

    Prompt: write a discovery poem. Narrator may discover an object, a person, an animal, a dishonorable deed, or any number of things. Poets can focus on the discovery, examine the aftermath, or even just mention it in passing. Writer’s Digest PAD Challenge, April 5, 2014.

  315. creilley


    Far from lifeless, the moon plays host
    to a pageant of shadows and light
    cavorting over landscapes
    with each pirouette. Never
    blending, each razor edge
    sharper than the one before,
    dancing lunatic kinetics live brief lives,
    a monochrome kaleidoscope
    of binary art.

    There is romance there as well,
    not the kind collected from
    generations of love-struck youth
    or geriatric companions, the
    reflected warmth of
    millions of upturned faces,
    the romance that lives on the moon is
    between satellite and gravity well,
    an eternal gavotte of cosmic cadence.

    There is horror to be found
    on our nearest galactic neighbor
    if you look for it,
    in the knowledge than mankind has arrived,
    left footprints in the sand,
    and made plans to return.
    Eons of peaceful, clean solitude
    have come to a grisly end.

  316. Erynn

    To me, it’s just a rock
    Something he found in my garden
    Hidden among the azaleas
    With their purple blooms

    To me it’s just a rock
    Something covered in dirt
    But to him it’s a treasure
    Unearthed from it’s tomb

    To me, it’s just a rock
    Something that’s not alive
    But to him, it’s a pet
    A best friend he can talk to

    To me, it’s just a rock
    Something that takes up space
    But to him, it’s a world
    A tiny planet he can hold in his hands

    To me, it’s just a rock
    But to him, it holds magic
    The imagination of a child
    And I come to realize

    Maybe it’s not just a rock after all

  317. laurie kolp

    Ornithological Immortality

    A ditch lined with tall timbers runs behind our backyard
    parallel to the window where I sit drinking my first cup of coffee.
    Mourning doves call out to me as if to say they’re sad, too.

    I wonder how they know.

    A rusty gate opens as a grackle lands on the picnic table, its iridescent head
    pecks the oak pollen tablecloth. Our golden eyes lock–Mother’s looking at me
    with that shrewd look she always gave when she wasn’t looking as if
    her love for me reached heaven.

    Suddenly I understand.

  318. Michelle Hed

    In The Eyes of a Child

    If only I could see
    the secret majesty
    of seeing the world
    as if unfurled
    for the first time,
    all new.

    The squealing delight
    of this, the first sight –
    unabashed joy
    over a new toy
    for the first time,
    all new.

    Even the hesitant trepidation
    of an unknown creation…
    Do I dare?
    Should I have care?
    For the first time,
    all new.

    Yes, I would surely love to walk
    hand in hand with a child or flock
    and see the world through their eyes…
    they, who are so young and yet so wise.
    For the first time,
    all new.

  319. dianemdavis

    Found Alive (Berlin 1945)

    We found her under the bricks
    a wisp of a girl
    her bones like sticks, brittle
    as a bird and barely breathing.

    We carried her out on a board.

    I remember her eyes, so wide
    in the dark of the basement corner
    now squeezed tight against the light,
    her arm across her face like a broken wing.
    Poor thing. I wonder if she made it.

    We dug out the rest of her family
    stone upon bone,
    and scraped the dust from our faces
    before returning home.

  320. Walt Wojtanik


    Heigh-ho, the derry-o,
    we’re just south of Ontario,
    and weekend shopping is truly in high gear.

    They say the more the merry-o
    and car plates from Ontario
    have filled the parking lots both far and near.

    Spending cheques and loony-o’s
    our friends here from Ontario
    are filling coffers through sales offered here.

    Stores and shops in Buffalo
    a Peace Bridge from Ontario
    become their destinations, this is clear.

    Heigh-ho, the derry-o,
    let’s raise a glass, Ontario
    to spend your money and your weekend here.

    I read your car tag’s motto,
    “Yours to Discover – Ontario”
    I’m glad you find a shopping gold-mine near.


    1. LCaramanna

      I you are like Robert and enjoy a remix or two – I could remix this poem with a Thousand Islands Bridge, Watertown twist.
      Last Saturday five jovial men from across the border had fled from Kohl’s – and their wives – to the mechanical department at Sears. All five were circled around a shiny red snowblower, moving left, then right, leaning in, leaning out, a choreographed dance. I couldn’t resist asking, “You gentlemen don’t really think you are going to need that snowblower, do you? It’s March, it’s spring!”
      The reply was quick, without hesitation. “We don’t want the snowblower, just a good woman who knows how to use one. Would that be you?”
      I looked them over carefully before I answered no.
      Happy Saturday shopping – and poeming.

  321. Connie Peters


    “You learn something new every day,”
    my mother would say,
    usually when she came across
    some piece of trivia,
    like a woodpecker
    pecks about 120 times a minute.

    Learning leads to discovery,
    adventure and a better life,
    like finding a new path
    in the woods
    or deciding you prefer pale pink
    over army green.

    Even uncovering
    something unpleasant
    arms you with knowledge
    of what to avoid,
    like cow patties
    in the field.

    Like apples,
    learning something every day,
    keeps the doctors away.

  322. Connie Peters


    D etermined to dig deep, when
    I learned buried treasures wait, I
    S ought with all diligence and
    C ame across the booty, but found
    O ut dirt and worms lie with gold.
    V ictory comes when you uncover and
    E ncounter both, and
    R ealize how
    Y ou discern which is which.

  323. DanielR

    The chaotic frenzy of fast-paced strangers
    scurrying like rats on city sidewalks
    I step into the swiftly moving swell
    swallowed up in cellphone conversations
    mingling with the click of high heel shoes
    screeching brakes and beeping car horns join in
    to mimic the sound of 80s metal bands
    mashed with techno-pop and Kentucky bluegrass
    in an unwanted orchestra of noise
    what once made me feel alive and thriving
    now mostly renders me tired and weary
    solitude is a much desired companion
    peace a friend that escapes my embrace
    And searching I drive into the country
    to discover the beauty of silence

    Daniel Roessler

  324. Mark Danowsky

    Since You Were Driven

    away in your Dad’s Subaru Legacy
    I had to grow into myself. Into you
    briefly, because who else was I
    going to emulate. And then drugs
    were an easy solution. I could hardly
    understand why, then. I thought
    I did not deserve to do drugs. I thought
    drugs were for those who were lost.
    But I was. Most of us were. Some
    blamed me, right out in the open
    for leading them down the garden path.
    And I must have. But no matter
    what I did, complicity is like a call—
    it works both ways.

  325. break_of_day

    at first you were my first kiss
    in the game room at the skating rink
    I was your first kiss, too
    which might be the more special thing

    then you were my first heartbreak
    though I barely knew you
    though I knew all along
    that you really liked someone else anyway

    then you were one of the boys
    we saw at the mall, with your long hair
    and your Pearl Jam shirt and your nose ring
    now you were rock ‘n’ roll like I had been

    then you were a stranger at a concert
    hours away from where we’d known each other
    blond hair cut and dyed black
    I wouldn’t have recognized you if you hadn’t said my name

    then you were a search, a curiosity
    wondering what had become of you
    knowing you had moved to Washington
    but not knowing yet that you had died

    my first kiss, my first heartbreak
    an artist whose work was too frightening to look at
    dead and no one told me
    still a face I imagine seeing one day at a concert, at a store, in a place far from here

  326. alan1704


    Where is the welcome among you?
    the solemn kiss
    that greets a world
    A realm of dangerous intents
    that gives no quarter
    offers no escape.
    As weak words
    and helpless cries
    twist the future strands,
    to kill
    to fly
    to soar
    to discover.

  327. De Jackson

    (a Fib)

    bed this
    morning. Guess
    what? Someone left her
    bling under your pillow, Dear. Oh,
    just a diamond earring between our eggshell sheets.
    I placed it in your sock drawer for
    a rainy day, may
    be you can


  328. Tamara Rokicki

    Stolen Treasures

    Golden treasures
    In wooden chests await,
    -For a pirate hides
    what has earned over time.

    Gilded swords and rubies,
    Stolen in their birthplace.
    -For a pirate steals
    with crashing waves.

    Precious fabrics and stones
    Collect in piles of dust
    -For a pirate waits
    the perfect moment to enjoy.

    Tamara Rokicki

  329. Linda Goin

    Discovering Forgiveness

    After time began to tighten
    my lungs, I began to loosen
    the tacks that held my enemies
    like voodoo dolls to altars
    constructed in patterns
    shaped after human error.

    Even clouds mimic these signs
    as they whirl around, accumulating
    blurred edges as they age against
    nitric acid and water crystals.
    Cirrus fibratus, cirrus spissatus,
    cirrus castellanus, cirrus radiatus.

    These chants hold my bones strong
    as I peer at changes occurring beyond
    the pain, and it’s at that point
    when I picture the raptures,
    how I loved my enemies on silk
    sheets and in Apollo’s Cove.

    Precipitation is not part of cirrus,
    including the mutatus mother cloud.
    Why swarm with minnows when quiet
    is one language for peace? Why
    swell with shadows when light
    is the architecture for exposure?

  330. vicki whicker


    My peonies sleep
    curled into their red roots
    frozen with the ground.

    I walk with what is left of winter
    and discover a tiny animal, wet and black,
    bereft of possibility.

    It’s too close to spring to die.

    William says
    we need a month of sunny days
    before we dig and plant.

    This morning,
    a hale storm threw
    a million tiny pearls
    onto tawny fields
    that disappeared
    as soon as they landed.

    We wait.
    We wait.
    We wait.

  331. writinglife16


    There she was.
    Looking in the mirror.
    She had found herself again.
    “Oh Mimi.
    When you decide to go,
    give me advance warning.”
    She had named her mind after
    The Greek goddess of memory.
    She loved Greek mythology and
    laughed at her reflection in the mirror.
    She wondered how long she
    had been gone this time.
    These moments of discovery
    were coming at a slower pace
    and they were shorter.
    It didn’t make her angry
    or scared anymore.
    It was getting to be normal.
    Her mind had not agreed yet
    about telling her.
    Maybe she did not like
    being called Mimi.

  332. Walt Wojtanik


    I found my poetry, and as such
    I found myself. I discovered I had a heart
    that rhymed in compassion and beat to the meter
    of a well worded verse. The course of my thoughts
    followed in kind, for my mind searched for
    the emotions that corresponded to those
    tendrils of imagining. I admitted much to myself,
    knowing my indiscretions through the words
    I used to express them. Peace came in the
    release of such things and they would bring me
    to each new revelation. It has become my
    salvation; made me a better man.
    I stand here today, no worse for wear
    for there I have revealed the true me.
    A self-discovery through poetry.

  333. antoniabryanblue

    Since I saw you dance

    Goodness in your soul
    Where does one begin?

    I saw you dancing
    In a wayward firework
    Head tilted back
    Looking so beautiful

    You made my eyes hurt
    With your angel light
    Shining so bright
    Like the stars in heaven
    Drifting closer to never

    I want to put my arms
    Around your neck
    Hold you close
    Never let you go
    And choke out the darkness
    In my heart
    Left by another

    But alas, you are not yet real
    I can only close my eyes
    And watch you dance
    In-between the realms
    Of sleep and never

    And, when I open my eyes
    Every time-
    I hope you are real.
    So, I can say
    For real-
    I saw you dance.

  334. Misky

    Discovering a Saturation of Stars

    Shadows seep on shore,
    A sea while set in stone,
    Salt the moon
    And sand white sail
    On cliffs of slate on stars.

    “Cento/Found” poem form: words from the Argus newspaper “Cliffs Saturated as Water Table Rises”

  335. beale.alexis

    I find writing
    a poem about “discovery”
    because maybe I don’t want
    to discover anything new.
    Maybe all year I’ve been finding
    and realizing things
    that I wish I could send
    on a way trip back to hell.
    On New Years,
    rather than discovering
    a “new me”, I found my best friend
    making out with
    the love of my life. And I found
    my sister taking her side
    and claiming it wasn’t a big deal.
    I found my therapist
    saying that I over think too much
    and that I’m the cause of my own unhappiness.
    I found that I’d rather be alone
    than allow any more toxic people
    to stay in my life –even if
    it creates an aching hole in my chest
    because all of the people I trusted
    and cared for turned their back on me
    and for the first time I really am
    alone. And I’ve found loneliness
    depressing as hell because I’m a senior
    in high school and should be having
    the time of my life, but everything is being cut
    short because I don’t have time for
    phonies, liars, or hypocrites.
    I’ve found that writing isn’t even my friend anymore
    because sometimes she fails me
    when I’m feeling a burst of creativity
    and am convinced that I’m about to write
    the next “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath
    and become just as famous as she, but
    for the right reasons. I’ve found that
    my vocabulary and creativity are lacking.
    I’ve found the best way to break
    the writers block is to write
    (even if everything I’m saying
    is crap) because at least I’m writing something.
    I’ve found the only way to get better
    at writing, is to write. And
    I’ve found this poem
    getting way too long and this prompt
    a complete waste
    of time because I don’t want to discover
    anything new.
    I’m tired of discoveries,
    all they do is depress me.

  336. Amy

    Phantom Field

    There is a field not far from the interstate, where the echoes of semis wind through row upon row of corn in an endless pattern that dips and mounts the deepest blue of the sky. There are no fences there that bind life, whether in or out remains uncertain, but instead it roams in the flocking grackles, calling harshly in the dawn’s chorus; it roams in the field mice that skitter before you catch a glimpse; in the speckled tan coat of a fawn, making his wide-eyed way through the stalks with fragile caution. I saw a child step through the stalks once, his dangling shoelaces appearing long before his face. He grasped the closest stalk that towered above his head, a marker to Heaven, and made to climb with his shoelaces dangling below, as if he were Jack on his swift pilgrimage to meet the Giants. But he was not Jack; his name was Matthew or Johnathon or some other good Christian name and the stalk was no beanstalk reaching into worlds above the clouds but just a brittle stalk of corn, too frail from a dry summer to hold his weight. It snapped below his feet and cast him to the dirt, where he wiped the snot accumulating in the bow of his lip and left a streak of dirt in its place. He turned on his heel and disappeared soon after, or the memory of him disappeared and the rows were still and silent again, save for the chorus of grackles that called out to him or to me or just to each other and the echoing hum of the interstate.

  337. Espen Stenersrod

    Day 5

    Last night I discovered my street

    Last night I discovered that my street carried different lives
    A shift in tempo
    From each hour of the day
    Into the hours of night

    The first shade of a monster
    Making sounds of disbelief
    Turning its morning into something brutal
    Not realising the beauty around

    Fear and pale covers the pavement
    You can see it in its eyes
    That a sunrise
     Is only in the way of its dreams

    Then comes silence
    And relief
    Laughter from a tiny creature
    Filled with everything
    No dreams
    Just living the experience

    Suddenly the face of pale again
    Have to seek shelter from the weak
    Behind a fortress, with curtains closed
    Hiding until the next week 
    Where the dreams are hiding

    Right before the sun sets
    My street turns human
    In the eyes of the hunter
    And the hunted
    The experiment and the experience
    Wander down my street
    In colours
    Taking in what they got

    The laughter fades

    Total silence

    I enjoy the rest from everything

    Before the monster wakes again

  338. Walt Wojtanik


    Will you please put these CDs away?
    Can you place these DVDs to view another day?
    These all had cases when I bought them,
    so why am I so damned distraught then?
    You download now to your mp3 players?
    You store your movies in multiple layers?
    Then will you put these discs away
    to sell at yard sales another day?