2015 April PAD Challenge: Day 10

One of the cool parts of the challenge is having the chance to be included in the second volume of the Poem Your Heart Out anthology. The book includes each prompt, the winning poem for that prompt, space to put your own poem(s), and more. The first volume rocked, and you can get a discount by pre-ordering volume two before May 1, 2015. Click to continue.

For today’s prompt, take the phrase “How (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “How to Write a Poem,” “How Mechanical Pencils Work,” and “Howling at the Moon After Midnight in the Middle of a Thunderstorm.”

*****

2015 Poet's Market

2015 Poet’s Market

Get Your Poetry Published.

Writing poetry is one thing; getting it published is something else. Take advantage of the best print resource for publishing your poetry today with the 2015 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer.

This annual reference includes new articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry, explanations of poetic forms, poet interviews, new poems, and hundreds of listings for book and chapbook publishers, print and online publications, contests and awards, and so much more–all for poets!

Click to continue.

*****

Here’s my attempt at a How Blank Poem:

“How Words Work”

words, you say, more words,
and, yes, i get what you’re
getting at–my words

don’t do the laundry
or the dishes or spark
forest fires in the middle

of an ocean anymore,
but what else do i have
to express my heart,

my soul, and you smile
and say, open your mouth
only to kiss me.

*****

Today’s guest judge is…

Ruben Queseda

Ruben Queseda

Ruben Quesada

Ruben Quesada is editor of the forthcoming volume, Latino Poetics: Essays from University of New Mexico Press, author of Next Extinct Mammal and Exiled from the Throne of Night. He is poetry editor for The Cossack Review, Cobalt Review, and Luna Luna Magazine.

A fellow of CantoMundo, Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, Vermont Studio Center, Squaw Valley Writers, and Lambda Literary Retreat, his writing appears in Guernica, Rattle, American Poetry Review, The Rumpus, and The California Journal of Poetics. He is a professor of English and creative writing for the performing arts at Eastern Illinois University.

Learn more at RubenQuesada.com.

*****

Poem Your Heart Out, Volume 2

Poem Your Heart Out, Volume 2

Poem Your Heart Out again!

The prompts from last year’s challenge along with the winning poem from each day ended up in an inspired little anthology titled Poem Your Heart Out. It was part prompt book, part poetry anthology, and part workbook, because each day includes a few pages for you to make your own contributions.

Anyway, the anthology worked out so well that we’re doing it again this year, and you can take advantage of a 20% discount from Words Dance by pre-ordering before May 1, 2015.

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.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

More poetic posts here:

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

870 thoughts on “2015 April PAD Challenge: Day 10

  1. writtenbymandy

    “How to Make Her Blush”

    Restless night, tossing and turning
    To-do list brewing, dreams yearning.

    Lost in thought, what is the date?
    A full day of tasks and stress await.

    She sits down in the dining room chair
    Runs chipped fingernails through her wet hair.

    He hands her coffee and a scrambled egg
    Puts his warm hand on her left leg.

    Looks at her face, with eyes so sincere
    Whispers, “you are beautiful” into her ear.

    By: Mandy B. Fernandez

  2. M.H. Freeman

    How to Throw the Sun

    I was never taught how to perceive death
    as a child. I started writing poems as letters
    to my heart explaining how I should feel.

    I was careful to include enough enormous,
    conspicuous, unquestionably poetic words.
    I would read it as I caught myself smiling

    at the wake while the other kids played tag
    in the viewing room. I smiled simply because
    I wished to be one of them, to be carefree,

    and oblivious to the death surrounding us.
    I often read out loud at the funeral if asked
    for a few words in memoriam. As a poet,

    I was often asked, and I’d smile as I spoke
    because for a brief moment we all needed to
    be oblivious to the death surrounding us.

    I would read it after tossing a few too many
    understanding glances towards the bereaved.
    It reminded me just how little I had to say

    about the deceased. I can remember vividly
    when my father passed away. I went through
    a thousand poem drafts in a week because

    they all included some morose variation of
    tickling his foot to make damn sure he wasn’t
    playing possum. Come the day of his funeral

    I carried the simplest, most honest, quite
    frankly the worst poem I had written to date.
    I refused to write the bit about the feline

    psychopomp at his feet, clawing my fingers.
    I didn’t mention that the room temperature fell
    and what sunlight there was sought shelter.

    I didn’t include the fact that I felt him move
    through me to follow my brother to the porch.
    And I certainly didn’t speak of the butterflies

    that rose up from the railing and hovered
    between us before disappearing into the sky.
    I left out dad’s lifelong love of lepidoptery.

    I didn’t tell anyone that he’d twice fooled me
    into thinking he was dead over the last month.
    I didn’t speak about how I felt or how I should

    about his death. I spoke mostly about his life
    and all the joy that world would miss. I learned
    to write poetry as my father’s surviving son.

    by Matthew H. Freeman

    1. Kimmy Sophia

      Matthew that is one of the best poems I’ve read in a long time, thank you, it said everything, I loved the psychopomp cat, your smiles through other poems, all you left out and all you felt and all you carried with you til this day.

  3. Jaye Words

    How Our Lives Became Entangled

    When people ask, I tell them
    I picked you up off a street corner.
    They give me this weird look, like
    What are you? A hooker? Or is he?
    I can’t resist that part, especially the look.
    I tell them about picking up a girlfriend,
    Cruising the main drag of our town
    In my father’s new Chevy.
    We did a 180 and started north.
    As we sailed past the movie theater,
    She saw her boyfriend standing in front
    Talking with a man. That was you.
    We went back to talk to her friend,
    Who wanted to ride in the new car.
    You both piled in. That was the beginning.
    Who says good things can’t happen when
    You hang out on street corners?

  4. drnurit

    HOW WORDS CHANGE

    By: Nurit Israeli

    Have you noticed how often
    we say “remember” these days?
    How we lead off
    with “once,”
    or “in the old days”?

    Remember how readily
    we once pondered “why not?”
    How invincible we felt,
    when time was just a word,
    not a stalker closing in?

    Remember how naive
    we looked way back when?
    How softly we gazed
    into each other’s eyes,
    before the years took their toll?

    We once tossed “someday”:
    “Someday, we’ll do this.”
    “Someday, we’ll do that.”
    As if a great many somedays
    were awaiting their turn.

    I don’t say “someday” anymore,
    or “eventually,” or “in due time.”
    Now, I say “still”: ”Still working.”
    “Still driving.” “Still dancing.”
    “Still…”

    No, I no longer say “someday.”
    I don’t have the confidence I had then.
    Today, I say ”yes, please,”
    I say “now, please.”
    Yes. Still. Even so.

  5. G.Wood

    How to Do
    The greatest insult
    my mother ever spoke
    she said with such disgust
    it would turn your stomach
    in shame:
    She doesn’t know how to do.

    How to do, what? I wondered.
    I heard my mother apply
    the phrase at a bridal
    shower when a short-skirted
    bridesmaid dug into her plate
    before the bride lifted her fork.
    Again toward each sorority girl who
    failed to return the engraved reply card
    for my wedding. Again every time
    we visited a house in disarray. Or if
    a thank you note arrived
    on stationary with the text
    thank you
    on the cover.

    How to do, how to do, how to do.
    Make a casserole or a vegetable stew
    for a friend in need, let older ladies lead,
    and say Yes, M’am, and wear a dress
    on Sunday.

    But never, ever where white
    to a wedding unless you are the bride,
    or you may hear my mother whisper
    under her breath from her usual pew,
    She just doesn’t know how to do—
    Southern.

  6. Molly Wong

    How to share an orange

    One perfect sphere cannot be shared
    cannot be tasted or revered
    Slice
    Through the protective shell starting at the navel
    Golden blood sprays the air with promise
    Sweet times ahead

    Small people lured by the scent of sunshine gather
    Eager eyes filled with “can I’s”
    I divide and they barter over uneven wedges
    Joyful anticipation lost in the fear of “not enough”
    They leave content.
    Digesting their spot of sweetness.

    The fruit of the day is gone
    Leftover juices evaporating from the plate
    Next time. Set a piece aside.

  7. josephdaniel

    How Does Molecular Science Work?

    The title came out of left field
    Not my area of expertise
    I better hit Wikipedia
    to try and save some face

    I can’t go and change the title
    I am already committed
    Let’s see if divine inspiration
    can impress the scientific field

    This science covers everything
    that gives life, as we know it, matter
    It’s what keeps our world spinning
    Molecular science in a nutshell

    I’ll spare you all the details
    You probably won’t understand it
    Safe to say it’s pretty important
    That amazing science stuff

  8. josephdaniel

    How to Miss A Deadline

    First, give your idea some thought
    Dwell on how you’ll frame it
    Close your eyes and picture it
    Take some time to meditate

    Do not mind the sound of the clock
    Pay no attention to the ticking
    Block out the world for inspiration
    No need to rush ingenuity

    Relaxed, you’re ready to pontificate
    on how to make the world a better place
    You sense a masterpiece in the making
    Your poem, bound to be chosen for display

    Have a bin nearby for second-guessing
    toss aside anything less than a Yeats
    If you reach the point of overflowing
    take it as a sign you’re on your way

    A blank page is a bit of a problem
    if it stays that way too long
    But it’s early now, there’s still some time
    to let creativity flow through your veins

    Start and stopping, still stuck in first gear
    your motor appears to be stalling
    Time for a fresh pot of coffee
    to wash away that writers block

    Your focus, now, is impenetrable
    You furiously write til you stop
    The silence suddenly rattles you
    What happened to that ticking clock?

    Only 11am? That can’t be right
    I’ve been sitting here for hours
    Your heart sinks as you come to realize
    the battery seems to have died

  9. rachii

    How could you ?

    How could you ?
    To forget those long nights
    Those insane interal fights
    How could you ?
    To erase the lives lost
    And forget the expensive cost
    How could you ?
    Live in vain
    With one motive and that’s monetary gain
    How could you ?
    Listen to silence of night
    and not hear the screams that hide from the light
    How could you ?
    Lose your red heart
    To get green and a false start
    How could you?
    Come from a city where bodies decorate the street
    And remember that place and it’s desert heat
    -Rahel Hadish

  10. uvr

    How The Magic Fades

    Furtive afternoons
    stolen from life  
    squandered in a hotel room 
    whose faded yellow curtains
    and dirty white sheets    
    I never did notice
    That funny musty odour 
    disinfectant mingling
    with a strange scent
    didn’t bother me

    All I could see
    was the spotless shirt you shed 
    The tan lines on your skin 
    I inhaled your clean fragrance
    mingling with the cologne
    you always wore 
    I revelled in the feel
    of your fumbling fingers
    as you undid the buttons
    on my dress
    I thrilled to the smile
    playing on your face
    when you finally succeeded
    I couldn’t breathe
    as you reached for me
    We melted like the candles I lit

    But now
    as I wait for you
    I see all that I had missed
    fading paint on the walls
    scuff marks on the carpet
    grime on the windows
    chipped wood of the table

    The sun streams
    into the room
    highlighting every flaw
    its rays touch   
    They fall on me too
    The magic fades

    Uma Venkatraman

  11. JWLaviguer

    How to Cook in the Bedroom

    Start with satin sheets
    rose petals strewn about
    moonlight shining through
    the stained glass window
    strawberries in champagne
    and chocolate roses on her lips.

    JW Laviguer

  12. candy

    How To Catch A Star

    Step outside on a clear summer night
    Cast your eyes upward to see the light
    Of a million stars in the dark firmament
    The glow of lost planets already spent
    Close your eyes tightly, breath in, breath out
    Empty your mind – erasing all doubt
    That those pinpoints of light are too far away
    For your small earthbound fingers to stretch out to play
    With the sparkling wonderful magic in space
    Trust your heart, look at me, find your star in my face

  13. Christoph Schumacher

    How Does He Know?

    It is uncanny
    how good he is
    at knowing when

    I’m nervous
    I’m down
    I’m in need
    of a shoulder
    to lean on

    How does he
    know when I
    need you

    And why does
    he assign you
    the night shift
    every
    damn
    time.

    How does he know?
    How?

  14. Kjean

    How do you hold
    on to life when
    breezes become gusts?

    How do you solve
    the world’s problems
    when leaks in the pipes of peace
    burst open
    anew
    with each day’s dawn?

    How do you know when enough
    love is really enough?
    Or can one’s love ever sate?

    Ho do you know when
    to stop
    forging ahead
    when everything around you,
    blatant as billboards,
    shouts “Turn Back!”

    How do you
    decide
    when life is done?

    YOU don’t…

  15. mohinipuranik

    How You Hide Your Feelings

    how you hide your feelings
    that’s beautiful
    how you hide your love
    that’s sweet
    how you hide your tears
    pains me
    how my world would be
    if I could talk with you?
    how your world be,
    how our world would be
    if I could talk with you?

    – (c) Mohini Puranik

  16. bxpoetlover

    How Do You Say It?

    Algo mas?
    she said, smiling.

    “I’m sorry, what?”

    I said, “She means do you want anything else?”

    “Oh,” he said. “No, thank you.”

    “See, ‘mas” means “more” and “algo” means something.”

    He tells her, in Spanish, that he is learning to speak the language and that he is going to start reading La Prensa, El Diario, and El Mundo.

    She tells him, in Spanish, that she doesn’t speak English.

    I just listened intently for the nouns and the verbs. The last time I tried to converse in a Spanish restaurant I said “tetas” after two minutes of asking the waitress for rice and chicken breasts. Pero, I got my meal.

    I said, “Gracias.”
    She said, “De nada.”

    I said,”That means you’re welcome.”
    He said, “That I know.”

    I said, “I understood everything she said to you and everything you said to her. I just can’t speak it.”

    It was almost two a.m. in Spanish Harlem. We each had a small plate of frijoles negros y arroz and talked about being in our early forties. My son. The clowns I dated on the internet. Real estate. How he knew the Jungle Brothers and A Tribe Called Quest in high school.

    It took us a little while to find that friendly little Mexican joint with the yummy black beans and rice. I just wish they had some platanos, tambien. But hey, it was almost 2 a.m. in Spanish Harlem.

    The first spot he had found had a little raton running around by the door, and the next three were about to close.

    We had been driving around because he said we should break bread. He ate before the movie, we both had three small bags of popcorn during the flick, and I had said I wasn’t hungry. I don’t like to eat after eight.

    “Come on,” he had said. “You can have a little something. Rice and beans.”
    He just wanted us to keep talking, because after three years, I finally said yes.

  17. Keith Welch

    How I Lost Everything During the Great Sugar Crash of 10:15 a.m.

    Perhaps it was that third donut or maybe that last handful of M&Ms
    but somehow my blood sugar missed the message that it would be needed
    all day long and decided to drop out for a rest break

    Because I was at my desk composing a very important report when
    everything turned sort of grey and I had to lean back in my
    chair and take some deep breaths the monitor blurred a bit

    Anyway I may have let my fingers stray over the keyboard a little
    because when I looked up my report was gone and twenty minutes had
    passed I must have just drifted off for a little while dammit

    yes, it must have been that third donut I really ought to have had
    more protein some eggs and bacon or oatmeal but gosh that donut
    was so tasty and by god I’d eat it again if the situation arose

  18. John Bauer

    How Is The Least Important
    Question, in my opinion,
    Superfluous really because
    What will pretty much answer How it happened, and
    When will pretty much say the time Who did it, and
    Who will pretty much confess Why he or she did What, When, and Where.

    I don’t really care How things work.
    I want to know What it does and Why, and
    Secondarily, Who can use it and Where and When?

    Pretty much my philosophy on life.

    How did I get here?
    Why do I ask?
    Who am I to question?
    Just Where and When am I coming from?
    What are my thoughts?

    Are they all superfluous too?
    How so?

    By John Bauer

  19. dhaivid3

    How Much?

    Tortured souls howl from darkened cells
    Dragged from earth to the bay of hell
    Newspapers their sad tales did tell
    Nations from moral heights fell

    What is the life of one man worth that another’s may be sacrificed?

    1. PressOn

      For me, this Crapsey cinquain is fun, partly because, for some reason, it makes me think of that old song about the sloth that could do so much but just didn’t have the time.

  20. PeanuttyO

    How Is The Answer

    How do I
    is the question
    often asked
    Typed in search bars
    asked in minds
    Look closer, it’s a trick
    How is not the question
    How is the answer

    Turn away from yourself
    Look out into the world
    Right there, that child
    Hungry, homeless, on the brink
    of despair, of death
    How it happened
    is not the question
    How you reach out
    is the answer

    Look again, over here now
    Missing legs, a wheelchair
    Struggling to reach
    things, ideas, desires
    beyond the fingertips
    How the legs were lost
    is not the question
    How able are your legs
    is the answer

    Down the road, that family
    they’ve lost their loved one
    So sad, so tragic
    Struggling each day
    to go on; how do we
    go on
    How they died
    is not the question
    How strong are your shoulders
    is the answer

    The burden is large
    Their burden, maybe yours
    How it got so heavy
    is not the question
    How strong is your back
    is the answer

    When asked correctly
    How is no longer
    the question
    You become how
    which is the answer

  21. Linda Voit

    April 10, 2015
    Prompt: Title: How ________

    How to Fillet a Draft

    Using your pen point, carefully place your words flat
    on a piece of paper. Contrary to popular opinion,
    the paper does not matter.

    Study them from all sides and angles,
    which are not the same thing.
    Slice verbs diagonally at their tense,

    carefully remove unnecessary adverbs
    and check the translucence of your adjectives.
    Any color is fine, but look for clarity

    that illuminates, rather than clouding,
    meaty nouns. As long as your poetic license
    was current when you caught the words

    you may take a lenient approach
    to punctuation, Capitalization and
    even line breaks,

    though we’d recommend
    you always consider clarity
    for your diners.

    Parenthetical phrases and cliches,
    it turns out, can be perfectly acceptable
    if used with purpose and/or wit.

    A draft that is difficult to read
    due to margin notes, streaks
    arrows, carrots, impossibly small lettering,

    abbreviations you must strain
    to remember and a STET here and there
    is probably ready to cook.

    Linda Voit

  22. PressOn

    HOW TO KEEP CALM

    Before you fly
    clear off the course
    and dim your eye
    with deep remorse,

    take time to think
    of alternate courses.
    Avoid the brink;
    just hold your horses.

    William Preston

  23. Gwyvian

    How does it work?

    There she is, snug in her mind,
    covered in a blanket-fantasy of worlds
    created for murderous mystery—
    how does it work? this
    mystical alignment of chance,
    when she realizes the reality of irrelevance…
    she wants no bright lights to penetrate with
    truth, yet just now, snug in a place somewhere
    else, she wishes quietly that this escape
    truly helped…

    April 10, 2015

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  24. Misky

    How I Wish

    She doesn’t understand
    what it is to be tired,
    and I admire her quantity
    of hands-on exertion.

    The effect of fatigue excites her,
    brings on more fervid work,
    and she’s attentive to family –
    her lambs, chicks hatching,

    calves and bobbies, and I
    witness daily that she’s off
    like a lark – flying through
    chores and fresh as a secret

    just told. But mostly she has
    a delicate heart, essential
    to such work. She is how I wish
    I’d be, if I’d chose a farming life.

    //

    (c) 2015 Misky Braendeholm

    1. Kjean

      Excellent! This poem goes beyond the “farmer.” It draws on the eclipsing life of those around us who choose to do everything possible; using every iota of breath in every day. I know and admire many people like this. They make me tired just knowing or hearing about what they did in one day…

  25. Gwyvian

    Metaphorical affection

    I was kissed by a metaphor,
    his lingering smile sending me spiraling
    into oblivion: complexity’s gravity so
    heavy that my heart screamed for it to stop—
    just stop, before my eyes weep the unsaid…
    before my fingers curl around unreasonable
    tension and I bleed the color of obscurity;
    his unending riddle is an enchantment upon
    my mind, and I find myself stashing meaning
    between crevices along the precipice of
    misunderstanding; I was kissed by a metaphor,
    a passionate dereliction of sense – he was
    once real, yet now he is merely in pieces,
    lurking clichés in my mind: I can never
    see his composition as it once was, when we
    were young hearts infused and entwined with
    joint suffering, yet sometimes I wish it were
    not so – but my metaphor is truly selfish,
    and undeserving of attention—
    so how can I still yearn for his affection?

    April 10, 2015

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  26. Valkyri

    How I Write
    by Valeri Paxton-Steele

    With honesty and truth.
    Humbly, beautifully.
    With an open soul,
    And an open heart.
    With raw passion.
    Graciously, easily,
    And with intensely
    Great fear
    Of myself,
    My own open book.

  27. Pepe Batbon

    HOW DO I LOVE THEE

    How do I love thee?
    depends on who thee are
    there’s a difference between he and she
    or someone met in a park or a bar
    Why do I love thee?
    if I can’t figure out how
    if you’re beside above or below me
    I’ll try to be there and here right now
    When and where do I love thee?
    time is quickly running out
    location has relativity
    caring counts without a doubt
    How do I love thee? this is it on it
    quickly I guess with my seven minute sonnet

    1. Kjean

      Very clever. I especially love the first line “How do I love thee? depends on who thee are.” Really drew me in! Lots to think about in this poem…

  28. tunesmiff

    HOW ‘BOUT THEM DAWGS
    G. Smith
    ———————
    How ‘ bout them Dawgs?
    How ’bout those Jackets?
    Not Tigers or Gators or Arkansas Hawgs.
    How ’bout them Dawgs!
    The sure do raise a riotous racket.
    How ’bout them Dawgs?
    How’bout those Jackets!

    1. Pepe Batbon

      g if dawgs run free than let them be
      when they get hot skip the bun
      Santa’s in Atlanta having fun
      I’m full and that’s no bull – Dawgs and beer

      1. tunesmiff

        I s’pose it’s a possibility… but my intention was THE religion of the SE USofA… College Football~!!!
        University of Georgia (Dawgs), and their foremost rivals:
        Georgia Tech (‘cross state – Yellow Jackets)
        Auburn (Tigers… or War Eagles… )
        University of Florida (Gators – and the world’s largest outdoor cocktail party)
        and University of Arkansas (Hawgs – well, Razorbacks, but they go by that name from time to time…)

        All that to say…
        ROLL TIDE~!
        🙂

  29. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    How Can You
    begin each day as if the past
    had never happened or
    retire to the comforts of night
    knowing the pain you caused?

    How can we
    keep burning dinosaur remains
    as if there are herds left, when
    sun, water and wind offer the world
    energy that never ends?

    How can they
    call themselves leaders
    as they bankroll billions,
    yet deny the funds to keep
    families, the elderly and our vets
    from the perils of poverty?

    How can I
    bring change to this world
    simply by writing words, which
    may or may not dive deep into
    the dark, unlit consciousness
    to heal the pain you bear?

    1. Pepe Batbon

      your words will heal “the light, well lit conscious”. They need it as well.
      Keep em coming. Word strumming night and day, well intended word play,
      that’s how you can, keep up your plan, rags to riches, you can’t reach all
      the suns with witches underneath or above . except with poetic love.
      forgive my doggerel rap, sometimes can’t shut my tap

  30. donaldillich

    How to Write a Poem in Ten Minutes

    Start with a weird question, like
    Where have all the cacti gone?
    Then list possibilities, like they’ve
    run away with pincushions, cut
    themselves in half for the water,
    tired of being green and painted
    themselves orange. Then ignore
    the list, come up with something new:
    they’re in heaven with the angels,
    being de-pricked. Describe how
    it’s going down: the beautiful creatures
    use pliers to pull out the spines,
    the cacti cry whatever moisture
    they have stored, even God feels
    for the poor plants. Then end
    with something philosophical,
    and an image: Not even the Lord’s
    most perfect creatures can make
    his oddest beings perfect. Placed
    back into the desert, they mourn
    thorns, feeling bald without them.
    The sun glimmers off their skin,
    which others think is crying.

  31. lucydbrown

    “How Sunday Feels on a Windy Afternoon”

    Suddenly I felt like I was a pinprick
    on a map so vast that I was invisible to the naked eye,
    And my heart was beating strong and heavy in my tiny chest
    But I didn’t feel quiet
    I thought that maybe if I smile I could blow ripples,
    That by the time they reach the opposite end of the map
    They might just be tidal waves.

    Lucy Dowling-Brown

  32. Kimmy Sophia

    How Sweet You Are

    Ghoulish numbers on the clock:
    it’s three.
    Farewell sleep, I sigh,
    and finding slippers
    shuffle past
    sleeping spouse,
    squeaking boards,
    whining hinge,
    and then,
    the thumping starts.
    Sprawled like a tart on vacation
    I find you on a couch,
    “Silly goose! Let the belly rubs begin!”
    Frenzied wags,
    as if it’s been months,
    my cheek on your unbearably soft muzzle,
    your sleepy eyes look into mine,
    your tail,
    beating the crap out of the couch,
    and I think,
    how sweet you are, My Silly Goose.
    I’m so glad
    of all the gin joins in the world,
    that you came into mine.
    (Kimmy Sophia Brown)

  33. Gwyvian

    How does silence work?

    Pretty words like a midsummer eve,
    silken night air caressing, the sky open
    beneath vibrant leaves parting, leaves
    dampened by the dark to silhouettes:
    just so, your words flow over me;
    and I know somewhere in your whispers
    there is meaning I ought to hear, but
    right now I prefer to just dream…

    How do your murmurs compare to
    the comfort of castle walls? they seem
    built for war, ready for a siege—
    they shower force and prestige, cold and
    immovable; such are opinions that
    you relate to me… here on the grass
    where I peer through the looking glass of
    the universe and catch glimpses of
    infinity…

    Your words are pretty in my unheeding
    ears, like an indefinable, tangible breeze
    that simply washes over my tired mind,
    and I wish only to enjoy the romance of
    the moment on this midnight hill in your
    company – but you just keep talking…
    beautiful voice, chiseled face dampened
    by the dark to a mere silhouette with
    bright gem-eyes reflecting moonlight—
    but what you said escapes me…

    I summon the fantasy and wrap myself
    inside it: a shell of stoic quiet that
    I wish held you close – but all your
    fears and inescapable wants loom heavy
    like rainclouds chasing my clarity…
    and I wonder: how can you have
    such tenderness, when all your words
    are so bathed in bitterness? how can
    we see the sunrise when all we do is
    analyze what it means?

    Pretty words on a dark, cool night
    sitting on a hill, enjoying false starlight,
    my imaginary castle of your words
    crumbling into the knowledge that
    you do not want this – I am lost on
    a frosty cloud, to which your stone
    is impervious – and I am left alone
    to listen to your soft murmurs…

    April 10, 2015

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  34. Jezzie

    APOLOGY

    How was I to know?

    It was just sitting there
    in front of my nose.
    all ready for my jaws
    to wrap themselves around.

    It wasn’t just the sound
    that the machine makes,
    nor your attention that it takes
    away from me.

    It was more
    that I was bored.

    I know it was new,
    but what else could I do?

    You say it cost a packet
    and you would deduct
    the cost from
    what you spend
    on my treats,
    but it was there,
    making a racket,
    annoying me with its
    whirr, whirr, whirr.

    If we had a cat
    I could blame it on her.

    How could I imagine
    that the knob would come off
    and render your dryer
    totally useless?

    I want your forgiveness.
    I’m contrite.
    I know it wasn’t right.
    Please don’t frown.
    I’m sitting with my head held down
    trying to look as small as I can. 🙁

    Another Doggy Ditty using my theme “Only Human” which I hope to be able to use throughout this April PAD. Read more at https://jezabelmyschka.wordpress.com/

  35. iwriter

    How We Arrived Here

    Out of my blue
    You
    Gave me the key to the castle
    Where my dreams came true
    You took my wary hand
    Firmly grounded in Wanderland
    To the quicksand
    Of Ampersand
    The castle there
    Gleaning in the distance of my foresight
    Reaching
    It would take more than might
    One must fight for the castle beyond first sight
    The journey was long
    But together we sang songs
    Along the way
    To keep at bay
    The well hidden predators to slay
    Seeking to take our breath away
    There were times
    I feared that
    We would never arrive
    Others sought the same path and failed
    Many lost wind as they sailed
    Determined to survive
    Finally
    Discounting anomaly
    The castle reached
    We still prevail
    King and Queen
    Our castle still gleans
    How we stayed this long—
    Ding Dong
    Not to be carried astray
    Answer if I must
    It is just
    Another poem away.

  36. Kyusu

    How did I know?

    A slight difference in your voice
    as you call my name.
    Small changes in the way we
    touch, refrain, avoid.
    That brief moment of impatience
    almost hidden.
    Something no longer comfortable
    in our shared silence.
    A calm expression that betrays
    emotion held back.
    The laughter that suggests
    release of tension.
    An almost imperceptible relief
    at parting.
    Subtle movements in the undercurrents
    of our lives.
    Shake the sensitive needle
    of the seismograph.

    Alison Williams

  37. mewmar

    How there is no in between

    Bring everything up,
    or everything down.

    What’s the use of waking up early,
    if you are of no use?

    Don’t bring the coffee down,
    It’s for everyone in Hal Far,
    but us.

    What she says,
    in these days,
    is law; no buts.

    There is no in between,
    Tick the box,
    between either … or.

  38. Norliza

    “How to Stop Asking”

    How to stop asking is a pretty tricky business
    For in order to know how, you’ll need to have to ask first

    (lol, I’ll come up with something else)

  39. Alfred Booth

    Robert, your poetry is not normally this wordy; I’ve paraphrased the moment’s title. I am not a howler, except of course in the stated circumstances. It’s fun, losing it in the middle of a poppy field, drenched and waiting for the cracks to hit. I however, adore words. Their power to describe, or not. To be mundane. To destroy. Who really howls nowadays? We don’t even get to shout on FarceBrook or TweetWorld. And why only once a month? The legends of wherewolves have mutated to college campuses, and rape – OK here’s the real subject now – needs no specific time of day or night, no clear, cloudy or otherwise skies. The act itself creates enough turbulence, thunder and lightning all at once. And in the real world, electrical bolts falling from the sky rarely fall on the backs of quaterbacks humping an early tween blonde (male or female) on the field. Nature is not well organized, not tuned enough to the needs of victims. Were that the case, there would be no more clement skies, nowhere in the world, at no moment of the day or night. Scientists have instruction manuels to do many things. Teaching the weather to come and go still reads like fiction. But can they invent an anti-erectile drug which reacts immediately if a horny guy hears the words stop or no? Put it in beer. Yeah. Beer.

    after Robert Brewer’s “Howling at the moon during a midnight thunderstorm”
    [2015.10.4…b]

  40. Sibella

    How They Knew

    Because she never got over
    his death. Because she drank.
    Because she was born that way.
    Because of poetry.

    Because she left a plate,
    Blue Willow,
    broken in half at the beaks.
    This was the rumor.

    Because someone on the other side
    was writing a tragedy about her.
    This was the rumor.
    Because she was born.

    Pamela Murray Winters

  41. Sibella

    How To Speak to the Dead

    Don’t hurry. Compose your thoughts. Assume
    they know more than you do, but avoid
    pointless questions. Use your own language,
    even if it’s not theirs. You don’t have to whisper,
    but if it feels right, do.

    Don’t wait for an answer. Like the living,
    they may be diffident, mysterious, or rude.
    Or there may be other sounds in the way.
    Listen for sounds of all kinds, as well as
    things that are not sounds.

    You should not have to pay for this encounter.
    Nor will you receive an invitation.
    If you love your voice, love your voice.
    They, too, would love it, if they could.

    Pamela Murray Winters

  42. comeasyoucami

    How come
    You can raise only one eyebrow
    And make a palace crumble.
    How come only I know
    – Notice
    That you don’t keep your heart where your voice is
    That you don’t walk through the desert to find an oasis
    That you only use instinct and spit on the checklist
    That you don’t like all the emphasis others put on reality

    { People think they know what is sexy
    Until liquid glass drips from their mouths
    When they understand what is sensual
    /all the senses can get some/
    When you feed us with meaning and all you were saying was:
    Nutritious }

    How come everyone thinks they have the key to your riddle?

    /Title: How come/ Camilla Dalerci

  43. Fanny Pad

    How nice

    How nice it is to know you
    with your determined energetic face spurring me on
    to have another go across the pond and beyond
    Responding to your invitation is a good start to my day.

  44. lionetravail

    “How Poetry Of The No Might Read”
    by David M. Hoenig

    I’ve smelled baking bread during its flying Dutchman approach
    into shallow dreams which flee before waking.
    I see majesty in its every line, though it’s all charitable curves
    as if allergic to straight edges.
    It has nothing so pedestrian as color;
    it begs worship, but cares for none.
    It beggars my imagination,
    while only able to be imagined.
    Intangible as a soap bubble,
    it feels like the answer to every need,
    as though it once fed a nation in the wilderness.
    It’s like the quantum foam- there/not there-
    and it has no name with which to label it:
    but it lives, still, at the edge of what I know
    and what I never will.

  45. lionetravail

    “How Hope Fails”
    by David M. Hoenig

    Wings pinned to cork,
    suffocating behind glass:
    the metamorphosis led to beauty, but not joy.

    She’s no trophy butterfly,
    dessicated and dead-
    she just wishes she were.

    Aridity is not her problem,
    as oceans have fallen from her eyes
    to be dashed on the worn precipices below,

    but she feels the same isolation,
    as though mummified and isolated,
    the husk of her on careless display.

    The pills don’t work,
    talk is empty of meaning,
    and hope is a Golgotha.

    She has forgotten how to dream better days:
    there is no ‘perchance’,
    there is only to weep.

  46. Roxanna Watrous

    How You Made a Monster

    Your words poured out with thunder
    and sudden jolts you chose to strike,
    until I surged with new emotions
    that you Frankensteined to life.

    I’m a patchwork of mixed feelings
    nearly busting at the seems.
    You’ve unleashed a monster
    so get ready for the screams!

COMMENT

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.