2015 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 1

Time to start another poem-a-day challenge. Let’s get this party started! Let’s poem!

For today’s prompt, write a day after poem. For instance, today is the day after Halloween in our house, but the poem could be the day after any event. Maybe it’s the day after a wonderful event, or it could be the day after a horrible event. I hope to see you the day after writing today’s poem.

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Click to continue.

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Here’s my attempt at a Day After poem:

“Strange”

It was the day after Jesse Wilcox went missing
that school was cancelled. The parents were worried
and whispering. The news crews came with cameras
rolling. The kids watched their TV sets and sent text

messages to each other. Barbara Bane heard this,
Eddie Click saw that. Marcus Church and Walt Waters
started a Google Hangout to hash it all out. Jesse
was a friend, kinda. At least, they knew who he was

before he started driving them all insane with his
Mustang. And then, he went missing. Last seen
at a drive thru two towns over. He was wearing
sunglasses at night, which was extra bizarre,

because he didn’t even wear shades in the day.
But then again, Jesse was always a little strange.

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roberttwitterimageRobert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.

This is his eighth year of hosting and participating in the November PAD (Poem-A-Day) Chapbook Challenge. He can’t wait to see what everyone creates this month–not only on a day-by-day basis, but when the chapbooks start arriving in December and January. Fun, fun, fun.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

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263 thoughts on “2015 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 1

  1. Walt Wojtanik

    THE DAY AFTER I BEGIN

    Seize the new day and celebrate,
    I get an early jump so it is never too late.
    All corners of the world converge
    in an overnight blink of an eye.
    For what I bring is spirit and you’ll hear it
    in an infant’s cry,
    in the laughter of a small child.
    It is the whisper of the North wind
    kissing the roof tops and
    it is expressed in the sigh of every
    seasoned soul that yearns for one more day
    in the embrace of family and friends.
    And the spirit never ends. It passes
    From hand to hand and
    generation to generation.
    I find life’s true elation on this new day,
    Christmas Day is when I take my pause,
    A well earned rest, for I am Santa Claus!

  2. parsonparson

    The shadow men
    In the corner.
    Can’t sleep. Won’t eat.
    Sweating, sweating
    Toxins and shame.
    My mom can tell.
    Paranoia
    Engulfs my head.
    Singing the songs
    Of the night high.
    Just not the same
    The day after.

  3. Pat Walsh

    On a day after
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    now it is after
    just after, all that was once

    hollow quills of reed
    scribe the wind with trifling marks

    frost chalks fragile roots
    with the pale mask of dying

    while settled and still
    as day trails dust into evening

    hours in mute wonder
    hold close all that went before

  4. James Von Hendy

    Dinkinesh (“You’re marvelous”)

    The day after Lucy died
    3.2 million years passed in darkness.

    If not for erosion sun
    might not have kissed her femur, a bronzed bone

    among bronzed stones scattered
    across an arid wash, the long night of her

    a fragment still unwritten.
    What we claim of her, the small field

    of her remains a handful
    of bones dug out, becomes us, a marvel

    of ancestry, origin,
    the original mother imagined.

    Her offspring and theirs the first
    diaspora clambering from the rift

    valley to seed the world,
    and we say “dinkinesh, Lucy. You’re marvelous.”

  5. Nancy Posey

    The Day After

    Wedged between that bitter Friday,
    the day the Christian world calls Good,
    and that Sunday morning when a stone
    rolled away from an empty tomb, lay
    that Saturday, that Sabbath marked
    by a cock’s accusing crow, by
    waiting, uncertainty, questions:

    He saved others, but He cannot save Himself?

    Their faith must have hung like a weight
    in the gut; shame must have separated
    friend from friend. They had His mother
    to comfort and care for, nets to mend,
    boats long left neglected. Should they
    lie low? After all, so many knew them
    by name, by sight: guilt by association.

    In darkened upper rooms, surely they
    whispered, tried to piece together all
    they remembered of what He had said.
    What prayers must they have uttered,
    what tears must they have shed?

    The loaf, the wine they shared that day
    must have stuck in their throats. What
    gifts might they Him now? No gold,
    frankincense and myrrh, but spices,
    fragrant oils, ancient rituals reserved
    for a carpenter’s son, a borrowed tomb.

    Until at last the day after became
    the day before, and hope gave birth to Life,
    God-breathed. They simply had to wait.

  6. Natasa Bozic Grojic

    River, After the Flood

    The day after the flood
    everything was back to normal. That night
    she slept in her bed, peacefully
    like a child.
    In the morning
    it was as if
    nothing had happened.
    Slowly, she stretched her legs,
    slowly she combed her hair.
    She wouldn’t admit, even to herself
    that only the day before
    she had been free.

  7. Pattili

    The day after –
    was strange-
    I couldn’t get my bearings
    My thoughts
    were a jumbled mess
    And I couldn’t articulate
    What I wanted
    or needed to say
    And when I finally could
    nobody would listen to me

    The day after
    was strange –
    I heard voices when there
    Shouldn’t have been any
    And saw things
    I had never seen before
    But not the things I wanted
    or needed to see

    The day after
    was strange-
    I finally realized
    that I shouldn’t have had those extra drinks
    I shouldn’t have driven
    like I thought I could
    That my life
    was the only one I will ever have –
    It’s gone –
    I’m gone
    and it is strange-
    the day after

  8. shellkaysm

    Yesterdays Compete with Tomorrows

    Eves lead us to believe,
    to soar with wonder.
    Next morns are born
    to set us back down.

    Day afters rarely measure
    up to fresh dreamt treasure.
    With doubt stripped about,
    we’re vulnerable once more.

    Grounded, we’re left groping.
    Wounds still fresh, raw,
    the dance returns to hoping.
    A sigh, new cycle begins on the high

  9. Maeflower

    A Night of Moss

    There is something alluring about the night
    With its moonlit quiet and
    Darkness through and through,
    And yet still so few
    Know the lovely moss of night:
    Clambering over sheets and the faces of the sleeping,
    Around their day worn eyes and
    Silenced lips,
    Becoming an interwoven sheet of life upon life.
    The moss of night bathing itself in your deep sleeping tears,
    (those tears welled inside not shed in the light of day),
    Softening lips forced to smile and bear news,
    Listening to your whispers and worries, lapping up woes.
    Stone faces eased come the light of morning: made anew by a night of moss.

  10. tobysgirl

    Gone

    We all went to the garage to see your car.
    The little Ford Escort was banged up so badly.
    I could only imagine what it looked like on the road
    the night before.
    Or in the tree or the ditch or wherever it ended up.

    That little gold car that we used to cruise around in, listening to Foreigner and ACDC.
    Me, drinking Genny Light, in the back seat.
    You, in the driver’s seat, my left foot tucked under your arm, squeezing my toes.
    No one knew.
    They had no idea about us.
    Making plans to run away after I graduated. Go south, start a new life.
    Dreams of picket fences, parties and babies.
    You told me you loved me by that river, and I told you the same.
    We were so happy for such a short time. Who knew what the future held?
    Kissing to “Secret Lovers” was like a sign to a us.

    You were a player and I wasn’t the only game in town.
    The secrecy hurt and made my stomach ache. Cheating wasn’t my forte at 17.
    We had the world in front of us. Who could say we wouldn’t end up together?
    Just that now wasn’t the right time.
    You had her (and the others I found out about later,
    although those closest to you said it was me you loved) and I had him.
    It never worked out for either of us, with either of them.

    We went to see that car.
    Left over in the side lot, not even close to the newer cars.
    I didn’t see any blood or hair or brains.
    I didn’t see the rumored coke or beer cans.
    I didn’t see any trace of you except an empty pack of Marlboro Lights.
    I took it and stuffed it in the back pocket of my Levis.
    I still have that pack. It’s put away with other mementos of that night.

    I can’t remember the day you died.
    I don’t know what I was doing, who I was with, what I ate.
    But when I look at that empty cigarette pack,
    I know exactly where I was the day after.
    And it makes you come alive for me
    one
    more
    time.

  11. C. Kess

    first day since

    denial tastes like
    sunday afternoon
    the scent of candy yams
    hugging my tongue

    smells like the porch
    at grandma’s house
    in the wood
    the clearness
    of breeze and sun

    in a tossed house
    blood and footprints
    on the linoleum
    and the pilot light off

    the plastic on the sofa crumpled
    never to be smoothed out again

  12. elishevasmom

    note * Yesterday marked the 1/3 milestone in my personal 365 challenge. 365 in 365. The only catch is, if I miss a day, I have to go back and start over. I have been so focused on that that I completely forgot the PAD until today. So this one doesn’t follow the prompt, but I’ll see what I can do moving on.

    The Lake

    The lake is perfectly still—
    the reflection of the clouds,
    and trees leaning over to kiss the water

    is so perfect the
    clarity seems (impossibly) greater
    than those whose likeness they portray.

    There is a mist hovering at the edge
    where the thought and the rumination meet.
    I am not certain whether

    the water is exhaling respiration
    to the trees or if they, in fact
    are breathing life to their

    imaged counterparts below.
    The whole scene before me moves
    with life and yet

    the lake is perfectly still—

    Copyright © Ellen Evans – 2015
    day 122 of 365
    11.1.15

  13. Stuart Peacock

    The Day After

    Staring at myself in the mirror, the day after,
    A time for reflection as I squint at my own.
    I search my face for clues, any telling marks
    Of a night my throbbing head can’t remember.

    Bits and pieces come back in a flurry,
    A storm of silly and unsavoury things,
    My lips firing reckless declarations
    And sealing my fate with quixotic kisses.

    The decadence of the night now long passed,
    The damnation of daylight judges harshly
    And forces me to hide deep in shame
    Within the sanctum of my bedsheets.

  14. Heather

    I’m a little late, but here it is, in all it’s un-glory:

    The Day After

    I had more questions than answers.
    Little remained in the snow and ice.
    Taking chances we rolled the dice,
    cast our lots to the stars up high,
    hoped our friends knew how to survive.

    Surveying the damage and debris
    twisted wreckage, the landscape reborn
    ideologies rearranging the form.
    Words pervasive, insidious cancers
    leaving me more questions than answers.

  15. Marie Therese Knepper

    *note* this poem is based on the UCC Shooting. I was and still am in Roseburg, OR. I mean no disrespect to the victims, college, community, etc. MTK

    Boing

    The day after I planned
    the sheriff wouldn’t say my name
    just like all the others did
    never seeing me for who I am

    the day after I plotted
    motel/hotel profits soared
    media coverage galore
    wondering who I was

    The day after I was ignored
    was just like all the days before
    I came and went a virgin alone
    hungry wolf on the prowl

    The day after I wrote
    my rants and raves no longer private
    as I dreamed my future fame
    borne on blaring siren screams

    The day after I unloaded
    my frustrations a crescendo mounting
    cries for help, attention, wanting
    attention, please!

    The days after I surrendered
    to my murderous vanity
    People loved, cried, lived, died,
    hugged, gave, listened . . .
    They listened . . .

    1. Sibella

      I don’t envy you living in this place of tragedy. Your poem gets at that really tough thing, that irony, that a tragedy can bring people together. I wish you all healing.

  16. PSC in CT

    Deadlines & Deliverables

    She’d mulled over it for months,
    taking notes and photos,
    sketching, sculpting,
    stitching it all together
    inside her head. Planning
    a work of art –
    an ekphrastic masterpiece
    laced in allegory,
    lilting with alliteration
    and a dash of assonance
    with nary a cliché, nor hyperbole,
    espied anywhere within.

    But,
    the day after the deadline
    ceded defeat; rendered an irony
    of mangled metaphors
    and supercilious symbolism
    meriting a total revocation
    of her expiring poetic license.
    In the end, the poem collapsed –
    just another disappointing deliverable
    arriving
    a day
    late.

  17. Nancy Posey

    Honeymoon

    The day after the wedding,
    they slipped back into town
    wanting nothing more
    than to be home at last.

    Looking around to check
    that no neighbors saw,
    he hoisted her in his arms.

    Juggling the door key,
    pushing it open with
    with his foot, he carried
    her over the threshold.

    Laughing so hard, falling
    onto the floor, new carpet,
    the landlord’s wedding gift,

    they surveyed the gifts,
    still wrapped in crisp
    white and silver paper,
    each with identical bows.

    They knew what they
    would find inside, more
    of the same, plates, cups,
    china and glass, chosen

    at the local jewelry store,
    where her mom insisted
    they stick with timeless
    classics, nothing crazy.

    All these bonbon dishes,
    he quipped, and no one
    gave us a single bonbon.
    He waggled his eyebrows.

    No problem, she offered.
    On my first grocery list
    I’ll be sure to buy
    plenty of bonbons.

  18. taylor graham

    THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN

    Overnight, all the dead scents are raised
    again by rain. They’re wafting
    down Main Street like ghosts walking among us.
    Early morning, I heel my puppy
    through parking garage and out to daylight.
    He can’t get enough of sniffing posts
    anointed by dogs long gone; a cookie dropped
    by a child now snuggled in dream far away;
    storm drains that swallowed the swill of gutters;
    perhaps the scent of that man
    who walked through town last week
    and disappeared. All unseen is alive – and
    suddenly from around the corner,
    it seems Cerberus on leash
    to a shrouded man in black rain-
    suit, face half-masked by his hood.
    My puppy barks in alarm, cries
    reverberating through the catacombs
    of parking garage, shrieks multiplying
    imaginary threat as ghost
    stories do.

  19. Anthony94

    Under a Gibbous Moon

    The day after that killing frost, tomatoes curled
    in upon themselves, the radishes in the cover crop
    turned black as forgotten beets. The fall peas
    shrank on their vines, hanging from the woven
    string fence, tendrils sliding into straight sticks
    as the sun rose. On the front porch, the fifteen
    year old schefflera draped woody stems over
    the edge of the pot, the jade and geranium
    turning the brown of sycamore and maple in
    the woods across the road. The ants had made
    summer havens in each and there wasn’t time
    to flush them out before heat from the old furnace
    made them swarm into the cracked wood floor if
    he’d brought them into the front room beside the
    bay window. He pulled up stakes then, stacked
    the pallets from the melon frames into wooden towers,
    rolled twine for the burn pile and raked the last weeds
    onto mounded compost. Pulled off his boots that
    night and cored one last tomato. Two hundred pounds
    of potatoes in the cellar with the acorn squash. A good year,
    he’d said, sharpening his knife. A very good year.

  20. DanielR

    THE DAY AFTER I QUIT TRYING
    Younger years are quilted memories
    fabric stitched together in patterns
    unhealthy repetitions of behaviors that remind me
    I am broken—swallowed whole and consumed
    by a man I do not want to know
    Blisters form on working fingers
    threads of lineage and history
    woven into a life unrecognized
    There and not there
    shadows have a way of disappearing
    and reappearing to darken the light
    A man grows weary when daylight fades
    latches on to loneliness
    defeated, lays his head down on a too-hard pillow
    and goes to sleep.

    Daniel Roessler

  21. JWLaviguer

    The Day After Tomorrow

    The day after tomorrow
    it will all be over
    there nothing left
    I can’t say goodbye

    I keep putting it off
    hoping for a miracle
    there is nothing left
    the doctors tell me

    So I’ll pull the plug
    and end it all
    there is nothing left
    to hold onto.

    JW Laviguer

  22. deringer1

    The Day After the Challenge

    It has already started!
    Oh dear, I’m late already.
    I’ve been following a white rabbit
    and we’re late, we’re late
    we’re late.

    Alright self, I say,
    don’t get behind this month.
    You can do this. Every day?
    Yes! every day.
    But that requires dedication
    and commitment, says my lazy self.

    Yes, it does, but I know you can do this.
    Just write something.
    Something will come to mind,
    you only have to be there for the poem.
    It is in there somewhere.
    Pause and let it out.
    You can do this!

  23. JanetRuth

    Today’s Enterprise

    Tomorrow I hope today will be
    A want-to-keep-it memory
    A live-learn-love-and-laughter lilt
    Soft-etched in thought’s gossamer gilt

    After the moments of Today
    Have let their course and slipped away
    I hope what’s left of it will be
    A want-to-save-it memory

    © Janet Martin

  24. Sally Jadlow

    The Day After

    Our Royals won the third game
    in the World Series,
    they lost to the New York Mets
    in game four.

    But, the day after that,
    after trailing through eight innings.
    they took the World Championship
    7-2 in the 12th inning.

    Sweet!

  25. Terri Lee

    (a day late)
    December 8,1941

    Glancing at the clock, 0745. Yesterday at this time, she remembered thinking. These planes aren’t ours. They screamed so near. The pilot wore a white and red scarf-wrapped helmet. He strafed the door to the lanai. Black smoke billowed from Pearl Harbor, fogged the whole base. I hope my fiancé is safe. Focus.
    The injured keep coming: pulled, carried, drug, wheeled up steps blood spattered steps. Burns, missing limbs, imbedded shrapnel, comas, dead. Waiting for the wounded, a gurney of concrete floors. Vessels spew bright red, a new layer on top of twenty-four-hour old dark, dried blood.
    Agony crawls its way through the halls to operating rooms and back. Morphine and whiskey, repeat. She’s seen no rest: coffee, chocolate bars, compassion move her on—one patient, to the next. These conditions–pausing to wipe her hands on her soiled white uniform. Still on her feet. Focus.
    How many more?

  26. Jezzie

    PARTIES

    I like a party
    cos I get to meet
    with lots of Mum’s friends
    who’ll give me a treat.

    And the day after
    I’m in a good mood
    helping Mum clear up
    the left over food.

    I help do dishes:
    I lick the plates clean.
    I help empty the bins.
    You know what I mean?

    I’m hoping to continue my Doggie Ditties theme in this November PAD. Read more at <https://jezabelmyschka.wordpress.com/

  27. Bushkill

    It’s a day late … but it’s a day after so some leeway there may be.

    Day 1: day after poem

    How obtuse to write a day after poem
    The day after the journey began?
    With fettered thoughts and work-like demeanor
    I search for words and do all I can.

    In bits and pieces, with fits and starts,
    I pen them quickly, else all are lost.
    The struggle is real, the keys resist,
    My mind’s a fog, a penny’s the cost.

    They twist and turn.
    They haunt and scorn.
    These words so typed
    To this world born.

    Till done
    They rest.
    Task finished,
    Passed test.

  28. fayina

    Triumphant Return Redux

    Syria, October 1918

    After Damascus
    you go on back to England
    Spoiler alert! I think we were all
    a little shocked
    most of us
    but not you and not Homer

    after all.
    After all that time Odysseus
    didn’t know much else
    besides war and running
    and let’s face it
    What more did he want
    really?

    (After growing old between
    two mountains
    how does one emerge intact?)

  29. ppfautsch24

    The Morning After The Night
    The morning after we talked about
    your trials of being a man and me
    listening and trying not to speak to
    be a supportive voice and woman.
    You did hear me the night before.
    The day after we shared each of our
    fears; you didn’t want to disturb my free
    spirit and crowd my space. I didn’t want
    to be selfish and needy.
    You wanted to be here and I wanted you home.
    You want to inspire, teach and coach.
    I want to know that my spirit soars and my voice
    to be heard in spoken word.
    To hear your voice the day after lifts my spirits
    and calms my soul. You say you are tired,
    yet I hear the joyful rest in your voice and sense
    the softness in your heart for me.
    But, the silence that we both hear in the quietness
    of the night can be heard loud and clear; the day after we talk.
    By Pamelap

  30. seingraham

    THE DAY AFTER THE MEMORIAL

    It’s the morning of the day after the memorial,
    and I can’t face it, so I pull the covers close,
    shut my eyes against November
    and pretend that sleep is achievable again
    Foolish folly, I know, closed eyes are no
    defense against the parade of memories
    from yesterday and it is
    after all, just a day after – hardly enough
    time to forget any part of what went on

    Still – I tell myself, maybe if I keep
    entirely still, slow my breathing
    until I’m barely moving at all
    It will be as if I’m not sleeping;
    I’m unconscious; that’s the ticket
    On the day after the memorial when,
    I don’t think I can face any of it
    I’ll try to make myself as still as death
    And I won’t have to, will I?
    Who can tell me this, I wonder faintly,
    hoping to pass out.

  31. Valkyri

    the day after
    my last breath
    (cold so cold)
    chill autumn rain
    on my shroud
    to a room
    where none speak
    in a drawer
    waiting my turn
    in the dark
    my daughter’s eyes
    sad swollen blue
    feeding the cats
    my leftover food
    the spark gone
    and note read
    with a sigh
    her tears drip
    down icy cheeks

  32. Buddah Moskowitz

    March 2, 1999

    I slept soundly,
    head sunk into
    a cool, feathered pillow.

    The morning sun,
    soft and bright
    gently roused me,
    bestowing upon me
    the sweet blessing
    of disorientation.

    Nothing stuck in my mind,
    I just enjoyed the warmth
    and softness of my father’s bed,
    not remembering why
    I was there.

    In an instance,
    I remembered,
    and it obliterated my peace,
    and nothing was ever
    the same.

    So, I got up,
    summoning all my strength
    and praying with every exhale,

    the morning after
    my father died
    from a heart attack.

  33. De Jackson

    April, and Everything After

    Spring flung itself on her like a song,
    a remembering, a salvaged piece of sea
    glass spun right round to scattered sand.

    She’s gotta hand it to the moon, broken
    open too soon, shattered all pretty crescent
    loose into that inky sky. Orion’s got a way

    with words tonight, unbelted truth blown
    through pinpricked promise, burned out
    wishes spent on silence. Yesterday, she

    might have listened to his whisper-wanded
    song. But today she’s got a long long way
    to go, and no fading comet to follow.

    .

  34. Mike

    Retrieve

    The day after
    I taught the dog
    to drive, he
    borrowed the car
    without asking.
    He wasn’t gone
    long though,
    deciding it was
    too hard and
    no fun to drive
    with his head
    out the window.

  35. Benjamin Thomas

    DEFIANT FREEDOM

    The day after the storm

    cloud and sky shriek

    seeking sun

    to dance a dirge

    swiftly upon its frown

    to deliver prancing bouquet

    upon its wrinkled brow

    and somehow we see

    bloom on the edge

    of freedom

    Benjamin Thomas

  36. Tim Snodgrass

    The Day after the Comet (written as Aidan Bryce)

    On the day before the comet came,
    The day before
    The day before
    The day before

    On the day before the comet came,
    I held you in my arms
    My fingers in your silken hair
    My eyes locked in your heavenly gaze

    On the day before the comet came,
    We worried about unpaid bills
    Agonized over bad days at work
    Struggled with leaky faucets

    On the day after the comet came,
    There were no more bills
    No more bad days at work
    No leaky faucets

    On the day after the comet came,
    There was no more you
    No silken hair to sooth my aching hands
    No heavenly eyes to sooth my aching soul

    On the day after the comet came, I wish I’d thought of nothing else
    But you
    But you
    But you

    I’m Aidan Bryce,
    I’ve paid the price

    1. Tim Snodgrass

      This is the first of several poems I will be writing from the perspective of a fictional character I’ve invented named Aidan Bryce. Aidan has lived through hell, as the result of a comet striking the earth and nearly bringing human kind to extinction. Poems written as Aidan will carry the tag line “I’m Aidan Bryce, I’ve paid the price”.

  37. pipersfancy

    Prayers

    There wasn’t much of a honeymoon—
    the day after we’d said our vows
    you hit me and called me a bitch
    over and over and over again
    until the noise became so loud
    the woman in the suite below us
    ran upstairs to bang on our door
    and ask if she could help. The woman
    was a nun and when I couldn’t answer
    she turned and said she’d pray
    before retreating down the stairs.

    Perhaps her prayers were answered
    when we moved before the year was up
    leaving silence in that space between
    her Saviour and her rules of conscious…
    but, it would take another decade of the
    hitting and the swearing, several moves
    with neighbours left behind to wonder,
    and two children damaged in the wake
    of scenes they never should have seen
    before my own prayers were answered.
    I often question why it took (me) so long.
    —Christina Perry

  38. Cindy

    Feeling Helpless the Day after the Fire
    Oh my God! now what!
    I can still smell the smoke
    I still see our home burning
    Now what! We have nothing!
    No home!
    No identification!
    No money!
    No clothes!
    Nothing!
    We lost everything
    We were not alone
    Three hundred people
    Lost everything
    But, we all were thanking God!
    That was just stuff and replaceable
    Our most valued possessions
    Our families and pets are safe
    And they are not replaceable!
    -Cynthia Heppe November 1, 2015

  39. Kendall A. Bell

    After the road trip

    It was the inevitable let down,
    the blank page, the uncapped
    marker dragging faint lines
    over pale pulp. It was the sound
    of resentment and restlessness,
    the echo of promises you said
    I would keep. It was the strain
    of fibers holding us up in front
    of stretched images, the stench
    of disappointment from your side
    of the sofa, and mine.

  40. lsteadly

    Reflection

    The day after
    we signed all those papers
    we sift through our memories
    carried how many times,
    stuff that once barely filled
    the bed of a pick-up
    then grew
    my life with you
    decades passing
    our lives amassing
    stray tears, careers
    surpassing hopes, allayed fears
    and always more stuff
    until finally not enough
    space left to till
    in shelves, closets, drawers overfilled
    reflecting our love still
    bursting at the seams

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