2015 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

For today’s prompt, write an echo poem. This could be a poem with a refrain, or a poem that echoes another poem (or poems) written earlier in the month. A remix poem, if you will. Or it could be about the process of echoes, echo location, or any other spin you can think to put on it.


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Here’s my attempt at an Echo poem:


We’re in your neighborhood and want to suck your blood.
Nothing personal, you see, it’s how vampires need to be
since the beginning of time with our fangs and fancy rhymes.

We’re in your neighborhood and want to suck your blood.
Give us type A or type B, because we’re not too picky
about that for which we thirst, though type O is the worst.

We’re in your neighborhood and want to suck your blood.
Though we won’t visit in the day, put your crosses away,
plus any sharpened wood sticks and cloves of garlic.

We’re in your neighborhood and want to suck your blood.
It just the way we roll, because we’ve got to pay the toll
for living eternally with our sense of historic mystery.

We’re in your neighborhood and want to suck your blood;
nothing personal, you see, it’s just how we’ve got to be.


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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118 thoughts on “2015 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 25

  1. seingraham


    I stand on your bridge, which could be any bridge really
    but in this case is the Quesnel over the Fraser River,
    and call out your name
    Your ashes comingled with this river from Lightning
    Creek, five years ago already
    So I know you are long gone from this place – off to
    the sea, the mighty Pacific Ocean – your safe harbor

    Still – I cannot resist calling to you – throwing your
    name into the night-sky, a hardball pitched
    straight and clean
    Am I dreaming when I hear your answer drifting
    down from the mountains ringing the town?
    I strain to hear over the rushing water, above the
    wind whistling through the forests everywhere

    And call to you again, again, again
    What do I want you to tell me? Why such longing
    fills me still? Why I can’t believe you are dead?
    Half a decade since you last breathed but still I
    am shocked at your absence
    I waken some days and forget you are dead, decide
    I should call you before I remember
    Oh. Yeah. There is no calling you.

  2. Alaina Dawson

    the sounds of you leaving still echo in my head

    i never knew silence could be so loud

    until i couldn’t get it out of my head

    the scrape of the keys being plucked off the counter

    the dragging of bags ready to go, packed two days earlier

    the drawers pulled open just to check for anything left behind

    anything, except me, that is

    the spitting of the coffee machine, timer still set for 7:05am

    the blinking of my own eyes as i fought back the tears

    the tapping of your fingers as you tried to think of something to say

    the door slowly closing, when you had given up the attempt

    the car driving away, crackling down the gravel for the last time

    yes, i admit, these sounds keep me up at night

    the sounds of you leaving still echo in my head

  3. tobysgirl

    The Ocean’s Voice

    At fifteen, at the ocean,
    with Tears for Fears shouting at me to let it all out,
    I felt the waves slam me with their history.
    Of storms and wrecks,
    of plunder and fear,
    rolling at me,
    wetting my feet under rolled up Levis.
    Smelling rain and salt and sand and looking out over a never ending horizon.
    Touching bare, weathered wood, smooth and gray,
    battered by years in the surf,
    finally coming to rest on this cold and windy shore.

    I stood there, closed my eyes and listened to the roar,
    its voice,
    filling my soul.
    I would never be the same person I was before I went to the ocean.
    She left her stories in me and I hear their echo.
    It fills me with longing to return,
    to my real beginning.


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