2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 11

For today’s prompt, write a description poem. Pick someone or something to describe. Get in depth, or just brush along the surface.

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Here’s my attempt at a Description poem:

“Scissors”

So simple really:
One arm attached
to another,

and they cut
when they come
together.

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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.

As a Cub Scout leader and Sunday school teacher (and, well, a father), he spends a lot of time with the essentials of arts & crafts: paper, tape, crayons, glue, and scissors.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

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101 thoughts on “2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 11

  1. ToniBee3

    Sweet & Tart Squares

    eight by eight
    square inches
    of lemon filling
    nestled between
    buttery crumbs and
    powdered sugar
    embraces my nostrils
    as I divide the delight
    into sixteen equilateral
    cubes to savor
    between my lips
    that gather into wrinkles

  2. PSC in CT

    Be Leaf Me

    we are
    (all of us)
    ablaze in different colors,
    flaunting our shades,
    disparate shapes, sizes and textures.
    Our routes (our roots)
    may vary;
    we’ve been borne on different branches
    spanning the ages.
    we share
    histories and genealogies
    similar and distinct
    as alike as we are diverse
    and still, the light
    shines
    through
    us
    all

    1. LadyBug5162

      A Sound Like No Other

      Thwuck!
      A cross between a thud
      And a whack
      It’s a sound like no other
      The sound of a large metal object
      Coming in contact with
      Flesh
      Once living
      Now soon to be dead

      Thwack!
      The sound between a thud
      And a smack
      A sound like no other
      11 persons in a Volkswagen beetle
      Heard that sound that night
      As the car coming our way
      Hit the pedestrian on the side of the road
      And sped away
      Hit him so hard
      His sandals and pants were left fifty feet
      From where he fell to the ground
      Breathing a few shallow breaths
      As the life drifted from his body
      Every bone broken in the sack of skin
      Still holding everything in
      It’s a sound I wish I could forget
      But I can’t

  3. shellkaysm

    Beyond Description
    (Quatern)

    The beauty of soul you’ll not know
    focusing on mere description
    or the opinions of others.
    Nuance ties the bow, wraps the gift.

    Our inner workings hold the clues,
    the beauty of soul you’ll not know.
    By gazing distant silhouette
    the fullness of truth is denied.

    As writers we’re led to reveal
    characters by way of actions.
    The beauty of soul you’ll not know
    ignoring what is left unsaid.

    But if the reader doesn’t stop
    long enough to absorb details,
    is this a crime or liberty?
    The beauty of soul you’ll not know.

  4. seingraham

    THE NIGHT THE BEES HOWLED

    Last night the bees were howling by the pond,
    and we raced up the hill to see what was going on
    The skyline of the city was outlined pumpkin-bright,
    every building silhouetted ebony against that odd
    coloured sky, and no stars up nor moon either.

    The bees’ noise had grown deafening ‘neath
    the wharf where the ducks had flown their nest
    But the apian ones showed no signs of flight,
    seemingly content to continue roaring with a
    sound like something unlike that of insects.

    Combined with the weird coloured sky –
    It was enough to make a person preternaturally
    nervous, and we were. It was one of those
    early autumn evenings that tastes of winter
    coming, but there was something else in the
    air – something tangy like a MacIntosh apple.

    I don’t remember how long we stood there
    or when things went back to normal, but they did.

  5. Pat Walsh

    Tree Frog
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    tiny little coat
    glowing luminous green
    stretched like a tissue
    over the awkward angles
    of a tiny little frame

    bulbous little fingers
    squishing tips on twigs
    like the faint touch
    of an embryo pressing
    on the inside of a womb

    tiny eyes wide
    as though in wonder
    taking in the spectacle
    of larger eyes looking on
    from beyond the surface

  6. JRSimmang

    YOU WILL ALWAYS FIND MUSIC

    Van Gogh began his career
    digging under their fingernails
    and letting the sand fall
    back to the earth.

    Popping knuckles and sand
    ravaged timepieces, they were.
    They told a story,
    a story the mouth couldn’t utter.

    But, I’m obsessed with your hands,
    unsure as they grasp my finger,
    slipping as they do in between
    the water and the well.

    The hands of the peasants
    were tapestries, elegant and faded,
    Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
    But yours are letters.

    And each time your fingers,
    small and incapable,
    tumble down the keys,
    you find music.

    You will always find music.

    -JR Simmang

  7. Melanie

    The Train Station

    Does he not know
    The man that makes the announcements
    Over the speakers
    In the train station
    That we are the end of the line?
    He warns us
    To stay away from the edge of the platform
    Some trains don’t stop
    But pass by
    At high speed
    Perhaps we need to warn shoppers
    In Union Street
    That some trains are not stopping
    Even though
    We are at the end of the line

  8. Nancy Posey

    Going ekphrastic today:

    Impromptu Concert before Cleanup
    (in response to “After the Party” by Andy Warhol)

    The last to leave are searching for their coats
    and wraps, bestowing lingering hugs,
    kisses wetter, truer as they say
    goodbyes, false air kisses long forgotten,
    their moods less melancholy now, wine-soaked,
    their bellies full, their feet still sore
    from dancing, high heels teetering in the grass,
    their cars retrieved by college boys on hire
    as valet parkers, beer buzzes less apparent
    to the guests, far tipsier themselves.

    Gathering the empty bottles, glasses,
    Nico wets his finger, starts to spin it
    ‘round the wine glass lip, makes it sing.
    His brother Marco sets his tray down
    on the lawn, begins his circling too,
    creates a sweeter note, an eerie harmony.
    The other hired man, the one who kept
    to himself, never said his name, begins
    a steady rhythm, long dark fingers drumming
    on the folding chairs, and for the first time
    that night, his face relaxes in a smile.

    A symphony of serving pieces, glassware,
    clinking, singing, ringing, a steady bass line
    rides beneath their melody, two parts doo wop
    one part hip hop, wordless song ushers in
    the real party, clean-up crew emerging from shadows,
    then filling trays, transporting their makeshift
    instruments into the service kitchen for the night.

  9. jgweber1221

    Walnuts

    Creviced but curiously smooth,
    their shells are the most interesting.

    Pale brown and curved to a point
    at one end, they look as though

    they grew for a generation or two.
    Despite obvious seams around the middle

    they don’t shatter when dropped
    and will not open with the strength

    of hands alone. In the end, their resistance
    is only a challenge. Like mine

    when I walked away from the door,
    the first time you stood on my porch.

  10. DMK

    watching ants
    by Dawn Kvernenes

    crawling up my cowboy boot were several red ants
    bitting me on my calf or shin I am not sugar plants
    boots not red wings flew off; cast aside
    I was on an ant hill causing a land slide
    once I moved off the hill they went back to their store and gather
    climbing up then down depositing for the colony they even made an ant ladder
    with their sticky strong feet; maybe more of a bridge than ladder for the squad to traverse
    ants gather tireless and endlessly, sun up to sun down. I don’t remember any ant curse?
    I was not sweet enough to bite, more salty than sugar beets
    no more bites on my torso, up my pants, on my legs or feet
    I prefer watching ants on their home hill
    not ant attack where red ants bite at wil

      1. DMK

        watching ants
        by Dawn Kvernenes

        crawling up my cowboy boot were several red ants
        bitting me on my calf or shin I am not sugar plants
        boots not red wings flew off; cast aside
        I was on an ant hill causing a land slide
        once I moved off the hill they went back to their store and gather
        climbing up then down depositing for the colony they even made an ant ladder
        with their sticky strong feet; maybe more of a bridge than ladder for the squad to traverse
        ants gather tireless and endlessly, sun up to sun down. I don’t remember any ant curse?
        I was not sweet enough to bite, more salty than sugar beets
        no more bites on my torso, up my pants, on my legs or feet
        I prefer watching ants on their home hill
        not ant attack where red ants bite at will

  11. grcran

    in which is described my love for You

    I love You just as much as a little kid
    the kid within me claps his hands for joy at what we did
    these things weave done are one with the universe
    conversely we can’t sleep we’re deep we burst
    exploding we seal up preserving everything of worth
    and mingling souls retrace ourselves to moment of our birth

    gpr crane

  12. grcran

    the pits and beyond

    describe the scene we can’t we don’t begin
    foul aftermath of war we will not win
    it starts with hate and hides down underneath
    then festers we endow it we bequeath
    our children learn it well discern the fault
    buy into it add sugar plus some salt
    suppose we do eliminate the thing
    describe in depth what happens next year’s spring
    what grows from phoenix ashes dirty dust
    describing this we can’t we know we must
    leave selves and shelves of stuff back on the ice
    let bygones be gone what-e-ver the price
    apocalypse be damned tis paradise

    gpr crane

  13. Sara McNulty

    Stop For Beauty

    Coral colored, they bloomed.
    Our roses bush soared high and wide
    all through spring, summer, and fall.

    With cooler air, we assumed
    new buds would not survive.
    Coral colored, they bloomed.

    With arriving November,
    our sturdy buds opened red.
    Our rose bush soared high and wide.

    Each day I check on their progress.
    Will I add winter to seasonal list
    all through spring, summer, and fall?

  14. Pwriter10

    THE CEILING by DeAndre Oolong

    You’re a false sky,
    a film with only one scene,
    the last thing I’ll see before
    I sleep.

    When I walk on you,
    people laugh because
    they don’t realize the world
    is upside-down

  15. Jane Shlensky

    Secret Places

    Old Fred whittles and rocks on his porch,
    wood chips curling pig tailed around his chair,
    his yellow tabby cat swishing by his feet,
    imagining the loose bits are mice or bugs.

    If Fred has opinions or memories, he only
    tells people he trusts who know secrets are
    powerful things. He lives alone and nods
    whenever we call out to him, “Hey Old Fred!”

    From a block of wood, Old Fred can form
    a weathered time-scrubbed face to shape
    your dreams, a long bearded, pipe smoking
    face, eyebrows like rocky cliffs, a mouth set,

    judgmental, with tiny piercing eyes, as if he’s
    exorcising ill will from the wood. He carves them
    into walking sticks for tourists—calls them
    whipping sticks but won’t tell us why.

    Also trucks, flowers, all manner of wild thing,
    anything you want. He’s a wonder with a blade,
    all his carvings with expressions on their faces,
    as if they have answers to any question you pose

    and questions to any answer you think you have.
    His rough hands conjure things into being,
    as he bites on that stem, quiet in his head, and sings,
    “if I were a carpenter, and you were a lady…”

  16. MichelleMcEwen

    Apple Tree

    Earthy
    sturdy and
    prize worthy

    with your pretty fruit

    Tall
    and sprawling
    and calling

    with your turning fruit

    Deciduous and
    pomaceous

    with your perfect fruit

  17. Kasey

    Our Friend, Socks

    He drives a commercial white van
    and seems like a nice enough man,
    this neighbor we have yet to meet
    who’s out on his porch in socked feet.

    He’s up at all hours of the night,
    with a cigarette, glowing bright
    in the dark on our quiet street
    sitting on his porch in socked feet.

    Sometimes there’s a book in his hand.
    Long gray hair tied back with a band
    in the North Carolina heat,
    reclined on his porch in socked feet.

    My husband and I might pretend
    there’s this guy named Socks who’s our friend,
    not a neighbor we’ve yet to meet
    alone on his porch in socked feet.

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