2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 24

For today’s prompt, write an imitation poem. Some folks say imitation is the best form of flattery. So with it being Thanksgiving in these parts, I thought it appropriate to pick a poem you enjoy and write an imitation of it. You can include poet and poem of the original if you’d like; or see if others can guess.

If you don’t have time to write an imitation poem, then try writing a poem about the act of imitation–whether people, animals, or even robots.

*****

poets_market_robert_lee_brewerOrder the New Poet’s Market!

The 2017 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer, includes hundreds of poetry markets, including listings for poetry publications, publishers, contests, and more! With names, contact information, and submission tips, poets can find the right markets for their poetry and achieve more publication success than ever before.

Order your copy today!

In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry–so that poets can learn the ins and outs of writing poetry and seeking publication. Plus, it includes a one-year subscription to the poetry-related information on WritersMarket.com. All in all, it’s the best resource for poets looking to secure publication.

Click to continue.

*****

Here’s my attempt at an Imitation poem:

“Cat People”

I know lots of people
who are cat people,

people who like cats,
and I know people cats,

cats who like people,
but I also know people

who are not fond of cats
and anti-people cats.

I wish all people
liked other people

and that all the cats
liked all the other cats,

but you can’t make people
like other people

or force all the cats
to like all the other cats.

After all, not all people
are born to be cat people,

just as not all cats
are natural people cats.

*****

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.

He took the easy route and imitated his own poem from a few days back (read the original here). He has had a few cats over the years.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.

*****

Find more poetic goodies here:

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

74 thoughts on “2016 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 24

  1. Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    (with apologies to Ted Kooser’s, “The Witness”)
    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=35644

    The Witness
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    After days of testimony
    by the Prosecution,
    the Judge has now called
    the Defense up to bat,
    which we all know means you –
    the girl in angel lace white
    at the back of the courtroom
    rising up now like a bouquet
    just plucked from a roadside,
    the transom sunlight slipping
    from your shoulders most
    hesitantly.

    With courtroom eyes upon you
    the battered hands which once knew
    the interlock idolatry of held fingertips
    has slipped like a peach from its skin,
    while beyond you, in the harsh
    glow of fluorescent lights, picking
    the scabs of hundred year old floors,
    the voices of justice continue
    to drone on, tired and hollow
    like the creak a stand of oak
    encompassing this floor once made
    in a canyon somewhere, in a
    different time.

    And as you stand,
    you’re still unsure what to say
    or how much to reveal.

    © 2017 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

  2. PSC in CT

    Oh Yeah

    there are worse things than
    losing ground
    but it often takes
    a mile in another’s shoes
    to realize this
    and if you’re lucky
    when you do
    it’s not too late
    ‘cause there’s nothing worse
    than
    too late.

    PSC 2016-11

    (inspired by “Oh Yes” by Charles Bukowski)

  3. ToniBee3

    Your Mind
    (an imitation of Angelina Weld Grimké’s “Your Hands”)

    …….I’ve always loved your mind:
    Your witty, candid, beautiful mind;
    Nowadays memories drift in and out of lights and shadows….
    I see you struggle to recollect portions of your life.
    And yet, when you see me,
    You know me……. and by name……
    ………and we smile with our eyes……..
    If I might only find the cure today,
    Fold you in my arms and kiss it better,
    Hold your hands,
    Dance with you and sing our song,
    So that I might always have “our” thing
    …….Even if you forgot the words.

  4. Sara McNulty

    Does Truth Exist Within A Spell?

    You who stand on yonder shore
    and tell me we can be no more,
    will I add you to my score
    as my darling sweet Lenore,
    another gone from me.
    I offer you this plea–
    was it not love you felt for me?
    A witch who casts her spell;
    alas, I never knew you well.
    Your true self was kept from me,
    now you say we can never be.

    Pray, watch me search among my books
    for a clue to enlighten why your took
    my telltale heart into the crook
    of your arm. Yet why do I pine
    for one who was never truly mine?
    I ponder this both night and day.
    Perhaps I am cold
    when the time for being bold
    stands in front of me, blind me.
    Nevermore will I learn
    not to let myself be burned
    by a witch who casts her spell.
    Alas, I never knew you well.

    (Based on Edgar Allan Poe’s, A Dream Within A Dream)

  5. SarahLeaSales

    Imitations of Life

    “Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” — Alfred Hitchcock

    Dioramas,
    miniature dramas;
    Paintings,
    scenes fading.
    Books,
    an unreliable narration,
    Music,
    a canorous condensation.
    Plays—
    life’s sincerest flattery,
    and television,
    where books go to die,
    where smash cuts and sound bites—
    like hors d’oeuvres that do not satisfy—
    but ferment,
    fomenting discord;
    but the best depiction of all,
    is posted on our pages—
    the CliffsNotes editions
    of our life stories,
    putting friendships in remission.

  6. Jane Shlensky

    Greed and Spite
    (Apologies to Frost’s Fire and Ice)

    Some say the world is lost to greed.
    Some say, to spite.
    From all I know of want and need,
    I might well side with raging greed,
    but since we so enjoy a fight
    to stoke our hate, malice, and fear,
    I’d say I would be mostly right
    to say that here
    we love our spite.

  7. Jane Shlensky

    Anecdote of the Seed
    (apologies to Wallace Stevens, Anecdote of the Jar)

    I tucked a seed in Carolina clay
    and watched her eyes round orbs
    widen to think a seed could split
    inside her mind.

    Sure, there were other seedlings tangled
    sprawling in her head, but this sprout
    sorted them, their runners staked
    in rows, ordered, blooming there.

    Now when she looks on the world,
    this seed sends up its tendrils of hope
    as if the earth birthed something new
    in Carolina clay that day.

  8. DMK

    cat people
    by Dawn Kvernenes

    Robert likes cat people
    I like them too
    nice when all get along
    cat’s have selectivie invites for their domestic clowder
    dogs are more inclusive become a pack in an area
    humans live in people groups or families or tribes
    each will fight to defend
    cats are like special forces
    dogs like ground troups
    humans the most deadly more like a sniper
    remembering sins again
    cats have longer tmemories than proverbial elelephant
    can’t really don’t forget
    most likely to take direct revenge but it might be years later
    in the end cats and dogs will be in the heavenly clowder pack
    as well as lions and lambs laying side by side together
    maybe not all humans those who have a harder time getting along

  9. Janet Rice Carnahan

    TREES

    By Joyce Kilmer

    I think that I shall never see
    A poem as lovely as a tree

    A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
    Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast

    (Just a few excerpts)

    NOTHING QUITE THE SAME

    A true signature mark found
    Any tree upon the ground

    A strong stand against the wind
    Nothing mighty makes it bend

  10. Janet Rice Carnahan

    FACE TO FACE

    Shooing monkeys off my deck
    Took a most surprising turn
    They warned me in India
    To stay alert
    They are aggressive

    When I experienced one
    He imitated my face
    Scowl and growl

    (It was so surprising and funny, it was the laughter that actually scared him off! The monkeys really do copy our facial expressions and, not necessarily, in a good way!)

  11. grcran

    before if
    (after Rudyard Kipling’s “If”)

    If you can let your gaze wander, let it happen where it will;
    if no flower passes by without you wondering about the aroma;
    if you sign on, merely at the mention of the word “adventure”;
    if you’ll take the scenic route, regardless of the extra effort or time;
    if no shell on the shore is too small or dirty to warrant further inspection;
    if you can hold in your hand a frog, fish, or turtle,
    and attain a communal level of consciousness;
    yours is the sky and the promise of the future,
    and, what is more, you’ll be a boy, my man.

    gpr crane

  12. MichelleMcEwen

    Imitation of Nikki Giovanni’s “kidnap poem”

    kidnap poem

    ever been kidnapped
    by a painter
    if i were a painter
    i’d kidnap you
    brush you into my blues and basquiat
    crown you
    take you to the wrong side of the tracks
    or maybe behind the laundromat
    or maybe just to my bed
    palette you in pastels
    bleed you
    ease you onto the easel
    to picasso my view
    wear make-up for you
    love you lavender
    anything to keep you
    drown you in a golden hue
    show you off to mama too
    yeah if i were a painter i’d kid
    nap you

  13. bethwk

    My Autumn Visitor
    by Beth Weaver-Kreider

    My Melancholy, visiting
    this bitter cold November day,
    thinks that the hours of autumn bring
    an apt and honest offering
    of chilly winds and shades of grey.

    Routine demeanor laid aside,
    the autumn brings her full awake.
    Her silence shed, her arms thrown wide,
    she talks about the ebbing tide,
    the dismal field, the frozen lake.

    Her strength returns as cold winds blow.
    She revels in the shorter days,
    how the shadows build and grow,
    a crippling frost, a blinding snow,
    how all will pass, how nothing stays.

    She may not be the kindest friend,
    but she is winter’s company,
    returning every autumn’s end
    and my spirit will attend
    her joyful, aching misery.

    *After Frost’s “My November Guest”
    My November Guest
    by Robert Frost

    My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
    Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
    Are beautiful as days can be;
    She loves the bare, the withered tree;
    She walks the sodden pasture lane.

    Her pleasure will not let me stay.
    She talks and I am fain to list:
    She’s glad the birds are gone away,
    She’s glad her simple worsted gray
    Is silver now with clinging mist.

    The desolate, deserted trees,
    The faded earth, the heavy sky,
    The beauties she so truly sees,
    She thinks I have no eye for these,
    And vexes me for reason why.

    Not yesterday I learned to know
    The love of bare November days
    Before the coming of the snow,
    But it were vain to tell her so,
    And they are better for her praise.

  14. uvr

    The Night Is Darkening Round Me
    Emily Bronte

    The night is darkening round me,
    The wild winds coldly blow ;
    But a tyrant spell has bound me,
    And I cannot, cannot go.

    The giant trees are bending
    Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
    The storm is fast descending,
    And yet I cannot go.

    Clouds beyond clouds above me,
    Wastes beyond wastes below ;
    But nothing drear can move me :
    I will not, cannot go.

    I Sink Into The Arms Of Oblivion

    I have a dim memory of light
    flooding my senses, or is it just
    nostalgia painting mirages
    that appear as beacons

    in this desert of darkness
    flayed by wild winds of neglect.
    Somewhere the day does dawn
    but I have receded

    so far into the shadows
    I cannot tell when the night ends
    And as the last flicker of hope dims
    I sink into velvet arms of oblivion
     

  15. tunesmiff

    CASH IT IN
    G. Smith (BMI)
    —-+—-
    I did my time in prison,
    When I was running on my own,
    Answering to no one,
    Living all alone.
    And for a while I’d been,
    Leaning towards the blues,
    Didn’t seem like there was,
    Anything else to do.
    Then I heard the Man in Black on the radio,
    And the answer was so simple, don’t you know?

    Cash it in,
    Walk the line,
    Face the fire,
    Know what’s mine.
    Be careful who I love,
    And always let her win,
    Cash it in;
    Cash it in.

    One Sunday morning I was,
    Coming down,
    Drinking a cup of coffee,
    Wondering where I was bound,
    Guessing things just happen that way;
    Not quite sure what to do or what to say,
    When the man came back around,
    With the answer that I’d already found;

    Cash it in,
    Walk the line,
    Face the fire;
    Know what’s mine.
    Be careful who I love,
    And always let her win,
    Cash it in;
    Cash it in.

    I thought I’d found another,
    Broken hearted girl,
    Riding her own blue train,
    All around the world.
    I knew she was hurting,
    By the way she cried, cried, cried;
    I hoped she knew how much I cared,
    By the way I tried, tried, tried.
    After all, what had worked before,
    Looked like it work for me once more;

    Cash it in,
    And walk the line,
    Face the fire;
    Know what’s mine.
    Be careful who I love,
    And always let her win,
    Cash it in;
    Cash it in.
    Cash it in.
    —-/—-
    After Eric Church’s songs “Record Year” and “Pledge Allegiance to the Hag”
    and Alan Jackson’s song, “Playin’ Possum.”

  16. Bruce Niedt

    Despair’s a thing sans feathers,
    That sinks claws in the soul,
    And sings a dirge without the words,
    And never stops at all.
    Discordance is the gale I’ve heard;
    And darkening the storm
    That could bash in the little bird
    and threaten us with harm.
    I’ve heard the wail on chilly land
    and on the churning sea;
    This year of stark extremity
    Will not make crumbs of me.

    (original by Emily Dickinson)
    Hope is the thing with feathers
    That perches in the soul,
    And sings the tune without the words,
    And never stops at all.
    And sweetest in the gale is heard;
    And sore must be the storm
    That could abash the little bird
    That kept so many warm.
    I’ve heard it in the chilliest land
    And on the strangest sea;
    Yet, never, in extremity,
    It asked a crumb of me.

  17. Shennon

    Vegemite (created after reading The Purple Cow by Gelett Burgess)

    I’ve never eaten vegemite
    I’d hoped to never eat it
    My mum tells me to take a bite
    It’s in the Aussie diet.

    –ShennonDoah

  18. Bushkill

    She Walks in Beauty ~ Lord Byron
    alternate wording: KT Morley

    She moseys aimlessly, in a fog
    In morose times and dreadful skies;
    While sun’s harsh light assaults the smog
    And mankind hides amidst its lies
    Far too enfeebled to unclog
    Moving forward in dull gray guise.

    Her clothing hung from wraith like form,
    Her beauty, clouded in disgrace,
    And hid its splendor amidst the storm
    Half in shade the rest, light to face
    Where winds scour her icy form
    How pure, how dear this earthly place.

    And on this orb hung deep in space
    With blue and green and white and brown
    Flowers that bloom, rivers that grace,
    Clouds hung in sky like wedding gown
    She’s beaten worse with no disgrace
    Will still spin proud with humans gone.

    1. Bushkill

      Original
      She Walks in Beauty
      BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

      She walks in beauty, like the night
      Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
      And all that’s best of dark and bright
      Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
      Thus mellowed to that tender light
      Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

      One shade the more, one ray the less,
      Had half impaired the nameless grace
      Which waves in every raven tress,
      Or softly lightens o’er her face;
      Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
      How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

      And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
      So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
      The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
      But tell of days in goodness spent,
      A mind at peace with all below,
      A heart whose love is innocent!

  19. De Jackson

    This Is Just To Say {Again}
    (after William Carlos Williams ‘This Is Just To Say’)

    I have breathed in
    the nom de plumes
    that were in
    the night sky

    and which
    you were certainly
    saving
    for another poem.

    Forgive me
    they were enchanting
    starspun
    and so bold.

    ::

    Happy Thanksgiving, Poets! So thankful for all of you.

  20. Shennon

    Although it looks the same
    and smells the same,
    imitation vanilla is
    not
    the place you want
    to skimp,
    according to my
    penny-pinching grandma.

    –ShennonDoah

  21. headintheclouds87

    Reconciliation

    In the forest shrine, the trees have awoken
    And talk in strange mysterious ways;
    Mortals wander through their cryptic maze
    The forest forging with them a connection unspoken.

    Some sound hides deep within the plantation,
    Heard as whispers, joint in harmony,
    Both of inner dark and outer verdancy,
    So smell, shade and sound effect reconciliation.

    So many scents, fresh as the morn,
    Carried by soothing breeze, lifted from the grass
    -Others harsher, sharp to the senses,

    With sensations stretching and vast,
    And so much for eyes, ears and nose to discern,
    All coming together in a chorus of consensus.

    (In respectful imitation of):

    Correspondences
    (Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil)

    Nature is a temple, where the living
    Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech;
    Man walks within these groves of symbols, each
    Of which regards him as a kindred thing.

    As the long echoes, shadowy, profound,
    Heard from afar, blend in a unity
    Vast as the night, as sunlight’s clarity,
    So perfumes, colours, sounds may correspond.
    Odours there are, fresh as a baby’s skin,
    Mellow as oboes, green as meadow grass,
    -Others corrupted, rich, triumphant, full,

    Having dimensions infinitely vast,
    Frankincense, musk, ambergris, Benjamin,
    Singing the senses’ rapture, and the soul’s.

    (Translated from the French by James McGowan, Oxford World’s Classics Edition of The Flowers of Evil)

  22. PowerUnit

    A crane is a bully

    Apologies to the late Leonard Cohen,
    an imitation of his ‘A kite is a victim.’

    A crane is a bully whose fist you’ve felt.
    You hate it because it taunts,
    love it for its wealth,
    weak enough to lure you in;
    because it lives
    like a king on a hill
    in the high foul air,
    and you can’t knock it down,
    only admit it is there.

    A crane is a criminal, police haven’t caught
    on the streets with no money,
    so you cannot see him lurking,
    and hope he won’t see you,
    or follow you home.

    A crane is a story you’ve written,
    so you throw it at the trash,
    but your basket it misses
    and a friend finds it
    wondering what you do.

    A crane is a contract of nightmare
    that must be made in the dark,
    so you make friends with the graveyard
    the hollows and the alley,
    then you pray the whole hot day before,
    under an oppressive burning sun,
    to make you worthless and prosaic and raw.

    1. PowerUnit

      A kite is a victim
      Leonard Cohen

      A kite is a victim you are sure of.
      You love it because it pulls
      gentle enough to call you master,
      strong enough to call you fool;
      because it lives
      like a desperate trained falcon
      in the high sweet air,
      and you can always haul it down
      to tame it in your drawer.

      A kite is a fish you have already caught
      in a pool where no fish come,
      so you play him carefully and long,
      and hope he won’t give up,
      or the wind die down.

      A kite is the last poem you’ve written,
      so you give it to the wind,
      but you don’t let it go
      until someone finds you
      something else to do.

      A kite is a contract of glory
      that must be made with the sun,
      so you make friends with the field
      the river and the wind,
      then you pray the whole cold night before,
      under a travelling cordless moon,
      to make you worthy and lyric and pure

      1. PowerUnit

        And thanks to Toronto poet and author Bruce Meyer for putting this poem in my head through telling his story over beers of how he witnessed the birth of the line, “You don’t like music, do yah?” when he visited and interviewed Leonard.

  23. SarahLeaSales

    Imitations of Life

    “Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” — Alfred Hitchcock

    Dioramas,
    miniature dramas;
    Paintings,
    scenes fading.
    Books,
    an unreliable narration,
    Music,
    a canorous condensation.
    Plays—
    life’s sincerest flattery,
    and television,
    where books go to die,
    where smash cuts and sound bites—
    like hors d’ourves that do not satisfy—
    but ferment,
    fomenting discord;
    but the best depiction of all,
    is posted on our pages—
    the CliffsNotes editions
    of our life stories,
    putting friendships in remission.

  24. elishevasmom

    Stopping by the Words on an Autumn Day

    Whose words these are I think I know,
    one of my favorite poets, though.
    He will not see me stopping here
    to see the peace his words bestow.

    My cousin Jane must think it queer,
    that arrogance could give a sneer.
    Such mimicry not overtake
    and overshadow my career?

    She gives her head a scolding shake,
    a basic rule I chose to break;
    so, I explain that what I reap
    is food for my poetic sake.

    His words are wonderful and deep,
    as inspiration starts to seep,
    sequencing shining light to creep
    within creative process deep.

    Copyright © Ellen Evans – 2016
    PAD 11.16 an imitation poem

  25. Jolly2

    SNOWDROPS
    by John Yeo

    Jostled and pushed in a graveyard cloud
    That sits by the church high on the hill,
    Immediately surrounded by a crowd;
    A host of pure white snowdrops, uphill,
    Around the graves, under the bush,
    Peeping from the long grass lush.

    As numerous as the planets that shine
    On the edges of the Milky Way
    They spread unruly out of line
    Around the borders of the churchyard grey:
    Countless saw I in a seconds glance,
    Bobbing their heads in sprightly prance.

    The graves beside them solemn; but they
    Outdid the marble solemnity:
    A poet could but happily pray
    In such a joyful company:
    I stared-and-stared but I never thought
    What richness to me that scene had brought:

    For often; when in grieving pain I lie
    In a sad solemn pensive mood,
    They crowd into my inner eye
    Which is the centre of my solitude;
    Then my happy heartbeat almost stops,
    Prancing with the wild snowdrops.

    (With grateful apologies to William Wordsworth)
    I

  26. deringer1

    loving e.e. cummings

    it is winter (they
    tell me )
    somewhere and so we
    bring out the coats
    (only some needed)

    of course carols commence
    before (really are
    you sober?)

    Thanksgiving so we can
    stuff (ourselves
    and bake in heated houses
    then trees (for rea l)

    all the terrible stuff we
    so because
    ( don’t you see, my dear?)
    it
    is
    tradition !

  27. deringer1

    AN IMITATION

    it is winter (they
    tell me)
    somewhere and so we
    bring out the coats
    (only if
    needed…..

    of course carols commence
    before (really are
    you sober?)
    Thanksgiving so we can
    stuff ourselves
    and bake in heated houses
    then trees (for real)

    all the terrible stuff we
    do
    because
    (don’t you see, my dear?
    it
    is)
    Tradition !

  28. Melanie

    The Mouse and the Blackbird

    The Mouse and the Blackbird caught a train
    From Euston to Gretna Green
    They had no money, but the day was sunny
    So they sat content and serene
    The mouse looked out on the fields passing by
    And sang a beautiful song
    “Oh glorious Blackbird!” he sang with a sigh
    As the train rocked and rumbled along
    He sang and
    He sang as
    The train rocked and rumbled along

    The Blackbird replied with tears in her eye
    “I love you, adorable mouse
    I do not know why, you love such as I
    Once married we’ll purchase a house.”
    Through fields and towns the train made its way
    To Scotland and Gretna Green
    With just the bouquet, they married that day
    Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen
    That day
    That day
    Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen

  29. Melanie

    The Mouse and the Blackbird

    The Mouse and the Blackbird caught a train
    From Euston to Gretna Green
    They had no money, but the day was sunny
    So they sat content and serene
    The mouse looked out on the fields passing by
    And sang a beautiful song
    “Oh glorious Blackbird!” he sang with a sigh
    As the train rocked and rumbled along
    He sang and
    He sang as
    The train rocked and rumbled along

    The Blackbird replied with tears in her eye
    “I love you, adorable mouse
    I do not know why, you love such as I
    Once married we’ll purchase a house.”
    Through fields and towns the train made its way
    To Scotland and Gretna Green
    With just the bouquet, they married that day
    Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen
    That day
    That day
    Their smiles were the widest you’ve seen

    (The Owl and the Pussycat)

  30. Anthony94

    Thanksgiving Day

    Many birds rely
    on

    last night’s rain
    pooled

    in the dry
    birdbath

    near the yellow
    feeder
    Homage to William Carlos Williams’ Red Wheelbarrow

    So much depends
    upon

    a red wheel
    barrow

    glazed with rain
    water

    beside the white
    chickens

  31. barbara_y

    Two Cats
    ___With Apology to W.S.Merwin

    One cat has stretched, a shadow along the bench
    Set under the window, and one cat
    Is nodding curled on the back of the couch.
    Resting like two mismatched pillows, black
    Satin and grassland camouflage, or embassies
    Of two warring nations at neutral corners
    Of a neutral city street or their studiously dozing spies
    Propped behind newspapers in the winter park,
    Nothing about them is similar. Only the shapes
    And functions of ears, noses, whiskers, claws,
    Skeletons. They only drink and eat from the same
    Sources, evacuate and cover their scat in the same
    Manner. They are disparate Finger Lakes, Texas
    And Mexico, two leaves come to rest by one thin path.

  32. Connie Peters

    A Yellow Dandelion
    With hints of A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns

    My love is like a dandelion
    That’s just a common weed
    His bright ideas scatter about
    So like the flower’s seed

    And with its roots sunk firm in earth
    All bright and cheery yellow
    And so my love does spread his joy
    He’s such a funny fellow

    And many know the dandelion
    Can crush into good wine
    So with the pressures of this life
    My love is just as fine

  33. taylor graham

    (imitating Mary Oliver’s “This Morning Again It Was in the Dusty Pines”)

    IN NOVEMBER SHE CAME TO THE NESTBOX

    Not in fear, but indifference
    the house wren
    ignored my presence and popped
    into the hole, hurrying

    the season – out of sight
    until she slipped
    out the side-door I’d left open
    when in July I cleaned out her nest,

    and was gone. Into November oaks
    losing their leaves
    even as the grassy fields turn
    unseasonably green as spring,

    when she might start thinking again
    of the future,
    of carrying twigs in her curved bill,
    jimmying them through

    the hole in the box we built,
    heaping them
    ramshackle inside, so no one
    but a house wren –

    surely not a clumsy-fingered
    human like me
    could find her eggs inside.
    How could I improve her home

    but – now she’s gone –
    shut the side-door
    I left ajar, and tell her in words
    she cares not to understand,

    come again in May,
    let me watch
    twig by twig as you build the future
    on a dumb post of my deck.

  34. Walter J Wojtanik

    IN THE DARKNESS

    I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,
    Darkness has fallen at the end of day.
    Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.

    I have to work tomorrow, you don’t care,
    and you won’t listen to a word I say!
    I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,

    I’d love to shut you up, but I don’t dare,
    the officers would come; take me away,
    Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.

    I’d understand if you were dying there,
    your rage against the night would be okay,
    I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,

    The dying of the light is not so rare
    to have you shouting all the live-long day!
    Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.

    You dirty mother, you’re starting to wear
    upon my nerves, now at the close of day
    I cannot sleep, my neighbor’s on a tear,
    Stop, stop your caterwauling over there.

    (C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2016

    Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
    by Dylan Thomas

    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on that sad height,
    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

  35. Walter J Wojtanik

    DRUNK AT WOOD’S ON A SNOWY EVENING

    It feels I’ve gone ten-thousand miles,
    I’ve shaken hands, exchanged some smiles;
    I grow more tired, very slow,
    I long to rest here for a while.

    The wind, it blusters driving snow,
    the woods are deep and still they grow,
    I need to stop and find my base,
    or not much further can I go.

    The frozen lake reflects my face,
    so slippery, it slows my pace
    and I made promises to keep.
    but have no will to leave this place.

    At Wood’s they have a good barkeep,
    he pours me lagers, dark and deep,
    and no more miles until I sleep,
    and no more miles until I sleep.

    © Walter J Wojtanik, 2016

    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    by Robert Frost

    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village, though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound’s the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.

  36. Valkyri

    Oh, Loathsome Me
    (An Anti-Howl)

    Staccato stutter of futile black
    riding the A Train
    left on a seat
    Yackitty yacking itself
    all the way back to the womb
    and then some
    Dumb bastard didn’t
    even know what hit ‘em
    then as second generation
    Flagrant vagrant yuppies
    call out for more war
    more money yo quiero mas
    And when did mommy ever say
    that acid paper was good
    for anything
    (Tripping tripe on the tongue)
    but jet black vomit of
    written word
    On tortured tree
    and where the hell did
    Kerouac get you from
    The dime-store
    fragile novel of beats and rhythms
    and who is responsible
    For the smell of this garbage
    force fed to swallow streams
    of sickness shoved down our throats
    Because it don’t mean nothing to me Jack
    but disgruntled rotting hideous
    humans who care so much
    That they can’t get off the
    ****ing keyboard and
    blah blah blah about the
    Big Bad World and
    whose fault is it
    anyway?

  37. Jezzie

    WHEN I HAVE DIED

    When I have died think only this of me:
    that there is some part of a Cornish town
    that will be forever me. There shall be
    in that rich town a richer dust laid down.
    A dust whom Cornwall bore, shaped, made aware,
    gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam.
    Body of Cornwall’s, breathing Cornish air,
    washed by the jet streams, blessed by suns of home.

    And think, this house, all clutter shed away,
    a seaside haven well could be, no less,
    repaying back the investment given.
    Her rooms could provide a dream holiday
    for family or friends, with happiness
    in this home, under a Cornish heaven.

    With apologies to Rupert Brooke

  38. Pwriter10

    THE ROAD OFTEN TAKEN by DeAndre Oolong

    Infinite ways that my path could go
    for free choice is a glorious beast.
    And being me, I pretend I know
    which are best to ignore or follow.
    (But who knows about paths traveled least?)

    So I took the road I always claim
    because I know how its twists will end.
    With family and pets, a good friend
    or two. No other can be the same –
    (Though I’ve never tried another’s bend).

    I never feel a need for detours
    or think about the many options
    that are stocked with other happy stores.
    Why question a choice that oft restores
    my untossed faith without adoption

    of risks that I never need to fear?
    Perhaps, at some point I will question
    everything I know and hold dear.
    But today, that’s for another year.
    Though, I am open for suggestion.

    Imitation of Robert Frost, THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.

  39. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    FIRST FIG
    BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

    My candle burns at both ends;
    It will not last the night;
    But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
    It gives a lovely light!

    My computer runs for days on end;
    I know it is not right;
    But oh, my readers, and ah my friend —
    Social media is hard to fight!

COMMENT