2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 18

Somehow we’re already on our third Two-for-Tuesday of the month; time is flying.

Here are the two prompts for today:

  • Write a life poem. The poem could be about the miracle of life, the complexity of life, the game of Life, or anything else that means life for you. Or…
  • Write a death poem. For most organisms, life leads to death. So this should be as full of possibility as the life poem.


Recreating_Poetry_Revise_PoemsRe-create Your Poetry!

Revision doesn’t have to be a chore–something that should be done after the excitement of composing the first draft. Rather, it’s an extension of the creation process!

In the 48-minute tutorial video Re-creating Poetry: How to Revise Poems, poets will be inspired with several ways to re-create their poems with the help of seven revision filters that they can turn to again and again.

Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Life and/or Death Poem:

“a matter of”

she says it’s a matter of life
& death but i’m skeptical

because i’m a skeptic
& that’s how we roll

she says to drop the inner monologue
because it slows the poetic pace

but i confess that i just can’t
because i’m a confessional poet

& that’s how we roll
& i like refrains

& i like couplets
& i like life & death matters

especially when they don’t concern me


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He realizes nearly everything is life and death.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.


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363 thoughts on “2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 18

  1. De Jackson

    Life (or something like it)

    Call her breath. Blood.
    Breeze. The way the trees
    stretch to sky. The

    call of wild. The laugh
    of child. Name her

    Nature. Give her moon
    and skin and salt. Flow.
    A proof. Some signs. Un

    -ravel her out long
    and lost and found, in
    grief and grin and glee
    and throne and thorn.

    Dig toes in and begin
    to swallow deep,


  2. SarahLeaSales

    He Lives

    He was the life of her new world,
    the death of her old one,
    the death of her sin.

    He is a warrior,
    a radical,
    a servant,
    an immigrant,
    a lion,
    a lamb,
    a friend.

    He is our Master,
    but we are not His slaves.
    His words are the plasma
    for that which sears our souls.
    Sometimes He is the part of a ménage à trois
    that comes between lovers.

    He lived,
    even in death,
    for there was not one moment—
    even as a baby in the manger—
    that He was not aware,
    for He was the human form of God,
    confined by neither space nor time.

    He is in us,
    one of us,
    and for us,

  3. JRSimmang

    lost to us too soon

    Ruby’s gone
    and she will be staying away.

    It wasn’t a trip to the grocery store
    for the simple things
    we overlook until we need them,
    or the temptation of
    piling on a few extra miles on the wheels
    and getting lost somewhere on the
    West Coast,
    hand unfurled against the hungrily lapping
    waves of the Pacific Ocean.

    It was oscillation.
    It was a fattened thread of celestial substance
    pulling apart at some unseen seam,
    rendering this fabric riddled with holes
    and quickly cold.

    It was fulfillment of wretched prophesy;
    often too soon
    and always too short
    to even recognize a breath,
    a wink,
    a finger’s blade edge,
    a moment to fall in love

    despite myself,
    despite my heart,
    despite my fatherhood.

    Ruby is gone,
    and she won’t be calling
    to ask if she can do the laundry on Sunday.
    But, I expected that anyway,
    and so there will always be
    an extra pair of pajamas
    a spot under the light in the dining room,
    and a prayer.

    … Is there some lesson of hope to be
    learned here?
    That at the end, breathless and bleary,
    of the portentous asphyxiation,
    there is no noise,
    no rocking,
    no delighting in
    an intimate flesh lifted to flesh
    lifted to sustenance?

    Is there some glimmer that
    along these train tracks
    there lies a stileswitch
    that can begin to circle us around
    so that we may pull in to the depot
    and sit and watch and wave at
    the interminable glory of legacy?

    but I missed it.
    I, instead, found
    the kind that is always on
    but never bright enough to read a book under,
    but comforting all the same
    in its constancy and warmth.

    There is only, can be only, forgiveness.
    That even though life is
    that is sometimes not enough
    to remind us that
    it isn’t.
    Birth, we find,
    can happen at any time.
    It must simply be transformed and urgent.

    Ruby is gone,
    but I still have her fragile fingers
    crossed over her heart,
    and that will be our forever secret,
    that there is love in this world
    that will never find a home
    because it is always meant to wander and
    wrap us in it’s worn, thorny patchwork
    and we will never be wanting.

    Ruby is gone,
    and she will be staying away
    because she has
    more important work to be done.

    -JR Simmang

  4. Angie5804

    I added a second haiku to accompany the first –

    Her life is measured
    In 140 char-
    acters and hashtags

    And when she departs
    they’d sing her blue elegy
    but none know the words

  5. Jerry Walraven

    “next time I’m voting for the mollusk”

    consume sulfides
    creating food
    for their host

    life from life
    to life
    to live

    this resourcefulness
    of being


    of creating

    so much
    we do not understand

    so much better
    if we would try

  6. leatherdykeuk


    I’m pretty sure I killed the dog.
    All these years, and that last breath
    still haunts me.
    Wrapped in his favourite blanket,
    the hole dug at the edge of the field
    where he used to chase rabbits
    I gave his broken, road-torn body
    one last hug.
    I heard his breath.
    I’m sure it was just my pushing the last air from his lungs,
    the broken ribs scraping his sternum,
    the tiny spirit leaping to the sky
    but years later,
    years later,
    I worry that I buried him alive,
    and the tears return anew.

  7. Danielle Robinson

    Circa 1986 and Beyond

    Thirty-one years is a long time to:
    be born and reborn again,
    be alive,
    see miracles fly
    around and within,
    see a lover love and leave,
    see a hater cheat and deceive,
    fall on knees in misery just
    to rise through prayer,
    be captive in dreams,
    while surviving a chain of nightmares,
    break apart the make-believe just
    to match-up with reality,
    separate self from the common
    for a more perfect union in self,
    color in my soul with
    little pieces of heaven’s hues,
    sing a little less blue
    and dance a little more yellow,
    smile in the windows of my tears,
    outcry the elevation of my pain,
    pause my life’s lyrics just
    to perform against the beat of my heart,
    forgive as I’ve been forgiven,
    forget what needs to be forgotten,
    give up insecurities
    just to bud from courage,
    try and try again,
    win and lose,
    lose then win,
    wait for love and
    to want for love
    while in the need of love again,
    get lost in self just
    to be found by God,
    shout out fears over silent nights,
    be wrong just to learn right,
    be right to feel valid,
    and write to be remembered,
    until my life is known
    for what and who
    I’m truly am.

    before i die

    i love living my life,
    free of illness and off a natural high

    i love hopping on and off planes to see
    God’s greatest creations
    and checking off my bucket list

    after a love one passes
    or a short fail in life,
    i can’t stay low too long
    it can be so bitter sweet
    depression only offers the
    soul sour, couch potato moments
    and high blood pressure
    prayer and laughter makes it sweet
    reminds me the purpose of the day
    and that life is can be short

    i don’t wanna wake up to pop
    Prozac and Zoloft just to fake happy

    i don’t wanna use Xanax and
    Jack Daniels to tuck me in at night

    i don’t wanna lay my head from bed to bed
    celibacy is healing, a more powerful way to live
    than dying from three letter words

    this is not how i want to be remembered
    this will not be the death of me
    thy shall not die in vain

    and late in the midnight hour,
    with God turning things around
    i will never lose sleep over
    heartbreakers, evildoers,
    and wolves in sheep clothing

    i rather wait for a deserving love
    to share my life and create life with

    i rather hustle every bone,
    every lyric, day in and day out ,
    until my dreams come true
    before i die

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  8. Nurit Israeli


    You leave the hospital
    The tumor
    that thought it safe
    to thrive in you
    is gone.

    You leave behind
    the barren whites
    and chromes,
    the sterile air
    so soaked with suffering
    and angst.

    You leave,
    and out the door
    a spring day
    your mended body
    with color-filled arms.

    Mild rays
    of morning sun
    filter through layers
    of bandages
    to soothe
    your bruises.

    A soft breeze,
    filled with sweet scents
    of hope, flirts with you,
    and an alluring voice,
    perhaps your own,

    Come back.
    There’s more.

    A spring day seduces you,
    and you can’t help
    but flirt back,
    say yes to its offerings:
    Yes, just yes,
    even so.

    ~ Nurit Israeli

  9. De Jackson


    Oh death, where is your sting? – I Corinthians 15:55
    And death I think is no parenthesis – E.E. Cummings

    We dress it in black. Night. Un
    -known. We give it a scythe, a sickle,
    the fickle heart of time. We deem it
    grim, dig it
                      (dirt nap)
    laugh in its dark hooded

    We carve dates and dashes in mar
    -bled stone, hoping they
    might be more permanent
    than our own

    We speak to sky,
    and ponder. Wonder after
    after. Contemplate
    the daily

    knowing all the while
    that it is something (for) which
    we can


  10. taylor graham


    That girl has a foxtail
    under her blanket cinched tight and tighter –
    saddlebags full of math problems,
    papers red-lined “incomplete.” Ridden all day
    by teachers; the rest of the time
    father’s “do it now!” A mother worries
    is the girl just frustrated,
    or is she lost? Not that headstrong, just
    boggled, itched and stickered
    by her life. Slaps the saddle down hard
    after school, knees the girth near breathless;
    leaps astride, clattering steel-shod,
    hooves striking sparks on pavement;
    into scrub-woods plunging to get away from
    that thorn dug into her brain;
    through brush, under low-hung branches.
    Does she forget to duck?
    A horse knows his own way back
    to the barn. Can she find
    a path through stunted gnarly oaks
    and dry grass waiting for a match, tangles
    of woods like fairytales
    that used to scare her in the dark?
    A daylight way home.

  11. Monique

    My Writing Life
    A Sestina

    I was fourteen when I got the idea
    Of becoming this thing called “a writer.”
    It began when I made up a story
    A creation that came from teenage delusion
    It took fruition when I read more books
    From Jane Austen to Shakespeare to romance novels

    My teenage delusion story was my first attempt at a novel
    It’s where I tested out all my writing ideas
    As my reading range expanded to how-to-writing books
    I didn’t dare call myself that thing called “a writer.”
    It was just another teenage delusion.
    A label I wouldn’t wear until I published my story.

    As I got older, I began to read different types of stories
    Mostly more how-to books and young adult or chick lit novels
    I was certain my parents thought I was delusional
    Where in heaven’s name would I get this idea
    that I could become this thing called “a writer”?
    Nobody in the family has ever written a book!

    It was strange how much of my life I poured into my books
    When I got into college, I wrote a college student story
    I felt like, given time, I could become a famous writer
    With some classes, I could make the next bestselling novel
    Until a panic attack almost destroyed that idea
    I became an outcast. Hopeless. Ignorant. Delusional.

    A few years in anxiety, I had to deal with the delusion
    After 3 attempts at a novel, could I still write a book?
    I needed to rebuild my life, find a job, new ideas.
    Maybe media or poetry would be the way I’d tell stories.
    Maybe I just wasn’t meant to create a bestselling novel
    There were many ways that I could be a writer.

    Nowadays, I am proud to call myself a writer
    My dream of getting published is no longer a delusion
    It’s still my goal to turn a story into a novel,
    and even though I’m still editing this book,
    I call myself a writer because I’m creating stories
    And I never run out of scathingly brilliant ideas.

    1. Dini

      Julia Cameron author of “The Artist’s Way” tells us that if we write, we should call ourselves writers – it has nothing to do with publication. Your poem is such a lovely illustration of that thought.

  12. Margot Suydam

    Temple of Dendur

    From cliffs near the Nile,
    you were lofted
    to New York bedrock, re-built
    in block and stone at the Met.

    At twelve, I marched
    up and down
    the museum mile because it was
    my home. I watched as careful men

    hauled your heaviness around
    destined to place
    it down as if nudging gigantic
    puzzle pieces over time.

    It’s not like I knew how
    to erect your past
    in my present, let the daily
    visitors enter the smallest

    spaces, touch your holiest
    interiors with grimy
    hands like mine, erase sandstone
    crevices made by the fingers lost

    seeking succor in landscapes
    of temple
    and Egyptian sand. Yet I will
    never forget not knowing

    how death traveled upstream
    with a wooden spoon
    how ancient slaves ever managed
    to lever the burden of pharaohs.

  13. serenevannoy

    No title for this one yet. I welcome suggestions.

    She picks through the oranges on the display,
    firm, mostly, bright with some greenish spots
    and thinks of her father, who used to joke
    that he was so old, he didn’t buy green bananas,
    and the ache is there again. It is a contiguous
    hurting, threaded through her father’s life,
    and the others’. They are all of a piece in her,
    and she stops for a moment to ponder how
    selfish death makes her, how each one’s
    passing became less about the one who passed,
    and more about her loss, about the palmprint
    on the refrigerator, the orchid in winter,
    the deep, dark field long fallow,
    the oranges.

    1. KM

      This is gorgeous. I especially love the line “a moment to ponder how
      selfish death makes her.” A wisdom in there I understand well. You could call it simply “Oranges.”

  14. trishwrites

    But who decides the worth of a life?
    That neighbor becoming a stranger
    Becoming the soldier she
    must escape

    The fence at the border telling her
    Do not cross

    The ocean ruthless in what it takes

    The camp you swear is a place earth
    has simply forgotten

    The border guard, and his stamp
    A monument to power

    Who decides the worth of a life?
    As she offers her children
    No light left in their eyes
    Standing like bruised produce
    In a line
    That snakes in a ribbon
    Of lost hope
    Praying someone believes, as she does
    They are worthy

  15. barton smock

    ~mothers, acoustic~

    we are maybe
    an Ohio

    childless and ready

    for a refresher
    on orphan

    word is
    there came
    a cow
    from the nothingness
    that drank

    and sleep
    is death’s

  16. mapoet

    Life and Death

    There is a beginning,
    a heartbeat that starts.
    What comes next
    is a mystery.
    Music and light,
    silence and darkness
    repeat in different measures.
    The beginning leads to the end.
    We don’t know where or when,
    but it is the one certainty.

    By Michelle Pond

  17. tripoet

    Life Before Death

    She spent six years
    bringing him to life.
    Made him
    the center of attention:
    Purchased the finest
    Parisian silk suits.
    Perfected his accent.
    Sent him to the finest Schools
    on the East Coast.
    Prepared him for an elite life,
    only to ” rub” him out
    in the last six pages.

  18. Uma

    Till death do us part
    a vow meant
    when we took it

    but now we die
    every day
    as forever slides
    out of our grasp

    Impossible to stanch
    the bleeding
    The wounds cut too deep

    So let’s end it here
    with one swift blow
    Why leach out
    a drop at a time

    If it makes you feel better
    call it a mercy killing

  19. timphilippart

    High Noon Comes Early

    Shadows shift,
    sundialing over wrinkles, 
    engraved on his face,
    as Bill sits sunning himself,
    warming himself,
    catching a morning siesta,
    waiting for mail at midday.

    Naps come nearer together.
    Noon chimes later.
    Perched in his easy chair,
    watching life drive by,
    hearing life tick by,
    wondering what to do next because,
    the mail came at ten today.

  20. KM

    This life prompt got me thinking about creation — of love and words. Worked well with the NaPoWriMo prompt to write a poem that incorporates neologisms.

    Tip of the Tongue

    To beatify is to make blessed. I, ungodly, search for it in you. Exalted. Blissful. Words as comely as their meaning. Feathery sounds, like your eyelashes brushing against my thigh. Our names together, sapid on tip of the tongue. Utter the euphonious and climb closer to harmony. Say something into being. Create a word like a life. Melodianic. Symphonosis. Ecstoxication. How many words get us higher in languages we don’t know? In tonguepaths we haven’t traced yet?

    – Kim Mannix

  21. Judebug

    LIFE..too much has happened
    it is too precious to tell my story
    in a quick moment, so much I
    have to share

    when you go through anxiety
    and depression as many have
    life is full of despair

    but, there is a redeemer and
    He came one day and said
    Hello, I am real!

    Come to me all you who are
    weary and heavy laden
    I will give you rest

    take My yoke and learn from Me
    for I am gentle and humble
    in heart, you will find rest
    in your soul

    my yoke is easy and my
    burden light

    I went unto Him, I hung
    on His word
    Peace as I have never known
    entered my weary soul

    Life began that very day
    I say Hello every morning
    and thank Him for saving me

    Death..even though I die
    I live

    Life and Death
    by Judebug

  22. deringer1


    I have lived a life and
    it has been harsh and kind to me.

    O mystery that is life
    why must you bring pain
    along with your blessings?
    You are so short lived
    and I have never understood
    your purpose and your plan.


    I am drawn to death.
    It is a thing of beauty to me.

    Oh kind death,
    The reliever of pain,
    I long for your embrace
    and do not fear you
    for I know you will
    gently handle my soul.

  23. JanetRuth

    Torn Between Sorrow and Bliss

    From urns of earth, spring’s verdant birth returns
    With mist of violets purpling dormant slope
    And robins chirping chiralees of hope
    And silver brook-song sparkling through new ferns
    …in bellies of lost love a fire burns

    Morning is polished with a sheen of green
    And limb embellished with bud’s ruby gem
    And mud a flood of floral diadem
    Where long the cold hold of winter had been
    Before warmth stirred to sight, faith’s fond Unseen

    Before the daffodil leaped from its bed
    To dance like sunbeams on hills rain-drop pearled
    Before time’s topaz color-wheel unfurled
    A world of wonder; pink-gold-purple-red
    Before love’s heart in full surrender bled

    …and love was torn between sorrow and bliss
    Her body sleeps in graves beneath the sod
    Her soul is in the keeps of Loving God
    …but still, I think about what she will miss
    Until Someone reminds me; heaven is better than this

  24. Daniel Paicopulos

    Death and Life

    It is o-dark-thirty and I am flying,
    death surely on its way,
    how quickly nothing else matters.
    It‘s 0230, and I’ve been blown up,
    thinking, this is what it is to die,
    that’s all that’s left to matter.
    There’s no fear, only sadness,
    but not even one thought for me,
    just for the tears of the ones who matter.
    I meet my mother,
    dead for nine-plus years,
    and I am no longer matter.
    She says, go back, you can not stay,
    there’s still work for you,
    you must attend to matters.
    It’s easy now, to understand,
    the work is peace, the goal is peace,
    that’s all that really matters.

  25. JRSimmang


    As the moon meanders from horizon to zenith,
    the shadows lengthen and crawl.
    From the cobble and creek, vampires lurk,
    their breaths a beckoning call.

    Into the streets they pour out their strength,
    pulling the meek ones in.
    A taste, a shudder, vampires delight
    in drinking in their sin.

    Life eternal, and for just a modest price:
    Rebel against the sun,
    enjoy the spoils of ev’ry endless night,
    and you can become one.

    The sacrifice? There isn’t one, you see.
    Live into forevermore
    on the life of the weak and proud.
    Blood is just a door

    that leads to the brightest lights.
    A life that’s lived through
    hunting your fellow tragic man
    means that Death and you

    can greet each other arm in arm
    like the friends you are.
    Why live your own life, when others’ lives
    will take you just as far?

    – JR Simmang

  26. MaggieIrene


    Says he likes life and death matters, especially
    when they don’t concern him or his, don’t we all,
    friend, I’m right there with you, prefer for the gods
    to soft-step in my doorway with only happy news, but…
    we all have lives divided before and after that
    phone call.

    Maggie Westvold

  27. Eileen S

    Life After Death

    After passing in life,
    into death, then what?
    Is there life after death?
    They say that Heaven
    is where all who have died
    go after death to enter
    into eternal life.
    But how do we know?

    1. Uma

      Till death do us part
      a vow meant
      when we took it

      but now we die
      every day
      as forever slides
      out of our grasp

      Impossible to stanch
      the bleeding
      The wounds cut too deep

      So let’s end it here
      with one swift blow
      Why leach out
      a drop at a time

      If it makes you feel better
      call it a mercy killing

  28. taylor graham


    Put your ear against
    the heart of this old tree
    lying quiet as the longbone
    of a deer. The dead tree
    still humming the length of its
    life, its travels from root
    to crown, earth to sky, water
    that rose through its body.
    A thrum like cranes
    at edge of river-bottom,
    stones in the current,
    marrow of bones.
    Wind passing through.
    It sings.

  29. Joseph Hesch

    Ode to “Femotions’ — A Celebration of Life

    It was just another sunny spring Sunday afternoon, the kind where the wind sings its celebratory air, when I found her curled up in her own special chair. She wore headphones holding back wind’s hymn from her ears, on her cheek I saw tracks of her tears. “What’re you doing?” I asked, with the hard-earned knowledge never to tell a woman not to cry. She looked up with red eyes and said “We’re going to die.” I figured this was another of those things I secretly termed “femotions,” — cathartic expressions of feminine emotions — I now understood not to try damming or I’d be damned, you see, as just another male whose feelings ran the gamut from A to B. “Yep, we’re all somewhere along that path. Can I help?” I asked. Perhaps I could make her feel better if I took on her task. “Yes,” she said, and opened her fist, within which I found crumpled a smudged page titled “Funeral Playlist.” “You let me handle this,” I replied, because I’d already begun one for when I died. I never thought this morbid, collecting songs for the grieving, reminding us of loved ones our sides forever leaving. But what I wrote, like that uplifting breeze, came swiftly as I penned titles with ease. And they didn’t echo much of sadness nor strife. With memories wistful, soon I turned over her own fistful, a soundtrack celebrating the love of my life.

  30. bxpoetlover


    is a constant going and doing–
    cooking cleaning washing buying putting away
    grooming and preening for love,
    teaching, and more cleaning,
    if you choose to have children.
    I used to ask my mother
    how to keep up
    and she said you just
    find the energy
    from within,
    like deep in your bowels,
    like they tell you
    to inhale from the depths
    of your diaphragm
    if you really want to
    belt a tune.
    Even joy is work,
    if you want people to stay in your life.
    the listening
    giving advice often not taken
    listening again to the aftermath
    tamping down on the told-you-sos
    keeping secrets
    and the forgiving betrayals,
    if they’re the essential people.
    Even vacations away from it all
    must be saved for and planned.
    The packing and unpacking
    that must be done,
    unless you are like me
    and even taking a minute
    to smell a flower counts.
    Just don’t get stung by a bee.

  31. JanetRuth

    Artiste Incognito

    We pretend not to mind
    The way you turn a page
    Like season-flickers on the wind
    Of youth to middle-age

    The mementos you make
    Then take, ache in love’s sigh
    The oceans you leave in your wake
    Shimmer in days gone by

    Where quivers on the air
    Rush to finality
    The resonance of here-to-there
    A string of memory

    How soundless are your feet
    Your touch, a subtle knife
    That sculpts from hours bittersweet
    The echo of a life

  32. PressOn


    The weary spouse is coming to his end;
    another one is waiting patiently
    as tears obscure the passing. Like a friend,
    the weary spouse is coming to his end
    and wishes to depart, and not offend
    this never-land of dreams that cannot be.
    The weary spouse is coming to his end.
    Another one is waiting, patiently.

  33. headintheclouds87

    The Missing Rulebook

    Life is a game
    With its invisible rules
    That constantly change,
    So many simply mysteries
    Which go unexplained,
    We don’t know how it began,
    Or even the when and why’s,
    Nor the intended route
    To take across this phantom board,
    The only certainty is what comes
    On landing upon that final square,
    When death’s card is solemnly drawn.

    For some it will be from an ill-advised
    And risky roll of the critical dice,
    For others it will simply be waiting
    When time’s counter catches up to them,
    Some it will catch unaware,
    Indifferent to whether it is just or fair,
    The end has no need to pretend
    That it holds some great secret
    Or that a purpose will be unfurled,
    It merely takes when it chooses,
    Which is perhaps still some comfort
    In this waking world with confounding questions.

  34. Linda Rhinehart Neas


    Sentience is argued –
    some humans in confidence
    agree to exclude beings
    without consciousness,
    for others, all entities are sentient.

    Watching nature –
    canines befriending dolphins,
    lions, tigers and bears
    sharing life together,
    octopi using tools.
    fish creating art –
    even trees, we have learned,

    Is all life connected?
    Enlightenment comes
    with eyes wide open.

  35. Pat Walsh

    the departure
    By Patrick J. Walsh

    at the wake
    the others talked about
    the fluid circulating
    through the tubes
    and the sound
    of the machine
    that breathed for him
    when he no longer could

    but his friend
    could only recall
    the way his fingers felt
    the day before
    when he reached out
    to touch her cheek
    in some silent intimation
    of wonder

  36. Piddleville

    A Million Choices

    Just as we don’t choose to live,
    we do not choose to die,
    unless we know we’re dying
    and the dying takes too long,
    and involves particulars
    it’s our preference to avoid.
    Between the two however,
    we have a million choices,
    every one of which concerns
    how it is we’ll live
    and the how is what a life is;
    the how is what we are.
    The how is all we can become;
    the how’s each smile and scar.


  37. PowerUnit


    Colin taught me how to fight
    with a message of power, words of might.

    Get out and seek, leave your booth,
    find the facts, discern the truth.

    It doesn’t always matter what you have or haven’t got,
    the most important question is, so what.

    Convince yourself of something you can rely on,
    is this really the bridge you want to die on?

  38. Janet Rice Carnahan


    First birth
    Merry mirth

    Girl or boy
    Upbeat joy

    Find your quirk
    Study, work

    Relationships and hardships
    Up, down, many dips

    Enjoy family
    Learn to recognize anomaly

    Search for a mate
    Time out to contemplate

    Learn to give and take it
    Make it real, don’t fake a bit

    Love everything
    Make it sing

    Smile through the daily grind
    Hold onto joy, any you find

    And in between
    Let go of mean

    Begin to live
    Truly forgive

    Live in gratitude
    Through your attitude

    Be grateful for it all
    Feel it now, don’t stall

    If there’s loss, just grieve
    Have faith, just believe

    Know you are here for a reason
    Celebrate life in every season

    Just breathe in life
    Let go of strife

    Trust your heart
    Live it’s art

    Feel the breeze on your face
    Let fresh air fill your space

    Live life through your story
    Make every day, its own glory

    Just keep going and be strong
    You’ve had this all along

    And in those quiet still times of thought
    Open your heart to all you’ve got

    Embrace every shimmering star
    Thankful you are you and you’re where you are