2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 24

Happy Black Friday?!? Okay, not a big holiday in the Brewer household, I’m not going to judge if it is in yours. Who doesn’t want a good deal, right? Whether you brave the Black Friday mobs or hide from them, be sure to poem today!

For today’s prompt, write a “how I’ll be remembered” poem. It’s an interesting question: How will I be remembered? My amazing looks? My incredible personality? My charitable nature? My goofy jokes? The cranky guy who’s always telling people to stay off his lawn? Dive into this introspection today.


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This e-book covers more than 40 poetic forms and shares examples to illustrate how each form works.

Discover a new universe of poetic possibilities and apply it to your poetry today!

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Here’s my attempt at a How I’ll Be Remembered Poem:

“when i am dead & under ground”

when i am dead & under ground
will people mourn or say hooray
or worse will they not make a sound
when i am dead & under ground
because no loss when not around
the guy who had too much to say
when i am dead & under ground
will people mourn or say hooray


Robert Lee Brewer

Robert 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 won’t remember how others remember him after he’s gone. But it’s still a fun game to play.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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182 thoughts on “2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 24

  1. Nancy Posey

    When I’m Gone

    let me creep into your thoughts
    like the melody that comes unbidden,
    a reminder of crisp fall day
    or like the bookmark you find
    tucked in a favorite novel, scribbled
    in haste as I read.

    let me slip into your last dream
    before waking, soft and warm,
    or let my scent float up from your pillow,
    inexplicable after so long.

    May I never take up residence
    like the bad tooth
    your tongue can’t leave alone
    or the lost key
    you’re sure will turn up
    if you don’t stop looking.

  2. bmorrison9

    When I’m Gone

    Some might recall how
    I looked for newcomers
    and included them in the dance.

    Some could know
    of the gardens I made
    wherever I lived.

    Others may say how sad
    my solitary life
    must have been.

    And all will vouch
    for my fierce and inevitable
    love for my sons.

    Yet no one knows
    the deliberate joy
    of the life I created

    refusing models and
    mores, consulting only
    my own heart.

  3. Bruce Niedt

    Sic Transit Gloria

    Will people all forget my name –
    “Is he that guy who did that thing?” –
    when I depart this mortal game?
    Will people all forget? My name
    should be synonymous with fame.
    Just Google me or look in Bing!
    Then people won’t forget my name:
    “Oh, he’s the guy that did that thing!”

    1. ingridbruck

      When I’m Gone

      These words are for you, granddaughter,
      a treasure map of history and myth
      about a world that no longer exists
      you won’t remember the stories I didn’t tell you
      or the wildflowers I never grew in the garden
      or the jars or jam and fruit I never canned
      or the pines, gulls and waves at Stella Maris
      when it was a retreat house before it closed
      when I still remembered family stories
      when I still had a sister who loved me enough to visit
      when I still fed nectar to hummingbirds
      when I still kept a wildflower garden
      when Mother Earth held me on her lap
      and I recorded our conversations to share with you

    2. MET

      Nearly 3 AM
      due to reflux(Yuck)
      decided to read some poetry
      Bronte made me smile…
      I think I will put
      Some Jane Austin on…
      Until I go back to sleep…

      This is just wonderful

  4. cobanionsmith

    How to Be Remembered, a Madrigal

    He wants to be remembered when he dies;
    he doesn’t care quite how, but don’t forget.
    Going’s less important than how he went.

    He wrote his own obituary, lies
    about spies, explosions, and a corvette.
    He wants to be remembered when he dies;
    he doesn’t care quite how. But, don’t forget

    good stories outlast the grave. Otherwise,
    no one cares enough to feel regret
    over the loss of another poet.
    He wants to be remembered when he dies;
    he doesn’t care quite how, but don’t forget:
    going’s less important than how he went.

    Courtney O’Banion Smith

  5. thunk2much

    When I’m gone

    He looks down and says
    “my mom’s crazy”
    and I know he has reasons
    for his hard words,
    I know that’s why
    he’s giving up his dog,
    before it’s too late
    (and it’s almost too late)
    but I’ve also heard those words
    repeated often enough
    by my own children
    since the divorce
    when they first heard the words
    and became weapons themselves
    and while I haven’t heard it
    for awhile now myself
    I’ll never know for sure
    what they say when I’m not there
    or what they’ll say
    when I’m gone.

  6. robinamelia

    How I’ll be remembered

    by the piles of books and boxes of papers, drafts of this and that, never finished, she had so much potential, she just couldn’t pull the threads together, one piece weaves in here and boing, another springs out somewhere completely on the other side of the house or the earth, so much running and always out of breath, hair flying. The cats will be the kindest in their reminiscences. She always fed me when I meowed, and petted gently, how I liked it. She provided me a very warm lap. I’m glad she didn’t try those ridiculous surgeries but let me go, naturally, on my own time. It’s what I wanted, and it was what she wanted, for herself. here she comes.

  7. Sara McNulty

    What Will They Say?

    An empath, and a loyal, devoted friend
    with a sense of humor that never failed her.
    She loved writing poems as a child, but then
    stopped for years, no confidence, fears assailed her.
    At forty years of age, she began again;
    joined virtual family who unveiled her
    emotions, and humor anonymously.
    Before death took her, she wrote prolifically.

    Her affection for animals was well known
    as was her passion for all things giraffe.
    Lifelong enchantment with Wonderland, she owned
    character drawings, statues, that made her laugh.
    She took to art lessons, loved to bake her own
    cakes, pies, cookies on family and friend’s behalf.
    For caring, for sharing, she’ll be remembered.
    Think of her when you gaze at log’s last embers.

  8. KM


    If, in the liminal space between here and there (if there is a there), I have a choice, I think I’ll go to my funeral. I’ll stand at the back, maybe naked as the day I was born, or wearing whatever I died in. But if I have a choice in that too, I’ll be in my favourite grey sweater and the best fitting pair of jeans. Tall black boots, and dangly earrings. I won’t count heads, or make note of anyone absent, and I won’t look for tears, drooped shoulders — outward signs of heavy hearts. I’ve already learned grief is immeasurable. Invisible. But I will listen. Not for the hope of praise or plaudits. But for memories, I’ve either forgotten or never realized I’d been a part of. For the gift of meeting a self I never even knew existed.

    – Kim Mannix

  9. Walter J Wojtanik


    Some have called me Schroeder,
    a moniker I’ve loved
    and hated. I have debated its
    usefulness; it’s uselessness.
    I have long played a keyboard
    until I was bored out of my wits.
    It’s a fact I felt my Charlie Browniest
    when the neighbors had me so labeled.
    I had tabled such folly until
    a jolly reunion brought some clarity.
    It was a rarity that one would intone
    the name without bringing me home
    with fond remembrance of my youth.
    The truth is, it became an honor
    i have accepted without exception now.
    It is how I stay connected, protected
    and respected. So, feel free to sing along
    if you know the words. Or just hum.

  10. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Tarot readings
    For those who know me
    I’ll be remembered
    For what I had to say
    The written or spoken word
    That’s what they heard
    Anything negative is absurd
    That will remain
    A stain or gain
    Perhaps a re-write
    Be the answer
    Just as long as
    The lasting
    Not confining
    Stays all days
    As clear and understood
    Even after I’m gone
    I can live with that

  11. Walter J Wojtanik


    Some have called me “Partner”,
    a collaborator in the written word.
    And their scope has covered the globe,
    from Maumee, Ohio to San Antone,
    to Vegas and that land down under.
    I have spanned from the great purple
    Northwest back to NYC roots
    and the beauty of it is that our words
    have always blended, two voices suspended
    in metered verse. There is no better way
    I can think of to engage in wordplay.
    I will be an honor to have been called their partner
    if that is how I’ll be remembered

  12. Walter J Wojtanik


    I live for my daughters.
    They have both been sources
    of pride and joy.
    Together in tandem they were
    a handful, but always a heartful.
    Anything they ask for is theirs
    and it does not stop there.
    It scares me to think of the day
    that we are no longer in each other’s
    sphere of influence. Any truancy
    on the part of one would affect all.
    I love my girls; and I know they love me.
    It’s so plain to see, they still call me Daddy!

  13. MET

    The Eye that Blinks

    A wise man once wrote
    In a novel… a conversation
    Between a father and son…
    He said to his son
    “Our lives are an eyeblink in eternity.”
    He went on to say that
    It is not the time that matters, but
    The eye that blinks.
    He said that he wanted to be
    Worthy of rest.
    I want that also.

    I have pondered over his words for years, and
    Once when a weighty decision to be made.
    Some choices are never good, but
    I chose for Ma what would give her time
    One last time to see her dogwoods, and
    Let her go for she was worthy of rest.

    I do not think I am worthy of rest
    For there is more for me to do, but
    I do understand against the long-time line of time
    I am just blip as it goes into infinity.
    I understand what he means
    That the eye is what matters,
    And those whom I came in contact
    Have given to me a variety of things
    And I hope mine have been
    More giving than taking.

    There will come the day I am worthy of rest, and
    I will be going, but remember this…
    It is the eye that blinks that was important.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 24, 2017

    The author I am speaking of is Chaim Potak and this passage is from The Chosen… in the top five of favorite books…I preached once using this passage…. I did ponder on this when I was deciding on whether do to surgery on Ma or not… and the choice was a nightmare… she had a 20% chance of surviving the surgery… and without it … she would have died a very painful death in three to six weeks…I chose for her to have the surgery… and she lived to see her dogwoods the only thing I asked from our Lord to give her.

      1. MET

        It is a wonderful as are most of his… and I really loved his book on the history of the Jews called the Wanderings…. but this passage has stuck me over and over… more than any other passage in any book… and I have read a lot of books…

  14. Kiri

    Although I usually hate qualifying artistic expression, I feel compelled to explain this poem ahead of time. Firstly, please don’t worry about me. Some of these lines were written two or more years ago, when I was in my lowest, darkest state. I resurrected them because they related directly to today’s prompt. Specifically, the final two. I have made so much positive progress since then. Also, the certainties expressed in the poem are much more like fears of what will happen than what will actually happen or what I want to happen. I definitely do not want the scenarios in this poem to be real! Finally, this poem contains dark themes, strong language, and a transphobic slur, so…trigger warning. Sorry. :/ This is just my weird life, and it’s all I know to write about.


    Everyone lies about the dead
    as if their last breath were the sweetest
    and they all go to meet the maker
    in white, and robed in the righteous
    wishes of the living that you get more
    than you give, in the end.

    I will be remembered the same way:
    with untruths about my near-perfection,
    my near-perfect selection of character
    traits and better-than-average social
    graces and all the places I had made
    a difference in the life of just one.

    But they will eulogize him, their darkened son,
    the unsmiling, black-clouded brother, not me,
the other one; the happy tranny bitch, which
    killed him young, whom they beat to death with
    “he” and “man” and “never, never, never,
    ever going to call you by that name.”

    They will do some barbaric thing with my body;
    it will be sliced in a Y between my breasts
    and stuffed with cotton, poison, preservative
    chemical artifice and they will recarve my avatar
    in the way they hope to remember my face:
    the real boy before the marionette. Or just burn it.

    Perhaps this is what I will remember at the end:
    She had no longing for the lasting of her name
    longer than its allotted time alive, or the re-casting
    of her shame to something greater than disgrace.
    Eternity had no pull on her; she didn’t want to be born
    in the first place.

    1. MET

      sad, mournful and lovely… I understand what you were saying at the top… their is poem in my book I wrote to heal myself after losing 12 people… it was about loneliness and I feel I have to preface it that I was not suicidal… but loneliness is sort of suicidal in just being that lonely but still alive… I am sorry for your struggle…I believe strongly in meeting people where they are… not where I am…

  15. MET

    The realist

    Those who love me
    Will love me…
    Those that hate me
    Will hate me…
    How they see me…
    I cannot change.
    A realist I am;
    I know there will be some
    Who will sorrow at my going, and
    Those who will celebrate it also.
    I am who I am…
    No apologies made.
    I know in the future
    Since no children I have…
    I will be only a footnote
    On someone’s ancestor chart, but
    That will not depict the life
    I have lived…
    One blessed with kind people,
    Hope and forgiveness.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 24, 2017

  16. bartonsmock

    [death & prayer]


    to be called forth
    from nothing

    how perfect

    / no melancholy
    is fair
    to insect


    would that we could be separated
    by birth

    that we might enjoy

    / the darkness of being remembered

  17. SarahLeaSales

    How I’ll Be Remembered

    To my paternal grandmother,
    I was “Little Rachel.”

    To my parents,
    I was the miracle child,
    touched by healing angels.

    To my brother,
    I was “Sarah won’t stop!”

    To those who knew me when I was in high school,
    I was Bashful Dwarf in a dress.

    To my Mormon friends (now acquaintances),
    I don’t really know anymore.

    To my first real boyfriend,
    I did not fit the Mormon mold,
    which made me unfit.

    To my second boyfriend,
    I was his future wife.

    To my third,
    I was Kryptonite.

    To my husband,
    I’m as warm and loving
    as I am cold and crazy.

    To my Hannah,
    I’m “Mama-Fix-It!”

    To my husband’s family,
    I’m probably “that bitch who banned the patriarch from her wedding.”

    To my friends,
    I am probably at least one of these:
    The write-a-holic, the girl who never wears pants, the girl with the bright lipstick, the health major who is a “closet English major,” the non-traditional college student, the unconventional conservative Christian, the brunette with blond moments, the mother, the baker, and the long-suffering wife.

    And to myself?
    I am who I am,
    and who I may seem to you,
    is simply a reflection of how you’ve treated me.

  18. De Jackson

    {What Stayed Behind}

    Please remember me
    when the sun goes down
    when the moon is round
    remember me.
    – The Reverend Horton Heat

    Remember her in moon
    -light, words spilled to sea.

    In the slight slant of sky
    that says rain is coming.

    In the way words bump
    and grind, and leave a trail

                    of smiles behind.


  19. De Jackson

    Continuing Triolet Play with Walter…

    What We Leave Behind

    We gladly share our words with those in need,
    knowing it’s enough to leave behind.
    Whatever else we might dream, or do, or be,
    we gladly share our words with those in need.
    For with a word or two, hope can be freed,
    and someone can be healed – heart, soul and mind.
    We gladly share our words with those in need,
    knowing it’s enough to leave behind.

    1. Walter J Wojtanik


      Knowing it’s enough, I’ll gladly leave it all behind.
      I will always believe in what I’ll be leaving.
      Looks can be deceiving, but don’t get in a bind.
      Knowing it’s enough, I’ll gladly leave it all behind.
      I’ll have a lot to think about until I’m out of my mind,
      and onto that fact, I’ll be cleaving.
      Knowing it’s enough, I’ll gladly leave it all behind.
      I will always believe in what I’ll be leaving.

      1. De Jackson

        Sighs Matter

        I will always believe in what I’ll be leaving –
        behind as I’m remembered for my sighs.
        Some are songs, and tears of grieving;
        I will always believe in what I’ll be leaving,
        for seeing is healing, and believing is seeing,
        whether smallish dreams, or long goodbyes.
        I will always believe in what I’ll be leaving
        behind as I’m remembered for my sighs.

        1. Walter J Wojtanik

          SUPER SIGHS

          I’ll probably be remembered for my size.
          I’m truly not a big man to be sure,
          I’m really just one of your average guys,
          but I’ll probably be remembered for my size.
          My heart I hold so much more than money buys,
          And my intentions are nothing if not pure.
          I’ll probably be remembered for my size.
          I’m truly not a big man to be sure,

  20. Sally Jadlow

    How I’ll be Remembered

    A scary thought, for sure,
    since it’s hard to step aside
    and look in.
    I’ll leave it to others to decide.

    Will it be a word spoken
    in a loved one’s ear?
    A favorite food
    baked with care?

    Perhaps an every-day event
    caught in the web of someone’s memory,
    while they sit
    for a quiet moment of reverie.

    Here’s hoping the recollections
    will be good,
    even when I’ve not acted
    as I should.

  21. MET

    The Old Warrior Is Gone…

    A warrior I was born…
    Ancestors Scottish, Irish, and
    Viking… how could I not be.
    Was taught never to start a fight, and
    That was a hard lesson to learn…
    For Ma was a pacifist;
    It was her voice of reason
    Who made me fight for peace.
    It didn’t keep me from fighting
    When a fight was needed…
    For my invisible battleax
    Made of steel wits, reason and logic
    Made me known as the “terminator”
    To free children for better homes…
    That title, brings me no joy,
    For the voice of the pacifist
    Says I could have done better
    To be a restorer than one who terminates, but
    It is in my blood, and
    I will not go gentle into any good night, but
    Once the battleax is laid down…
    I would hope for Viking funeral, but
    That I found was illegal
    So, take my ashes under the moonlight
    And return me to the mountains
    I love so dear…and
    Know this, my life though hard was good.
    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 24, 2017

  22. headintheclouds87

    Remembered by the Words

    I’d like to be remembered
    By the words I have left
    Behind in this world,
    Set free from the confines
    Of my muddled old mind
    And stamped firmly down
    On the clarity of white paper.
    Pictures may stir memories,
    And my voice may echo in the wind,
    But it is by the written word –
    That wondrous invention,
    Assured to be permanent
    In an ever-changing, shifting world –
    That I wish to be thought of
    After my body has departed
    From the weight of existence,
    So that something is left behind
    For caring eyes to read, again and again,
    And hold close to their heart,
    Words to ease the pain of being apart.

  23. Earl Parsons

    The prompt reminded me of one I wrote a few years back that speak loudly about those that are gone and forgotten.

    I Lay Waiting

    Row after row they all look the same
    Fading white marble with name after name
    Grass growing slowly, groomed by the week
    Occasional strangers; other names that they seek
    Lying in wait, no one seeks my stone
    No tears shed for me as I lay alone

    Alone with thousands of souls just like me
    Thousands who fell for the land of the free
    A land that I love, and gave all to defend
    And now I lay waiting for a loved one or friend
    Loved ones or friends that so rarely stop by
    Forgotten I lay here not understanding why

    I sacrificed it all to keep freedom alive
    My spirit cries out with a plea to survive
    At least in the memories of those left behind
    While I lay here waiting, entombed, confined
    Unable to do much more than reminisce
    About family and friends and everything that I miss

    My memory is sharp; my whole life I recall
    From the day I was born ‘til the day I gave all
    Thoughts run willy-nilly always through my head
    My body is wasting, though my mind is not dead
    But now I am saddened as I lay here alone
    Waiting for anyone to stop at my stone

    Earl Parsons
    Copyright © Earl Parsons 2012

  24. MichelleMcEwen

    Stone Dead

    i am
    and out
    of your hair
    i hope
    you remember
    that i did
    not care
    did not give
    a flying fig
    not fitting in
    not filling out
    didn’t bother me
    never learning
    how to
    never having

  25. tripoet

    An Omelet in the Morning

    He knew to always start the day off
    with a good breakfast, an omelet in the morning.
    This guy wasn’t afraid to take second chances.
    When given his, he sustained a happy long-term
    marriage, He prided himself on being a good
    provider: All the years in the family business,
    the blood, sweat, and tears were for a reason.
    He was one of three teens, kids really,
    who at 16 years took off in an old ’55 Ford
    that his Uncle Dick assured his parents had new tires
    but were recapped and blew out in Utah, to explore
    and he kept on exploring throughout his life.
    He was open to change if you could show him
    things could be done a better way. He knew better
    than to try to navigate life without humor
    and it bears repeating, consumed oj, an omelet
    with whole wheat toast every morning. 4

  26. ReathaThomasOakley

    My sons when young
    teased that their childhood
    memories would be of the
    neighbor lady bringing
    cookies, but they could brag
    their mom wrote great grants.

    When my boy in Brazil told me
    about completed applications to
    send young musicians to the USA,
    I smiled.

  27. Walter J Wojtanik


    Some find it embarrassing for me
    to be embracing the icon of the season
    as vehemently as I have come to do.
    My reasons have been well documented,
    having lamented the passing of many people
    at Christmastime. I’ve come to conclude
    that the Big jolly dude in red and white
    might hold the answer to my sad remorse.
    Of course, coming to the realization
    adds to this dramatization of the spirit
    that had been dormant for years.
    One of my greatest fears was not being able
    to dig as deeply as needed to find it, the spirit.
    And what was behind it was the birth of two
    who would stoke my rekindled love
    for the season of giving. Daughters who
    would not be denied the Christmases
    I had denied myself for so long.
    There is much joy in the spirit I try
    to exude to fill the mood of the Jolly one.
    When the holly decks the halls
    these four walls find Christmas again,
    deeply engrained in my heart and brain.
    This is another way I will be remembered,
    as a rebel with a spirited cause,
    as I embrace the mantle of Santa Claus.

  28. Walter J Wojtanik

    Of course, not a prompt to be answered in one poem, so I’ll begin…


    I am and always will be
    my father’s little man.
    Grown full blown into
    the spitting image of he
    who bore my name before him.
    It wore him out and I’m
    no different, being heaven sent
    as one of seven. His son,
    his apprentice, his diminutive
    combatant, hell bent on being heard.
    Learning through wood what I
    have come to express in words,
    and absurd as it sounds, I have found
    and individuality in our duality.
    And in the banality of this world,
    I will come to unfurl may father’s banner.
    In a manner, I will be remembered as
    Walter’s son.

  29. annell

    I Will Be Remembered for The Words Gathered and Scribed/ The Paint Painted on Surfaces

    the morning cold     the landscape bare and brown     not the best time of year

    how will i be remembered     this will depend    on who you ask

    like a cut stone     it will depend     on how you hold me to the light

    some very old people     will remember the school girl     young & attractive

    a good student     my coworkers will remember    i worked hard

    had a smile for everyone &bsp;   i hope my child will remember      i was his mom

    my heart was his    and his heart was mine    all will remember

    i was an artist     would forgo pleasure    for time in the studio

    you ask    will your work be remembered      that i cannot say

    the role of the artist      is a difficult one     and the work created

    will it be remembered…    or not  &nbsp&nbsp: fate will answer that question

    November 24, 2017

    Note: This poem is written with the idea that I will be remembered.

  30. Anthony94

    When I’m Gone

    They’ll gather round the snowy
    cedars in the old cemetery and
    shake their heads now and then
    whispering how they never
    really knew me, how I kept
    to myself slipping in and out
    of doors and places and moments
    only to disappear again. They’ll
    wonder about who I really was
    and surmise among the casseroles
    the kids have laid out in the old
    house and wonder about the
    ancient piano with the yellowing
    music, the sprawling plants in
    the corner spot of sunlight
    the linens in the auction going
    up for sale all worked by hand
    and boxes of scarves for the
    upcoming Christmas stand down
    at the armory, and I,
    I will let them wonder for I will
    be discovering those stars far
    beyond Orion’s Belt, skirting
    the edges of black holes to
    call to those gone long before
    and settling onto some bit of
    matter where it all won’t matter
    every again, at all.

  31. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    When my time has come to go,
    When the fires flicker out,
    Will memory’s embers softly glow,
    When my time has come to go?
    Will others speak my name and know
    That I loved without a doubt,
    When my time has come to go,
    And the fires flkcker out?

  32. taylor graham


    When you were just trading wheelchair
    for walker, after that nasty attack by your sister’s
    Murphy bed, I told you – newcomer
    to these parts – of an easy way down to river.
    You already knew, there’s a healing
    only free rushing water can do, cutting
    through mountain and soothing
    the land as it goes. Its urgent mantra voice.
    You just needed a way to get there.
    Maybe you’ll hear me in that river; or the wind
    that knocks your hat off
    and leads you chasing – back on your feet
    again – along the trail.
    Wind that’s always moving always here
    after it blows us away.

  33. Connie Peters

    Here Lies Connie

    A little smart
    A little dumb
    A little cheerful
    A little glum

    A little kind
    A little mean
    A little pro
    A little green

    A little humble
    A little proud
    A little quiet
    A little loud

    A little helpful
    A little lazy
    A little wise
    A little crazy

    A little funny
    A little sad
    A little good
    A little bad

    A lot of a little
    Seems to fit
    I guess I’ll miss her
    A little bit.

  34. Terry Jude Miller

    Square Egg
    by Terry Jude Miller

    though I do not deserve it
    I will be grieved by good people
    who never understood me

    they will comment
    on why my chest ached
    when I was in a room
    full of people

    why I stopped the car
    when we happened
    upon a lone horse
    in a field and tried
    to read his mind

    why the shadow
    of my brother’s
    headstone followed
    me everywhere

    I’ll be remembered
    for trying with all
    being to fit in
    but never getting it
    quite right

  35. tripoet

    There are Many Sayings

    There is a saying that goes something like this:
    “You wouldn’t worry about what people think
    about you if you realized how seldom they did.”
    And another that goes,”People see the world
    not as it is but as they are.” And yet another,

    “Knowing and feeling are two different things,
    and feeling is what counts.” So I live life
    not so much concerned about how I will be
    remembered by others when I pass but in
    how I live out my life today. May I feel the day.

  36. dittman

    One of the wonderful (and terrible) things about being a swimmer is that you are left alone with your thoughts for at least an hour each day. Naturally, mortality is contemplated…

    Swimming Lessons

    I cannot always connect your dots, turn blank pages into solid,
    perfect blocks of color, or make you stories end
    with a breathy happily ever after.
    Instead, I would ask you to understand
    that I am still young enough to feel fear as a shimmer.
    When I forget a goodnight kiss or story, I feel your distance,

    as well as your closeness. Worry that you, like the gargoyles in the distance
    will perch on my chest, drawing poems, made solid,
    from my mouth like a cat sucking shimmering
    breath from a baby at the end
    of a dream. Silliness. A little girl cannot understand
    that to her father she is a book to be deciphered after

    dinner. Cannot know that after
    she goes to bed, I ponder her new distance
    as diligently as ancient seers attempted to understand
    the future found in the guts of lambs, sorting the solid
    stones from the liquid bile as bitter as the end
    of conversation, and as bright as my child’s shimmering

    glitter make-up. They spoke of a heaven that shimmers
    with silence, devoid of personal pandemonium. After
    we are there, though, we understand that Hell is ourselves without end,
    and that Hell is wet. Why else did we crawl from the mud to land, the distance
    to a new sort of world? Because this new heaven was solid
    and now that wet Hell, I have begun to know and understand.

    When I, in the pool, surrounded by those who already understand,
    older ones who wallow in fat humanness stuffed into shimmering
    suits, watch my daughter’s solid
    muscles ripple, as she pushes away before, not after
    me, then strokes off unafraid into the distance.
    If this is my hell, it is a beginning and not an end.

    Children will write our legends in the end.
    We live with forces we can’t understand,
    but the less we try, the more the distance
    between us does not so much shimmer
    as turns thick and strange. While unsought after
    good night kisses freeze us. Solid.

    When life ends, the last photos of us will shimmer
    And those who see them will understand that we sought after the shimmer
    Of light hearted intimacies and distances that make space solid.

      1. MET

        I agree but the style I love Marie… one I want to conquer… the fact it is a song style from the middle ages… but it will take a while… getting closer but still a ways to go

      1. dittman

        Thanks! I guess it’s a bit like cheating, but I have a section in my ideas notebook where I keep words that I think are interesting in groups of six and use those for my end words. The other way – where I write a stanza and then use those words has never worked well for me….

  37. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    When All Is Said and Done

    They will gather – those loved and cherished –
    to remember with tear-sprinkled laughter
    the life of she-who-made-something-from-nothing,
    This life’s success evidenced in those gathered,
    now family where there once was none,
    those bond by love for each other,
    those who reached for the moon,
    falling headlong into the stars.

  38. Eileen S

    I Did My Job

    I was the mother who was strict with the girls.
    I insisted on scholastic performance,
    church attendance and
    keeping up with distant relatives.
    When they were in high school,
    I insisted on knowing where they were going
    and who the people were that they were with.
    At times I was not popular.
    I didn’t buy into “Everyone else does it this way.”
    I stood my ground.
    I didn’t care about being popular.
    When it is all said and done,
    want those left behind to say that
    I did my job.

  39. Pat Walsh

    Not sure if this one actually “answers” the prompt, but I was pretty pleased with how it turned out, so…

    in the light
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    the days will not dwell in
    time that is not their own
    but they will wait outside
    enjoying the brightness
    with the folks

    sitting quietly in the light
    praying silent prayers
    smiling at the thought
    of being remembered
    as a child

  40. PowerUnit

    I will be remembered by dirty coffee cups
    by ink stains on fingers
    clogged shower drains
    and bleach stains on shag carpet;
    by the way a store sign blows in the wind
    how broken glass collects under tires
    and one wine glass empties before another;
    by burnt frying pans
    eyes smoked by a bonfire
    and a summer with no tans;
    by hot nights with no fans
    stumbling over sidewalk cracks
    and floating lazily on one’s back;
    by computers that never shut off
    kids who never tell you off;
    by hockey games with too many fights
    and long, lonely head banging nights.

  41. Jezzie


    If my good friends were to outlive me
    I’d be remembered as the one
    who always had a cheery smile.

    If my bosses were to outlive me
    I’d be remembered as the one
    who always went the extra mile.

    If my walking friends outlive me
    I’ll be remembered as the one
    who hated climbing over stiles.

    If my dog were to outlive me
    I’d be remembered as the one
    who daily used to walk her miles.

    If U3A club members outlive me
    I’ll be remembered as the one
    who used to write blogs and poetry.

    I hope my kids will outlive me
    and remember me as the mum
    who guides them still where’er they be.


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