2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 8

Time to start week 2 of this challenge! If you’re still poeming along, then you are kicking some serious poetic butt. Let’s keep kicking.

For today’s prompt, write a thing poem. That is, pick an object to write a poem about. Perhaps, it’s an ode to an ice cream scoop or an insult poem for a smart phone. In this world, we are surrounded by so many objects–some large, some small. For one day at least, let’s write about them.


Master Poetic Forms!

Learn how to write sestina, shadorma, haiku, monotetra, golden shovel, and more with The Writer’s Digest Guide to Poetic Forms, by Robert Lee Brewer.

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!

Click to continue.


Here’s my attempt at a Thing Poem:

“My Saucony Cohesion 9’s”

My Saucony Cohesion 9’s
travel with me for miles and miles.
I’m so lucky that they are mine:
My Saucony Cohesion 9’s
pad each step with cushion so fine
that they make both of my feet smile.
My Saucony Cohesion 9’s
travel with me for miles and miles.


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’s run more than 700 miles this year (so far), and more than half of those have been while wearing Saucony Cohesion 9 shoes (on his second pair now). The form he used is the triolet. Click here to learn more about it.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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345 thoughts on “2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 8

  1. taylor graham


    I finally hung up the weed-eater
    till spring. It’s been a long, long season –
    April to November – whacking five acres
    of annual grasses, thistle, stick-tights,
    whatever transforms from green to brown,
    brittle and flammable. Grassy fields so beautiful
    in May. But soon, along roadsides and fences
    there’s a mechanized hum, a buzz like insects
    for the rites of spring. Weed-eaters trying
    to drown out music of the great god Pan –
    that spirit of green gone crazy in our foothills,
    piping through wild oat, foxtail and brome.
    Dandelions and poppies pushing up
    through cracks in pavement.
    We’re not really doing battle with Nature,
    just trying to protect ourselves.
    What would we do without our mechanical
    scythes? And now, the rainy season’s
    coming. We’ve prayed for it all summer.
    I’ve hung up my weed-eater. Already
    I see soft new grass greening the hollows
    of field. I know what’s coming.

  2. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    Vital Stats

    In the pocket, folded small,
    written in dreams and memories,
    the small, stained stationery
    tells the stats needed
    for contacting loved ones
    if, God forbid, the unspeakable
    raises its ugly mug
    to greedily take yet another
    who, unaware of danger,
    appears in the wrong place
    at the wrong time.

  3. MichelleMcEwen


    browning me
    crowning me

    warming me
    transforming me

    humbling me

    the mama in me

    finding me
    blinding me

    reminding me

    don’t last


  4. Terry Jude Miller

    Father’s Plow
    by Terry Jude Miller

    leans against the empty propane tank
    one handle seasoned by his sweat
    is fractured at the bend
    the bloodshot blade covered in neglect

    I have lost the miles and minutes
    spent walking behind this deprecation
    the rump of our mule angus
    slapping aside the chains
    that slaved him to the plow

    I hear father’s voice calling
    from the corner post
    extolling the virtues
    of clean straight furrows
    scars left behind
    in flesh and field

    but that is all the plow
    has to say to the man
    it doesn’t recognize
    change rules
    when earth is left

  5. Jezzie


    I have just come home from a muddy hike
    over ploughed up fields, through woods and the like
    up hills, down dales and over 20 odd stiles,
    we slithered and staggered several miles.
    Over humps, lumps and bumps, getting higher
    slipping and sliding we trudged through the mire
    near a coastal creek leading to the sea,
    even hobbling with a creak in my left knee.

    Had we taken all this risk
    just to see an obelisk?

    Then, homeward bound, we left the mound,
    and for a while we walked on firmer ground.
    We crossed the bridge and we were soon
    enjoying the warm, sunny afternoon.
    With creaking knees and aching feet,
    the climb back home I did complete
    mud spattered, bedraggled, worn and weary,
    wondering how I still stayed cheery.

    T’was a challenge for someone so unfit
    but the thing is I was glad I did it.

  6. Walter J Wojtanik


    Up on the roof top
    or down the hall,
    reindeer dancers
    have a ball, they’re spastic!

    Prancer too
    takes a chance or too
    to trip the light fantastic.

    He’s quick enough
    to make Comet vomit,
    (but, don’t worry, he won’t)

    And don’t go thinking
    these blinking lights
    have an influence,

    for in the confluence
    of red and green,
    there’s a blue and yellow

    in between. But hear
    the tapping of each hoof
    (down the hall or on the roof)

    you’ll know the reindeer
    are quite near. That’s the part
    that makes them dear.

    For from their feet
    there comes a sound
    when each hoof lights

    upon the ground.
    A sort of whistle,
    kind of hum,

    a wisp, a whir,
    a clop, a thrum.
    So on that night

    if the wind is right,
    you’ll know my reindeer
    are in sight

    carrying this Elf so jolly,
    scented cinnamon and holly,
    on his yearly one-night ride.

    And lift a mug to reindeer paws,
    and save some cheer for me,
    I am Santa Claus.

  7. Nurit Israeli


    I didn’t know how hard
    it would be to part with things
    (yes, even things)
    that bear witness to my story.

    After all, there are so many
    upsides to downsizing,
    and I was determined to travel
    light to the new apartment.

    What should I take along
    for this late leg of the journey?

    I whittle away ruthlessly, but
    at night, I find myself pulling back
    from the “To Be Discarded” pile:
    old love letters and a vase I gave
    my mother years ago ¬–
    I just can’t leave it behind.

    I pull back the poetry books
    (yes, all of them), and the cards
    from the children (yes, all),
    photo albums (just ten),
    old passports from way back when,
    and my books on Zen.

    Every decision becomes a mirror.

    I remove piles of sweaters from
    clothing shelves in a new closet:
    They can be replaced, and I need space
    for boxes filled with mementoes
    (moved to the ”Keepers” pile,
    just in case).

    What do I really need now?

    Those fragments of memories,
    those things that filled my past
    are only things, I know.
    But still,

    the bottles filled with sand
    from revered beaches
    that stare at me from
    a “To Be Trashed” pack?

    I’m pulling them back…

    ~ Nurit Israeli

  8. De Jackson

    The Poem’s the Thing

    And this one sings
    and screams
    and sways.

    She’s got
    legs for days
    but she’s still tripping

    over her own un
    -ambic feet.

    She takes her scotch
    neat, and her sea
    with an extra
    shake of salt.

    She’s got a few extra
    to spare, if you’re
    hungry and you dare,
    and a whats-it,
    if you don’t, or
    you’re not.

    She’s caught
    between a
    (scissors, paper)
    rock and a hard
    place, the needful
    things of soul
    and time and space
    and silence.

    She’s caught
    the consciousness
    of kings
    and thrones,
    thrown stones
    at glass and passed
    herself off as story,

    She’s a skeleton,
    an ode, a long dark
    road to nowhere
    or somewhere no
    -one wants to go.

    She might be every
    -thing, or no
    thing. Or somewhere
                   in between.

    But see, here’s the
    thing: she’ll never


  9. Bruce Niedt

    Nail Pop

    You little rebel,
    poking your head above the floorboard,
    who snagged my sock last week –
    you’re the cause of the hole in my sole.
    Worse yet, you ripped the skin
    on my wife’s foot that same day.
    I took a hammer and a nail set punch
    to you, banged you down subfloor
    where you belong, only to find you
    creeping aboveground again the next day.
    I drove you down again, sealed you in
    with a spot of glue, but you were made
    or stronger stuff, and popped up
    like a prairie dog two days later.
    This morning, you bit my sock again,
    the last straw. I grabbed a pair of pliers,
    pulled you out like a bad tooth,
    and plugged up your hole with wood filler.
    Now no one knows you were ever there,
    except now in your absence, the board,
    a little looser, utters a ghostly squeak.

  10. bartonsmock


    two boys at a rest stop

    one cowboy, one indian-

    also there

    a mother’s

    and the mother herself

    flipping open
    a pocket knife

    oh place, you are not
    my first

    it was men
    that they could tell
    those machines
    the little
    they knew, and it was god

    found god, and it was your father

    that with his father

    while in
    their astronaut

    took shyness
    from a gun

    1. lsteadly

      Though I don’t totally understand some of your poetry, it always evokes a special kind of beauty. I really like this piece – the images stir up a lot of emotions

  11. Jane Shlensky

    Surveying the Stuff Drawer

    My widget drawer is overflowing,
    full of thingies good and true.
    Someone engineered them knowing
    we’d all forget just what they do.

      1. Jane Shlensky

        a further development: I was able to post previous days now, but not then, but when I returned here to try the longer piece, I still couldn’t get in. what to do?

        1. Walter J Wojtanik

          The fact your comments show says it’s not a connection issue. A good percentage of problems has to do with content. (Unless you’re posting War and Peace) 😉 I’m finding a lot of words that aren’t accepted for one reason or other. You have to get discriminate with them. I may be off base here, but I’d try it.

    1. PressOn

      Your poem made me smile, ruefully, as I looked at a bowl in front of my screen: lots of doogeywabbers in there. As for your problem, I doubt that length is the culprit. I have been able to post (short pieces, admittedly) but often after assuring the site that I am human. This site has gotten more persnickety over the past months; I wrote Robert about the frustrations of trying to post, and was told that at least part of the problem is that the site administrator is trying to avoid bots. That is what prompts the “are you human?’ flags, but I don’t know whether that’s true in your case.

  12. taylor graham

    for the Arts in Nature Fest

    A length of clothesline, hemp or twine,
    parachute cord or simply cotton fine
    or coarse – right here we’ll string the line
    between that incense-cedar and this pine.
    We’ll tie it head-high for a child of nine
    to follow how all the syllables align.
    We’ll hang scribble-sheets by design
    communal, random, line by line
    composing crayon verses, to entwine
    our thoughts of Mother Earth, a vine
    of praise: of thunder, soil and ocean brine,
    cold mountain lake, and columbine.
    Nature’s elements in harmony combine –
    what words are yours, which are mine?
    They’re all strung together on the line
    for April breeze to play its lyre divine.
    A laundry-line of words. A forest shrine.

  13. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Which shoes
    Should I choose

    Tennis shoes to start
    Good run for my heart

    Boots would be a true kick
    Finding a pair is the trick

    How about high heels
    Too much is how it feels

    I like deck shoes for me
    They slip on so easily

    Once in flip flops
    The joy never stops

    How about fancy flats
    Perfect with floppy hats

    Ballet shoes I wouldn’t chose
    Tip toe balance, I would lose

    Mom’s birthday, I’ll have some fun
    Something cozy, I’ll ‘slipper’ some

    Shoes are amazing, never dull
    If there’s sand, I’ll carry a sandal

    My feet just love them, high or low
    Yet higher the heel, the lower I go

    Sometimes I leave them in a box
    Now, let’s see, where are my sox?

  14. AsWritten

    WITCH’S SPELLBOOK by Ken Bentz

    I don’t believe in the occult
    but I like the idea of spellbooks –
    recipes for the inventive soul.
    Think of the sharing and traditions
    they could support.

    At bridal showers, instead of
    best ingredients for crab cakes or cole slaw,
    mothers could pass to their daughters
    magic and cackles.

    When thinking of dinner
    after a grueling 9-to-5,
    you could forego your allspice
    for eye of newt.

    Though, it’s likely hard to find
    quality in-season newt.
    You may have to go to Whole Foods
    or some specialty organic store.
    And you’d only want free-range newts,
    lest their eyeballs be under-developed.

    But luckily you’ll never have to worry about it.
    That whole eye of newt thing is
    more about Shakespearean fun than
    modern mystical technique.

    I prefer the lessons of everyday
    and the magic that guides us
    moment to moment.

    There are no words to capture
    the truth about everything.
    But it doesn’t stop me from compiling
    my own delightful spellbooks
    full of lies I tell myself
    when no one else is watching.

  15. headintheclouds87

    Post-It Notes

    Candy-coloured sticky papers
    With frenzied scribbles on some,
    Stuck to random corners of the room
    With reminders for dull, boring errands
    Somewhat sucking the fun out of
    That sticker dressed in that hot pink number,
    Just begging for more scandalous words
    To be carelessly scrawled upon her.
    Others sit unused in a pile,
    Similarly pleading for fun ideas,
    Inspiration to burst forth
    From your patient, passionate pen
    That just wants its sweet release
    And to spill its creative explosion
    All over unsuspecting papers.
    The walls could be covered in it
    Drips and globs of juicy thoughts,
    A copious mass of concepts
    Just waiting to be arranged
    Into a debaucherous circus of words.

  16. De Jackson

    The Pieces She Left Behind

    You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself to make yourself forget…to make yourself forget.
                                                                                                                         Counting Crows, Anna Begins

    Tell me about the ticket stub,
    that last nub of pencil when you wrote
    those words and erased them and then
    wrote them again.

    Tell me where to keep these
    river stones, that I might not rub
    them to dust with my

    Tell me the stories
    of these stars,
    especially the fallen.


  17. deringer1


    He sits atop my piano,
    a small eight inch brown man
    sitting on a stump,
    playing a violin.
    His hat is floppy,
    his feet are bare,
    his expression enigmatic.

    I do not know who carved you,
    little man. I often wonder
    how far you traveled
    to be here with me,
    while I gaze at you and
    listen to the music
    only you and I can hear.

  18. Connie Peters


    Ukulele on the stand
    I hoped we’d play and sing with him
    But now his singing’s not so grand
    Ukulele on the stand
    Some things go not as planned
    His brain won’t speak to voice or limb
    Ukulele on the stand
    I hoped we’d play and sing with him

  19. MET

    World Wood Web

    The forest has a secret life
    Below the soil the fungus
    Carries messages
    Between the trees
    Who carry a genetic link…
    Scientist discovered
    This web of messages
    Relayed along the white fungus
    In the earth…
    The elder trees tell the young,
    “Save the water back;
    Do not be too greedy;
    You will need it later.”
    The young frivolous trees
    Will learn the hard way, but
    The elders will save some
    To quench the thirst of all.

    I saw trees clear cut
    Along a road I often drive.
    There a week ago
    A forest so like my own.
    Trees bulldozed and pushed to the side…
    I wonder what message the elders sent…
    As they saw their own kind die.
    Such a waste
    When I saw the owners of the land
    Disrespect the forests
    Who bring us the air we need, and
    Keeps the water in the earth.
    Today as I saw the carnage
    Of the owner’s private war
    I wondered about the messages
    Of despair of the dying forest.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 8, 2017

    1. MET

      The world wood Web was discovered in 1995 and the scientist gave it that name…. there is a tree in India that if you clear cut and cut down all its kind except one or two here and there… the ones left will die… they like to live in clusters.. I learned that in a book given to me last Christmas…”The Hidden Life of Trees” written by a German forester…the book read like poetry… if you love trees you need to read this book… it is wonderful

  20. KM

    The back is made of honey brown slats that cross over one another. A number sign, hashtag dining room chair. Cushion stuffing crushed and pushed to the side after several years of wear. We chose these chairs for the forgiving upholstery. The kind of non-descript mottled brown and burgundy that can hide squashed tomatoes, glops of spilled yogurt and marks left by tiny, greasy fingers. Our daughters have spent many hours on these chairs, and I’ve spent much breath telling them to sit, not stand, because it’s time to eat. Time to be together. Reinforced by your handiwork — extra wooden blocks supporting the bottom, though it still cracks and wobbles when we sit down, fragility forgotten and confidence heavy. Not built to last, but we are.

    – Kim Mannix

  21. PressOn


    When I was a kid,
    my dad used to call a strange thing
    a doogeywabber,
    and I always wondered
    just what a doogeywabber was.
    I thought it might be
    a thingamajig
    or maybe
    a whatchamacallit,
    but he told me, no,
    those are more like doofunnies.
    Well, Dad died
    without telling me
    what a doogeywabber was,
    and do you know that
    it has taken me a lifetime
    to realize that
    a doogeywabber
    is nothing more than
    a dohickey.

  22. Linowen

    Ode to the Proverbial Lego

    Oh, Lego, laying on the floor,
    with pointy edges and dots galore,
    you may be the apple of children’s eyes,
    but you are the blight of my feet at night!

    Oh, Lego, sharper than any sword,
    you slice and dice me, inciting words
    that shriek my pain in curdling cries
    inducing one-foot hops besides

    a vow to rid every one of your kind
    from the house, the earth, each imp I can find!
    Oh, Lego, small but mighty are you!
    You and your minions are a monstrous zoo!

    Be gone! Be gone, biters that dine
    on adult feet! It’s a shame that I’ve
    paid your cost at the store and here, too!
    You’re not worth either. Be gone now! Shoo!!

  23. annell

    You Sent it to Me, With Love and Your Best Wishes

    it is small     you see    no more than five by three

    i can hold it in one hand     it creates a space     to put things in

    to hold them safe     it has flown through the mail     more than once

    it is covered with stamps  &nbsp  and there is a customs sticker     on the front

    hand written notations    on each side    it is a box from you

    i don’t remember     what it originally held     now it is cast aside

    but still     your best wishes remain inside     your name on the front

    November 8, 2017

  24. Anthony94


    Like the blue veined hand of the woman
    reaching toward the spotted bananas
    at the food pantry, this log is a map

    spread across the forest floor, bark
    seams running east to west dotted
    with the yellow green of lichen

    a skirt of shelf fungus. Clasping
    its rounding softness like the hand
    Of a friend, it yields beneath my touch

    I trace runnels of snail and prise out
    cadged seeds in search of the whole
    story, this fallen log a laden messenger.

  25. MET

    Viking Ships IV

    Each year new training
    But it is really the same…
    The words have changed…
    The new rage in social work.

    I am bored;
    I draw Viking ships…
    My pen silently glides
    Across the page…
    While my Viking ship
    Begins to glide across
    The white copy paper,
    Handed out to us
    When we arrived.

    I begin to imagine
    The journey across the seas
    With warriors
    Hoping to increase their bounty,
    But while they do
    They go to lands uncharted.

    I looked up at the trainer
    Bouncing across the room
    With fake smile and
    A smugness of disrespect…
    Pretending to us that this is uncharted lands.
    We know that it is not.
    I want to ask…
    What have we done to stop
    The madness of abuse of children.
    Words spoken today
    By the smug trainer
    Tells us the abuser must not be blamed
    It is not their fault.
    Groans rumble.
    The smug trainer tries
    To discover where the dissenters
    Are hiding.

    My silent pen continues to glide
    Drawing the waves of a storm,
    A flash of lightening
    Ahead of the voyagers…
    Thunder is difficult to draw…
    The illusion of sound
    Allows the eyes to hear…

    The day is over…
    I did not learn anything
    Except groans
    In a crowded room
    Can sound like thunder
    And a coming storm.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    November 8, 2017

    1. MET

      For the last few years I write one poem on Viking ships…In going thru old notebooks of training….I found all these pictures I had doodled during the training of Viking ships… no people just the ships…so that is where the idea came, and I wish I had not thrown away all those drawings.

      1. MET

        thank you…. but by the time I worked there for 10 years … it was the same every year almost…and I would get bored… I mean foster care became permanency planning became family empowerment… all meant the same just the words changed…

    2. Linowen

      Mary, I look for your poems now one week into diving into this PAD challenge and being new here. Your mastery of writing your life into poetry is gripping. Your skill beautifully draws this reader in. I am a former high school teacher and I’ve sat through some of those same type of meetings. I understand the ship image perfectly. Awesome poetry, always! Linda Owen

      1. MET

        thank You so much… I went to a writer’s conference a couple of weeks back and came away discouraged…which it should not do… but I thought about drawing Viking ships ended up drawing mountains… another frequent theme… by the way I am on facebook…as Mary Elizabeth Todd… only one from Starr, SC.. and have a tuxedo cat as my profile… my lovely Cassie who died of cancer last January…

    3. dittman

      I really like the way:
      “I am bored;
      I draw Viking ships…
      My pen silently glides
      Across the page…
      While my Viking ship
      Begins to glide across
      The white copy paper,
      Handed out to us
      When we arrived.”

      starts off the piece. It immediately draws me in and makes me want to know what’s going on. Well done!

      1. MET

        Thank you very much…. I like this new version very much although the first one still steals my heart since I have told my nieces and nephews I want a Viking funeral and they have told me it is illegal…it ends with these lines

        “But still I have this image of a Viking boat
        Set aflame just at dark
        With all of those who love me
        Drinking wine and toasting me to a safe journey”

        MET 2014

        I grew up in the mountains in a time when funerals were big social events… we even played funeralizing at school…

  26. thunk2much

    The puppy got my kaleidoscope

    The puppy got my kaleidoscope
    It’s damaged but it kept its views
    It speaks to me of feathered hope
    The puppy got my kaleidoscope
    It can’t be fixed with paint or soap
    But I’ll still wallow in its hues
    The puppy got my kaleidoscope
    It’s damaged but it kept its views

  27. Sally Jadlow

    Thing Poem

    Mop stands in the corner
    waiting a waltz across the kitchen floor.
    I glance its way,
    ignore its longing look
    until my feet stick to the floor.
    Then mop gets to glide
    over spilt gravy,
    sail through slimy slop,
    and douse mystery drips
    until the next time
    grimy grunge gags me.

  28. Walter J Wojtanik


    They have it made with the tools of their trade,
    their craftsmanship is amazing,
    I hear them work from my chair in the den,
    while the reindeer are outside grazing.

    I know their sounds as they know mine,
    a muffled snore says they’re doing just fine.
    I need not worry; there is no hurry,
    as my merry minions find their pace

    in the happy place they have assumed.
    They keep their work space really neat,
    for no elf worth his salt is complete
    without his tool belt smartly cinched.

    Tools that dangle, clink and clank
    are the reasons I take time to thank
    all these lovely ladies and lads
    who build the latest toys and fads.

    Nestled in the hardware there
    a tinker’s hammer hung with care,
    (not by the chimney like the stockings are)
    but like the most important tool by far.

    Screwdrivers three filling the gap
    to tighten screws they would not tap
    with their mini-hammer mentioned above.
    Yet, all of the toys are created with love.

    A little tube of tinker’s glue
    to hold the piece until they’re through,
    a roll of duct tape is all so dandy,
    to secure the parts (when it is handy.)

    They have their motto,
    “A Writer writes,
    a thinker thinks.
    A baker bakes, a tinker tinks”

    So I am lulled by their gentle buzz
    as they work all through the night,
    it’s like I said, I have no dread,
    I know that everything’s alright.

    They earn their keep without a pause,
    despite screwdriver tips and hammer claws,
    and I get my sleep rest assure for because
    I am a happy Santa Claus.

    1. Linowen

      I can hear the clinks and tinks of the elves working in the background! So endearing and charming! I’m ready now to put on the Chistmas music and warm the hot chocolate! Thank you!

    2. Marie Elena

      My WORD, Walt! You have no off button. No elusive muse, even for a moment or two.

      “A Writer writes,
      a thinker thinks.
      A baker bakes, a tinker tinks”

      You need to write a children’s book of Christmas poems. You really, really, really do. And this needs to be included. I’m sure you already have way more than enough poems suitable for kids that they would love. No self-publishing of this. No finding an illustrator. Go through your collection. Pull, edit, put together, and submit to a publishing house that accepts unsolicited submissions. If you get rejected, submit to another. Someone will pick it up, illustrate it, and get it on the market. Man, you gotta do this. Go, man, go!

  29. SarahLeaSales

    The Bridge That Took Walks in the Park

    The last time they met,
    M. knew it would be the last,
    but he did not.
    Lollygags had been her constant companion—
    not a seeing-eye dog,
    but a GPS for lasting love.
    And when M. died,
    leaving her beloved friend behind,
    he picked up her care where M. had left off.
    As one dog year passed,
    it came to pass that Lolly led him to his second love,
    after which the last remnant of his first
    passed away,
    having served her masters well.
    For she had been the thing
    that had kept The Others away,
    but the being that had brought The One
    his way.

  30. tripoet

    The First Thread

    Many webs span
    gaps between objects
    a spider cannot cross by crawling.

    A fine adhesive thread
    drifts on faint breezes
    searching for a surface

    where it sticks
    at the far end
    and signals for reinforcements.

    The spider feels the vibration
    triggering all he needs to know
    to get to work.

    He reels in,
    the first strand

    then carefully walks along
    his intended creation
    strengthening with a second cord.

    His pallet thus
    set up and so
    he weaves his web.

    Oh that I could bridge
    the gaps between our love
    with a thread.

      1. Marie Elena

        Luv me a good pun! 😀 Thanks, dittman.

        On January 1, I made a decision to daily write a little 17-syllable poem or statement or question or expression of some kind that had to do with my day. I’m on facebook, so I used the hashtag line so that my daily 17s would have a permanent “home” and line up together. Some have joined me, including a few of my Poetic Asides friends. It’s just fun, and a way to keep me writing every single day, no matter how small and insignificant. I’ll continue through 2018. I might add a syllable, but I’m leaning toward keeping with 17. I like being able to use them as fodder for haiku or senryu. Thank you for asking!

  31. JanetRuth

    Ode to the East Window…

    If not for you to frame the view of break of day then I would miss
    The often speechless wonder of Creator’s grand good morning kiss
    Where night, like a charcoal cocoon cradles a glorious butterfly
    And as the darkness falls away it spreads its wings across the sky

    My kitchen wall is like a hall showcasing Morning’s Grand Release
    Each seasonal Original, Masterpiece after Masterpiece
    And I would be remiss not to immortalize this in a poem
    Each still-life like a costly painting in my humble home sweet home

    The years go by but still my eye is tuned to what unfolds within
    The rectangle around the rubric of life’s triumphs and chagrin
    And I could stare for hours at the awesome artwork in your frame
    Where even after all these years no two are ever quite the same

    …so here’s to you, east window that inspires worship and reply
    Where break of day spills fiery color-trays across canvas of sky
    And come what may you always display testaments of God’s kind grace
    Where He parts gates just far enough to almost glimpse the Artist’s face

  32. Eileen S

    Marking the Ballot

    The little black marks must be completely filled in
    in order for voters to cast their ballot in this election.
    If any white is in the circle, the scanner won’t record it
    and will send it back to the voter to fix the imperfection.

  33. PowerUnit

    A tree is in touch with the world
    It’s roots are fine pens, its fingers
    Leaves waving in a breeze, unheralded
    Listening to the crying children
    The demands of control clashing
    With a need to love
    It digs deep into the soul of man
    Grounded but moving forward
    Adapting to change, it reaches out
    In the end knowing nothing but his cutting
    Its own dripping tears

  34. JRSimmang


    We’ll sit with our nervous knees touching.
    You don’t look, but you know I’m blushing.
    Is this what it is? If so, then Gee Whiz!
    It’s true love! … or am I just crushing?

    -JR Simmang

  35. dockanz

    About my favorite pen:

    Six inch cylinder
    translucent and black,
    cradled perfectly
    in my hand.
    But I should get to the point.
    Less than 1/2 millimeter
    restraining miles of ink
    to write who knows what.
    I confess that my eyes wander
    and I am wooed by other pens.
    I relent
    and then regret,
    for you G2 are,
    as the box promises,
    “Ultra Fine.”

  36. Walter J Wojtanik


    Reverberate in my head as a shout.
    Telling me your feelings
    full of your love.
    Proclaim from the rooftops
    that love never dies. It goes on
    to whisper something
    only I would hear in my heart.
    Whisper to me. Whisper sweet nothings.
    Whisper things.

  37. dittman

    I overthought yesterday’s poem and ran out of time. So, today, something a little simpler.


    Sometimes, if you are
    lonely enough, the sound of a
    in the morning still becomes
    the sigh of a past lover.

        1. dittman

          Thanks so much! We were talking in class the other day about how some of the Romantics felt that nostalgia was an actual physical illness and it made me think about how loneliness can/could function in the same way.

  38. Walter J Wojtanik


    That glass is half empty, and we’re still thirsty.
    A drink is a drink is a drink.
    I’m a pessimist but it could get worse see,
    That glass is half empty, and we’re still thirsty.
    But a glass half full sure surely be nursed, see
    I’m not as dumb as you think.
    That glass is half empty, and we’re still thirsty.
    A drink is a drink is a drink.

    1. De Jackson

      See, the thing of it is…

      A drink is a drink is a drink.
      (Make lemonade when life gives you lemons.)
      Brew coffee to start off the day, I think –
      but a drink is a drink is a drink.
      Rum’s sweet, vodka’s not, gin’s on the brink,
      and scotch tastes a little like venom.
      A drink is a drink is a drink.
      (Make lemonade when life gives you lemons.)

      1. tripoet

        De, I have a friend outside of Kansas City who is a working artist, was moved by your work and has a question to ask on your poem from yesterday. Is there a way to connect? Annie– Tripoet

      2. Walter J Wojtanik


        Make lemonade when life gives you lemons?
        When life gives you lemons, it’s because it is just out of limes.
        I tend to roll my eyes to the heavens
        when folks say, “Make lemonade when life gives you lemons.”
        There are no gifts in this life, only demons,
        and demons will give you lemons everytime!
        Make lemonade when life gives you lemons?
        When life gives you lemons, it’s just out of limes.

        1. De Jackson

          Citrus Things

          When life gives you lemons, it’s just out of limes –
          they’re green with envy, and a little sweeter.
          They give twice the juice, in half the time.
          When life gives you lemons, it’s just out of limes.
          It’s funny, though, and turns on a dime.
          So if you’ve got a honey(fruit), squeeze her.
          When life gives you lemons, it’s just out of limes –
          they’re green with envy, and a little sweeter.

          1. Walter J Wojtanik


            They’re as green as any, in a little sweater.
            Rookie elves come off the shelves,
            some are bad and some are better,
            but they’re as green as any, in a little sweater.
            They begin to work opening Christmas Letters,
            they’re very pleased with themselves!
            They’re as green as any, in a little sweater.
            Rookie elves come off the shelves,

          2. De Jackson

            The Etch-a-Sketch

            Rookie elves come off the shelves
            to create this sand-filled wonder.
            We’ve seen this phenomenon ourselves,
            when rookie elves come off the shelves.
            And we’ve gotta say, this toy is swell!
            Just shake it – no more blunder!
            Rookie elves come off the shelves
            to create this sand-filled wonder.

          3. Walter J Wojtanik


            To create this sand-filled wonder,
            takes a tap and a twist and a shake.
            The secret is in the screen it’s under
            to create this sand-filled wonder.
            And yet I have this thought to ponder,
            what other wonder can we make?
            To create this sand-filled wonder,
            takes a tap and a twist and a shake.

          4. De Jackson

            Bop-It, by Hasbro

            It takes a tap and a twist and a shake
            to make this game a party favorite.
            No big list of rules, no test to take;
            it just takes a tap and a twist and a shake.
            But don’t get caught, for heaven’s sake
            if ever the wrong hit you gave it!
            It takes a tap and a twist and a shake
            to make this game a party favorite.

          5. Walter J Wojtanik

            THE PLAY THING

            To make this game a party favorite,
            one needed to put on a charade.
            So, I picked a card and gave her it
            to make this game a party favorite.
            To act out card out, you flavored it
            with the outlandish gestures that you made.
            To make this game a party favorite,
            one needed to put on a charade.

          6. De Jackson

            Aces, Wild

            You need to put on a charade
            to keep that poker face in place.
            Even if you’ve got it made,
            you need to put on a charade
            until the very last card is played –
            unless defeat you want to taste.
            You need to put on a charade
            to keep that poker face in place.

          7. Walter J Wojtanik

            ANTE UP

            I try to keep that poker face in place
            for this game of life is hard to bluff through.
            I hold onto it, just in case,
            I try to keep that poker face in place
            and wait my chance to play my winning ace.
            So I throw all in until I show my cards to you
            I try to keep that poker face in place
            for this game of life is hard to bluff through.

    2. PressOn

      I dobn’t mean to horn i8n here, but I couldn’t help it….


      The triolets of De and Walt
      aren’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee;
      circling in a grand gestalt,
      the triolets of De and Walt
      are better than a choc’lit malt
      with two straws melding he and she.
      The triolets of De and Walt
      aren’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

      1. Walter J Wojtanik

        DUM, DEE, DUM, DEE, DUM

        Aren’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee
        brothers from another mother?
        No matter how much the same they be
        don’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee
        come from somewhere in Tennessee?
        Ot it’s probably somewhere or other,
        but aren’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee
        brothers from another mother?

        1. PressOn

          A PUZZLEMENT

          Brothers from another mother,
          the siblings wondered about their father
          and whether, in some place or other,
          brothers from another mother
          had left their pop in such a pother
          that kids, to him, were too much bother.
          Brothers from another mother,
          the siblings wondered about their father.

          1. De Jackson

            Welcome to Wonder-land

            The siblings wondered about their father
            so much they called the agency.
            Was it Mad Hatter or Cheshire Cat? Oh, bother!
            those siblings wondered about their father.
            They ran after Alice until they caught her.
            That Tweedledum and Tweedledee,
            those siblings wondered about their father
            so much they called the agency.

          2. Walter J Wojtanik


            So they called the agency
            and asked if there was a way to find them.
            Any relative, two or three,
            so they called the agency.
            But due to complacency
            they only found a long lost friend.
            So they called the agency
            and asked if there was a way to find them.


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