2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 27

For today’s prompt, write a story poem. Think of a story, could be a long, complicated, winding story, but for a poem, it may make more sense to make it a short, direct story.

*****

Re-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.

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Here’s my attempt at a Story Poem:

“what matters”

so they fought over leftovers
& other things that didn’t matter
like flowers & three-leaf clovers
& they fought over leftovers
as if they were hopeless lovers
distracted by useless chatter–
still they fight over leftovers
& trivial things that don’t matter

*****

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 used to write stories in college.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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268 thoughts on “2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 27

  1. BDP

    “Modern Deliverance”

    I
    She disappeared as the storm hit
    in a compendium of rain, snow, sleet, hailstones
    that smothered the surface of a back road

    I’ve ridden or driven again and again,
    so much so I’m photographic knowledgeable
    of every twist/turn and follow a map drawn

    in my mind since early childhood, with chances
    slim (I hope) for veering and rolling like a four-edged ball
    into the ditch. But that’s what she did, a hand

    pulling wrong in a skid: could anyone find her, what now?
    She sent sky-words to Providence—is there such a thing…
    or being?—to save her. Or to a human in Its absence.

    II
    A neighbor of ours—never a believer, not the same
    as a devil when he drank, but—dreamt of nonstop showers
    where she went over. He couldn’t, wouldn’t give permission

    for such a dream, so he must’ve opened a window
    somehow to the Up Above. He glimpsed her knuckles
    white against the steering wheel, and she yelped first,

    then braked too hard, plowing deep into ravine slush.
    She prayed: lake breeze, warm beach, sun-aged fields of wheat,
    any thought opposite of dark cold. And in rescue’s after-wonder,

    realized her savior traced her through softness, not hailstones.
    Providence, she now chuckles, came from a beer glass: a diamond
    called Grace at the bottom. Laughs, too, because she landed in nettle.

    III
    Why shouldn’t they be in love, they’ve taken their lumps,
    their hand-holding and winking at our weekly coffee, pleasurable,
    no griping, though a bit of salvation talk creeps in. Self-disallowed

    she no longer drives if any chance of squall. He’s ended
    his decades-binge with booze and bars. No need to wait—
    in a way we all do—for a miracle to say there is more after this, years

    left to ponder splitting an arrow with an arrow. Both had
    an early glow: so many pats on the back in the aftermath
    of him leading the sheriff to her crash. A dilation

    of sorts, eye opening even if through dream when in silence
    they heard each other. I once shared a moment with my mom, in awe still,
    she, dead, came to tell me she was fine. My heart rose from the slush.

    —B Peters

    Endwords from Seamus Heaney, “Hailstones”

  2. LCaramanna

    The Day Michael Came Out of the Closet

    Back in Catholic school,
    eighth grade,
    Michael was the kid
    who brought the laughs
    down Fourth Street, though the park
    and into the classroom.
    The good Sisters didn’t always
    appreciate his jocularity
    and he was often on his knees
    doing penance for his somewhat evil deeds.
    But his classmates held him in high esteem
    and secretly hoped to grow up to be just like him.
    Michael was the leader of the pack,
    the joker wild, mastermind behind the devilish plot
    to disrupt law and order, Catholic style.

    One day Michael came to school
    with an incredibly impish plan.
    He closed himself in the classroom closet,
    content to secret himself away through morning classes.
    Sister Mary Margaret Maria marked Michael absent
    with a prayer for his speedy recovery,
    but we all knew she prayed he would be absent all week
    for the classroom was Heaven and the students angels
    without him.

    All morning, no noise escaped the closet. Not a giggle, nor a snore.
    How could Michael stay in the closet all morning
    without a laugh at the absurdity of his joke?
    or fall asleep and snore?
    Would he stay there all day?
    What would happen when he got caught?
    The suspense was unbearable. It was impossible to
    concentrate on lessons in math, english and religion.
    Eyebrow messages flew around the room
    with sneaky peeks at the closet doors.

    Lunchtime
    s l o w l y
    approached.

    As the church bells chimed noon,
    Michael threw open the closet doors
    and burst into the room.
    The classroom exploded in chaos.

    What happened next? Of course
    Sister Mary Margaret Maria chased Michael
    around and around the classroom
    up and down the rows of desks
    pointer swinging, Rosary Beads whirling, Habit flying
    red in the face with anger
    while the entire class laughed
    as only eighth grade Catholic school students can laugh
    in genuine hilarity and pure delirium.

    With unabashed innocence
    we, the classmates, shared in this
    Moment of Triumph
    the day Michael came out of the closet.

  3. headintheclouds87

    Stories Without Glory

    ‘What’s your story?’
    I find myself asked
    Suddenly and sharply,
    As if we’re expected
    To be exciting characters
    Complete with gripping backstory,
    Concealing tales of woe
    And lost love, regretted hate
    Behind a world-weary face.
    They want a grand storyteller,
    Spinning the yarns with ease,
    Clear beginnings, middles and ends
    With suspense in all the right places
    And twists and turns aplenty.

    Instead, they’ll need to settle
    For shaky, stuttering recollections
    With messy and tenuous tangents
    And no clear structure or reason.
    I’m sorry I can’t weave wonder
    From dithering, awkward encounters
    But that is the scattered reality
    Which is decidedly dull, spoken aloud
    Until it is wrapped in more considered words,
    In the splendour of being written down.

  4. Janet Rice Carnahan

    HER NAME’S BEEN GOOSE

    first niece born
    adorable and sweet
    called her Goose
    youngest sister born
    just called her Goose
    her daughter born
    called her Goose, too
    three geese in one family
    that first niece is due
    with a daughter
    now it will be
    Annie’s Little Goose
    I bought a present for the baby
    a singing Mother Goose
    pink ribbons and all
    singing nursery rhymes
    to one more girl
    one more little one
    one more pink cheeked, precious
    sweet little baby goose
    and with that
    the goose goes on
    and the singing nursery rhymes
    will keep the Goose story going
    until the end of time
    rhyming
    chiming
    all the way
    with one wild Goose tail
    after another
    until or unless
    there’s a brother

  5. Michelle Hed

    Onslaught

    There was an ebony sky
    lounging in a sea of lightning bolts,
    the stars hidden
    behind a solid veil,
    the world only seen
    in disco frames of light
    when a scream
    was carried on the wind
    frozen in a brief moment
    of silence
    before the chaos of the storm resumed
    it’s onslaught,
    distracting the hearer
    from the moment in time.

  6. trishwrites

    University

    Those lazy spring days, last classes winding down on campus. Our right of passage, hanging out at a seedy tavern not far from the quad. Three years we spent there in the center of the city. We’d slip through the doors, tables teeming in a haze of smoke to find a spot in the corner and linger over trays of ten cent watered down draught. Hope and confidence written all over our faces. We clinked glasses to shared dreams. Where would we be, ten, twenty years from now. Was it already written in the shadows we wouldn’t get the chance to share our stories over a pint or two?

    Spring bursts on wishes
    Drink a toast to innocence
    Buried in tavern

  7. MaggieIrene

    Oh Asus

    Once upon a time
    my life was totally
    on track, organized.

    Then my laptop died.

    I felt as if my right arm
    was in a sling.

    With my new laptop
    came adjustment stress
    a new operating system
    reorganizing what geeks
    had promised would be
    a seamless transition
    of my data from
    the old to the new.

    Right.

  8. MargoL

    The little girl with the dirty face

    She looked at me
    with big brown eyes,
    gloominess on a dirty face.
    As she begged for money
    on this busy metropolitan street,
    she asked me if I had some spare change.
    She couldn’t have been any older
    than seven.

    How long had she been out?
    Begging, I wondered
    on this chilly fall day.
    What were my pennies worth,
    when this little girl needed clothing,
    probably food and shelter.
    How could I just tip her?
    Hand her my loose change,
    when she needed so much more.

    I bent down to look
    into her dirty little face,
    as I gently patted her grimy hair,
    as one might pet a cat.
    I asked her where her parents were,
    she mumbled “I have none”.

    Oh, if only I could bundle her up
    and bring her home with me,
    like something I just bought.
    But, I knew I could not.
    Instead, I reached into my purse
    and placed a few coins into her small hand.
    T’was then that the little girl, with
    the dirty face, looked up at me
    with a grin –
    displaying her rotten teeth –
    she said: “Thank you mam”

    With tears in my eyes,
    I returned the smile,
    and as I walked away
    I saw her loom towards others
    fleeting by. A few stopped,
    yet most just passed by
    the little girl with the dirty face.

  9. PSC in CT

    Old Codger, Newfangled Phone

    He “butt dials” his son
    every other day,
    accidentally disconnects
    his daughter (at least)
    once a week.

    (His kids think
    he doesn’t know
    what he’s doing.)

    He knows they track
    his whereabouts,
    so he delights in
    unsettling them
    with a little surprise
    now and then.

    Stopped by
    a tattoo parlor
    the Monday past,
    and last month, joined
    a seniors’ dating site
    suggested by a friend.

    Doubling diverting,
    that caused some ado, and
    he met some nice gals too.

    Kids still think
    he doesn’t know
    what he’s doing,
    and he’s OK
    with that.

  10. Matt

    Having your father tell you
    that his cancer had advanced and that his time had become even less
    is no way to start any date.

    But that’s what happened.
    The cancer had advanced.
    And he did tell me half an hour before our second date.

    He Instant Messaged me that little kernel of information.
    I suppose it was the best medium available.
    We weren’t really experienced with that kind of burning emotion.
    I know I cried. I wonder if he had too.
    I’d take electronic tears to tears over the phone any day.
    But he insisted, the date was to proceed.
    He did have a point: What in the hell were him and I gonna do?
    Sit there with our thumbs in our asses, looking at each other?

  11. Carla Cherry

    The Lesson

    My sister and I had mastered most everything else in our lives:
    college/careers/motherhood
    but we both failed our road tests.

    Didn’t matter, with public transportation and Daddy.
    He seldom refused our requests for rides.

    Then he fell at home and couldn’t get up.

    Knew it was getting close when Daddy
    said he couldn’t drive my son and me to his music lessons anymore.
    You’re going to have to get your driver’s license, he said.

    Both his daughters would,
    before multiple myeloma could command his marrow, his bones

    With our road tests coming up,
    Daddy took my sister and out for a drive
    on a sunny autumn Sunday.

    He made me drive first.
    Go straight, he said.
    Make a left turn, then a right.

    We cruised along Allerton Avenue,
    where I used to go to the movies as a teen.

    After Kazimiroff Boulevard, a right,
    and we were on Moshulu Parkway.
    Moshulu. Algonquin for “small stones”.
    Beautiful because of its towering trees.
    Only blocks from my old high school.

    As we approached Henry Hudson Parkway,
    I panicked. Only drove local streets.

    Keep straight, he commanded.
    Daddy, please, I begged.
    But there was no street for me to take a left or right to get off.
    I sped up, as I saw cars behind me advancing.

    Leaned forward in my seat
    gripped the wheel
    clenched my right thigh and calf.

    Found myself driving across the Tappan Zee Bridge.
    Why did it have to be so low,
    so near to the surface of the Hudson River?
    My leg was getting tired, hand tight from my grip on the wheel.

    How much longer, Daddy?
    Keep driving, he said.

    And there I was, going 60, 70 miles per hour,
    Anxious to stop. Leg trembling a little.
    Squinting against the sunlight’s barrage against the windshield.

    We stopped in Newburgh.
    Switched places with my sister.
    It’s been fifteen years since I swore I’d never drive that route again.

    Next month, I will cross the Tappan Zee
    to pick up my niece from college.

    Daddy. Always made me do things I didn’t think I was ready for.
    Taught me everything a father should teach his daughter,
    except how close the hole in my heart that opened the day he died.

  12. pcm

    Whose Ram is Caught by Its Horns in the Thicket?

    Confidence soars in American soil
    —a home never forgotten
    where children grow up near parents
    who grow old happily bickering, basking, whining
    pursue blind bliss
    a golden glimpse of opportunity—

    hours pass recording remember whens
    trophies scrapbooked in home movies
    yet other histories of migration
    unlike milk fetched from the grocery
    recall peril leaving Haran for Canaan
    and demand a hero’s journey
    of displaced civilization

    somehow our species
    must move away from its own barbarity
    regain by some unpronounceable gift
    new residency

    ~ pcm
    @pcmoffatt

  13. JoMae

    SAMSON’S MOTHER – WOMAN OF CONFIDENCE

    Imagine this woman. Married yet childless. An Israelite
    living in the days of the judges – about one thousand years before
    the Angel Gabriel would appear to young Mary, mother of Jesus.
    She is Samson’s Mother, wife of Manoah of the tribe of Dan.

    Although barren, the angel of the LORD came to tell her,
    “…you shall conceive and bear a son.” Then left instructions
    on how to raise her child a nazarite, for “…it is he who shall
    begin to deliver Israel from the hand of the Philistines.”

    In contrast to God’s similar visit to Abraham and Sarah so many
    years before, Manoah was not present. He believes his wife, but
    eager to hear first hand. asks God to “let the man of God whom
    you sent come to us again and teach us what we are to do…”

    So “…the angel of God came again to the woman as she sat in the field…”
    Again alone. This third time, she hurries to find her husband who finally
    gets to ask his burning question. “Now when your words come true,
    what is to be the boy’s rule of life; what is he to do?”

    Manoah is only told to follow the instructions entrusted to his wife.
    They are not repeated for him, although the angel does repeat the
    food and drink his wife has been told to avoid. Then, invited to eat, the
    angel declines but suggests they make a burnt offering to the LORD.

    Manoah prepares a sacrifice of a young goat and a grain offering and as the
    flames rise toward heaven from the altar, their visitor ascends in them and
    disappears – while the man and his wife fall to their faces on the ground.
    “We shall surely die, for we have seen God,” Manoah exclaims!

    While his wife calmly answers, “If the LORD had meant to kill us, he
    would not have accepted a burnt offering and a grain offering at our hands,
    or shown us all these things, or now announced to us such things as these.”
    Such confidence this ancient woman had! Such wisdom.

    I love this Bible story found in Judges 13. I love the strong woman there.
    She has no name, yet is the only one sought out, entrusted with
    instructions for her child and given details about his destiny.
    A woman highly honored with great respect.

    JoMae
    4/27/18
    #aprpad

  14. Cam Yee

    Storyless

    I sense the pressure of the attentive room,
    the eager lean of those who wait
    for my voice to ring out like a poet at court,
    immobilizing the noble
    lords and ladies in a weave of words,
    or like a bard before battle, stirring
    the soon to be spilt blood.

    Eyes closed I sink into imagination,
    to find a land of grey and wasted trees,
    ensorceled by some malevolent power that faded
    every bright point of green, drained every flower
    of yellow, every robin of red, blasted the blue from the sky,
    in horror I flee the emptiness and arrive

    at the edge of a vast and endless sea
    I let the waves take me, deeper I sink in my search,
    darker it turns and the water gets colder,
    careless caress of tentacles, the small sting
    of a transparent thought, disturbance in the current
    as something far larger swims past, leaving me
    tumbled and turned and humbled and hopeless as I tried just to catch its tail
    and failed

    washed up on a glass beach, the sun genuflects
    on its own glory in every grain of sand, and
    I am blind to the diamond light. I do not see
    the way the prism bends and preens around me,
    or the bold arc of the rainbow, or the halos
    of the angels as they sing to me in a language
    I can almost understand

    So blind! So deaf! So dumb!
    I want to beat myself about the head and hope
    that buried words break free
    But I find
    that I am silent

  15. Bruce Niedt

    NaPoWriMo’s prompt is to write a poem inspired by tarot cards. So here is my “story” of a meeting with The Hanging Man.

    The Hanging Man

    I met a man on the road, hanging upside down by his right ankle from a tree.
    “You remind me of a tarot card,” I said.
    “Really?” he replied. “I am not familiar with that.”
    “Are you a martyr or a traitor?” I asked.
    “That depends on who you ask.”
    “Who did this to you?”
    “Oh, I did this on my own free will.
    I might have had a little help.”
    I noticed his free foot was folded
    behind his bound one,
    and his arms were folded behind him.
    “You look triangular,” I said. “Or a cross folded over, like a swastika.”
    “Oh no,” he protested. “A fylfot cross. It had a long history in heraldry,
    before those Nazis got hold of it.”
    “You look like a crucifixion, yet you don’t seem to be suffering.”
    “On the contrary, I’ve had much time for reflection.
    It’s as though I’m hanging between the material and spiritual worlds.”
    “Wow,” I said. “Have you come up with any Great Truths?”
    “I’m still working those out. One thing I know is I won’t die here.”
    Suddenly I noticed something else unusual about him.
    “Did you know that you have a halo?”
    “No, I didn’t. That might just be from all the blood rushing to my head.
    Sometimes I get a doozy of a migraine.
    Hey, you don’t happen to have an extra sandwich
    in that backpack, do you?”

  16. MET

    I wanted some chocolate…
    There was none in the house…
    I ate a bowl of blackberries
    in a bowl of milk….
    I did not want chocolate
    when I was done.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 27, 2018

  17. bethwk

    There once was a girl
    who could sing such a web
    of fractured light
    that the ones who came
    to devour her children
    fell to the ground
    blinded.

    There once was a girl
    who could sing such a veil
    of soft gentle darkness
    that the ones who came
    to harm her beloveds
    lost their way
    and forgot their names.

    There once was a girl
    who could sing such a bridge
    of delicate stories
    that all those she loved
    could cross to safety
    and live free of fear.

    (www.farmpoem.wordpress.com)

  18. jennfel

    Broken Bits

    Where’s the humor
    In a story about
    A little girl
    Dragging bits
    Of broken bike
    Down a long street?

    You’ll have to
    Ask them
    Family members
    Parents, siblings
    Who drag story out
    Year after year, for laughs

    And so, here it is …

    Once upon a time
    A girl of seven
    Loved her first bike
    But loved her
    Little brother
    Even more

    He, at five
    A novice
    On two wheels
    Took off on
    Older brother’s
    Borrowed bike

    She, ever the protector
    Followed closely
    On her own
    Top of hill,
    Sharp sidewalk curve
    Scene of first mishap

    Baby brother
    Lacked turning finesse
    Careened down slope
    Of corner house
    Crashed against stucco
    Grazed knuckles

    Blocks from
    Mother’s comfort
    Offered up her bike
    As consolation
    Urged wailing child
    Toward home

    Boy still too young
    To understand danger
    Took off downhill
    At breakneck speed
    Sharp street curve
    Scene of second mishap

    Baby brother
    Lacked turning finesse
    Careened directly
    Into parked car
    Broke her bike
    Into three pieces

    Blocks from
    Mother’s comfort
    Offered up remaining bike
    As consolation
    Urged wailing child
    Toward home

    Her parting request
    To send someone
    To help bring home
    Broken bits of her bike
    Lost somewhere
    Along the journey

    Two hours later
    A girl of seven
    Seen trudging uphill
    With broken bits
    Of beloved bike
    One piece at a time

    First handlebars
    And front wheel
    Followed by frame
    Crowned with banana seat
    Then rear wheel
    Reflector still dangling

    How many times
    Did she repeat
    The same motions
    Carry one part forward
    Set it down
    Go back for the next?

    Dozens of times
    From what I recall
    Home now yet miles
    From mother’s comfort
    Nothing new
    About that

    Where’s the humor
    In a story about
    A little girl
    Dragging bits
    Of broken bike
    Down a long street?

    I choke out fragments
    Of this story
    To my therapist
    There is no laughter
    Only compassion
    Long overdue

  19. Poetjo

    Behind the Green Door

    It turns out
    that a
    broken
    man
    lived
    behind
    that door,
    that green
    door
    on the
    house
    on the
    corner.

    I’m a
    pretty
    friendly
    guy, and
    he was
    the only
    dad on
    the street
    that I
    I didn’t
    really
    know.

    Thank God,
    because
    if I had
    known
    the man
    who killed
    his family,
    would I
    have known
    he would
    kill his
    family?

    The
    question
    haunts
    me,
    as it
    should.

  20. MichelleMcEwen

    Story Nonet

    once upon a time when he was mine
    the rain was sunshine & money
    grew on trees. we was lazy
    busy making babies—
    imaginary
    ones. it was fun
    & then he
    was gone.
    done.

  21. MET

    The Riddle

    “I gave my love a cherry
    That had no stone…”*

    I loved this man once
    Who made me smile,
    Told me stories
    About traveling for miles….

    “I gave my love a chicken
    That had no bone…”*

    He cooked meals
    With yams and beans…
    Wild honey and bread,
    Telling me what it all means.

    “I gave my love a baby
    Who had no cryin’”*

    Except there were no babies
    Crying or otherwise…
    No promises for tomorrow
    And I promised him likewise.

    “ I gave my love a story
    That has no end…”*

    There we saying goodbye
    On the side of a road.
    He chose to go to the coast.
    I chose a different road.

    “A cherry when it is bloomin’
    It has no stone…
    A chicken when it is pipin’
    It has no bone…
    A baby when it is sleepin’
    It has no cryin’”*

    No promises we made, but
    We walked in bliss
    His tales took me many places
    Just as his sweet kiss.

    “The story that I love you
    It has no end…”*

    Thirty years has passed
    Since we parted friends
    You gave me back myself,
    And my love for that has no ends.

    (*) Traditional song… The Riddle Song

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 27, 2018

    1. MET

      another folk song that I used to sing a lot… it is a great one for rocking little ones to sleep…… there is a better known second verse which has the lines… I gave my love a ring that has no end….. and in the last verse it says… a ring that is rolling has no end… I found the one I used many years ago, and decided I liked this version better…

  22. Connie Peters

    The Rose

    He felt depressed that day.
    Nothing went his way and worse,
    He then began to curse.
    His speech became adverse to all.
    Ashamed, he felt so small.
    He backed against a wall and cried.
    He wished that he had died.
    But he looked up and spied a tot.
    She held a bright green pot.
    He saw what she had brought to him,
    Just dirt that reached the rim.
    With eyes filed to the brim with tears,
    (She only was four years.)
    She smiled and said, “Here’s some dirt.
    And I know you must hurt.
    But just a little squirt, here grows
    A lovely yellow rose.
    And the Lord Jesus knows Your pain
    So His sweet care like rain
    Will make you smile again in love.”
    Then hope came like a dove.
    He thanked the God above, and her.

  23. Smruti

    This little boy

    This little boy
    Loved to play
    With his cars
    And toy animals
    This little boy
    loved to sing
    And talk
    This little boy
    Liked to swing
    And run on grass
    This little boy
    Liked to splash water
    And blow bubbles
    This little boy
    Was always
    Full of fun
    And laughter

  24. tunesmiff

    LAKE LANIER (ALL I CAN REMEMBER)
    G. Smith
    ·–=≠=–·
    It was a crazy time,
    The wildest of weekends.
    Who dropped the dime?
    It was a crazy time;
    We committed no crime,
    And made a few new friends.
    It was a crazy time;
    The wildest of weekends.

  25. MET

    The Smiley Man

    Sara thought she saw the smiley man
    While she was out picking peas…
    Could be so she thought…
    But he did look familiar.

    She sat down and hulled
    The peas for tomorrow
    Her youn’uns were coming.
    Her Katie was bringing her new baby.

    As she hulled the peas
    She thought of her Paw…
    Went off to a war, and
    But the flag came home instead of him.

    She glanced and thought
    There was that smiley man
    Standing by the fence
    He was closer now.

    Sara heard her Ma wail
    As she wrapped herself
    In that flag and rolled about
    Calling out Paw’s name.

    Sara stopped herself lovin’ that day.
    John came and courted her…
    She married him
    Because a woman needed a home.

    Her children came and she rocked them
    Sent them to school clean, and
    Sat up waitin’ for a fever to break…
    She did it out of duty not love.

    She cooked her peas
    Made cornbread not like the yankees
    Coarse and never sweet, but
    Oh.. the best in buttermilk.

    She fried green tomatoes, and
    Sliced a hot pepper,
    Opened a jar of chow-chow
    Made from last summer.

    She said her prayer, and
    There was that smiley man
    Standing on the edge of the porch
    Just a watchin’ her.

    She washed her dishes, and
    Put everything away…
    And laid out the new baby’s gift, and
    Took a nap…

    She looked up and there he was
    The smiley man standing right there
    “Sara,” he said, “it is time to go.”
    She knew him then.

    “Paw I have missed you.”
    “I know you have, but your Maw
    She is waiting as well as John,
    There is nothing left here for you.”

    Sara turned and saw her body
    So still and cold; she turned
    “Paw, I think you are right.
    Nothing left here for me.”

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 27, 2018

    I wrote this as a short story years and years ago… actually my second short story…. But it had little dialog… was more a story of thought and acts… so I turned it into a poem… I still may revive the short story again…

  26. De Jackson

    This here’s the story of a girl.
    (an ovillejo aubade)

    She borrowed light of moon
                too soon
    to hold the stars above
                with love.
    And by the break of dawn,
                she’s gone.
    But in her parting song,
    you’ll find a hidden line
    that holds you just in time.

                Too soon, with love, she’s gone.

    ::

    1. k weber

      i really like how you wove “too soon/with love/she’s gone” into the poem. there are 2 poems here! bonus poem included with every tangled yarn ball (some exclusions may apply).

  27. Angie5804

    Stories

    Oh how I wish
    I had recorded all the stories
    Of my Georgia aunta
    They, being older than Mom,
    Seemed to be the experts
    On just how it was
    I’d sit in the kitchen
    On Saturday mornings
    And listen
    As they argued about which
    House they were living in
    At a certain time
    And who said what
    On a particular day
    Now that Mom is gone
    There is only one left
    To tell the tales
    But her memory slips
    Only bits and pieces remain
    On how I wish
    I had all the stories
    To pass on

  28. CMcGowan

    Turkey Hunting

    First it was just an itch, maybe a tick –

    that bit and pricked an interest.

    Then it was a gun, he had to have

    just the right one, he said.

    Next it was call that yelped

    and gobbled all about the house.

    Finally, the decoys arrived sure

    to attract a feathered flounce.

    Continuing on to four in the morn,

    creeping silently like a mouse.

    Squatting alone, ears and eyes

    trained on the slightest rouse.

    And at last it seemed the sight was

    set, the bird’s head out of the grass.

    But it simply was not meant to be,

    and the turkey had the last laugh.

  29. Eileen S

    April 27, 2018 -story

    Dog Days

    Sultry July afternoon in the
    Land of the Midnight sun at
    the Iditarod training ground.
    Fenced in Alaskan Malamutes
    and Siberian Huskies
    wagging pink tongues, panting.
    They are directed to run hard by
    competitive mushers.

    Sled dog teams of sixteen
    harnessed to an engineless
    all-terrain vehicle
    run grassy obstacle course
    barking ferociously.
    At the end of the practice
    sweating dogs with
    shaggy grey white fur
    matted by the sun
    thirsting for water,
    race to the river
    for much needed
    liquid refreshment.
    They are rounded up
    fed and put back into
    their pens.

    During a cold March week,
    these dogs will run the Iditarod race
    in ice, snow and darkness guided
    by the Dog Star Sirius.

  30. candy

    A Storied Poem

    This poem is a once-upon-
    A time poem
    A ghost of a story poem

    A rather novel kind of poem
    Written in family secrets
    A whodunit mystery to solve poem

    It’s a crime solving, buried
    Treasure, eclectic detective,
    Good vs evil sort of poem

    This poem is a riding off into the sunset,
    All’s well that ends well,
    Happily ever after work of fiction –

    Fini

  31. Asha1000

    How Many Wrongs Do We Need?

    Wrongs – reminds me of rounds,
    fully-formed circles.
    We wanted to be safe
    in a strong brick house, encircled
    by our parents’ warm arms.
    Mother? Father? Where are you?
    It is dark and the forest
    sings the night noises.
    There is no orbed moon
    to light our pebbled path.
    We stumbled onto the gingerbread,
    senses charmed by the scent of cinnamon.
    Contrary to the popular story,
    there was no witch.
    We bounded round and round making arcs –
    like someone was biting into cookies
    or, the dying trajectories of shooting stars.
    We were two wrongs searching
    for the right way home.

    – Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

  32. Linda Voit

    Surprise Ending

    There once was a man from Nantucket
    Who soon would be kicking the bucket
    He took out his list
    And then shook his fist
    Cuz he had no have time for a junket.

    Linda Voit

  33. Ann M

    The Piano

    “After the war ended,
    soon as I could,
    I jumped on a train north.
    It was crowded.
    Full of war weary folks
    hopin’ to start over again
    like me.

    There in the back car
    where he didn’t belong
    was an old plantation man,
    itchin’ for company.

    He be a skinny white man
    with a loose tongue,
    talkin’ a mile a minute.

    He says he lost everythin’
    to Sherman’s Army
    burnin’ and tramplin’
    and lettin’ every slave
    in the South, includin’
    his own, go free.”

    Mr. Washington snaps the reigns
    and the horse and cart
    turn the corner
    with Russell and me
    holding tight.

    “He talk and talk,
    and he all talked out
    and then he asks
    for me to get up out of my seat
    and follow him.”

    “Did you?” asks Russell,
    thumb in mouth. “Were
    you scared?”

    The rain is falling harder.
    I wrap my cape
    over Russell’s head.
    We lean forward
    to hear.

    “‘Course, I don’ want
    to follow no white man
    when I don’ have to no more.”

    “Was he a bad man?”
    asks Russell.

    “Bad and broken, I’d say.”
    Mr. Washington tips his hat
    and rainwater spills out.

    “Then what happened?” I ask.

    “Curiosity got the best of me.
    He takes me to the freight car
    with the suitcases and bags
    and boxes piled high as mountains.”

    I squeeze Russell close
    so he doesn’t fall off the cart
    that’s slipping and sliding
    in the mud.

    “Why, there be the piano.”

    “The piano?” I am surprised.

    “Yes, siree. Ivory and ebony,”
    Mr. Washington shouts over the rain
    falling hard now.

    Russell and I lurch forward
    when the cart stops in front of our house.
    Even though we’re wet as rags,
    neither one of us gets out.

    “Was it your piano?” Russell asks.

    Mr. Washington tips the rainwater
    from his cap again.

    “‘Til this day, I don’t know if
    I ought to be taken’ a piano
    from a slaver but I did.
    Yes, I did.”

    “What happened then?”
    Russell and I ask together.

    “I got that dang piano
    up North, safe and sound.”

    The wet wind blows
    on our backs. Russell
    shivers under my arm.

    “And then I learned myself
    some Johann Sebastian Bach.”

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