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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 197

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    For today’s poetry prompt, write an answer poem. That is, imagine a question (or think of a question you’ve been asked recently) and use your poem to answer that question.

    Here’s my attempt:

    “Where are you now?”

    I’m lost in the line
    breaks, creeping among
    the metaphors,
    dancing with reason,
    and trying to capture
    the moment…


    Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer


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    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    181 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 197

    1. Juanita Lewison-Snyder says:

      feral cats
      by juanita lewison-snyder

      where are my feral cats?
      they’re usually here every morning,
      their scared but hungry faces hunkered down at my back door
      knowing food and sympathy need be only minutes away,
      well worth the inconvenience of wind & rain
      and perhaps a touch of humbleness
      to fill these otherwise clean but
      empty bowls.

      © 2012 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    2. tunesmiff says:

      G. Smith (BMI)
      At the far end of the bar,
      Half-watching the playoff game,
      Sits a guy who comes in most nights,
      (I ought to know his name).
      He only orders up a beer;
      He rarely drinks it all,
      And he always nods on his way out,
      As I close up at last call.

      One evening here, I think last week,
      Things were pretty slow;
      So I struck up a conversation,
      Not tryin’ to pry, you know.
      I found out that he lived alone,
      Though that hadn’t always been the case,
      When I asked him what had happened,
      A sad smile crossed his face.

      And he said,
      “This is how you loser her:
      A little at a time,
      Through silly little simple things,
      Without reason; without rhyme.

      Come home late, forget to call,
      Spend Saturdays watching college ball.
      Too much golf; too much fishin’,
      Too much pretending that you listen.
      Nights out with the boys, though you’re not a boozer;
      Follow these steps, and,
      This is how you lose her.”

      Well I screwed up my courage,
      As I unscrewed a cap,
      (He’d rather have a long neck
      Than what I have on tap).
      And I asked if there was anything else,
      That he’d be willing to share;
      Well he looked into his fresh-filled glass,
      And found this answer there.

      He said,
      “This is how you loser her,
      A little at a time,
      Through silly little simple things,
      Without reason; without rhyme.

      Forget to say I love you, or good night,
      Or make up after a nasty fight,
      Or insist that you are always right,
      Or fail to hold her good and tight.
      You don’t have to be an abuser…
      Just follow these steps, and,
      This is how you lose her.

      “The little things become big things,
      And the next thing that you know,
      There’s a tear in her eye as she says good-bye,
      And tells you she must go…

      “Yes, this is how you lose her;
      A little at a time;
      Through silly little simple things,
      Without reason; without rhyme.”

    3. miss josh says:

      “Why Did My Mother Hate Me?”

      Southern Baptist woman
      Married an alcoholic
      Golden girl
      Blonde hair, blue eyes, college bound

      Almost free to divorce
      Back alley abortions
      No choice
      Ugly girl
      Mousey brown hair, brown eyes, disabled
      No divorce

      Freedom achieved

      miss josh emmett
      copyright 2012

    4. Ann M says:

      Why are there so many leaves this year?

      Even with the snowless winter
      and rain-dry spring,
      the trees grew like weeds,
      rooting deeper underground,
      disturbing pipes and pavement,

      In October, the trees’ brown leaves
      are like the specks in my mother’s eyes,
      darkening cloud and sun alike,
      waiting for the chill and day’s wind
      to lay a blanket on us all.

    5. my hearts love songs says:

      fascinating poetry this week!!! wonderful prompt!


      why must we be a world apart?

      how cruel the reality of our existence
      that tore you from my embrace!
      cannot life be kind this once?

      time betrays us, too
      each minute stretching into days
      whilst we endure our forced separation

      what Gods determined that this should be so
      what terrible deed did we commit to offend them
      or could it simply be that they are jealous of our love?

      no matter how long it takes
      i will be waiting for the moment
      when once again i shall be in your arms

      i am forever yours, my Love

    6. Marjory MT says:

      I am just another poet whose ‘commenting tooooooo fast” that is what I am told.
      Guess that my last post (couple days ago) did not post either! :(
      I give it another go.

      IF YOU COULD FLY? Triolet

      If I could but fly upon a wing
      Just to and fro I think I’d go
      Perhaps to fly with birds that sing
      If I could but fly upon a wing
      Then gather treasure to homeward bring
      From lands that no one else can know
      If I could but fly upon a wing
      Just to and fro I think I’d go.

    7. They come
      pouring through
      cracks in consciousness,
      spilling into quiet
      breaking down
      dams of resolve,
      dripping like
      down mossy
      corners at the back
      of my mind.
      They wet
      my hair and leave
      me shivering
      in the middle
      of the night.
      No towel
      can absorb
      their insistence
      until I sit down
      and let them
      flow into
      Where do
      I get them?
      I wish
      I knew.

    8. Robert – I loved your question and idea so much that I “stole” it. :) I was painting on Wednesday and it seemed to fit. Thanks.

      Where are you now?

      Lost in a forest of english ivy
      and burnt sienna
      searching for an owl
      whose shape won’t quite form
      but he watches me with intense eyes
      as I try to sculpt his shape with my brush
      and a bit of autumn brown.

      *****Having a horrible time trying to post – will add my other poem to the same post on the off chance I actually get through. ****

      When will you arrive? (Sonnet)

      When will you arrive mon petit bebe?
      Will your hair be dark or fair as spun gold?
      Blue eyes or brown or something new maybe?
      I long to meet you and in my arms hold.

      The days are longer, the nights ever short
      as you grow and move, keeping me awake;
      Preparing me for when you will hold court
      knowing the life before, I will forsake.

      They say that I glow with inner smiles,
      little lullabies are heard as I hum
      as I sit folding clothes into piles
      dreaming of the little one yet to come.

      For now I sit here rocking my tummy,
      dreaming of the day when I’m your Mummy.

    9. Misky says:


      Fall to pieces, a tumbling heart of cards,
      Nor shall I weep, not a trickle, I’ll
      Dance as you walk away.
      Nor shall I deprive myself
      Of sleep – yet be me
      Saddened, stricken,
      And smutted lowly with grief. No, I’ll
      dance as you walk away.

    10. PKP says:

      ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH so completely frustrated – tried posting comments earlier yesterday afternoon – now find myself at nearly 3AM trying to comment only to meet with the ROBOT-EDITOR (not to be confused with the Robert Editor) and told even when posting in slo-mo that I AM POSTING TOO QUICKLY! Example: I tried posting nine times to one poem before the reply posted! I surrender. Some truly wonderful poems … Yole, Jane, Julie, Sharon, Marie, Dan, Mike, Taylor …actually too many to mention without the ROBOT EDITOR I was looking forward to giving so very many poems their deserved individual praise. Thanks to one and all for this terrific reads! With a surrendered wave – I bid all a goodnight (or goodmorning as the case may be!)

      for a certain 10-week-old puppy

      What’s beyond the doorstep?
      the bamboo-jungle hedge. Beyond
      that, the driveway.

      Don’t turn your back, she’s
      headed at a puppy-trot for who knows
      where. She’s got a wanderlust

      we never taught her.
      Beyond the front-yard fence, the roar
      of traffic. Catch her quick!

      She’s gone already past the edge
      of shrubbery. There’s
      a world out there. She means

      to measure it by puppy-stride
      and eye and nose, to taste it, roll in it;
      to know the shade of redwood,

      poison sumac, tarweed, tamarind;
      to run from one earth’s end
      until its other. To become the wind.

    12. JRSimmang says:

      “How big is the universe?”

      He says to me
      while his blue eyes search the ceiling,
      as if the answer is painted there.
      I don’t have the heart to tell him
      he’s staring at the ceiling
      and the universe is
      swimming just outside of his reach.
      He’s here,
      on my lap,
      in my heart,
      tracing a star
      in the shape of the couch.
      “It’s as big as you can imagine.”
      And I wonder what it was I just said.
      What he can imagine.
      The universe is as big as the
      monsters under his bed,
      the elephants he sees at the zoo,
      the sleeping man
      on the park bench
      we pass every day,
      his smile,
      his mother’s short brown hair,
      and the universe
      changes every day.
      But, how can I say that?
      How can I say that the universe
      is just one short breath
      from being brought to its knees?

      He asks,
      not quite believing his old man.

      “Well, maybe not that big.”
      But I smile,
      and he smiles.
      And I know that tonight
      he will dream of elephants.

    13. SharoninDallas says:

      “How Old Are You?”

      “Old enough, I say.”
      To keep prying thoughts away. . .
      Of course, you can’t tell my age
      All your days are not enough yet
      No comparisons can you make
      Unless I am the one who is fooled
      But I see your days ahead
      I see your young faces now
      Some days I want to strangle you,
      And then I think,
      You are so cute.

    14. Mike Bayles says:

      When Will You Let Me Out?

      I just let you out,
      then you asked me to let you in
      after you took care of business.
      I’ll let you out again
      when I get back
      from what I have to do.
      Remember I have left food
      in your dish.
      So just be good,
      and watch the house.
      Don’t stare out the window at me,
      don’t give me that pathetic look,
      and don’t paw at the glass.
      Okay, I’ll let you out
      once more,
      and I swear
      this will be the last time.

    15. Who Reads Books Anymore?

      Apparently, everyone who has congregated
      on a brisk October day to this downtown festival,
      a four-block party cordoned off and transformed
      to a long promenade stacked with new and used books,
      authors and publishers who proudly display their “babies”,
      on whose front page they will gladly scribble
      their names for posterity. The air is filled
      with poetry and music, pizza and funnel cake,
      and face-painted children careen from curb to curb,
      jumping and clapping to a kid-rock band.
      They bounce up to the displays, wanting this book
      and that book, and their parents mostly oblige.
      Later they tote home bags full of their new prizes,
      each one a new world of letters and pictures
      sandwiched between two covers, souvenirs
      of this tribute to the printed word.

    16. zevd2001 says:

      My body tells me, stay, you need the rest,
      they’ll be forgiving if you explain that it’s
      problematic ambulating , your foot quits,
      on strike, don’t move, yet the very best
      of me resides among this company . . .
      hobbling ably, finding the higher chair
      the therapist poet, gloats, “I think that there
      ought to be something to mitigate the knee,

      the tender muscle above it, all in flames
      the more you ignore it, that tissue tells you how
      abused it is, traveling from distances, and now
      stepping upon it, please respect its claims
      upon you,” He’s right, I know, that they all say
      the body knows what’s good for it. It tells
      you ouch, reminds you as the rash it grows, regales
      upon your skin, do something quick, pray,

      here, my words cannot wait, they must be told,
      they pine inside me, their meanings to enfold
      into the light of day, “Don’t you agree,
      life’s too short to fret over physical pain
      you have to call its bluff . . . to let the mind
      flow into a visceral mode, albeit resigned
      to leave the ache in a corner.” I remain
      listen carefully to the voices as we read
      our lines, wrap around our sorrows, joys,
      what we love, how our healing power employs
      to end the suffering around us. Planting the seed,
      as the deep medicinal roots pull down and reach
      everything alive—life’s isn’t all that short
      as those ancient sages tout. Slowly we court
      whatever is good for our mortality beseech.

      Zev Davis

    17. If you have a moment, hop on over to Poetic Bloomings to catch an interview with P.A.’s own Andrea Heiberg. You’ll be delighted to learn more about her.


    18. DanielAri says:

      By FangO

      and Alice’s artist friend, Kurt, flipped
      and worried a silver dollar the whole time
      we ambled around Manhattan, bumblebeeing
      into art galleries and revolutionary bookstores.
      Coming out of one, Kurt chatted up
      a Texan woman who was picking up her rejected
      charcoal nudes. She was a flat-out nut,
      I reckoned, though Kurt and Alice
      enjoyed splashing in the flow of her quick
      drawl of scandalous international narrative.
      Had she been local, richer and only
      slightly more balanced, Kurt could have
      stacked another possible crash pad
      on the three he has standing by. Spiv,
      that’s a Scrabble word I love. One who
      lives by his or her wits. One day, Kurt,
      your figures will be billboard sized.
      They may as well be, but will you be
      heads up or tails up by then?

    19. I am sorry for the double post. I was fighting the “You’re posting too fast demon.” He won.

    20. nitapita says:

      Great poetry today. Thanks to all of you for sharing. I’m fairly new and learning as I go.

      So, here is mine.

      The Answer

      In my quest for answers about the family tree
      I stumbled upon bewildering history
      Researching my mother’s and my father’s line
      I discovered how closely they intertwine
      My mother’s mom was his grandmother’s sister
      Follow along carefully, it’s a brain twister
      So,they were cousins, and this being the case
      I searched the charts and found my place
      What shocking development did I find?
      Well, it explained much, but blew my mind
      Upon this union of two thusly related
      An interesting kinship had been created
      If one’s Great Great Grandmother
      Is another’s Great Grandmother
      And this is a fact that can’t be disproved
      I’m my own second cousin once removed
      In conclusion the answer is quite clear
      My cousin and I both deserve a beer

    21. Where Do You Get Your Ideas?
      (“. . . if he knew where his poems came from, he would go there and never come back.”—Billy Collins)

      Winding down the reading,
      “Just a couple more poems,”
      we always say—a warning
      or a promise—we open the floor
      for questions. Unnerved
      by silence, someone always asks
      “Where do you get your ideas?”

      Anticipating the question,
      we bite our tongues, knowing
      better than to risk humor,
      to offer insult to anyone
      willing to spend an hour
      or two listening to us read.

      We who wield words
      fail to find the right ones
      to explain how miracles happen
      only as we take out paper,
      sit with pen in hand,
      and believe.

    22. Which Was Better—the Movie or the Book?

      Even reluctant readers know the truth—
      regardless of the book, the film.
      Whole lives fit tucked between the covers
      small enough to carry anywhere,
      capable of painting portraits, landscapes
      in Technicolor on the dull grey matter,
      embroidered in threads of conversation,
      illuminating fears unspoken, thoughts
      invisible on any silver screen.

      The printed word transforms the reader–
      alchemist, conjuror, casting director–
      each encounter singular, each return
      to its pages as fresh as the first time,
      and like a traveler, each reader steps in,
      lives days and years in hours, stopping,
      starting again, retracing steps, unbound
      by time or place, moved as soon
      to unchecked laughter as to tears
      saltier than hot buttered popcorn.

    23. seingraham says:

      Being Admitted

      What? No, I uh, don’t know
      No, no – I can’t, I don’t …
      Yes, I think so, but I don’t …
      No, I haven’t taken too many
      No, I’m not sure … no, wait
      I am, I am … I think, I am
      What? Sorry … what?
      Yes. Yes. I don’t want to feel
      No. No. I’m sorry.
      Maybe – I’m not sure …
      No. No. No.

    24. livvyrose8 says:

      Can you take me to my appointment next Tuesday?

      Give me a minute I’ll check my book
      Let me put you on hold while I have a look
      So far it seems I’m free that day
      But anything can happen it’s so far away
      I’ll give you a yes and jot it down
      Unless something better comes around

    25. Mike Bayles says:

      When will You Let Me out?

      I just let you out,
      then you asked to let you in
      after you take care of business.
      I’ll let you out next
      when I get back
      from what I have to do,
      and remember I have left food
      in your bowl.
      So just be good,
      and watch the house.
      Don’t stare out the window at me,
      don’t give me that pathetic look
      and don’t paw at the glass.
      Okay I’ll let you out
      once more,
      and I swear
      this time will be the last.

    26. Ber says:

      Set me Free?

      Let me in
      giving up his fight
      wanting much more now
      wanting to realise his own light

      He once walked with his head
      held down
      he was never allowed
      to keep it up
      all he did was frown

      Correcting him was what she liked
      to do
      obeying her
      was all
      that he ever knew

      When he realised
      there was so much more to him
      his emtyness and lonelyness
      was discarded in the bin

      Making a place
      in the back of his mind
      now his eyes were open
      how could of he been so blind

      A world full of laughter
      a world full of hope
      making a pathway for him
      his life through a telescope

      Now he was not under it
      but seeing himself for the first time
      knowing he was independant
      and that was just fine

      Her shackles he removed
      and placed them to the side
      his open mind and heart
      were fianally free to glide

      Catching a shadow of himself
      a reflection coming from within
      he was so much stronger now
      his old self left now living

    27. The site is acting up, and so I’m just going to post a few comments here. I hope you poets find them.

      My favorites of the day so far:

      Walt (LOL!!!)
      Laurie (whoa nelly!  )
      Nancy (GREAT voice, SO not your own!)
      Pearls’ “Why?”
      JWLaviguer (amusing take on the prompt)

    28. Sorry, the day got away from me and I have to go pick up my kids or I would be commenting on everyone else’s wonderful work! I will get the hang of this soon. :-)


      Questions I Hear From My Kids

      Can I
      do my homework
      later, have a snack,
      go to my friend’s house, skip
      taking a shower, stay
      up late?

      Can we
      eat out tonight, go
      for a bike ride, see
      a movie, take
      a walk, play
      badminton, buy
      a book, have
      chocolate, stay
      up late?

      Can you
      make breakfast
      for dinner, buy ice
      cream, make cookies,
      wash my socks, make
      soup, bake brownies,
      curl my hair, sign this form,
      get me some water,
      come here, get
      my medicine, let me
      stay up late?

    29. VOYAGER
      a Canzonetta

      Where do we travel in our dreams, when dark
      holds us fast in sleep? Last night I watched you
      caught in a long trajectory – not an arc,
      but aimed past one o’clock through space, a zone
      far beyond anything I’ve named or known.
      I called. You looked back once. And then you flew
      as if each star became your leaping-stone

      beyond the planet-orbits of our sun,
      outbursting telescope and mind. A dream.
      You traveled past the outer star-webs spun
      of time; beyond, extending the short sight
      that’s bound by mortal’s morning, evening, night.
      Did you pass the heliopause, a seam
      among stars unraveling in your flight?

      But this is dream. Tonight I’ll stay awake.
      Walking in the dark, might I sense a star
      is watching with its distant eye? Mistake
      or vision? just imagination? Eye
      of light that seems to gather the on-high
      into its own design; a door ajar;
      a blink. Now look again – the endless sky.

    30. Will someone tell me why I constantly have to log in, even though I am registered on this site?

      Robert, I love your poem for today. Here’s mine:

      How Are You Coping?

      Luring lullabies drift
      as soothing steam
      calling out from my sofa.
      These days, being down
      with a cold provides
      perfect excuse to snuggle
      under a large throw,
      flanked by heat and heart-
      beats of two loyal dogs,
      into closed eyes of escape.

    31. PKP says:

      apologies writing in between (my other hat) working – haven’t had time to read – will look forward to later and what I am sure will be some wonderful questions and answers.

    32. PKP says:

      Who You Lookin At

      Not me
      you ain’t
      cause if you
      you not
      goin be
      seein much-a
      when I
      put ya lights out
      even if ya is
      luggin that Oxy
      no matter ta me
      ya hear me now

    33. claudsy says:

      Do You Need Anything?

      An innocent question
      From one wanting to help;
      An answer buried deep
      Within passages of mind,
      Inside rooms built of heart’s
      Desires and wishes unfulfilled.

      Do I need anything?

      I need regular inspiration,
      Requiring only inner vision.

      I need time to stand still,
      Allowing me to explore all.

      I need adequate will power
      To accomplish all my plans.

      All else requires the help
      Of those with resolutions
      To grant me a world without
      Strife, where humankind lives
      In peace, without want for needs
      Fulfilled that serenity can satisfy.

    34. Jane Shlensky says:

      This question has amused me for 39 years of teaching.

      Did I miss anything when I was absent?

      Don’t be ridiculous.
      When you’re not here,
      we sit around stymied,
      folding class handouts
      into origami animals,
      waiting, wondering
      what You must be doing
      wherever you are,
      missing you.

    35. Unrequited Disturbance says:

      “What do you want to do before you die?”

      Live life as if it were a poem. Appreciate every breath of word and every silence of syllables. Feel the heartfelt, jaw-dropping effects of reading between the lines and make connections of how everything and anything is important. Fall in love with words while slowdancing on top of the world. Then freefall from the skies as if I was Peter Pan reborn into the earth. Just so I can point and laugh in the face of failed fears like HA! Then safely land in my motherland, get blessed by waters of my ancestors knowledge like teardrops on the page. So wherever I am, it is home and promised, “Never forget”. Write every translucent story half-dreamt and publish like a maniac. Learn to swim in the flow of my own beat, treading against the waters. Swim through tsunamis of scribbles with no resolutions and find the anime colors of truth. Once I memorize my piece, jump up the biggest stage as one of my city’s finest and put up my soul of art for judgement. Chase my dreams of abstract spirituality rather than flammable papers. Love with as much knowledge of the word as I possibly can. Finally, at the end of my days, let go of tired habits and heartaches and move on today.

    36. Jane Shlensky says:

      Holding Pattern

      “Can you hold?”
      “I can’t–“ I’m on hold.
      Time passes
      to muzak
      throbbing in my burning ears,
      thinking “will” not “can”.

      Answers slash
      through my mind as I
      hold my phone,
      tongue, temper,
      my head in my hands, waiting,
      life reduced to breath.

    37. JWLaviguer says:

      “Stating the Obvious”

      You guys playing cards?
      Shuffling, dealing, ignoring.
      Really? Can’t think of anything
      better to break the ice?

      Did that hurt?
      No I just like bleeding and crying.
      And this bone sticking out of my arm
      is just preparation for Halloween.

      There are no stupid questions.
      Just stupid people.

    38. Marianv says:


      Yes, we are John is just so delighted
      That we are having a big family because
      We have all this room here for them to run
      Around and the woods and the big pond
      And hills for sledding, John and I still
      Love to do that outdoor kind of stuff, too
      We have the gardens and the chickens and
      Dogs and cats,

      Now that we have indoor plumbing, I bought
      an automatic washing machine and I’m
      Looking for a second hand clothes dryer, though
      I do like to hang things outside when it’s nice.
      Of course I still sew all the girls’ clothes
      – yes, they like blue jeans, too. Naturally
      the Sisters insist all the girls wear dresses.
      Oh yes, I agree, sainthood should be granted
      To who-ever it was invented permanent press.
      We do have life so much easier than our mothers.

      Isn’t it wonderful? Kennedy will be even better
      Than Roosevelt. He’s one of us. Now, if they
      Can just get those communists out of Viet Nam –
      Oh, JoEllen’s boy is going over there? That’s
      Terrible. Yes, of course we’ll pray. With Kennedy
      As president, we should have peace over there by
      Next spring, don’t you think?

    39. PKP says:

      Why can’t you freeze little ones for just a little while longer

      When they throw their velvet arms around your neck
      fall on the floor at your jokes
      and laugh with the mystical chimes of angel bells
      in every Wonderful Life combined
      When you inhale the perfume of their skin and
      swoon with a primal intoxication
      Well it just goes on
      and that is why
      If you could stay the unspooling
      of the irrevocable ribbon of time
      you would

    40. PKP says:

      Why did they never return?

      I remember them
      When I used to walk to
      Work with you
      We looked up
      I leaned against your
      Thighs so I wouldn’t fall
      Over and we laughed and
      I was so little I thought
      That they touched the
      Sky and believed you
      When you told me that
      They went on a vacation
      That smoky day on the way
      To preschool when they were gone
      And your eyes teared

    41. PKP says:


      I cleaned the kitchen
      even the crumbs between
      the grout
      that was so annoying
      last week when I promised
      remember? I promised on
      my knees to you
      that I would never be so
      disgusting again and get
      you so angry
      so why?
      Everything is clean
      the laundry is done
      and the towels folded
      the way they should be
      not the way I did by mistake
      so why?
      and I even have on the
      red lace thing that you
      bought underneath
      my shirt
      and I am trying
      hard not to let
      a single drop of
      dripping blood
      stain it
      I’m sorry I asked
      Because I know
      how much you
      love me and that
      there must
      must be
      a reason
      that I’m just
      too stupid to

    42. PowerUnit says:

      It’s about a journey,
      you know, sort of an epic
      but nobody dies, gets raped, or shot.
      There are no heroes.
      It’s about politics,
      sort of a Lone Rider in an RV
      but through the politically charged landscape.
      It’s hard to explain, but in one word:
      It’s about people,
      people helping people,
      people not helping people,
      and people bumping into people,
      sort of a pin-ball game with human emotions,
      frailty, and empathy.
      It’s about love.
      Of course it’s about love.
      Aren’t all novels about love?
      And Canada.
      It paints an inescapable inscape of this
      great white northern
      boggy, tree filled, rock heap.
      It’s also about art,
      not the money of art,
      or the wonderfulness of art,
      but more of the philosophy of art,
      sort of an Art of Painting Easel Maintenance.
      It’s a story of questions
      to ask yourself while trying to sleep
      or trying to wash the night’s earthy sweats off in your shower.
      It’s a story that will make you say hmmm,
      and scratch your chin.

    43. Kayfay says:

      When Will I See You Again?
      At another class reunion Ten years down the road
      Unless luck would have it her way and we meet again by chance
      we can keep pace with technology, FB, MySpace, WebCam
      Until then.

    44. You Talkin’ to Me?

      Yeah, you, mutterin under your breath over there
      like nobody’s listenin, like you’re the only guy
      in the whole wide world
      not havin a nice day

      If you got somethin to say to me, say it, Buddy
      Don’t get all mealyimouthed
      just ‘cause I’m makin eye contact

      You and me’s gonna hafta ride this bus
      all the way to the end o’ the line
      and all I want’s a little quiet
      so’s I can read a little

      If you find it funny, me, a grown man readin
      a real book, not some computer screen book–
      and not porno either—I see ya laughin–
      but a story, a good one

      Just shut your yap and keep your eyes
      on your own newspaper
      or cellphone
      or iPad or iPad,
      your toy-of-the week.

      I paid the same fare you did for this ride
      and I’ll cry if I want to.
      What’s it to ya?

    45. Are you a Poet?

      Without a doubt I do indeed
      Know that somewhere deep in me
      A poet hides and can’t be seen
      Hoping someday to be set free

      I hide and live in fear and doubt
      Afraid my poems might bomb out
      My words it seems are never right
      Yet my quill insists on taking flight

      It flutters and flaps and jumps about
      Filling my scroll with words of prose
      Spilling my ink and letting it flow
      Yet mellifluous it’s not this much I know

      Without a doubt I do indeed
      Know that somewhere deep in me
      A poet hides and can’t be seen
      Hoping that someday I’ll be set free

      Without a doubt I am indeed
      A poet that needs to be set free
      With words of prose across my scroll
      I hope to take you sailing with me

    46. RJ Clarken says:

      Do You Want to Supercize?

      I steered my car up to the mic.
      The squawk-box rasped: “What wouldja like?”
      I said, “A burger, coke and fries.”
      The voice replied, “K. Supercize?”

      “No. A ‘small’, please,” I insisted,
      even though ‘small’ was not listed.
      Just big or bigger, they advise.
      The voice replied, “K. Supercize?”

      I rolled my eyes. “I told you: small.
      I don’t want big, huge, grandé, tall.
      And also, please, now skip the fries.”
      The voice replied, “K. Supercize?”

      I cried into the mic, “A SMALL!
      Petite. Or tiny. Wee. That’s all.
      But you know what? Think I’ll revise.”
      The voice replied, “K. Supercize?”

      I screamed, “You dolt! Yeah, here’s the deal –
      Forget my food. Don’t want your meal.”
      As I drove off, to my surprise
      I heard the voice. “K. Supercize?”


    47. Yolee says:

      What is your Fear?

      That my field of dreams will become
      desolate as a frostbitten bleacher; dark
      as a gambler’s obsession; that their seed
      will not shake the ground, push thru
      earth; the quarter moon of fancy thoughts
      will recede in shadows as if they were hermits
      coming undone; that calla lilies will appear
      with backless dresses, and no one will
      perceive their simple beauty.

    48. Where You Been Lately?

      Out and about
      Doin’ what I do
      Helping people cope
      With disasters

      Just got back
      A month on the road
      Seen the Big Easy
      Followed Isaac

      People hurting
      Flood, wind, rain
      Losses to be adjusted
      Some total

      Did my thing
      Held a lot of hands
      Even made some smile

    49. Impromptu

      I’m so glad you asked me that, Dale,
      and if I may, I would like to say that
      tonight somewhere in lower Vermont
      is a little boy named Timmy, whose
      parents are exactly the kind of
      person I would want to meet after
      I had sat down on my first day
      in office, people who know
      how hard it is to be upset and
      in need – and we would have
      a beer and a plan for everything,
      and to be honest, a new day for America.
      Someday, Timmy will be older,
      and we have to give him the chance
      to do that, be older – just like Ethel,
      sitting up there in the balcony tonight
      next to my lovely wife and daughter.
      And make no mistake, it will take
      sacrifice, and great vigilance, just like
      the founders would have expected,
      and I will lead us in changing many
      things, important things, which is why
      I am different than my opponent,
      and I am not gritting my teeth, and
      my body language is warm but firm
      and I am very, very focused in a
      folksy kind of way, and I will not
      touch my nose, nor will I think about
      you-know-what AT ALL for the
      next ninety minutes, just in case
      and may I just conclude by saying:
      Thank you.

    50. Up?

      Baby blues, gleaming
      Chubby arms, reaching
      Dimpled smile, charming

      My response?
      Need you ask?

    51. Domino says:

      Just Answer the Question

      1 or 2?
      A or B?
      In or Out?
      On or Off?
      Yes or No?
      Hit or Miss?
      Wet or Dry?
      Pale or Tan?
      Pass or Fail?
      Live or Die?
      Hot or Cold?
      Rent or Buy?
      Land or Sea?
      Up or Down?
      Win or Lose?
      Rich or Poor?
      Love or Hate?
      Day or Night?
      Give or Take?
      Laugh or Cry?
      Work or Play?
      Sun or Shade?
      Jazz or Blues?
      War or Peace?
      Happy or Sad?
      Coffee or Tea?
      Young or Old?
      Coke or Pepsi?
      Soup or Salad?
      Dead or Alive?
      Lost or Found?
      Vice or Virtue?
      Dusk or Dawn?
      Fact or Fiction?
      North or South?
      Black or White?
      Try or Give Up?
      Knit or Crochet?
      Open or Closed?
      Better or Worse?
      Fight or Give In?
      Hero or Coward?
      Grass or Garden?

      Hope or Despair?
      Noise or Silence?
      Lunch or Dinner?
      Tough or Tender?
      Always or Never?
      Holiday or Work?
      Awake or Asleep?
      Entree or Combo?
      Common or Rare?
      Dressed or Naked?
      Interesting or Dull?
      Car or Motorcycle?
      Formal or Informal?
      Brave or Frightened?
      At Home or Abroad?
      Breakfast or Brunch?
      Locked or Unlocked?
      Pancakes or Waffles?
      Talk Radio or Music?
      Chocolate or Vanilla?
      Compact or Mid-size?
      Arrivals or Departures?
      Fiction or Non-Fiction?
      Sweet or Unsweetened?
      Half-Empty or Half-Full?
      Come In or Do Not Disturb?
      Condominium or Apartment?
      Morning Person or Night Owl?
      Upside-down or Right-side-up?
      Clockwise or Counterclockwise?

      Diana Terrill Clark

    52. elishevasmom says:

      “Who do you think you are,anyway?”

      I am not a victim.
      I have taken control of
      my own life.

      My life could never
      give me better than
      what I had given.

      What we did share was fear
      and doubt
      and whirling dervish moods

      not knowing
      where I was going
      or how I got there

      or what
      or whom I
      left in my wake.

      And that life
      left me victim
      to myself.

      Foundations for the
      House of False Bravado
      finally collapsed.

      And I crawled out of
      the rubble. I guess
      that makes me a

      And so I shook
      off all the victim dust,

      picking up
      useful pieces as I went,
      carefully choosing

      the only ones to
      help make this new house
      strong and true.

      This is my house for
      me and my life.
      And for my friends.

      Friends. Nice word.
      Never used it

      This new house has
      no room for victims—found
      out they need help—alright

      but they can’t pay
      their way.
      Or mine.

      And survivors, they
      are victims’ second cousins,
      the lucky ones.

      At least they made it.
      But there’s no room for them

      But there are plenty of rooms
      for peace,
      and comfort,

      and I can add on more
      rooms for friends
      (I kind of like that word)

      anytime I choose.
      So, that’s who I think
      I am.

      Who do you
      I am?

    53. ChristineA says:

      My Ifs, Ands and Buts

      I know I should and
      I’ve dreamed I would
      I’m scared of failing so
      I sit here wailing
      I know if I pass
      My regret will amass, even
      I commit, are
      my fingers 50K fit?

      Back to the question you’re asking about
      (Will I do NaNoWriMo?)
      The jury’s still out.

    54. WHY WAIT?

      There you are
      with that look
      of rapture
      in your eye.

      I know
      the calm comes
      before you
      throw me on the bed
      and rattle my appetite.

      Why wait?

    55. De Jackson says:

      How now, brown cow?

             (for the money)
           (if by land)

          (for the show)
                        (if by sea)

             (to get ready)
      reasons I should not call you:



    56. julie e. says:


      Is there a point
      to these words that keep circling
      around my head like so many flies
      is there a point
      to the words you are spewing
      verbal incontinence on my new shirt
      is there a point
      if there is, just please grab it
      show it to me before I lose hope
      perhaps you can’t see
      my face, eyes glazed over
      your words dripping off me
      flattening my hair
      and frankly, my dear,
      I don’t care.

    57. How Was Your Trip?

      Short answer. Fine, I had a wonderful time.
      I’ll leave out the parts about the flight delay,
      the deep conversation with a nephew,
      doing dishes for three hours after a family supper,
      helping a nervous mother of the groom
      by preventing her tags from showing,
      attending an outdoor wedding with
      PJs under my dress to keep warm,
      watching my nephew and bride exchange I dos,
      dancing for the first time in a long while
      to Monster Mash and I Believe in Miracles,
      pinching myself to stay awake at church,
      seeing my sister cry ten months
      after her husband died, going to Taken Two
      with my sisters and brother-in-law,
      stuffing myself with pizza and lasagna,
      breakfasting with a friend I hadn’t seen for thirty years,
      meeting my sister’s friend and her dogs,
      helping sisters and nieces clean out a farm house,
      eating some kind of thing with green stuff,
      playing Canasta and Scrabble half asleep,
      being adopted by a cat and chased by a goat,
      sitting by a frightened teenager on flight home,
      getting enthusiastic greetings from my family.
      So, fine thank you, had a wonderful trip.

    58. Michael Grove says:

      The answer is always:

      I Love You

      If I said I love you
      a hundred thousand times,
      if I wrote I love you
      in romantic rhyming lines,
      if I sang I love you
      in somewhat melodic verse,
      if I showed I love you
      for better and for worse,
      then you’d see I love you
      with the give and the take,
      then you’d dream I love you
      as you sleep and you awake,
      then you’d feel I love you
      throughout joy and without sorrow,
      then you’d know I love you
      like there is no tomorrow.

      By Michael Grove

    59. Domino says:

      How Are You?

      Everyone says “good,”
      whether they really are
      or not,
      or “fine, just fine.”

      And sometimes when I say
      fine or good or whatever
      I say
      I am not really fine,
      I am more
      or less
      or a combination of things
      all at once
      that cannot really be
      answered in a single word,
      not in a sentence,
      nor a poem,
      nor even a novel
      at times.

      So I say, “Fine,
      I’m fine, thank you.
      And you?”

      Diana Terrill Clark

    60. YES!

      Do you wanna, huh?
      I mean, no one is around and
      it won’t take long.
      We can…you know,
      do it in a couple rooms.
      We can get behind the couch,
      and in the kitchen if you wanna.
      And of course the bedroom.
      We haven’t done the bedroom in a while.
      So…do you wanna? Yes!
      I’ll do the trim and you
      can follow behind with the roller.
      Painting goes faster that way.

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