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Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 217

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

I hope to get the next steps for the 2013 April PAD Challenge up either later today or tomorrow, but in the meantime, we’ve somehow landed on a Wednesday already–first day out of the challenge!

For this week’s prompt, write a confused poem. Take it wherever you need to.

Here’s my attempt at a confused poem:

“The End?”

He puts down his pen,
picks it back up,
hesitates

before turning his head toward the window
and saying aloud to the empty room,
“I thought the last poem
was the last poem,”

just as a woman enters the room
hopping on her left foot
and juggling knives

singing the national anthem
while rays of the sun
slant through
the blinds,

and he forgets how
to spell his
own name.

*****

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

202 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 217

  1. THE THREE-FIFTHS COMPROMISE

    … their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole
    Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years,
    and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons.
    The Constitution, Article 1 Section 2

    No wonder it took so long to make of us
    human, intractable creatures a Nation. Money and
    votes, North versus South – complications

    requiring intricate compromises on the long
    and potholed road, from Articles of Confederation
    to Constitution. I’m sure it must be clear

    to scholars, and people who keep, beside
    the headboard, a copy of the Constitution for bedtime
    reading. But it could give an ordinary Person

    a headache. Last night I lay awake,
    puzzling over the notion of being three fifths of
    a Person. It goes against my constitution.

  2. foodpoet says:

    When every day
    is a challenge
    just to get out of bed
    courage is getting up
    putting a work face on
    struggling against me now bosses
    and memory collapse erosion
    so
    I
    Pull
    The covers off
    Today

  3. Alpha1 says:

    You Do

    Missin the sunshine that
    was you now can’t
    imagine what to do since
    you been gone been
    runnin round town tryin
    to hide the frown deep
    down missin
    the sunshine that was
    you now what to do
    so in love with you
    was my everything you
    made my heart sing

  4. Bruce Niedt says:

    An edit and revision:

    Forgetting Rooms

    Sometimes when I go from one room to another
    to get something – say, from the kitchen
    to the basement – I’ll forget what I went there for.
    It’s as though some machine mounted above the door jamb
    scans my brain and wipes it clean of my last thought
    when I pass through the door. Fortunately, it also works
    in reverse, so I can go back to the kitchen
    and remember what I wanted downstairs. But someday
    doubling back may not work, and I may pass
    from room to room and back again, a little more memory
    erased with each doorway I traverse. I may go
    from bathroom to bedroom, dining room to kitchen
    to living room, totally perplexed, and from there
    out the front door, wandering the neighborhood,
    forgetting how to get back to my house, or what day it is,
    or my wife’s name, till the cops pick me up
    in my pajamas and figure out where I live.
    For now, though, I’m relieved to remember,
    as I return to the kitchen, that I went to the basement
    for a can of tomato sauce.

  5. foodpoet says:

    Confusion

    Boxes scrumble clatter grow multiply
    What starts a hoarder down the road to clutterville?
    Is it an encroachment of family saying we have to downsize,
    Here have a table chair and no life.
    Store paper and our Christmas holly and oh do our taxes
    And walk the dog too.
    If I can find the dog, the cat and the left over china, I think
    I will run away ahead of the confusion train hunting me down.

  6. Bruce Niedt says:

    The Forgetting Room

    Sometimes when I go from one room to another
    to get something, say, from the kitchen
    to the basement, I’ll forget what I went there for.
    It’s as though some machine is mounted
    above the door jamb to scan my brain
    and wipe it clean when I pass through the door.
    Fortunately, it also works in reverse,
    so I can go back to the kitchen and remember
    what I wanted downstairs. But someday it may
    not work, and I may pass from room to room
    and back again without remembering what it was
    that I wanted. Then I may go from kitchen
    to living room, totally perplexed, and from there
    out the front door, wandering the neighborhood,
    forgetting how to get back to my house,
    or what day my wife’s name is, till the cops
    pick me up in my pajamas and figure out where I live.
    For now, though, I’m relieved to remember,
    as I return to the kitchen, that I went
    to the basement for a can of tomato sauce.

  7. vxl says:

    M(I)ss Ed and the Opportunity

    begging for it all to give.

    Her mind alive without her
    a twin a twin
    here at the cafe
    lying in his bed.
    Hands full of cotton sheets.
    Her body warm but tight.

    fumbling over a tea cup
    nervous fingers
    bring the heat
    to her lips.

    Cries of pleasure
    call him forward
    to the rocks.
    She leans into
    coy questions
    placing him
    between bangs.
    He cups her neck
    and pulls her forward.
    She has won
    He rises
    without provocation
    dropping money
    onto the table.
    So he goes. but he goes.

    She begs him to stay.
    She begs him to stay.

    She is left

  8. PressOn says:

    CONFUSING SCHEMES

    I’m oft perplexed by rhyming schemes.
    Most letters go to mild extremes,
    like a-b-b-a and b-a-a-b
    but some, it seems, go clear to z.

    They bring to mind my old TV,
    from CNN to BBC;
    its now so bad that all my dreams
    are dreamt in lurid rhyming schemes.

  9. PowerUnit says:

    One Way to Confusion

    We drove straight because the sign leading to our street could not be correct
    Queen street runs one way, towards us
    It is the only street to our left, and we cannot turn on it
    Why the sign?
    I doubt I will ever figure that out

    But we did return that way, back up Queen, back to Hanwell
    The sign led us to believe it was a way to exit the maze
    The traffic ahead all drove to our right, across the river
    But we needed to turn left, up the hill
    Not that it mattered
    Queen ended in a circle and brought us back into the mess of one way streets

  10. AC Leming says:

    Can’ Decide on a title for this one.

    Love is in the Air

    OR

    What part of “Meow” don’t you understand?

    She curves
    the long sinuous line
    of her back under the newly painted
    ladder, fence, chair.
    Earns a white stripe along her dorsum
    and bushy black tail.
    The crowds flee from her,
    afraid if her musky defenses.
    Except for one peppy animal,
    struck dumb with her beautiful stripe,
    wholly focused
    on perpetuating his odiferous species,
    long arduous pursuit follows as he,
    the malodorous Sir Galahad,
    seeks to with the favor
    of the female pussy cat
    running from his fetid embrace.

    • AC Leming says:

      ARGH! TYPO!

      Can’ Decide on a title for this one.

      Love is in the Air

      OR

      What part of “Meow” don’t you understand?

      She curves
      the long sinuous line
      of her back under the newly painted
      ladder, fence, chair.
      Earns a white stripe along her dorsum
      and bushy black tail.
      The crowds flee from her,
      afraid of her musky defenses.
      Except for one peppy animal,
      struck dumb with her beautiful stripe,
      wholly focused
      on perpetuating his odiferous species,
      long arduous pursuit follows as he,
      the malodorous Sir Galahad,
      seeks to win the favor
      of the female pussy cat
      running from his fetid embrace.

  11. julie e. says:

    There seem to be several types of cinquain poetry, this is the main one I’ve tried (i’ve only just started playing with the different forms of poetry.) And I think it’s awesome that the cinquain was invented by a woman named Adelaide Crapsey. THAT is a cool name.

    Confusion
    thoughts muddle
    misunderstanding, puzzling, embarrassing
    thinking in a jumble
    Morning

    • PressOn says:

      That’s why, when I write a 2-4-6-8-2 cinquain, I call it a Crapsey cinquain. It has a bow-and-arrow effect, to my mind, sort of a build-up of tension that’s released in the last line; of course, I have to use words that exploit that form. I also like the form because Adelaide was from Rochester, NY, my home town. Yours makes me think of thoughts before waking up, or, perhaps, thoughts that keep one awake till morning. I’m not sure that’s what you intended, but it speaks that way to me. Nicely done.

    • tonijoell says:

      Isn’t playing fun? Cinquain has become one of my favorite poetic forms. It’s so direct. You can capture so much emotion in such a little nugget of verse. It can be quite a powerful tool. Keep exploring; the variations can be wonderful. Personally, I love the butterfly for the right poem. 2-4-6-8-2-8-6-4-2 When you lay it out it takes the the shape of wings. If you look through the PAD challenge there were many fine cinquain written – some of my favorites by PressOn.

      • julie e. says:

        i shall! Yes, it’s been fun to do this one style but it will be fun to try the others. i notice the style i use is not like the Crapsey style cunquain….

        “Butterfly” is not one i’ve heard of! Hah! i’ll have to try that. i wish everyone would name the style when they write in a certain one, it’s pretty fun to keep learning the new-to-me stuff!

    • Sara McNulty says:

      Never heard morning better described than here. Good one, Julie.

  12. LouiseBilborough says:

    Time curled his fingers around her arm
    while Age gripped the other side
    together frogmarched her forward
    moving faster than she could run

    she stumbled and fell
    but those two soldiers
    know neither pity nor patience
    and they pushed her on
    and on and on and on

    until the lands around were unrecognizable
    and names and faces no longer matched

    It was far too late
    when those unforgiving mercenaries
    loosened their hold
    and left her wandering in strange pastures
    awaiting the arrival of their master

    Death took his time arriving
    but he approached with a smile
    and took her hands in his
    and pressed his tender kiss to her brow

  13. tonijoell says:

    But Which Way do I Go?

    One word marches over my tongue
    to its own baffled cadence. The “w” and “h” shimmy
    between the seams; sink their grappling hooks into my lower lip
    while I spit the “y” into my palm
    like a bloodied tooth.
    I think I swallowed the question mark.
    I won’t utter the word
    until I want the answer.
    For now I prefer your idiotic babbling
    and the shape of a single letter alone
    in my cupped hand.

  14. Sara McNulty says:

    Whirlies

    Strange dizzy sensation
    engulfs my head. I sit
    on my bed, watching
    corners of walls sail up
    and down like elevators,
    mirrors reflect images
    over and over. Red
    digital clock face spins
    around room, repeating
    time on all surfaces.
    First attack of vertigo.

  15. cstewart says:

    Confusion Poem

    Sometimes I want just to lie down and look at the sky
    Other times and at the same time I want to write or make
    Art or go out for tea with a friend, and, at the same time.
    Then I want to talk to someone about it or do not want
    To talk to anyone.
    I want to dress in white and apply for the convent in person,
    And I want to dress in colors and flirt and feel like a woman.
    This is also at the same time. I want to tap dance.
    But then sometimes -
    I want to put a heart around my neck and go fishing.
    With the water and the boat; the sun setting and the soft, far
    off sound of motor boats pulling up to the docks, the ropes being
    Thrown, the wet bathing suits being taken off and hung up
    On the drooping clothesline. Wet skin and wrapped in towels, heading
    For the shower, showering with friends, getting the sand off.
    Pointing to the white, swan pair that swim by far out in the lake.
    The smell Coppertone on my skin. On the cot, not sleeping to the sound
    Of lapping water.

  16. THE POTLUCK QUEEN OF BAKER STREET

    They didn’t call us here for ice cream
    only. Every wake is a mission.
    Let us tramp up the stairs with our items.
    She must have had strong thighs
    to live this high. So many steps.
    Here’s tuna casserole. Petunia-pot
    to swing from a balcony. And grapes.
    Every wake must have angel’s cake.

    She doesn’t need that recipe anymore.
    Too stiff to whip up a meringue.
    Strong arms under the sheet. The crust
    is last, whatever’s left. Have
    we chairs enough? Another helping,
    while you can. Tomorrow never comes.
    Here, I’ll take your plate.
    Every wake must have angel’s cake.

  17. Nancy Posey says:

    In the mood for blank verse today:

    Alta Pauline

    I wake up every morning in this place
    jarred from dreams of more familiar rooms,
    discover once again my lot has changed.
    Four walls surround me, rails around my bed
    keep me from falling, as I’m wont to do.
    Sometimes I still forget that I am old,
    believe my legs will hold me, let me move
    with simple grace and ease, believe I’ll see
    with clear eyes once again. Sometimes I try
    to dredge up names of friends once loved, now gone.
    Sometimes I think I hear “Amazing Grace,
    sung in my mother’s sweet and trembling voice.
    I fear I often call for her, mistake
    the nurses for my sisters, childhood friends.
    Why is it, then, I often can’t recall
    the names of my grown children, where I am
    and why I’m left here in this place alone?
    The birds outside my window seem to know
    I need to hear their songs, to watch their flight,
    reminding me that I once shared that world
    now quite as out of my reach as the moon.

  18. Julieann says:

    Intersection Confusion

    Informational pictorial signs
    At cross intersection
    Do not proceed forward
    Do not back up
    Do not U-turn
    Do not turn left
    Do not turn right

    Which way do I go?

  19. RJ Clarken says:

    A Confusing Lai

    “I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” ~Jack Kerouac

    I’m all confusion.
    Foregone conclusion?
    Guess so.
    Served in profusion,
    without illusion,
    although
    I’ll make allusion
    to this conclusion,
    you know.

    ###

  20. De Jackson says:

    ‘Nother one, here:
    (My muse got confused, and forgot to take the day off.)

    http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2013/05/01/a-pro-and-con-fusion/

  21. nessajay says:

    Decoration

    Before he understood sexual selection
    Charles Darwin hated peacocks
    They confused him

    That tail
    wastes food energy
    drags the ground
    when fleeing the tiger of death

    Not until Darwin saw
    The peahen’s work
    Did he appreciate

    A ruckus of jewels to flare and strut

  22. Life’s Confusing, In’it?

    Two confused young men
    stopped being ordinary and bombed Boston.
    Others, confused by smoke and noise,
    but with clear hearts,
    ran back to try and help.

    When my dear was alive, exhaustion
    thinned my patience;
    love had me hope
    for his swift release. But now …
    Be careful what you pray for.

    In the monsoon season
    weeks of battering rain
    gutted my strong geraniums.
    The weeds, though, flourished.
    Those with glossy leaves I’ll keep.

  23. Rhae says:

    ‘Blank Steps’

    Wait a minute
    What happened?
    Who told you this-
    where’d you get such information?

    What I heard worked my nerves but I didn’t really believe it
    How I received it came fast into my being
    Seeing it for what it is now, well
    Kind of changes every thing.

    Let me contemplate for a moment
    Write the list of pros and cons
    Though its pretty much done falling to one side
    My mind hides not
    None of it is relevant.

    Just wait, wait…let me think.

    ©RhaeSeals2013may’s first
    ©2013ARS

  24. annell says:

    Prompt: A confused poem.

    Confused
    Enter
    Check the clock
    Plenty of time
    To complete a few tasks
    Look up to see
    The hands spin on the clock
    Grab my hat and coat
    No time to waste
    Hello goodbye

    Up early
    A full schedule
    Only to see
    The sun set
    Rather than rise
    Grab my hat and coat
    No time to waste
    Hello goodbye

    Appointment at 11:45
    The hands spin on the clock
    No time to waste
    Grab my hat and coat
    Hello goodbye
    …wrong day

    Pour the tea
    In my coffee cup
    No lemon
    No sugar
    Just a pinch of salt
    No time to sip the day away
    Grab my hat and coat
    Hello goodbye
    No time to waste
    Take a raincheck
    For another day

    Note: Sometime it is hard to tell if we are coming or going. We plan out the day, set goals. Interruptions too numerous to count. The day passes nothing checked off the list.

  25. Jezzie says:

    A Confused ex-Accountant working temporarily in Admin

    Oh my! It is so very confusing
    working on these spreadsheets I’m using,
    some formulae they’ve been abusing,
    and to me it is not at all amusing.

    They know I’m new to this game
    but I will work out the problem just the same,
    and then try to find out who to blame
    for giving the file such a ridiculous name.

    Or maybe I’ll just go with the flow
    and do just what they told me to.
    They won’t find out before I go.
    Do they really need to know?

    How can they work in such confusion
    with umpteen files in great profusion?
    They thought the job was in conclusion,
    but they are suffering from a huge delusion.

    Or is it me?
    Can that be?

    I am past my sell by date,
    I shouldn’t be working in this state
    Who am I to remonstrate?
    Maybe I should abdicate
    before it is too late!

  26. Jane Shlensky says:

    Timing

    The spa resembles summer camp,
    the one he went to as a boy
    where he learned how to snorkel, fish,
    canoe, kayak, build fires, explore.

    Undressing for the indoor pool,
    he dons his flippers and his mask,
    a boy again, excited, glad,
    confusing then and now a tad.

    He frog flaps to the pool prepared
    to leap into the deep, kerplunk,
    until he hears a gasp, a laugh,
    and sees he has forgotten trunks.

    Without a word, he turns around,
    goes back into the changing room,
    puts on his swimmers, smiles assured
    he will forget this very soon.

  27. Confusion

    C haos, craziness, delusion
    O verrule confusion.
    N urture me in Your word,
    F or my thinking is so absurd.
    U nderstanding fleeting
    S ensibilities retreating
    I magination in
    O verdrive. In stress I strive. I
    N eed Your release. So I can live in peace.

  28. Jane Shlensky says:

    Confusion

    Her calligraphic wall hangings seem
    to charm him, the final wisps of ink joining
    airy loss as the old Chinese characters trail
    into a long slow exhalation on rice paper,
    something unnameable expiring.

    She anticipates his feeling, watching him admire it.
    She awaits his questions, his answers.
    At last, when she says, quietly, of what’s written
    there,It’s Confucian, he misunderstands.
    You got that right, he says.

  29. ewdupler says:

    Lost and Confused

    A drought of knowledge leaves me without direction,
    wandering a fruitless desert, with no notion
    of what to do next. I don’t think anyone knows.
    The help I get quenches my thirst with a fire hose.
    Suddenly, my world is flooded with way too much
    so I feel like I’m drowning, but still I can’t touch
    anything that seems like it will show me the way.
    I go on, floating, for at least another day.

  30. Michelle Hed says:

    Not Scared

    I pause …
    hesitating …
    …things forgotten…
    lost…
    just out of reach…

    Where am I?
    Unfamiliar…
    everywhere I look…
    not scared,
    just confused.

    No connections…
    am I lost?
    or are you…
    Who are you?
    …where is…
    hesitation…
    words forgotten,
    no one home.

  31. JRSimmang says:

    My little one swears
    that the sun is growing from
    her tip- toes and heels.

    I can’t find any
    reason to
    tell her otherwise.

  32. dextrousdigits says:

    I worked on Sunday
    so Wednesday is my Thursday
    Yet, it feels like Friday.

    Yesterday I started at 4:45pm
    Today at 10:30am
    Tomorrow at 3:15pm
    Different buildings, different hours
    different days.
    Some days I don’t know
    where I am,, what time it is
    but I do know, I’m going to work.

    The neurologist says if I forget where
    my keys or cell phone are,
    but remember what they are
    and how to use them,
    I don’t have organic brain syndrome,
    I’m just confused.

  33. JRSimmang says:

    How is it that
    heroes never seem to die
    the words I read
    they seem to go on and on
    today,
    until history
    looked different
    makes them into villains
    yesterday?

  34. pmwanken says:

    MAY DAZE

    Life seems a jumble.
    Coming? Going? On? Or off?
    Her nerves all in a bundle

    and emotions, fraying.
    She cannot keep up,
    so she keeps on praying.

    Clarity is what she seeks,
    yet, it’s confusion she finds.
    With prom in a week,

    and his mixed messages, galore,
    she asks, please be clear—is it me?
    Or is it another you adore?

    2013-05-01
    P. Wanken

  35. priyajane says:

    A big thanks to Robert and all. This was my first experience April experience too- learnt a lot.

    TIPTOES OF CONFUSION
    Grey yesterdays of vapor and mist
    Shadows of a memory glitch
    He tiptoes in, imaginary lairs
    Some that echo phantom glares
    They say he is confused – Poor Thing!
    But he is happy, unaware of the swing
    Who are we to discourage that?
    Reality check, not a necessary fact !
    Most of his life he’s lived in a model
    The last few years, he’s abandoned that castle
    He may not know the time of day
    Or who he was, and is today
    The vibrant colors have faded away
    Revealing a white, simple pure ray
    Distortion has cleared a path for his living
    And he breathes in the every days of thanksgiving

  36. MIXED SEASON

    Autumn afternoon after a soaking rain.
    Lawn saturated and soggy, rather boggy,
    sun peeks, a stiff breeze rustles the chameleon foliage,
    in shades of green and gold, orange and crimson,
    brown decay on display. A Farmer’s market,
    stands of fruit and vegetables, harvest yield in balsa
    baskets woven, brimming with squashes, gourds;
    pumpkins abound, apples: Cortland and Mac
    wares and wonderment, me buying what I’m needing,
    and farmers needing me to buy. Barter and trade,
    donuts and cider. Meanwhile, high upon a hay bale,
    the man in red, bearded and jolly, left-handed mitten,
    right hand clutching Indian corn. A cartoon balloon floats:
    “Ho, ho, hold onto your hat for the biggest harvest deals around.

  37. De Jackson says:

    Bein’ Fuddled

    I’m bein’ wildered, bein’ mused.
    feelin’ muddled and confused.

    My plus is non.
    My puzz has led.
    I’m hazy, woozy,
    baf has fled.

    My topsy’s turvy,
    oh, what’s next?
    My dumb’s been founded,
    per my plexed.

    The myst is fied.
    It’s sealed my fate.
    I’m due to
    discombobulate.

    The addles are active.
    Here they come
    to faze my days
    and mox my flum.

    Yep. I’m just a jum
    -bled mess. This de
    is –mented; Never
    -the-less, I think that
    I’ll just stay awhile,
    and sit here with
    a senile smile.

  38. Jane Shlensky says:

    Morning After Blues

    He pulls away, sits up, puts on his pants,
    picks up his shirt and jacket, face as blank
    as snow, and never once looks at her face.

    Something is wrong, so wrong, what circumstance
    has changed him when last night he gladly sank
    into her arms, eradicating space

    between them, claiming her, playful, entranced.
    Somewhere in dreams, a heart fell with a clank
    beginning with an ill-conceived embrace.

    He does not know her now; she sees no chance.
    She speaks softly to him: this is no prank,
    his cold face says. Love’s gone without a trace.

  39. PressOn says:

    AN OLD PACKER RECALLS VINCE LOMBARDI

    With Coach, there never was confusion;
    he never was at loss
    for words to stanch the slightest delusion
    regarding who was boss.

    They say that Coach was autocratic
    and treated us all like cogs,
    but I say he was democratic:
    he treated us all like dogs.

  40. Lindy says:

    Lost Words

    Hey – how did I get here
    and who is that girl
    that keeps adding words
    making me taller?

    Is she my mother?

    They’re beautiful words
    and some of them rhyme -
    I must be gorgeous!
    I’m taking on a rhythm, now…

    Am I a song?

    The new words seem dark,
    maybe I’m sad or angry.
    No, I think I’m just growing up -
    learning a lesson,
    or maybe I’m dreaming…

    Am I her diary page?

    The words have stopped.
    No, wait – she’s changing a few.
    What are those little symbols
    sprinkled all over me?
    They look like jewelry.
    She must really love me!
    Oh, and now she’s scribbling
    a name and some numbers…

    Have I grown old – am I about to die??

    I’m so confused!
    Maybe I’m a poem.
    I think I would like that -
    to be read over and over,
    living forever
    in memory.

  41. Dear Moosehead,
    Don’t ask me! I have no idea! None at all!
    One day they stink, the next they are superb.
    That was definitely the Kuroda & Hafner Show.
    Marvellous! Tell ya something else that confuses me.
    How come I lash out loads of green on trips and pretty
    much anything yer sis and ma want and they still bust
    my cranium with endless griping? Beats me what a fella
    has to do to get a little peace around here.
    So, tonight the Yanks close out the series and rest tomorrow
    in glory before the Athletics get into town.
    Pick ya up at 6 – bring cash, I’m done with funding yer family.

    Yours bewildered but smiling through – yes, smiling, it’s not a grimace!

    Ringo the Howler

  42. Mr. Walker says:

    Confused

    He went through all the stages
    of confusion, one by one

    First there was aural confusion
    where he couldn’t hear his wife

    Then there was olfactory confusion
    where the kitchen garbage
    smelled like rosemary and thyme

    This was followed by visual confusion
    where his underwear strewn about
    looked like the patterns in the carpet

    Tactile confusion led to some behavior
    we can’t discuss at this time

    But when it came to gustatory confusion
    he was most unhappy
    thinking his wife didn’t love him anymore

  43. I apolgise again for the length of this prose – I get an idea and have no real clue at to where it’s going until it gets there!

    The Ever Shifting Kaleidoscope

    It’s my old school, well nearly
    not quite,
    not quite the first hotel I worked in:
    a mixture of both, centuries old,
    stately, majestic, towering over the countryside.
    Imposing its will, it’s presence on all who view it
    on all who enter in – like me…

    …the bang, was it a bang? More like a kerrumph -
    if onomatopoeia permits – followed by the shockwave,
    only a heartbeat later.
    The last heart beat,
    at least I so supposed,
    buried under rubble and debris,
    detritus in all shapes and forms:
    push, pull, struggle – a hand takes mine and pulls me free,
    unharmed for the most part, so it would seem,
    dazed and confused,
    What happened?
    Why is it silent?
    No screams, no sobbing, an eerie hush
    except for these same questions voiced aloud by the few,
    the small party around me.

    The answer is soon forthcoming,
    they are gone,
    they are dead,
    all of them!
    Thousands, they tell me,
    all gone in the blink of an eye.
    We climb and stagger and straddle and mount
    and struggle to be free of this carcase,
    this monumental coffin that is nought but a broken shell
    and I can take no more.
    I fall to my knees and weep uncontrollably,
    inconsolably, sobbing pleading – yes, even praying –
    for it not to be real.
    A hand again, on my shoulder,
    a voice in my ear, a voice that cares,
    a voice I trust and love:
    my long dead, best friend pulls me to my feet and says simply,
    there will be time enough for grief – time enough for love.
    Heinlein? He’s quoting Heinlein!
    And so we leave, we crawl out of the wreckage into the bright, sunlit garden;
    the thick pall of dust and smoke drifting up and away on the spring breeze
    and I turn and look back and…

    …it’s as though it happened centuries before,
    before it might ever have been built.
    The stone work shell stands decaying yet still somehow proud.
    Between the walls and remains of same, the grass is neatly mown,
    it is a shrine to those lost long ago.
    A memory, an echo, a tale to be told on dark winter eves
    and a monument to pilgrim, to celebrate, to remember
    and yet it was…

    …just now, just then, just a short time back over the hurdles
    of my confused and concussed mind, just a step beyond
    the ringing still in my ears of kerrumph and whoosh.

    Thousands had died here, says the guide – only five survived
    (six! It was six, wasn’t it?). No one ever knew if it were the act
    of a madman, a terrorist, a crazed ex-pupil, an act of God.
    A gas leak was blamed he said, but no-one knew …the five could
    not say – would not speak – only shook their heads and looked to
    the earth… the guide continued, but I heard no more as I wandered
    through the ruin, dazed and confused by the kaleidoscope of imagines
    that clouded, crowded, my befuddled mind.

    I sat up in bed, stroking the cat, sipping coffee, smoking a cigarette
    and wondered, puzzled: what was all that? What did it mean? Why
    was my friend there, saving me from death from so far beyond the
    grave? And if they ever find a way to tap into the unexplored mind
    and explain my dreams…

    …the questions will be myriad – why can I neither harm nor be harmed?
    Why can I so often leap, as if to fly, dancing off tree-tops and cliffs?
    Why do I see the dead? Most of all, why do aliens shoot me with stun-guns?
    With annoying regularity! Why do I dream the dreams that haunt and
    frighten and confuse, long into the day and beyond the ever shifting
    kaleidoscope of the night-mind and into a world already fraught and
    far too real.

    Iain

  44. De Jackson says:

    Hey Robert, thank you for another awesome April…and another faithful Wednesday. :) We appreciate you!

    May Day

    May Day! May Day!
    What to do?
    Wait! Write a poem?
    Yes, it’s true.

    May Day! May Day!
    Grab a pen!
    Fingers groan
    as you begin.

    May Day! May Day!
    Sleeping muse.
    What? It’s MAY now.
    So confused.

    May Day! May Day!
    Where to start?
    Wake her up and
    spill your heart.

    .
    Happy MAY writing, gang!

  45. PressOn says:

    THE UMP IS CONFUSED

    When he calls balls and strikes, I won’t get in his hair
    and I won’t shout abuses. Why should I?
    For I know that the poor guy intends to be fair,
    but I wish he would open his good eye.

  46. JWLaviguer says:

    Basic Instincts

    Is it love
    or just lust
    I gotta have her
    just once
    would that be enough
    to quench my thirst for her
    my heart aches
    as a lower, baser need throbs
    but is it love
    that moves me
    or is it the animalistic
    craving
    insatiable yearning
    that needs to be fed?

  47. Willy says:

    I echo Marie Elena’s expressions of gratitude, Robert.
    Thank you.
    You ARE appreciated!
    W

  48. JWLaviguer says:

    Confused scribbles in chalk
    on the blackboard of her mind
    once erased lost forever
    memories of dust floating in the air.

  49. Willy says:

    Snow-based daffodils
    Budding tulips sleep in sleet
    Record highs today

  50. Willy says:

    Snow-based daffodils
    Budding tulips sleep in sleet

  51. PressOn says:

    CORRECTION

    Old Shorty retired in confusion
    when Darcy defused his delusion
    that he was appealing.
    Instead, he went reeling
    back home with a nasty contusion.

  52. Marie Elena says:

    Sometimes no means maybe yes,
    and yes means sometime, maybe.

  53. Marie Elena says:

    HA! Love it, Robert! :D And thanks again for putting so very much effort into yet another PAD challenge. You rock!

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