Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 251

For today’s prompt, write an elsewhere poem. Maybe elsewhere is a physical place–like Ohio instead of Georgia. Maybe elsewhere is a season–like summer instead of winter. Maybe elsewhere is a state of mind–like happy instead of depressed. Whatever your elsewhere write it today (and through the week).

Here’s my attempt at an elsewhere poem:


Maybe it’s the pralines or mossy oak trees,
maybe the ghost stories and mystery,
or maybe the ocean air covering everything,
but when I get down and out and need a break,
you’re the destination I want to take.


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Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems, which is filled with elsewhere poems (hopefully better than his attempt this morning). If you’re in the neighborhood, check him out in the upcoming months reading and signing books in Seattle (for AWP), Hickory (NC), and Austin (for AIPF). He’s married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helps him keep track of their five little poets. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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122 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 251

  1. veronica_gurlie

    My trip to Atlanta Georgia

    You call it love,
    from the glow, the warm, the sunny kiss,
    the rhythm, the song, the bliss.
    I call it living; peace in the shade
    perfect, except the dangerous highways.

  2. lddillard


    I wanna be cruisin the strip,

    watch the lights blur by on either side

    drivin blind

    not knowin where I’m goin

    just feelin the sensation.

    I wanna be strokin in the ocean

    muscles screaming for oxygen

    salt in my face, goin no place

    but forward.


    out of the place I’m stuck in

    on to a new day, Oh somehow

    lookin for a new way to be


    I wanna be screamin down a mountain

    bitter cold air bitin’ me

    hittin bumps at full throttle

    think I oughta slow down but no

    I gotta keep movin forward.

    If I’m not movin forward

    I’m either standing still or moving back

    That ain’t gonna cut it,

    can’t hack it, gonna crack

    If I’m not moving forward.


    1-10-05…. 4:15 pm

  3. taylor graham


    In the winter park, an empty picnic table
    beside the lake. A picnic draws lightning,
    you say simply, out-of-the-blue. I imagine
    chardonnay – a bottle and two glasses.
    But in this year of drought, the vineyards
    are gnarled and leafless, land laid out
    in dead-calm grandeur of the sober line,
    the dry-pen sketch; unadorned gallery
    of taupe.
    That’s no color at all,
    you say. That’s why we need lightning.
    The lake’s so low. Yet,
    even as you speak, the water starts
    to pulsate from its shallow
    Or is that sky, about to cloud?
    How I want
    to believe your lightning.

  4. LexiFlint

    There is a seaside village
    I can visit in my mind
    anytime I need a break
    from the hustle and bustle of everyday life
    On the shore I hear seagulls
    I feel the warm salty breeze
    against my cheek.
    Walking barefoot
    the cool water splashing my ankles
    the soft wet grainy sand
    squishing between my toes
    Sitting along the edge of the ocean
    watching the sun rise over the crashing waves
    the tide rolling out to lands unknown
    carrying all my anxieties away
    This is the place
    where I can just be me
    not a mom
    not a wife
    not an employee
    as I sit in the sand
    my breathing in rhythm with the ocean waves
    I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving
    into the wind,
    sailing on the wings of the gulls
    out to sea
    following the horizon
    ascending to heaven.
    and God’s waiting ears.

  5. tunesmiff

    When it’s ten degrees below freezin’,
    And the temperature’s still goin’ down,
    And I have to go and thaw out my truck,
    Before headin’ my way into town;
    When the frost is on the pumpkin,
    And the pumpkin’s on the table;
    Then I’m headin’ south to the warmth of the beach,
    Just as soon as I am able.

  6. taylor graham


    This is why man
    is not meant to be immortal
    in this world:
    the world passes him by.
    He becomes extinct while still
    breathing. Awash
    in passwords he couldn’t remember,
    electronic updates that wouldn’t
    update his brain, lost
    in the circuitry – at last he’s
    washed up here, stellenboshed
    to this backwater of field
    and rail fences where he can’t
    do damage to the cause
    of socioeconomicpolitical progress;
    pitching hay and mucking
    out stalls, learning the slow
    intricacies of whickers and neighs; where
    he’s never been happier.

  7. cstewart

    There’s a Wonderful Place Called Tomorrow land
    And It’s Only A Day Away…


    Having been an artist all my life
    I sit and write this poem.
    Thinking why I have not painted lately
    Drawn lately, photographed lately.
    And my mind is in the studio as I
    Walk, talk, and go about my business.
    I view the art space in my mind,
    And it calls to me as it always has,
    To my vocation, my dream, my heart.
    The colors, the line, the space,
    Endure as if I just put them down
    An hour ago.
    Nothing is ever lost,
    Nothing is ever done,
    Time passes by and drags
    A brushstroke of cadmium red #2.

  8. lionetravail

    The Memory Graveyard

    In neglected corners of my mind,
    where cobwebs now cluster thicker than dead memories,
    the foundations of yesterday,
    crumpled and forgotten today,
    lie moldering, unable to support the fancies of tomorrow.

    Yellowed and faded like rotten lace,
    images of
    ancient, abandoned pain
    forgone, forlorn regrets
    once, carefully stockpiled rue
    lie scattered like the massacred corpses of hopes and dreams.

    Half-formed, half-mad ideas lie decomposing on sterile ground,
    hollow whispers soughing through their skeletal remains.

    Those dusty corners, long-untended,
    are cursed with restless ghosts.
    Long hopes that time would sweep them clean
    and exorcise their inexorable denizens,
    are dashed against the need to walk through them, remembering.

    I think I will let all lie fallow,
    as I have not the strength to carry a broom there,
    let alone pay proper respect to unhallowed dead.
    I will take the coward’s path, for now,
    hoping for the courage to scour the forsaken elsewhere and restore it to some sense of order
    when I again have the promise of new memories worth the housekeeping.

  9. EfrainThePoetK1n9

    Yahualica de Gonzales Gallo

    The roosters crow into the morning air and mix with steam
    swirling up towards the rising sun;
    the smell of Nescafe, and morning dew, and burning wood and shouldering coal are rising with the sun.
    I hear the milk truck play the milkman’s call recorded long ago. The butane truck will be here soon.
    The butane man will play his swoon, an unintelligible rhythmic that hasn’t changed since I was three.
    Pyramids made of bricks still smoke from the fires lit to harden them the night before,
    The smell is a sweet intoxicate.
    I love these mornings.
    Atop the hill I see my city. When I was born, here, the city was half the size and then a town.

  10. Glory

    There Goes that Song Again

    how they come and go
    like that old man river’s
    ebb and flow.

    by moonlight I hear its song
    I did it my way
    as it marches on

    becomes you, did you know
    how deep my love
    for you did grow

    kisses, a love so strong
    you keep coming back
    like a song.

  11. PressOn

    (apologies to Harold Arlen and E.Y. “Yip” Harburg (Over the Rainbow)

    Elsewhere, under the daybed,
    way down there,
    there’s some dust that’s just waiting to thrust
    up into the air.

    Elsewhere, up on the mantel,
    dust flies too,
    and sunbeams in their slanting streams
    render it in blue.

    Some say that people come from dust
    and when we die all that dust just
    floats down near;
    if that is so the mortal dust
    surrounding us like carbon rust
    once might have lived here.

    Elsewhere, under the daybed,
    someone comes,
    or goes, under the daybed.
    What, oh what then, gives here?

    If happy little specters fly
    under the daybed,
    where, oh where, will I-I-I-I-?

  12. De Jackson

    Softer Saints

    We stand in shadow, and you bid a quiet
    where to? like some kind of New York cab

    -bie with laryngitis and a penchant for song.
    But it’s been too long since my toes have

    touched unknown ground, and I’m as lost
    as ever, found only in your gaze. We praise

    the moment in front of us, the step we know
    and wait for the next to appear, but not be

    -fore we must swing our feet out as though
    it’s already there. Other lands await and

    we can feel their breeze and smell their salt,
    but we wonder if these soft cocoons contain

    vivid butterflies or fluttered moths struggling
    toward dark. And really, aren’t both miracles?


  13. Connie Peters

    Poetic Discipline

    My mind is elsewhere,
    not on this poem:
    reading a Mary Higgins Clark novel,
    swimming laps in a pool,
    laughing with my sisters,
    walking with my husband,
    in Phoenix with my kids,
    in Alaska riding electric bikes,
    coasting down a mountain in Maui,
    worshiping at church,
    but my body’s in my recliner
    as I tap keys on my laptop
    and look at my screen
    between my cat’s ears.

  14. Jane Shlensky

    Feeding Time

    I fill the feeders; it is cold, a wind driving the chill around.
    The air is hollow, echoes sound, the snow buffers the cardinals.
    I wait to see which bird will be the first: it is a chickadee
    who locates food and sends a call that there is seed for one and all.
    He’s dapper, this one, waistcoat, cap, a little scarf, sweet chipper voice,
    spreading the news, two cents, no more, a breakfast buffet is in store.
    Elsewhere, a hawk sits high atop an oak, his vision keen and bright,
    watching for chipmunks, mice, perhaps, or songbirds chirping in the light.

    1. PressOn

      I enjoyed picturing this. I didn’t even mind the hawk, albeit I hope it was a buteo, not an accipiter. Chickadees are my favorite feeder birds, though you can’t beat a cardinal against the snow.

  15. dford

    Paint by Number Memories

    Each time mother would bring home a paint by number craft, I was elated by its potential. It was as if I were one of the chosen elected to create. The fine, soft-tipped paint brush gently moved amongst the canvas. Each stroke, closer to perfection.

    Although the outcome was clearly displayed atop the box, it didn’t deter. Because somehow mine would be special, a one-of—a kind masterpiece. Unless, or until, the inevitable occurred–someone forgot to close the paint top and reversal was not an option.

    It was going to be my finest, now what I possess is simply incomplete. Though I longed to declare a win; it was not meant to be. I was forced to abandon my brush and canvas, while bowing down, to defeat.

  16. Jane Shlensky


    Hibernation counts on spring, floes turned to flows, alive with yes;
    and so I weather snow and ice and grow attached to barren bark,
    while you, down under on a beach, brave scorching sun, and I am warmed.

  17. deringer1


    I know a wonderful place to go.
    We should all go there–it’s free!

    This exciting place is called Elsewhere.
    Please come go there with me.

    All you need is a comfy chair
    and a good book on your knee.

    It’s like a magic carpet ride
    to other places far and wide,

    to worlds that you’ve not seen before
    where you will never find you’re bored.

    1. Julieann

      So many children miss the “elsewhere” places in a book, what a shame. This, though, is beautiful. You’ve painted a very lovely and comforting picture.

  18. Heather

    awaken the dawn

    she throws her voice in the forest
    little whispers carried across rivers
    tugging at heartstrings,
    earlobes and doldrums.

    she dances in the canopy
    rustling leaves with toes
    stirring sleeping creatures,
    fingering fur and feathers
    until the forest
    drowns out her voice.

    she awakens the dawn
    following the sun,
    affecting the moon
    held elsewhere in the sky.

    Also published at

  19. Cin5456

    Then and There

    There’s a place where sunshine soothes eyes’ florescent ache
    a place where heels are not high in kicked sand
    where hands hold each other forsaking ink and keys

    There’s a time when slow sun supplants revolving hands
    and tiki shadows cast romance on unsuspecting smiles
    when silver glow abides in colorless hedges until pillows

    There ebb and tide keep count of nothing unimportant
    there chuckles and giggles exchange speech unspoken
    there we meet on a special unanticipated someday

  20. NoBlock

    I ponder the idea
    Of a place, a time unlike ours
    Life thriving yes,

    Familiar characters though
    Unseen, unfelt, unheard
    Is it possible, life void of

    Hate, predjudice, fear
    No struggle to overcome
    One another

  21. annell

    Writer’s Digest #251 For today’s prompt, write an elsewhere poem.


    Dark before dawn
    Image creeps
    Into my mind
    Like sand pouring
    From one chamber
    Of the hourglass
    To another
    Keeps the when
    It happened
    Not where
    The hourglass
    Makes no predictions

    A map
    Is needed
    Location finder
    The where
    Takes form
    Into focus
    No windows
    No doors
    No escape

    Chocolate chips
    Gathered into
    My pocket
    Search for answers
    Consult old books
    With tattered covers
    Smell of mold
    Chew the bindings
    Talk with friends
    Old and new

    Everything changes
    In a second
    How much am I
    Willing to give
    I am nowhere
    I am here
    The answers slowly
    Reveal themselves

  22. julie e.


    I held them close, those little babes,
    when other arms could not
    and walked them ‘round in circles
    till the dawn
    I fell in love every time
    and gazed into each face
    and laughed and talked and smiled
    till they went “home”
    sometimes to moms, sometimes to aunts
    and some to strangers who
    held them tight as if born
    of their wombs
    I held you close, my little babes,
    and think of you still now
    wondering where you are,
    and still I pray.

  23. snuzcook

    I opened one eye.
    My clock stared back like a face in the mirror.
    It scolded me with places to be and things to do.
    I closed both eyes, comfy.
    I dreamt of places I could be, things I could do.
    An hour later,
    the clock glared at me again, on the cusp of late.
    I had a choice: be here or be there.
    The clock’s insistent metronome
    Demanded my decision.
    I closed my eyes.

  24. priyajane

    Elsewhere exists for real, in my head
    A phantom, in my opera of life
    Like a shadow tugging me from behind
    Or a floater fluttering from within my lashes
    I haven’t really paid much attention to it
    I just know that it’s there, somewhere
    Just not here, now—

  25. Sara McNulty


    I will not look
    at you, your sadness
    pooling in your eyes.
    I will look at the ocean,
    sun streaking water blue
    to green, to turquoise.
    I will not be pulled
    down into that black
    hole where you choose
    to live, like a mole,
    all pleasure passing
    you by like a ship
    in the night, that might
    have been a lifesaver,
    if you had only reached
    out for it. No. I will look
    in places where beauty
    blooms, faces are soft,
    and life is lived.

  26. seingraham


    Lately, every time I go on-line,
    every time I open a new site,
    or someone posts some new link,
    I really wish I could be anywhere
    but where I am…
    Just…elsewhere, you know?

    There are these photos of obviously
    wealthy men (and if it isn’t obvious by
    their clothes and grooming; they tell you
    in the captions just how very well-off
    these decadent sorts are)…slumped
    recklessly in a canvas-backed chair…
    At first glance, it almost looks as if the
    man with the perfectly coiffed silver hair
    might be just stroking a large male lion…

    But there’s something off about the lion
    And it doesn’t take long to discover
    he’s been skinned, he’s dead —
    and then further reading leads to the
    abysmal fact that he’s just one of many
    that was raised specifically to be “hunted”
    down and slain for this man’s pleasure
    (or another just like him).

    Of course, lions are just one large game
    species that fit the bill for this abhorrent
    practise…and this, this is legal and above
    board…it’s all about the money.
    What isn’t legal but still goes on at an alarming
    rate, is poaching – rhinos, elephants, tigers –
    you name it; if it’s becoming extinct…it’s
    still being poached.
    Of course some animals are already gone,
    hunted or poached into extinction — they’re,
    I guess you could say…already elsewhere.

    Enough of that, on to the next big thing
    in my notifications…
    What’s this? Parents are filing an appeal to
    keep from being put on trial for killing
    their daughter…
    This would be their infant daughter that
    starved to death after being beaten and neglected.
    She was a twin, and her sister narrowly avoided
    the same fate as she was just a tiny bit stronger.
    Her brother, on the other hand, thrived in
    that household.
    I don’t hold any of this against the boy…he’s not
    responsible for the actions of his parents.
    They though, are very much responsible, for everything.
    Every time I hear another development in this
    story, I either want to kill one of them, or both
    Or, as say, I wish to be elsewhere…

    There are many things in my life that make me
    glad I am not anywhere but right here
    But there are those things…there are some…
    Yeah…the elsewhere things…I could write a book.

  27. Cameron Steele

    Not Right Now

    “I know all about it, so you don’t have to shout it
    I’m gonna straighten it out somehow” – “Miss Ohio” by Gillian Welch

    Because when I drive I-75 south
    sash across neck and spiked heel
    on a pedal and the rag-top’s down
    because it’s broken but I’m claiming
    the wind makes me feel sexy.
    All I really wanna do
    is stop at a Steak-and-Shake
    in Lexington or Chattanooga, god, even
    Oak Ridge, pick at the ketchup beneath my
    chipped nails only after I’ve finished
    the cheeseburger and fries
    Mamma told me I shouldn’t eat.
    I didn’t for weeks, did I?
    Crown me with rhinestones, baby,
    and I’ll smile like it’s worth it
    and drive you down south
    in the spring where everyone
    pretends it’s warm and easy.
    They said that about me
    but didn’t look close enough,
    did they, at the goose bumps
    on my arms and the running
    in my eye sockets. Write a
    song about me and call me
    country. Because all the ones about
    the road sound the same.

  28. Julieann

    Without You

    Sun of gold
    Sky of blue
    I am lonesome
    Without you

    Your arms I miss
    Your smile, too
    Tears I shed
    In memory of you

    Love’s as fragile
    As the morning’s dew
    Weeping and misty
    Morning you

    I traveled the globe
    For someone new
    No one I’ve met
    Compares with you

  29. RJ Clarken

    Intelligent Life Elsewhere in the Universe

    “Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us.” ~Bill Watterson, Calvin & Hobbes

    I think intelligence exists,
    not just on earth, but elsewhere, too,
    ‘cause otherwise, heck, we’re alone.

    I get the alien-ish twists,
    but couldn’t they have gotten through
    or is this just some space postpone?

    They’re prob’ly in the Pluto mists,
    especially since we withdrew
    this planet as a planet. (Groan.)

    This ‘uncontacted’ thought persists
    which is my elsewhere world; my view
    of what we call the great unknown.

    I admit this all is knotty.
    Time to beam me up, please, Scotty.


  30. taylor graham


    My gas gauge slipped toward empty
    on the long, deserted, dead-end road. But
    we had a tail-wind. We got there.
    Gas-pump petrified in time. A winter
    wind down bare hills, through the boarded
    town. I hoped for a bit of magic here,
    of mystery – but there wasn’t a soul,
    at least none with a body. In what was left
    of a storefront window, an ancient doll,
    quite dead; and a small, moving
    image. A girl? Then gone. My dog pulled
    me the other way, up winter-bare
    hard into the wind. At hilltop she stopped,
    sniffed, taking in whole histories
    of scent. A shadow passed across
    the opposite hill; a man? Bent against
    wind, in tattered coat the color of earth.
    He beckoned or was it wind in my
    eye, sun-glare? Gone. Winter-sun-sparkle
    like precious metals scattered on dirt
    or buried for the digging. Those whispers
    were wind; they held stories, every
    one with an ending. The road out of town.
    My gas gauge magically not yet empty.

  31. lionetravail

    Business Trip

    The blue of the sky, and green of this land,
    Are not my greens and blues, no.

    Familiar, but alien,
    they approximate those which color my world
    in the way a dreamed romance-
    mysterious, exotic, and evocative-
    pales beside our reality.

    My greens, I am certain, are more emerald,
    and radiant with health and growth.
    My sky- cerulean and vivid-
    is warmer and softer
    than the empty blue above me now.

    It seems that the watercolors of my memory must be sharper,
    more tangible, somehow, than what I see on the palette before me.
    I wonder if it is the work of the artist, this beauty,
    Or, instead, merely the perception of this beholder.

    Or perhaps, instead, it is you,
    so intensely present on the canvas of my mind,
    who gives the blues and greens their definition.

    And, when I am so far away
    this dull sky and these meaningless leaves
    offer no distraction from thoughts of you.

  32. Clae

    Girl from Elsewhere

    She sits alone on the white sand beach
    pristine, isolate, serene.
    Watches the crystal shells wash up
    from a jasmine scented sea.

    She sits alone in a coral garden
    Peach blossoms drift down
    Meet raindrops in the fairy fountain
    Splash softly scented sounds

    Branches droop with oranges,
    star-fruit, apples on the tree
    that grows alone among the coral
    enchanted garden by the sea.

    She sits alone beneath the moonlight
    remembers the nights of elsewhere
    Folds herself deep in a warm salt breeze
    She sits alone among the flowers
    remembers the fires of elsewhere
    wonders if anyone else was freed

  33. julie e.

    I actually wrote this about all the “invisible” illnesses people suffer from, the kind where others tell us, “but you don’t LOOK sick.” Mental, physical, emotional.

    I rise easily
    and s t r e t c h,
    my face to sun
    Then sit
    to tie my shoes and
    since I can,
    go out and run
    I bound
    lighter than the air
    I breathe
    my legs reach long
    the day
    is a melody
    my body
    is the day’s song

    when I close my eyes
    the light
    within me glows
    and free
    of encumbrance
    in my
    body, heart, soul


  34. elishevasmom


    Where do I want to be?
    Not here.
    Just about anywhere
    but here.
    Just somewhere
    where the word
    does not exist.
    Just somewhere
    where that word
    would hold
    no meaning.
    Just about anywhere
    but here.

    Ellen Evans 1.22.14
    an “elsewhere” poem.

  35. Michelle Hed

    Where The Air is Warm

    and the bluebird sings,
    toes caressed by grass.

    A child laughs
    and bubbles float,
    a butterfly on my knee.

    The warmth of sun kissed skin
    and nature’s cologne,
    mingling with the trees.

    Where the air is warm
    and arctic air
    is just a memory.

  36. writinglife16

    Could’ve been elseswhere

    I could have been
    Perhaps at home, watching t.v.
    or pretending to read.
    But I was sitting by his bedside.
    Watching the machines work.
    Beeping and ringing and clanging.

    I could have been
    Sitting at the ball game and
    Eating peanuts.
    But I was sitting by his bedside
    remembering that that was something
    we used to do.

    I could have been
    But I didn’t want to be.

    1. elishevasmom

      My dad was just diagnosed with cancer 3 weeks ago, and they have already brought in hospice. And I can’t get there. I sooo feel for you. with you. I really needed this today. thank you.

      1. PKP

        Beautiful poem. Bravo… My heart is with you all – been there with my father – years ago – At the time a colleague analyst said something about all that I would “learn” during this time – frankly I was quite annoyed and definitely removed myself “elsewhere’ as soon as possible from this person. He turned out to be quite correct – my father taught me how to live and ultimately how to die. I wish you all well at this surreal and all too real time. With love … pearl

  37. bclay

    Different Stars

    If I could type asterisks for asterisms
    and we could be there, any else where,
    underneath a light of different stars,
    in nebulaes and foreign clusters,
    walking barefoot on other worlds or
    on spacestations around black holes,
    all of it would not feel as so lonely,
    as long as we were not apart.

  38. Ann M


    On the state highway
    past Albany,
    we pass the prison,
    a long concrete hull
    in a ring of wire,
    like a ship without sails
    dug into a ledge
    with granite chips.
    It was a mine, cracked open
    and long abandoned,
    you say.
    And you say the prisoners
    are from downstate,
    miles and hours away
    from this forsaken place.
    The buses don’t come here.
    Not for 10 or 20
    or 50 years.
    Not for never.
    I grip the wheel.
    The highway
    rises and swoons
    along vast snowfields,
    beneath a rising moon
    cut from the frozen sky
    and over a river
    rushing under ice,
    glad to be moving,
    moving on.
    I press the gas.
    The pavement is slippery
    and the curves,

  39. PowerUnit

    An old Hot Wheels car lays in the dirt
    Expelled by the thawing ice
    Shot up the track in slow motion
    From its launching a decade and a half ago
    Where he used to play
    Miles of separation
    The physical realities of independence
    Maturity and physical degradation
    His real car is not in much better condition
    But it has tires, and it runs without little hands pushing it
    All I can do is use my words, from afar
    And praise him
    For moving forward
    Down his slippery track

  40. Xandri


    Home, where Home used to be,
    Minute distance from pearly seas.
    Ships pass by day, perhaps by night!
    Fishes shimmer in the Morning Light.
    Touching my sweet soul to jest,
    On the fulsome rise of the robin’s breast.
    That place where in sure peace I find,
    The generous give of my home land.

  41. Nancy Posey


    While you were elsewhere—
    nursing the sick child,
    failing to crank your car,
    stubborn in the cold,
    rolling over for forty winks
    more, trying to snare
    the tail end of your dream,
    we did not sit waiting,
    wondering where you were.
    The repartee witty, talk
    more stimulating
    than caffeine. A song
    playing in the next room,
    might have reminded us
    of you, but no one stopped
    to speak your name
    since you—by choice
    or fate—were elsewhere.

  42. PKP


    Oh Elsewhere
    ring in the clamor
    of castles ….
    sweeping trains
    cross marbled floors
    turrets, banners
    moats and the like
    as one lone princess
    with pounding imprisoned
    passion constrained
    stands above looking
    out to rolling sea and
    ponders all philosophically
    in the vast lands of

  43. PressOn

    NO, NOT ME (Based on Aura Lea)

    When the black cat hunched to spring `neath the willow tree
    wrentit in the tree took wing, singing, “No, not me.
    No, not me; no, not me; you can crouch all day
    till your claws turn to jelly and your fur turns grey.”

    Cat, go flee; cat, go flee; find your prey elsewhere;
    you will eat, but no, not me, that’s my fervent prayer.

    Then the cat looked all around `neath that willow tree
    till he heard a squeaky sound chirping fitfully:
    “No, not me; no, not me; leave us voles alone;
    we are not fair game for thee, and we taste like stone.”

    But the cat said to the vole, “You are quite a treat;
    I will eat most all of thee, save thy dirty feet.”
    Then he launched into the air, toward that wisp of sound
    till he landed gracefully on the barren ground.

    Cat, go flee; cat, go flee; find your prey elsewhere.
    You will eat, but no, not me, Go, and chew on air.

  44. PKP

    Else Where?

    Grass grows always greener
    Romance, riches, lifestyle
    Even dancing more rhythmic
    Some say and still
    Here in delicious contentment
    I snuggle in my burrowed place
    No void I need to elsewhere search to fill


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