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Day 14 Highlights

On Day 14, I asked you to write a poem with the title "This is how (blank) behaves" where you fill in the blank and go from there. Many people wrote about their hearts, their minds, their pets, and two people even wrote about Mr. Monk from that one TV show that I've never seen, though I've always thought it looks very interesting.

Enjoy the highlights.


How Colorado Spring Weather Behaves

This April weather behaves

Like some mysterious stranger

Not willing to let you know

Who he is or what he’s up to.

Or like a naughty kid

Having a temper tantrum

With thunder and lightning one minute,

Sleeping peacefully with sunshine the next,

Then mischievously tricking you into

Thinking it will warm up soon, then it snows.

Or like an over-motherly mother

Telling you to put your sweater on,

The next moment telling you to take it off.

Or like a brooding teenager

All gray clouds one minute, sunshine the next.

Or a flirtatious tease

Urging you to come out and play in the sunshine

When there’s work to be done indoors.

Or like an irritating boss or teacher

Whose mind seems set to spoil your fun when

You try to have a picnic, but the blustery

Wind blows your plates and cups away.

This spring weather behaves like a schizophrenic,

Many personalities all wrapped up into one.

Connie |CoFun77AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


How my Pen behaves

About thirty seconds after I’ve finished staring

at an indistinct spot roughly four feet seven inches from

the end of my nose and twenty million light years from reality my pen starts to move all by itself it seems, a spider-scrawl runs out of control back and forwards across the page faster than my eye can see much faster than my brain can think so I know it’s not me that’s in control and could write anything it could write prose or verse or worse combine the two

in something new that isn’t either and can’t be both cos that’s just wrong and sometimes it makes sense but even then I can’t read a damned thing when it’s finished and it’ll take three times as long to type out as it did to write

sometimes its gets a-musing which is amusing (sometimes) about philosophy and stuff like the meaning of life or Liff (which is a funny little book) like how or why

clever people would put household pets in metaphysical boxes and ask people whether they are in there or not, they should know, it’s like refrigerators

that’s the same thing, light on light off. Sometimes it turns out my pen has penned a stream of drivel and I’m glad it’s not my fault but I am scared that when I next open the fridge

I’ll have just killed somebody’s cat…

Iain D. Kemp |iainAT NOSPAMmovistar dot es


How My Computer Behaves

Like a stubborn child,

my computer won't respond

when I click the mouse.

It's chomping away at

those binary bits, strings

of ones and zeroes

flickering faster than

my fingers can type,

turning on and off

and on again,

while I continue to click,

grind my teeth,

and swear.

Margaret Fieland |infoAT NOSPAMmargaretfieland dot com


How My Left Ear Behaves

It doesn't, never has, there is

no use in trying a hearing aid

or cochlear implant or anything

else exciting science might dream up

because there is no nerve

within to transmit sound

so at concerts and ballgames and

when my husband revs up the

lawnmower motor, I have just

the right one to protect

and pamper, be extra nice to

and avoid damage; but

the "bad ear" gets treated

like a boring party guest.

If I ask you to sit on my

left at dinner one night, it might be

because I want to tune you out.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


How My Genes Behave

Cancer coarses through my bloodline.

And where we all once stood tall-

as anxious and eager as newly

planted trees, reaching out

with tiny arms to be cared for

and lifted up by Mother Nature-

we are now half of who we were.

When I was born I remember light

and life but then the divorce

epidemic struck. All the men fled

to drugs and death and the women

were too young and thin

and could hardly carry

milk in their breasts.

Someone twice-removed died

in the South, falling off a cliff

on a lawnmower. My grandfather was shot

by his ex-wife's new boyfriend. An uncle

tried to live by heart surgery

but then died of disease

in his blood.

The addiction to medication, self-help

and drink caught on early

for depressed cousins and brothers. Some

caught up in a cycle of sobriety

and relapse. Some of them

will die peacefully

in their sleep.

How sickness and the end

of everything

finds us while we are trying

to get through a day

destroys me with anger. But

anger is a disease with which

I refuse to live.

Leigh-Evelyn Martin |leightakescareAT NOSPAMgmail dot com


How Waldorf Salad Behaves

In its creamy bed of mayonnaise and sugar

and lemon juice

The crisp apples bite back at stalks of celery

and walnuts

Crunching with delight the flavors blend

to make a most delectable impression

maeve63 |maeveq63AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


How My Cat Behaves

She naps in the hall

I peek around the wall

She sees me

I duck back and hide

And she comes prancing

Around the corner

To find me;

The excitement

Of a three-year-old

Dancing in her eyes!

Anahbird |anahbirdAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


How My Hips Behave

As I was growing up

I put my hands on my hips

Loved the way the roundness

Would feel

And when the children

were babies

I’d swing them on my hips

Just to hear them squeal

Oh, how my hips


They swell

With each sweet I eat

So I sway them

to tantalize

each man I meet

On future nights

they will cradle

my love to sleep

And during each day

He’ll think of me

rave about, and crave

the way my hips behave.

Carla Cherry |cmcmagiconeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com


How my hands behave

Watching them work

is like discovering

a new species

at the ends

of my arms,

strange and curious,

like some form

of blind sea anemone

escaped from the depths

of the ocean

and attached itself

to my wrists

while I slept.

They seem restless

atop these warm keys,

nervous and twitching

between typing these words,

wanting to curl around

the cold comfort

of a bottle

and the familiar

movement of embracing


Often it seems

as though they move

independent of my mind,

idly twisting a lock of my hair,

scratching an itch

I didn’t realize was there,

bunching into fists

or stretching,

popping knuckles

to relieve the stress

of arthritic over-use,

searching the contents

of my jacket pockets,

tracing the contours

and textures of a Zippo lighter,

wiping the gunk

out of my sleepy eyes,

or digging the extra skin

out of my inflamed ears.

They must love my beard,

for I find them there

most often

tangled in the coarse

black and gray,

massaging the jaw-line

of my stoic face,

probably sick

to death

of having nothing better

to touch.

Jay Sizemore |vader655321AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


How Canadian Geese Behave

Eight thousand feet up.

Fifteen hundred miles a day.

Sixteen hours at a time.

The lead bird takes the brunt of the wind,

making the flock 70% more efficient.

When he tires, another takes his place.

If two flocks meet, there isn’t a standoff

or a board meeting or a coup, they merge

seamlessly and keep on flying.

When a goose is injured, a few comrades

stop flying and stay until it gets better.

They mate for life.

They honk, my pastor says, not to toot

their own horn, but to encourage each another.

He urges us to honk a little more.

Carol Brian |csp2000AT NOSPAMearthlink dot net


How Plastic Wrap Behaves

Like your embarrassing Uncle Mike,

it clings to everything you don't want it to,

especially your fingers.

And no matter how hard you try,

it refuses to hold onto the important things,

lets go, calmly watches them slip

from its grasp.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


How my lusting eyes behave:

Green like grapes cut in half,

forty and flashing they haven’t forgotten

how it felt to gaze

Into blue, brown, hazel pairs.

so on introduction

they move of their own accord

not to lips or face or brown, red, black hair, no hair at all,

but that third finger on the left hand

with its circular symbol of rebuff.

Devon Brenner |devonAT NOSPAMra dot msstate dot edu


How My Memory Behaves

Like aged lovers, too many years together,

we bicker over the details.

I learned long ago you have your faults,

but joined as we are, I can’t grudge them.

We take walks down that proverbial lane

and you dawdle, you lollygag,

you stop to smell a flower that looks familiar

but you won’t tell me the name.

And when I call you to my side

with a question, sometimes

your eyes glint—impish elf!—

and you withhold. Other times,

not so proud, you pull

the answer from a dusty shelf.

But my favorite times are the ones

when you close your eyes, you know

you knew once upon a yesterday,

but can’t for the life of you

recall when. Later, you’ll wake me

from sleep, eager, smiling, to give

the answer to a forgotten question.

We will grow old together—

sit on the swing swaying forward

and back, back and forwards again,

laughing at how much we can’t remember.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com


How the Bird Behaves

I saw a bird go flying,

Flying through the air,

Riding on a morning breeze

Without a single care.

He glided through the sunlight,

Landed on a tree,

Pulled a song out from his heart

And chirped the melody.

I stood beneath the branch,

Admiring him there,

When the happy singing bird

Put droppings on my hair!

Damn, bird!

Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

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