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,
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
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
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;
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
And when the children
I’d swing them on my hips
Just to hear them squeal
Oh, how my hips
With each sweet I eat
So I sway them
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
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
tangled in the coarse
black and gray,
massaging the jaw-line
of my stoic face,
of having nothing better
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!
Linda Hofke |LNSHOFKEAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com