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Day 2 Highlights

As you may remember, the Day 2 prompt asked poets to put themselves in someone (or something) else's skin. What great responses this prompt produced!

Before I share the poems that most caught my attention, I want to share some patterns I noticed. For instance, poets became dogs in about every 3rd or 4th poem. Sylvia Plath was the most popular poet to be channeled. Of the inanimate objects, cell phones dominated. Some interesting subjects included a revolving door, hotel mattress, and hybrid car.


Computer Keyboard

must be morning

here she comes



all day


the sound of the phone

brings respite

5 minutes


I’ll take it

oh God

not the peanut shells

every day

peanut shells

until I can’t move

upside down

her hands crashing me

on the desk


and over

until the shells are gone

pineapple juice

peanut shells

salt from pretzels

pieces of sandwich

drops of soda

why can’t she see me?

why doesn’t she care?

when will it end?

jane |wordscribblerAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


discarded paper

meant for greatness

from the second highest tree fell

years spent gathering dust on the shelf

amongst lesser paper

from lesser trees

he brought me home

put me in a warm place

ink seeped into my fiber

once, twice, three times the ball of the pen found me

neglected once more

setinto a dark case

dust gathers

it is cold

strange hands my temporary rescue

once again warmth


sudden pain

fibers broken

crumpled i fall

once again amongst lesser paper

from lesser trees

tim |timputnamAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


Sylvia Plath

In the darkness,

And under the stairs,

I smell the firm

Dry earth

Beneath me,

Comforting, that dank

Strong scent

Wafting through me

As I attempt

To still myself

In silence,

Block out

The world at large.

My little hiding place,

A hush to keep me warm,

I will stay here,

Only a little while,

Make shadows in the dark,

Whisper my litanies

To a future me unsung.

I’m a little girl,

Mean and grey,

A monster miasma

Waiting to burst

Into rain.

Kevin |kevintcraigAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


Bouncy Ball

Whee! Bouncing up, up, up

Falling down, down, down

My rubber flattens slightly

when I reach the ground

and then I am up again

Soaring, flying, racing

The air swooshing past my sides

The ground retreating, retreating

then coming back again

The air is fresh and new and clear

The ground propels me upward

I could do it again and again

all day long

Tonya Root |booklet dot geoAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


Dad's Old Brown Sweater

Don't hate me because he would rather be close to me than you

I smell like him, cigarettes, whiskey, and maraschino cherries

and anything else he has eaten in the past month

He likes the temp at 65 in the winter

makes him feel like he's saving money

he likes the feel of me around him

like his blanket when he was a baby with a bottle

when he had a brother and a father

before they left him alone and untethered

We like it when you tease us about how close we are

"you love that sweater more than me!" you shout

it's true, it's so true but he can't tell you

you would not understand

Last night he we fell asleep together on the couch

he dreamt of a long walk on the beach with Cordy

fetching sticks

you were there too

in the distance waving

at least I think it was you

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com



you like the way

i swivel wax

against my hips: my hula

hooping coyly against

a needle

the vinyl swirls

in a whir of autumnal

sounds; crackle

of leaves, cool

wind, and lovers

under thunder

and covers

i sing the blues

and bring back

jazz, memories

of faraway throats

and fuel

the dance

be careful

oh yes

be sweet

because, sometimes

my birdsong

is noise

and static

and when you

least expect

a chalkboard

shriek; i


k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


Holly Golightly

A chocolate croissant

and coffee in front

of a storefront window

in the morning

before all the feathers

fall around at night.

In the morning

knowing the cat

is around here somewhere

and seeing the neighbors

through thick eyelashes

and thin hangovers.

Oh to be somebody's Tomato

and have a cab waiting

so long for me in the rain

just as darlings turn to dusk.

Golda Fried |goldafriedAT NOSPAMgmail dot com



Today I can be anything.

I have chosen to be cold, metal, hollow.

Smeared with fingerprints,

passed from hand to hand

on a wave of sweat, motor oil,

and gas mileage calculations.

Shaken-up soda, sprayed everywhere

in the exuberant celebration

that belongs more

to eight-year-old boys

than full-grown men,

drips down my smooth sides.

First place, he grasps me with warm hands,

hoists me up, plants a kiss

on my shiny face, reflecting his own.

He raises me over his head.

I am afraid of heights, I want to say.

Kiss me again.

Sarah |MusicToKnitToAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


Cell Phone

I'm tired!

My buttons feels bruised

by constant finger pressing;

I am loaded with images I'd rather not see--

The scary one of your cat

with laser beam eyes;

The one you sent you boyfriend

when he was out of town. . .

well, we won't go there!

Full to overflowing with texted words--


I have two letters for you sweetie. . .

But, we won't go there either.

Annoying ring tones--

My God what kind of hip-hop

rap crap is that?

All I ask for is one day off--

no calls, no texting, no photos,

don't even put me on vibrate,

(It may feel good to you, but

does nothing for me)

One day. . .

just let me. . .


Terri |ttlmtAT NOSPAMaim dot com


Sunday Morning Crossword Puzzle Not Yet Solved

It's all been a blank until now,

A few bits here and there

to piece together a coherent whole.

I'm open to your questions

I'm willing to take suggestions.

Yet I feel boxed in somehow...

When at last I reach daylight

morning sun warming my bones

the smell of good coffee nearby

with a good snap of the page

and the soft folds until am

the only one you desire--

Then I will be a slave to your gaze

for as long as it takes,

at least until your coffee runs out

and I am left, drunk with words

and yet so easily discarded.

Elizabeth Keggi |lilyclarissaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


Cell Phone

I hear you laugh

I hear you cry

Can you hear me now?

Hello? Hello?

You yell at me,

drop me repeatedly,

and you wonder why your signal was lost


Mee* me a* ***

You're breaking up on me

Run over,


drowned in the washing machine...

Use me,

break me,

replace me

And yet you feel empty

when I'm not with you

And you never leave home without me.

Cari |nyscarebearmassAT NOSPAMaol dot com


Wearing My Sister's Dress

The times I feel at my best

I'm wearing my big sister's dress

she's everything I'm not

I'm the sister that time forgot

She's wild and crazy and fun

I see a cute guy and I run

In her dress I don't have to be me

yet I still can't see what she sees

I try but the dress has not spell

to make me the popular belle

So I'll spend another saturday night

in my sister's dress, no man in sight

Diana |laydedeeAT NOSPAMgmail dot com



Every day we have to

say I plejallejens and then

sing yankeedoodle.

Our teacher makes us sit

on the hard floor

but she gets to sit

on a fluffy chair with

rolly wheels.

She tells us to write

when we want to draw.

Then we count to a hundred

and it takes so so long.

Renee Goularte |share2learnAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net



At three p.m. I push back

the silk eye mask that shelters

my delicate eyes from harsh daylight.

I’ve left my charge to wade

the early hours of the day

alone, unguided, uninspired.

After a quick tossle

of my auburn curls,

I start my daily stretching

routine—poke the fantasy

still ten chapters away from completion,

poke the short story idea

she still hasn’t put to paper, poke

the poem, the one about the plum,

that she just can’t figure out.

My workout complete, I lounge

on a velvet chaise and eat cold grapes

until she calls for my aide.

I sip wine as she pounds

her head and the keyboard—

a slave to my whims.

Sara Diane Doyle |saras dot sojournsAT NOSPAMgmail dot com


Mountain Bike

Robbed of my knobbies,

Stripped of my tools,

Tilted against the wall,

I see but am not seen.

Dirt-covered wheels,

Grease-coated chain,

Clothes-covered frame,

I am but a coat rack.


Oregon skies brighten,

Clouds drift away,

Puddles disappear,

And he comes to my side.

Caressing my body up and down,

Running his fingers across my top,

He clears away the debris

And tunes me ‘til I hum.

As his thumb strokes my gears

And he mounts me for a ride,

I know he’ll take me long and slow,

He’ll take me all the way there.

Intrepid Explorer |salyxraeAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


A.P. Stylebook

I'm afraid I've been affected. What a horrible effect. I think I am infected – with words!

Peddle harder. Pedal faster.

Begin your reign by reining them in.

Enjoy a cupful or even a few cupfuls, but never ever enjoy cupsful.

Am I anybody or any body? I am nobody. I am a body – of text.

Would a book by any other name be as fully revised and updated?

From a to ZIP code I have your words, my words.

KP |kerritothepointAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


The Politician Speaks

Blah blah

Blah blah

Blah blah blah blah, dee dah.

Blah blah

Blah blah

Blah dah dee dah, blah blah.

Paula Fairbrother |liveadrmAT NOSPAMgmail dot com



When I was a lad of nearly three years

They discovered my gift

Music to the ears

I wrote a little ditty

Then another, then three

They used the word genius

when referring to me.

I cranked out those tunes;

became the hit of the day.

Travelling the world with no time to play,

except on a keyboard in vast concert halls;

the applause was thunderous -

it bounced off the walls.

Then I died and was buried -

with the old RIP

The music is all that is left of "Motzee"

Essa Bostone |essybeeAT NOSPAMsbcglobal dot net

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