Day 20 Highlights

Publish date:

On Day 20, I asked you to write a Love poem. And the sparks started flying immediately. There's no better way to start a week than with a little love, so without further ado.


Helping Hands

It would be better to think

you were made for me

a custom order

handcrafted to please

those hands that have held babies

carried groceries

and tarped roofs

were just praciting

for that day in the yard

when you reached out

to steady me

and keep me from falling

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com


After the Whole Day

Let me feed you

cheeses on a plate.

Let me roll for you

raviolis of gorgonzola,

swirled in a cream sauce

with walnuts, tarragon.

See how the water simmers.

See how the windows steam.

Let me serve you a salad--

frisee and pear,

delicate curls of pecorino,

a whisper of truffle oil.

I have in my kitchen

scallops to sear,

chicken to roast,

and a medley of roots

tossed with oregano, balsamic,

and then a little lemon tart.

When you come home

with the sound of the saw in your ears

and mahogany dust in your hair,

let me pour you a glass of Champagne,

let me take your hands

and lead you to the table you made.

Let me feed you, fill you.

Joannie Stangeland |joannieksAT NOSPAMmsn dot com


My Mistake

Tentative touches cannot explain

how much you've actually

changed me.

Long, light strokes down

a make-up smeared cheek

try to tell you that

I care.

Finger tips pressing lasciviously

into firm thighs attempt

to get you to realize

that I do want you.

It was a mistake to try and

send you out of my life -

to try and hide the fact

that I do, love you.

It's too late for me to

try and take that back;

to un-tell you that I can't

have you, have these


But I can try to win back

your favor, your desire

with the slightest whisper

of a kiss on your painted mouth,

promising much more than

words ever could.

Kateri Woody |kwoody66AT NOSPAMutica dot edu


One Incarnation of Love

cleans the litter-box,

cackles, wakes me up with

political commentaries,

of a world pregnant

with entropy, a blue rose with warts.

Good love is a mentholated powder

on the prickly heat of this world.

Maria Jacketti |medusashairdresserAT NOSPAMmsn dot com


I Miss My True Love

Once again, dear, you’re on the road.

We’re separated by miles and highways,

But linked by cell.

Several times a day, we’ll talk,

But the other half of the bed tonight

Will stay cool, empty, and neat.

I should be used to kissing you goodbye

By now.

But I’m not.

I want you to come home, kiss me good-night,

And lie beside me till I hear the reassurance

Of your warm breathing,

The rhythm of your sleep,

The sure, sweet, safe knowledge

That you are here

And always will be.

Karen |kphillipsoAT NOSPAMaol dot com



The Man in the Moon knows.

He stays up past dawn

To watch us.

The morning doves

Nest near our window

For inspiration.

And daffodils

Bow in our direction,

Accepting the warmth.

While the world

Is aware of

Our love,

We are oblivious

To all but

Each other.

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


How to Write a Love Poem

Choose an iambic vessel for your pleasure

An octave and sestet for good measure

A dash of onomatopoeia will suffice,

Boom Boom,’s too much, but pit-a-pat is nice.

Ask for my heart. Surely I’ll recognize

Synecdoche and give the rest as prize.

Love, dove; strife, life—use no rhymes so cliché;

Choose simplest words for what you have to say.

Give love its legs, you must personify

A living thing, but do not let it die.

Don’t mix your metaphors, but be direct

Use similes as well that may reflect

A view of love by what it most resembles

And spice it up with literary symbols.

But don’t dare use the least hyperbole

If you want to get within a million miles of me.

Nancy |nposeyAT NOSPAMembarqmail dot com


Tell me Saturday,

Monday, Wednesday afternoon;

Tell me riverside,

Mountain, desert canyon, sea.

Lover, tell me – and soon, soon.

ck |kephartceAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com


Sweet apple blossoms

and succulent plums

sit tired and spent beside us

on a now stained picnic

blanket. And you lace

flowering white in my hair

as the pulpy red hearts

disappear across the grass.

And we wrap ourselves in sheets

of light and hold each other

firmly by the core.

And the sun sinks into universal dawns

as you whisper those

plum somethings in my

blooming ear.

Khara House |leftnwrite08AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


The volume could be lower.

Silence would be best.

Tonight the History channel

vies with ESPN. World War II

echoes around me as I try

to write a love poem, today’s

poetic aside.

Serious tones announce German attacks.

Next voices rise with excitement:

the 76ers have won a NBA game. Innings pass;

76,000 men are taken prisoners.

I think love is here

in this rented room,

in the words I do not speak,

in the poem I don’t write.

Beth Camp |bluebethleyAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


I’d Like To Take You To Dinner

At the Rockin’ Comet Diner

the waitresses wear t-shirts

that say, “Nothin’ could be finer,

than this Carolina diner,”

and we sit at a small chipped table

crowded with condiments

and a dented napkin holder.

You order liver and onions,

I get fried green tomatoes and fried okra

because this a Southern diner, after all

and Southern food is all about fried,

but we skip dessert,

which might have been banana pudding,

partly because we’ve eaten enough

and partly because we can’t wait

to get home.

Beth Browne |womenswritesAT NOSPAMinbox dot com


In Tent

Bluejays riot in the campsite:

s'more debris, hot chocolate powder

and apple peels overlooked in last

night's rush to bed are their morning


Eventually we will

have to open the zipper,

get up and clean up

the table.

Let's just lay here for now

remembering our own discovery

and content.

Cathy Sapunor |cathsapAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


Green Lakes

I wore the sunburn on the back of my neck

like a badge. Earned from an hour spent

in a paddle boat, on that lake. That lake.

The bacteria makes appear it green, the sign said.

A glacier compelled by invisible forces,

carving into the soft pre-history earth,

made it deep. And the sunfish swimming

just below my floating body, made me scream.

You laughed pulling me to you.

I said i hated you, for not telling me it was there.

Your face found the curve between my neck and shoulder.

My feigned fury dissolved into the water.

Days like that, never last forever.

Crystal Cameron |crystalclouded731AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


geese bring the

spring time

back with them

their V across

the sky ripping

winter in pieces

with them comes

earlier dawns

later sunsets

rising of sap

blood courses faster

there are those

who would waste

these hours

but in your company

they seem all too

short I watch you

more through the

honey light and

feel my heart swell

and open like

the buds of

lilacs that

wave behind you

in our window

halfmoon_mollie |tamsinAT NOSPAMtwcny dot rr dot com


The Awakening

I wake to the curve

of a familiar hip,

draped with a swath

of modest sheet…

nakedness reveals all

and sometimes that is too much,

in the morning light

this baring of body and soul.

And filtered through the

blinds, horizontal punctuation marks

of last night’s encounter

are reminders of spent love.

You turn,

the sheet slips away

and in the first rays of


I know why I am here.

anne |atkrakAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com


Lust and Exhaustion are lovers,

they stay up all night, every night

it’s like being young again, only

they are not. Lust drives to work

in the early morning light, moon

sharing the sky with the rising sun,

too tired to see straight, thinking

half of what I’m feeling isn’t love,

it’s sheer exhaustion: The gritty eyes,

the illusion of floating off the ground,

the champagne bubbles in the chest.

Back in her apartment, Exhaustion

rolls over in her sleep, smiling.

Kate |kberne50AT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

Poetic Forms

Rannaigecht Mor Gairit: Poetic Forms

Poetic Form Fridays are made to share various poetic forms. This week, we look at the rannaigecht mor gairit, a variant form of the rannaigecht.


The Writer, The Inner Critic, & The Slacker

Author and writing professor Alexander Weinstein explains the three parts of a writer's psyche, how they can work against the writer, and how to utilize them for success.


Todd Stottlemyre: On Mixing and Bending Genres

Author Todd Stottlemyre explains how he combined fiction and nonfiction in his latest book and what it meant as a writer to share his personal experiences.


Plot Twist Story Prompts: Take a Trip

Every good story needs a nice (or not so nice) turn or two to keep it interesting. This week, have a character take a trip somewhere.


Making the Switch from Romance to Women’s Fiction

In this article, author Jennifer Probst explains the differences between romance and women's fiction, the importance of both, and how you can make the genre switch.


Stephanie Wrobel: On Writing an Unusual Hero

Author Stephanie Wrobel explains how she came to write about mental illness and how it affects familial relationships, as well as getting inside the head of an unusual character.


Who Are the Inaugural Poets for United States Presidents?

Here is a list of the inaugural poets for United States Presidential Inauguration Days from Robert Frost to Amanda Gorman. This post also touches on who an inaugural poet is and which presidents have had them at their inaugurations.


Precedent vs. President (Grammar Rules)

Learn when to use precedent vs. president with Grammar Rules from the Writer's Digest editors, including a few examples of correct usages.

Poetry Prompt

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 554

Every Wednesday, Robert Lee Brewer shares a prompt and an example poem to get things started on the Poetic Asides blog. This week, write a future poem.