2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 12

For today’s prompt, write a lament poem. Maybe you lament a relationship or a missed opportunity. Or maybe it’s that doughnut (maybe speaking from personal experience). Whatever it is, today is the day to let it all out–in poem form, of course.

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Here’s my attempt at a Lament Poem:

“departure”

& if we speak again
i’m not sure what to say
which question to ask
whether to worry over the past
or fret for the future

& if we don’t speak
there will be so much
left unsaid

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He laments how fast April slips away each year.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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263 thoughts on “2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 12

  1. Nancy Posey

    For the record, I have a wonderful, kind husband, so I don’t know exactly where this came from!

    The Old Wife’s Lament

    Oh, to have loved some other boy,
    some other man, but alas,
    all the years, I’ve been yoked
    to this one man, set in his ways,
    a hard worker, sure, but quick
    to let everyone know his burden.

    He fathered three boys, at least
    that’s what people call the man
    responsible at conception.
    Not once did he toss a ball
    or holler, “Come on, boys,
    let’s go for a ride.” I taught
    all three to fish, to drive,
    even how to dance, knowing
    how their friends teased.

    I vowed ‘til death do us part
    not knowing what a long life
    we’d both live, wrung out,
    lacking conversation, wit.

    Sometimes I catch a glimpse
    of the boy before he became
    this man, hard and cold,
    ungenerous, tight-fisted. Never
    once has he struck me
    or our boys, but neither
    has he spoken in tenderness.

    If I had loved some other,
    I might have prayed for days
    without end, nights lying awake
    whispering secrets, laughing
    about something the boys did.
    Instead, I bide my time, choking
    back hot tears and wondering
    How long, Lord? How long?

  2. De Jackson

    the quiet keening of smallish stones

    we throw them in as wishes,
    just to see some change
    in the surface of things,
    just to watch the ripples rise.

    we revel in their displacement,
    the way they sway the
    river’s path, make bur
    -bled song of twist and twain.

    we rain them down on glass
    houses, watch the ones
    inside for flaws, pause
    with shattered hearts the same.

    ::

  3. Cam Yee

    How to Languish

    You hear a dog bark in the night-drunk dark,
    fingers ache as you draw the silver drape,
    aside and glide your hand along the cold pane of the window,
    the better to see
    the melancholy moon.

  4. Linda Voit

    No lamenting since 1991

    It is not that I do not cry
    but I have not, since the night
    before my parents’ funeral,
    lamented. I was talking
    with loved ones in our living
    room when I felt it coming on
    said I had to go
    ran to the bedroom, suddenly
    and completely overcome
    wracked with something rising
    out of the pit of me, escaping
    through my own throat,
    unbidden and unstoppable.
    I can only imagine how it
    sounded in the next room.

    Linda Voit

  5. Nikki Markle

    SALT

    I’m sorry that I didn’t write.
    My soul is just too raw & the
    Thoughts dredged up
    Wound me all over &
    Poetry is the salt
    Grinding itself into them,
    Making them real, reminding
    Me, digging into layers of
    Flesh barely scabbed over as I
    Drop words on the page drop by
    Bloody, salty drop.

    1. Cam Yee

      Yeah, I couldn’t go there. There’s been a lot of loss for me lately and I am not ready to write about it yet so your poem hit me in the heart. The last 2 lines catch the exhaustion and sadness and futility and frustration when even poetry cant help

  6. SymannthaRenn

    _We’ll Get Together Later_

    Like a Netflix queue, like a Youtube Watch Later list
    I’m putting it on hold ’til I’ve got more time
    My current favorite is watching my life dissolve
    like scum under cleaner in the bathtub
    friends, colleagues, and family disappear
    until there’s only a slab of cold indifference left
    I have all the time in the world now
    to marathon the new show everyone’s talking about
    I pushed and worked and ignored
    to end up alone with the tv

  7. Earl Parsons

    Lamentations

    Worries
    Regrets
    Sorrows
    Greif
    Lamentations
    Of that which is in the past
    Or what might have been
    Bog the minds of some
    To the point of obsession
    The point of regression
    The point of futility
    And all for naught

    There is no time machine
    We can’t go back and change the past
    So why allow our minds to live in it
    Why risk future happiness or success
    On things now in the rear view

    Learn from past mistakes
    Heed the failures of the past
    Focus firmly on the future
    Set sail into the sunrise
    Lament not on the past
    Save that for the future

  8. KM

    Lament for Downtown Living

    I miss things. The barista at the coffee shop who knew not to ask, “Room for cream?” The friendly nod of the man who always got to the bus stop before me. The thundering bass from the apartment above, rhythmic declaration that the weekend had arrived. The chorus of cooing pigeons on the balcony, calling us awake before the alarm. The jagged shadows of the leafless trees, back lit by a row of streetlamps. The smell of fresh-baked croissants sneaking into the apartment lobby. The overhead banter between students walking back to campus after last call. The consumption limits, imposed by small spaces. The naive faith we shared, that a 2-bedroom apartment would be plenty of room for us and a baby. The ease of slipping a rent cheque in a slot. The ignorance about the pros and cons of variable or fixed mortgages. The righteous opinion that suburbia was for the old and boring.

    picture window
    neighbour stops shoveling
    to wave

    – Kim Mannix
    http://www.makesmesodigress.com

    1. LCaramanna

      Your poem tugs at my heart. I have the shoveling neighbors to wave to. I hope to live in a downtown (uptown, east side, west side, Hell’s Kitchen …) apartment before I am too old to live my dream. Thank you for this poem.

  9. bethwk

    Weep, Sisters, weep.
    Walk these broken streets
    and wail, Sisters, wail.
    Do not sleep.
    Do not fail to keep
    your careful vigil.
    Give voice to your grief.

    When the young ones are in danger
    and the old ones mock and mutter,
    when the guns are locked and loaded
    and targets are our daughters
    and our sons, but we’re too spineless
    to confront this evil in our midst:

    Weep, Sisters, weep.

    When the Earth is torn and bleeding,
    and the Ocean waves are reeking
    with the filth which we’ve created,
    and our greed cannot be sated
    for the oil and blood and water,
    for the spoils of war and slaughter.

    Wail, Sisters, wail.

    (www.farmpoem.wordpress.com)

  10. Nick

    Lament

    In my memory
    lies the eternal,
    so the words
    in my ear “this
    Is not supposed
    to last forever.”
    must mean there
    is an Over, though
    my memory
    does not relent,
    does not Lament-
    Oh if it was over,
    maybe it would
    not be so bad.

  11. tunesmiff

    NEVER KNOWING
    G. Smith (BMI)
    ·–=|=–·
    I wish,
    We’d done more,
    But I know,
    If we had
    We’d wish,
    We’d done nothing at all;
    And I wish,
    We’d let go,
    But I know,
    We’d be sad,
    Finding ourselves with
    Our backs to the wall.

    I see
    Lots of people
    Who say they’re
    In love,
    But that look,
    Doesn’t live in their eyes;
    And I hear,
    Many stories,
    From couples
    Alone;
    The sound of their voices,
    Surprised.

    So the days pile up,
    Then run quickly away,
    And we’re left with the words,
    We still wish we could say.
    We’re left with the longing,
    For a smile or a touch,
    Never knowing back then,
    We could miss them so much.

    I wish
    I hadn’t,
    Changed my mind
    Or my heart,
    That I’d taken the left
    Not the right;
    Followed
    The road
    Less traveled along,
    And made,
    It home,
    Before light.

    So the days piled up,
    Then ran quickly away,
    And I’m left with the words,
    I still wish I could say.
    I’m left with the longing,
    For a smile or a touch,
    Never knowing back then,
    I would miss them so much.

      1. tunesmiff

        Yes, I do, and usually with a co-writer, but during April (and again in November), usually after the challenge(s), wrap up.

        Some do get musically completed, some get sidetracked ~ but I do “hear” a melody and rhythm as I write, and try to convey that in the format/layout of the text.

        Thank you for your encouraging words~!

  12. Bruce Niedt

    NaPoWriMo’s prompt today was to write a haibun. You might call this an “anti-lament”.

    Defiant Ones

    The true season has finally decided to show up, after weeks of cruel teasing. The first day of spring gave us heavy wet snow that bowed and split many trees about to bud. A section of privacy fence collapsed from the weight of the snow and crushed my backyard forsythia. I hefted it up the fence and braced it with bungee cords, a temporary fix, but I worried about the fragile bush, squashed almost flat to the ground. As it happened, there was no need to grieve – today it sprang back with a vengeance.

    first swath of color
    a vibrant yellow brush stroke
    in my back garden

    The first mild afternoon in my neighborhood this year demands a walk and I oblige. The cherry trees are coming into full glory, but one that caught my eye is barely standing at an acute angle to the sidewalk and curb in front of a neighbor’s house. It looks like a car has hit it, with gouges and stripped bark on one side, yet it still blooms.

    mortally wounded
    the blooming cherry tree says
    please save your laments

      1. Bruce Niedt

        Okay, slight rewrite:

        Defiant Ones

        The true season has finally decided to show up, after weeks of cruel teasing. The first day of spring gave us heavy wet snow that bowed and split many trees about to bud. A section of privacy fence collapsed from the weight of the snow and crushed my backyard forsythia. I hefted up the fence and braced it with bungee cords, a temporary fix, but I worried about the fragile bush, squashed almost flat to the ground. As it happened, there was no need to grieve – today it sprang back with a vengeance.

        first swath of color
        a vibrant yellow brush stroke
        in my back garden

        The first mild afternoon in my neighborhood this year demands a walk and I oblige. The cherry trees are coming into full glory, but one that caught my eye is barely standing at an acute angle to the sidewalk and curb in front of a neighbor’s house. It looks like a car has hit it, with gouges and stripped bark on one side, yet it has the strength for one last show.

        mortally wounded
        the blooming cherry tree says
        please save your laments

  13. pcm

    Lament

    Oh sun! be gone today
    For woe has come to stay
    No more in gladsome laughing light
    Innocence lost now fades away
    to bitter end without delight.

    Oh youth! once sweet the fruit of earth did sing
    Each glass we raised, a toast of cheer did bring
    Before the venom of age and air did blight
    Our bonnie Beaujolais nouveau to vinegar
    Rubied lips take fright, the wine has atrophied to sh*te.

    ~ pcm
    @pcmoffatt

  14. deringer1

    LAMENT

    Woe is me, alack aday,
    for my bucket list
    is gone with the wind

    I shall ne’er again see
    the emerald isle nor the
    dear haunts of childhood.

    So make that list, don’t
    put it off. Go and do it now
    while still you can.

  15. MHR

    This was a tough poem to write because I’m a squeamish person and the experience it’s based off totally freaked me out. If you read on, aware that it’s about a vulture.

    APRIL PAD 2018
    POEM #11

    “death eaters”

    what is it like to be created
    as a death eater?

    what is it like to not kill, but prowl
    for the next body you’ll disrespect?

    for when i saw you across the pond,
    feasting and picking on a ghastly white who-knows-what,
    i wondered why you looked like death itself:
    black, solemn, hooded.

    And I cursed the aroma that drenched my nostrils,
    the kind you are familar with mid-winter,
    where a rodent decides to take shelter in your home,
    gets stuck in your wall,
    and dies.

    i left seconds after you arrived, but i thought about you;
    who couldn’t? you were in my brain, my senses, my emotions, my pond.
    cruel, cruel, world,
    but is it, I wonder?

  16. claudia marie clemente

    in a little chapel south of the arno,
    adam and eve hold hands
    to their faces, weeping, as they bolt from eden;

    i can’t think of anything worse than that
    really, despite the fact that my bags are packed,
    library books the most important luggage, and not any library

    but my own, and more, other things that cannot be replaced –
    favorite shirts, photographs not yet scanned
    and knick-knacks you carted here from the other side of the world.

    there’s no point in lamenting all the things you left behind,
    when all the things you brought with you
    are here ready to be exported home.

  17. carolecole

    No Lament

    I passed too many wasted years without
    A clue of how to live and breathe with no
    Regret. You now tell me you have no doubt
    That love was always in our stars and so
    My life and breath are safe within your hands.
    If I should ever love you more than you
    Can bear, then send me out alone; I stand
    Before you, stripped of all pretense and few
    Illusions. You have known me best. I can
    Lie down in safety, down in dream and slide
    Into the night. You held my heart, you held my hand
    And let me sing my night song by your side.
    This lamentation’s turned into an ode
    In praise of love that never will grow old.

  18. Sara McNulty

    Pain of Loss

    Her soft voice has left
    my ears empty of sound.
    I miss her, my friend
    of forty years. Must resort
    to photographs for her smile.

    I marvel at the myriad
    of people who bathed
    in her sunshine, and emerged
    golden, emboldened because
    she helped them to find

    the lost pieces of their puzzles.
    Stray cats knew where to go
    when they needed nourishment
    and love. She did not give up
    on them nor on the people she loved.

    Solace slips in when I recall
    all our trips together–the mishaps
    and the laughter. I smile.
    How fortunate to have known
    that soft music in my ears.

  19. MichelleMcEwen

    Lament

    (Inspired by Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “Lament”)

    listen, honey:
    your man is gone.
    take his old combs caked with hair grease
    and write you some poems bout those.
    make you some money
    offa his shoehorns, watches, and ashtrays.
    there’s probably some change
    in that bureau he never wanted you goin in:
    quarters you know
    for the bus and laundromat.
    ought to give your child her daddy’s hairpick
    cuz she got her hair from him.
    ought to just toss everything else
    cuz life goes on
    and a gone-man has got to be forgotten.
    cuz life goes on
    and bills keep comin.
    honey, now eat you somethin.
    honey, now no need to cry and cry
    cuz life goes on
    until you die.

  20. LCaramanna

    Desperate

    Drawn by the wail of a steel guitar
    I wandered
    through a bittersweet haze down the hallway,
    drifted into a ballroom,
    stood in the middle of the dance floor.
    A tuxedoed waiter appeared,
    presented a slender crystal champagne flute.
    I sipped wailing water
    and sang along with the blues.
    A man in a lavender leisure suit
    took my hand,
    I danced with the devil
    in the depth of despair,
    regret and remorse
    the rhythm of my heartache.
    An expression of sorrow
    this lament of mine,
    determined to do penance
    for missed opportunities.
    The devil’s grip
    coerced me to tango,
    My feet followed his lead,
    while my eyes
    desperately sought the door
    that was supposed to open
    when one closed.

    Lorraine Caramanna

  21. MET

    Lament of My Neglected Dulcimer

    We used to travel far together.
    We hiked in the mud
    For you could play on the mountaintop.
    It was a good day that day.
    The rains that morning cleared, and
    The sun was bright, and
    The spring flowers were blooming.
    Do you remember that day?

    We met new people
    When we camped
    Out with other dulcimer people.
    We sang and laughed…
    Ah, I remember those days
    You were happy then…
    I don’t think you are happy now
    For you never play me.

    I was made by a preacher’s hands;
    You traveled to buy me.
    You made money decorating cakes, and
    Other odd jobs… you called yourself a bum…
    Never saw you that way…
    Just a free spirit
    Who loved to laugh, to sing, and
    Carried me everywhere.

    I remember the man
    You called Da, and
    How sometimes
    When you played me
    He played his harmonica,
    His horn he called it.
    He died, and
    I died with him.

    You wash my case
    A blue and brown quilt.
    You polish me bright;
    Run your fingers over my strings,
    Then put me away.
    My hope to make music dashed.
    One day you’ll remember,
    And once more play me.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 12, 2018

  22. mschied

    Winter’s lament

    She sobbed today,
    wrapped in a hazy mourning
    gown of gray

    No more was she
    the prettiest maiden
    far to see

    No longer bedecked
    in robes of white with
    silver flecks

    her grandeur gone
    now agrieved is she
    and forlorn

    for soon her crown
    will another younger
    lady own

    festooned in lace
    fresh and adorned with
    verdant grace

    ’tis naught she can but cry
    and she, like time
    must fly

  23. Asha1000

    Elegy for My Friend G.E.

    His smile was like sunshine on water,
    bright as ephemeral diamonds that dance with the wind.

    His stories told of undying love,
    even between the most deeply flawed protagonists.

    In the end, cancer came like a thief.
    It snuffed out his candles and stole his radiant words.

    Award-winning novels will live on.
    They will anchor his legend in this storm-battered world.

    Still numbed by the news, I see his gleam;
    I hear his memory echoing through the green hills.

    – Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

    1. MET

      so very lovely… the first line told me so much of him…. he is what we called in the mountains of Tennessee as a smiley person… they are special people whose smiles light up the world.

  24. sincerescribe

    Lament Acrostic

    Longing to ameliorate her life,
    Anger festered as she underwent strife.
    Mustering enough wherewithal to rise
    Each day proved to be a harsh reprise.
    Noticeably, she diminished in health,
    Tortured by her desire to obtain wealth.

  25. MET

    this is long…

    Lament of Lost Children

    They have faces and lives
    These children abused, neglected
    Abandoned and murdered.

    No reason given why
    Markis, Abigail and Hannah
    Left their birth family
    In Texas… foster children,
    Abused or neglected
    Wards of the state.
    Adopted in the Northwoods
    Two mothers they now had.
    A year later
    Hannah had a bruise…
    Fell down steps
    Her mothers said…
    She told her teachers
    Mama hit her with a fist.
    The next year they adopted
    Three more
    Jeremiah, Devonte, and Sierra
    From Texas and in need of a home.
    Abigail reported to her teacher
    One mother whipped her, but
    The other one plead guilty…
    I wonder why that was…
    Was there also spousal violence
    In this unhappiest of happy homes?
    They removed the children from school…
    To homeschool and protect themselves.
    They move to Oregon,
    Due to nosy neighbors.
    A friend concerns reports
    The neglect of the children…
    The mothers isolate the children
    Cutting off that friend.
    Police also go to that home,
    (I suspect again spousal violence.)
    Four years ago, Devonte hugs a cop
    At a protest against cops
    The photo goes viral…
    But was he trying to reach out
    Hoping someone would save him.
    Two years later the family
    An example of how wonderful the mothers were,
    On stage with Bernie Sanders…
    But I don’t blame him
    Ted Bundy was a republican and
    John Wayne Gacy was a democrat.
    Two years later, a new report
    Children going hungry
    Begging neighbors for food.
    The family disappears
    No one can find them
    Until at the bottom of cliff
    The mothers found dead, and
    Three of their children, and
    Three missing out to sea.
    Their speed was clocked
    At ninety miles an hour
    This was no accident…
    This was murder.

    Such a peaceful place
    They chose to end their lives, but
    Why did they end the lives
    That did not belong to them?
    I ask questions…
    Why were they allowed to adopt
    Three more when there was a report of abuse?
    Did they threaten the agency,
    Which we will never know?
    These children, we as a people
    Are meant to protect
    Gave their mothers
    Too many chances, and
    These children none.
    I wonder if their birth mothers,
    Fathers and families see the faces
    And weep knowing they would have
    Done better…
    At least with them
    They would not be murdered.

    I am angered at their deaths, and
    Cracks in a system
    That let them slip through
    Cracks as dust by a broom.
    I am angered by their deaths;
    These children used as pawns
    And broken and abused
    By those who swore in court
    To love and care for them.
    I wish those mothers had survived, and
    Were sent to prison
    I know the rewards they would get there, and
    They would not be able to con or to be forgiven.
    Call me harsh if you want,
    I have seen this too often.
    Children were meant to be loved, and
    Not meant to be murdered., abused, neglected or
    Abandoned.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 12, 2018

      1. MET

        I really want to know why… there were so many places they could said… this is too hard… but they didn’t… the red flags were there… isolating the family… I really suspect spousal abuse….that one dominate partner dominated the household….I suspect the one that plead guilty was the abused one… but whenever isolation begins… it is dangerous for those in that family.

  26. Marie Elena

    CROCUS IN NORTHWEST OHIO

    As she colors spring,
    Does she lament her name?
    Not lovely as Lily,
    Nor soft as Forsythia.
    Surely she simply lifts
    Her face to ours,
    Knowing she is
    The solitary reason
    For our smile.

    © Marie Elena Good, 2018

  27. Kateland

    Force no grievances 4-12-18

    My words fall mute upon the page
    No grieves to hash unto the grave
    No secret ponderings turn’d to ill
    I could not force my hand to will

  28. Eileen S

    Lament of Siblings Grown Apart

    I will not lament
    for my childhood actions
    and mistakes.

    You were sibling.
    It was not always the smooth between us.
    We were two different people.
    We had some good times.
    We had some not so good times.
    I will admit that I was not perfect.
    However, that was a long time ago.

    Things have changed.
    We had different life experiences
    and mine were good and bad
    but mostly good.
    You did some different things
    which is good because
    you had to find your own way in life
    and hopefully, your life experiences
    were positive..

    I understand that you need a life apart from me.
    With that being said,
    I will not take on the role of the villain.
    I will accept the situation and let you go on your way.

  29. julie e.

    MISSING SLEEP

    I keep having dreams
    where you are the star
    (wish they’d stop)
    but my brain won’t oblige

    with severing thoughts
    as sharp as my steps
    (when I fled)
    and there’s no place to hide

    I can close my eyes
    can’t shut off my head
    (wish I could)
    now I can’t sleep at night.

  30. Ann M

    Avocado Lament

    I thought there was more time
    for the avocado on the sill,

    a few more days of anticipation,
    of soaking up time,

    not knowing if the flesh
    was sweet or bland,

    not knowing if it
    was worth waiting for.

    The tomato on the table
    rotted, and so did my mood.

    I’d been looking forward
    to spring – but it wasn’t so great.

    Or at least, it was no different
    than winter, maybe even colder.

    Would the avocado make it
    all worthwhile? I broke it open

    last night, mashed it with a fork,
    and added salt and lime.

    I couldn’t tell if it was ripe
    or ripening. I just ate it.

  31. CMcGowan

    If I ever see you again,

    the glimpse of youth

    bursting with opportunity –

    I’d take it

    and run

    entirely by the reigns

    and ride

    across oceans,

    mountains, majestic

    and marvelous

    and revel

    in all that could be,

    would be, should be.

    If I ever see you again,

    the glimpse of youth

    I won’t waste you trying –

    trying to fit in.

    If I ever see you again.

  32. trishwrites

    Why we gotta
    have those songs
    from 1963
    Meanin’ something
    today
    Chorus we sing
    Like a prayer
    We landed men on the moon
    But still we gotta say
    You don’t own me

    Mama runs from daddy
    She be told
    Women don’t leave their
    men
    Even as they turned
    a blind eye
    from what they
    could see
    No one
    Not a woman or man
    Be fixin the abuse

    Still we
    March
    #metoo
    Me Too
    Beneath the same
    Crying moon

  33. k weber

    lesson in lessening

    self-
    soothe
    the after-
    shocks
    of divorce
    with disquieted
    comfort: some-
    times this
    takes two
    or three after-
    noon
    baths

    blankets
    of fleece
    or snow
    can distract
    the chill
    or fever
    of mistakes; ease
    the mind
    of side effects
    whether
    hyper-
    or hypo-

    lamenting
    the past
    and its unearned
    degree and flowers
    unsent wastes pulse,
    breath and brain-
    wave: the only
    cure for regret
    involves small,
    expired generic-
    brand bandages
    that never stick

  34. Austin Hill

    LaMent

    It is my LaMent,
    I’ve fallen behind.
    THREE poems to write,
    already assigned.

    When I crank this out,
    I’ll be down to two.
    Need inspiration,
    time on task will do.

    This poem is done,
    Subject was easy.
    Hope that the others
    will be as “breezy”.

    © April 2018 Suzanne S. Austin-Hill

  35. Misky

    A Lament to Home

    my heart belongs
    to waterfalls.
    to the mountains.
    to the valleys.
    the sound of leaves.
    the spilling of spring.
    the green through trees.
    to the light, broken
    and breaking and
    brilliant.
    to the clouds high
    and higher, slung
    jewels from blue.
    to the clover in clusters.
    to bee stung apples,
    and icy pressed cider.
    to a salty sea and
    fragrant seaweed.
    to sand castles
    and tidal pools.
    to golden rod hills.
    to my long lost
    childhood’s summer.

  36. MET

    Lament of King Louis

    A big Yellow Tomcat,
    A gentle giant born
    Into a litter of six.
    The inheritance now mourns.

    The first to go
    Was a calico sis
    Who followed Mira
    Lost following her bliss.

    The next to leave
    Spook she was called
    Eyes gold and scary
    A finer cat unequalled.

    Stripe, a favorite
    Loving, sweet spitfire
    Loved to wander
    And went to find her desire.

    Mira, the miracle
    The cat I should
    Have made mine,
    Laid herself down under wood.

    King Louis strong
    Ever true to his own
    Got old and ill,
    One day he left his throne.

    Butter, the only one
    Old like his brother
    Looks into the woods
    Counting his days like no other.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 12, 2018

    1. MET

      I am sorry I posted this twice… No matter what trick I played… it would not show up … until I posted it again, and so it showed up … I had one I posted a couple of days ago that I never saw again on this site again… glad I had a copy…

  37. JoMae

    Lament

    The rattling of swords
    the sharp edged words
    the threats and counter threats

    the lack of listening
    the children dying
    the bombs prepared

    all these, Dear Godde, but
    tokens of our broken world,
    we bring for your repair

    Please speak your Wisdom,
    Beloved Word, and may we
    hear and do our small part

    to help the healing of our

    Broken World

    JoMae
    4/12/18
    #aprpad

  38. Tom Hayes

    Lament’s Shadow

    Oh the paths that were not taken,
    the times I was mistaken,
    and the prospects that were missed.

    Those failures leave me shaken.
    Why did I not awaken,
    to address this dreadful list?

    Those shadows make me stiff,
    Looking back wondering what if?

  39. jhmaloney

    Guitarist’s Lament

    So there I sat, on a bright, sunny day,
    with my acoustic, strumming away.
    That’s when it happened, a change in my luck.
    From out of nowhere, tragedy struck.
    Just for a moment, I loosened my grip
    and from ‘twixt my fingers my plectrum did slip.
    Into the sound hole to never be found.
    left for all time to just rattle around.

  40. De Jackson

    Lamentations of a Wayward Moon

    You blame me for the tides
                            (both sides)
    even though I have whispered you
    that small thing no one else knows:
    they’ve got a mind of their own. Be

    -ware, they’ll swallow you whole
    (or half, waxing or waning or anywhere
    in between)

    like a gobstopper sky, even as you’re
    begging them to stop
                    (don’t stop)
    drop and roll you loose
    back to sand. Hand to hand
    combat with waves
                (with flow, with time)
    is sort of ill-advised, but then who am I
    to question the intelligencia
    of stars? Smudge

    your fingers along the edges of this portrait
    pining sky, taste its salt. C(h)ase its center
    for the places you might hide.

    We had a deal, you and I –
    I borrow light from brother sun;
    you watch me disappear, a ghost
    who lets you howl at her,
    illuminates your tears.

    ::
    {this is the one with all the prompts}

  41. Anthony94

    Needing to Let You Know

    Scattered across another
    country you are strong
    women our bonds so deep
    we know the others’ hearts
    share our deepest lives across
    pan dulce, a deep espresso

    when mail was our only means
    of continuing too soon the flimsy
    paper split and ink slipped from
    pages too hurried to traverse the
    distance until only thready
    memories held us together

    you were sisters and my hands yet
    hold the imprint of yours, my eye
    sees your lined faces, the tumor in
    one’s cheek, thin arms around
    my shoulders, know the imprint
    on my aching heart where I carry

    our mutual sadness as I add you
    to my prayers believing we will
    meet again and you will know
    how many times I think of you
    Lilia and Malena, Socorro, Patti
    Raquel, Alejandro, cousins my own
    daughter will never know

    including the woman who kept
    tiles shining in the crumbling foyer
    could call up a taxi that would come
    even at the turn when shifts changed
    a cold sánwich appearing from news-
    papered bundle. I ache for all of you
    crazy for your children that made it across
    a crazier border, for the boy to whom

    I sent my own son’s jeans and shirts
    so he’d fit in on the too harsh streets
    hid money in pockets at the bottom
    that made it to a mother’s hands.
    you were/are my people too and
    my daughter carries your image in her
    raven hair and dark eyes more Spain
    than Mestizo, abuelas I still love you

  42. MET

    This poem I wrote strictly for me… when my mother died she left me her herd of cats…and she begged me to care for her cats…. they became known by me and others as “THe Inheritance” after ten years, age, coyotes and the genetic disease Polycystic kidney disease… a irony in my life that I have lost cats and family members to the same genetic disease… but six cats have stood out over the years… King Louis named for the sun king of France…was the king from the time he was a kitten… a gentle soul…. sadly he died last fall…only his brother Butter is left… this poem is those six…

    Lament of King Louis

    A big Yellow Tomcat,
    A gentle giant born
    Into a litter of six.
    The inheritance now mourns.

    The first to go
    Was a calico sis
    Who followed Mira
    Lost following her bliss.

    The next to leave
    Spook she was called
    Eyes gold and scary
    A finer cat unequalled.

    Stripe, a favorite
    Loving, sweet spitfire
    Loved to wander
    And went to find her desire.

    Mira, the miracle
    The cat I should
    Have made mine,
    Laid herself down under wood.

    King Louis strong
    Ever true to his own
    Got old and ill,
    One day he left his throne.

    Butter, the only one
    Old like his brother
    Looks into the woods
    Counting his days like no other.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 12, 2018

  43. thunk2much

    18

    I remember so well
    eighteen minutes ago
    (how can it be years?)
    the calm, the storm, the push
    and here we are and we are not
    you counting eighteen
    and breaking the ribbon
    bursting into a whole new race
    and my heart swells even
    as I calculate the loss
    of these last six birthdays apart,
    your push more powerful by far
    than mine could ever be

  44. Linda Hatton

    Freedom

    The citizens lamented
    something had gone
    terribly wrong but couldn’t
    quite put their finger on it.

    Darren said the local
    discount stores had gone
    out of business,
    and the water commission
    had made new provisions
    of sprinkling only on
    Tuesdays three to five.

    Johnny added that records
    showed little Theresa’s
    mother failed to pay,
    had her daughter’s
    hot lunch taken away.

    Beth repeated evening news—
    commuters on downtown
    streets would soon
    be tolled; and later,
    those just out for a stroll
    would pay to cruise
    city sidewalks.

    The lunch bell rang
    and off they hoofed
    back to their stalls
    where bosses
    monitored every call
    and email they received
    and sent. After all,

    they were being paid
    for those jobs,
    and those in charge
    needed assurance
    they were worth
    every cent.

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