2019 April PAD Challenge: Day 5

We’re about to wrap up our first work week of this challenge. Yay! But that reminds me that weekends are often a time when poets fall out of the challenge. I challenge you to continue poeming through the weekend. You can do it!

For today’s prompt, write a stolen poem. And no, don’t steal anyone’s poem! But you can write about doing such a thing. Or stealing hearts, stealing time, stealing minds. Or steeling your mind (remember: I don’t care if you play on my original prompt). Steal away into a comfortable place to write and break some lines today.

*****

Poem Your Days Away!

Online poetry prompts are great! But where can you get your poem fix when you unplug? The answer is the Smash Poetry Journal, by Robert Lee Brewer.

This book collects 125 poetry prompts from the Poetic Asides blog, gives poets plenty of room to write poems, and a lot of other great poetic information. Perfectly sized to carry in a backpack or purse, you can jot down ideas for poems as you’re waiting in line for a morning coffee or take it to the park for a breezy afternoon writing session (or on a bus, at a laundromat, or about anywhere else you can imagine–except under water, unless you’re in a submarine or a giant breathable plastic bubble).

Anyway, it’s great for prompting poems, and you should order a copy today. (Maybe order an extra one as a gift for a friend.)

Click to continue.

*****

Here’s my attempt at a Stolen Poem:

“quicksand of the heart”

As a child, I grew up worried
I would accidentally wander
into quicksand. It seemed
such a prevalent problem
in movies and on TV shows.
A person is walking along
and then boom! They’re up
to their necks in quicksand.

In the same way, I worried
over my heart. In songs, people
were constantly stealing them
or having them stolen. What if
I fell asleep and woke up
without mine? In dreams, I’d
walk through a maze and find
myself sinking in quicksand.

A voice calls out, “I’ll throw
you the rope if you toss
me your heart.”

*****

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 probably listened to too many love songs and watched too many movies as a kid. Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

325 thoughts on “2019 April PAD Challenge: Day 5

  1. AvatarShennon

    Locked deep in my chest
    Armed with anger
    Empowered by guilt
    Determination dictates
    That the heart you stole
    Now wretched and mauled
    Never be allowed
    To resurface.

    –ShennonDoah

  2. AvatarLCaramanna

    Cause for Concern

    Tourist in the Plaka
    immersed in neighborhood culture,
    strolled on crowded cobblestones
    reminiscent of ancient Athenian times.
    Tourist in the Plaka
    wandered in and out of shops,
    sampled Greek cuisine and ouzo
    at tables in the street.
    Tourist in the Plaka
    selected a jeweled Byzantine cross
    at an artist’s kiosk,
    intended to purchase a golden gift.
    Vulnerable tourist in the Plaka
    no longer possessed
    the wallet once zippered secure
    in crossbody bag.
    That absent wallet,
    stollen by thievish fingers
    while immersed in commerce
    on crowded neighborhood streets,
    caused the tourist in the Plaka
    consequential concern.

    Lorraine Caramanna

  3. AvatarMaddiScarboro

    Pure theft

    To steal is to borrow without permission
    To take an object against one’s will
    A common crime referred to as theft.
    Though many things are stolen without knowledge.
    A stolen heart
    Innocence
    A virginity of the soul.
    Some people can steal these with ease
    Simple words or actions paint clear perspectives murky and black.
    Not any kind of dirt that can be easily removed.
    All there is to say to those who steal and are stolen from,
    Be careful who you ruin because they may try the same on you.

  4. Avatarjreynoldjones

    Stolen

    You know when
    a thread on your brand new
    shirt gets frayed and the whole thing
    unravels ’cause it’s all one
    piece and it leaves a little
    divot in the fabric that gets
    longer ’till you cut the thread you’ve
    been pulling for, like, probably a
    decade?

    You can’t put that thread back,
    Can you?

  5. AvatarQuillQueen

    Stealing Acadiana
    By Tiffany Brannan

    The simple French Acadians
    Once dwelt in woods primeval.
    They never dreamed their peace would leave
    Through some abrupt upheaval.

    The British soldiers stormed their land
    And forced them all to leave.
    Their careless deportation
    Made the poor Acadians grieve.

    The land was stolen from these folks,
    So now they had no place,
    But still they knew their paths were carved
    By an all-powerful Grace.

    Some folks went to the New World
    To a colony down south,
    Where they shared the same religion
    And the resources were routh.

    It was called Louisiana,
    Land of rains and Spanish moss.
    The Acadians made their home there,
    Overcoming their great loss.

    Now these folks are called the Cajuns,
    And they love their lives there still.
    They have never left the Southland,
    And I doubt they ever will.

    How do they regard the English,
    Those who stole their northern home?
    It was summed up by one lady,
    Whom I’ll quote here in this poem:

    “We can hunt and fish and play here;
    Our old home was full of ice.
    I do not despise the English.
    They brought us to paradise!”

  6. AvatarYolee

    Joshua is a Euphemism for Stolen Things

    space in my womb in 95

    silence like underwater swimming leading to his birth

    being mom to only beautiful girls

    time to tame my wavy hair among other things with split ends

    prayers when words wouldn’t subvert angst

    moods

    second guessing when all he wanted was to hang out on a Friday night with family

    concentration when school was out

    theories

    fear when prayer stood up to it

    comfort when the valley of the shadow loomed

    cups that ran over with dreams

    my heartbeat

  7. AvatarJRSimmang

    DON’T TOUCH MAMA WHILE SHE’S COOKIN

    Mama asked what she was makin’,
    “Apple pie’s what I’m a-bakin’.
    Don’t touch my flour,
    or I swear in this hour,
    a beatin’s the only thing you’ll be takin’.”

    -JR Simmang

  8. AvatarHillariousJ

    Lyre
    I played for her and stole her heart.
    She swore my music pulled an invisible thread inside her–
    My fingers manipulated her “just here,” she said,
    Slipping the fingers of her right hand under the flowing gown.

    As if I were the stringed instrument, her gesture seized me
    Helen, composer of my fate, conductor of my soul
    Her right hand now stole under my breastplate
    Stealing my resolution.
    Metal, cloth fell away with our inhibitions.

    Her nimble fingers, a blush blossoming on her neck
    Her femininity soft against my callused warrior’s hands
    Her eyes first drinking me then avoiding mine
    Directions whispered, she commanded the time
    Brought the crescendo to our song.

    Red-faced with lingering passion, her white chest slowly rising
    Changing light signals Helios’s journey across the sky nearly done.
    The blush was, perhaps, merely the departing sun.
    Our passion written in the West, the filmy white gown now
    hiding the blush of her body but still allowing me to take in
    the beauty and believe it mine.

    Looking up into her downcast, avoiding eyes I saw
    The struggle of a storm crossing her face
    Her gown had dropped to frame a single exposed breast
    But those fingers fresh from clutching my arms, clutched the cloth
    To cover her promise in guilt, shame, regret,
    Fury, like a monster, grew in my breast.

    Liar
    She was who spike so easily, promised so quickly
    She who stole from me my battlefield glory,
    She who now refused to run across the blanket of the sea.
    So I stole a kiss that squelched her protest and
    I stole her from her home, her husband, her people.
    Thief.

    My computer crashed, so I’ll try to type up my poems and add them from the past days. Need to do so during breaks form work. Sorry for the lateness. I don’t want to stop taking part in the challenge.

  9. AvatarNoreen Snyder

    Stolen My Heart and Left Me

    You have stolen my heart twenty years ago
    and now you have left me for a better place
    in Heaven with God where there’s no pain and woe.
    I wish God let you stay. I want to embrace
    you, love you, hold onto you and not let go.
    I just want to see your glowing, sexy face
    one more time– to say I love you and to grow
    old with you. And you will always be my ace.

    April 5-7, 2019
    Noreen Ann Snyder

    Dedicated to my loving husband, Garry who passed away on January 18, 2019.

  10. AvatarBDP

    “Stolen”

    Dried leaves pilfer the sidewalk: where is the pathway.
    Purloined two-tone rose petals: redwing blackbird gang.
    Thunderclouds hold up the day: sun raises its hands.
    Who lifted the chef’s new knives: lightning eats storm sky.

    * * * * *

    dried leaves pilfer the sidewalk
    where is the pathway
    purloined two-tone rose petals
    redwing blackbird gang
    thunderclouds hold up the day
    sun raises its hands
    who lifted the chef’s new knives
    lightning eats storm sky

    B Peters

  11. Avatargrcran

    When Stealing Is Not a Crime

    The new Austin. All these people. Several wrong ones.
    Use mild hot sauce. Are falsely weird. Eat pseudo-onions.
    Before it changed. Presence of mind. Had four old poets.
    Took Austin town. Dug up its roots. Somehow they stole it.
    Now kept on ice. But every April. They trot it out there.
    Old Austin shines. Laid-back and smart. Surreal creative.
    Wild and crazy. But it is not. Degenerative.
    Poetry festive. Campy venues. Gets wrangled well.
    Every so often. Hear the echo. Austin’s cracked bell.

    (thought many of y’all would enjoy this depiction of Austin and of the Austin International Poetry Festival… which I attended (and read my poems at) yesterday and today… and at which in previous years, Robert, and his wife Tammy, have presented numerous readings and workshops)

    gpr crane

  12. AvatarSharon

    THE WRITER
    Sometimes – not often,
    but sometimes – I feel as
    though writing fiction
    is stealing from real life,
    but I do it anyway
    because as a writer
    what I’m putting on the page
    is – for that span of time –
    more real than real life
    will ever be. The woman
    on the page is who I want to be,
    vibrant and sassy, brave and constant,
    controllable in the way the real me
    can never, ever be,
    until suddenly
    the protagonist asserts her personality,
    and my momentary control
    is stolen, just – like – that!
    Ah, the joy of writing fiction
    and the conundrum of what is real
    and what is the woven web
    of the writer’s imagination.

  13. AvatarPSC in CT

    Hornswoggled

    Earlier and earlier
    every day,
    I perceive the sky
    lightening, brightening.
    And the air fills
    with trills of birdsong.
    Peepers keep piping
    the whole night long.
    The calendar claims
    it’s plainly spring,

    but here’s the thing:

    Even April admits
    she’s a bit of a tease.
    She relishes taunting.
    She’ll flaunt a warm breeze
    then crack you a wallop
    that brings on a sneeze,
    dropping you
    to your knees.

    Take today, for example:

    all afternoon
    it hasn’t been nice
    falling pellets of ice
    suggest spring’s
    been enjoined;
    or, perhaps,
    purloined –
    fully pilfered,
    swiped, nipped.
    Either way,
    I feel gypped.

  14. AvatarLinda Hatton

    Stolen Life of the Hungry Shoplifter

    He was a self-educated
    stain thief, donned
    a burlap replacement
    for his receding toupee.
    He experienced
    an awakening
    of the corkscrew
    & became a human
    butter bean.
    He went silent
    on holidays
    when that do-it-all
         paid him
    no visit.
    He tiptoed
    around sidewalk
    jackhammers
    & tickled the feet
    of nameless beds
    every night.
    But he had
          prosperous
    guardian angels,
    lived until
          death
    by scooter,
    an invisible
    white paper plate
    his grave marker
    of choice.

  15. AvatarLinda Voit

    American College Student in Paris, 1983

    Surrounded on the Metro platform
    by children speaking loudly in French
    and pushing newspapers urgently
    around her middle, she tries to tell them
    she does not want to buy a newspaper
    but they keep it up, until, suddenly,
    they run.

    She looks down and sees the frayed edge
    of her shoulder strap dangling
    at her hip. Her purse was gone.
    She did not feel it. She does not
    Believe it for a split second.

    Shaking her head, she yells
    to everyone on the platform,
    Those kids stole my purse!
    She chases them and points, but they
    are hopping on a train. Kind strangers
    who have seen it before
    do not let them board.
    She endures many adamant denials before
    The kids finally hand over her purse.

  16. AvatarValkyri

    cheeseburger winter

    when most glossy lipped teeny boppers
    were breezing through the aisles
    snapping pink bubble gum and
    stealing peacock blue glittery nail polish
    I spent frigid winter nights
    sleeping in the 24 hour laundromat
    going to school solely for the lunch line
    sliding parchment wrapped cheeseburgers
    (so slyly) just under my belt buckle
    never imagining I would be caught
    in retrospect realizing the lunch-lady
    had more discretion than I ever had
    (pretending not to notice me…)
    and never once considered thoughts of
    reporting the tired looking skinny girl
    wearing dirty, holey, Sharpied blue jeans

  17. Avatarpipersfancy

    Stolen

    These are not my words, not my voice
    that speaks them. No longer can I hear
    the songs my mother sang, collecting
    berries for the pemmican she’d make
    when winds turned cold, skies churning.

    My moccasins have disappeared. My
    feet no longer feel the land beneath them.
    I dance no more to drumbeats and I fear
    that Mother Earth herself has died without
    Her heartbeat carried by the drummers.

    If I were to find a stream or river, I would
    look to see if my reflection still remained.
    Perhaps that, too, has disappeared. I’m
    nothing but a spirit left behind, afraid to
    walk among the dead who still reside here.

  18. AvatarTaruchaya

    Not a thief.

    Make your wish
    Your wish is my command
    Said the Genie with a grin
    Help me steal
    Whatever I want
    Said Timid Tiny Tim
    I can fulfil
    All your wishes
    Then why do you want to steal?
    You can be a Prince
    With a huge palace
    You can have the royal meal.
    I’m just a boy
    Too scared of the world
    I don’t have hands of steel
    All I know
    Is how to endure
    What people make me feel
    I wish for love
    I wish for a family
    I wish to go home.
    Cold pavements are better
    Than cold hearted people
    I’m tired of being alone.
    Sweet little angel
    My dear Tiny Tim
    Life has both joy and grief.
    You can be whatever you want
    Believe in yourself
    You are not a thief.
    You don’t need envy
    You don’t need rage
    Build a determination of steel
    I shall be the witness
    Of how you helped yourself
    Don’t ever lose your zeal.

  19. AvatarPat Walsh

    stolen
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    her laughter
    a stream unleashing
    a freshet tumbling
    toward the sea

    his eyes
    like the moon
    twinned in the
    mirror of the pond

    the dawn
    waking the day
    taking back time
    not theirs to give

  20. Avatartimphilippart

    Theft Prevention 1967

    I picked the place for the theft,
    timed it down to the second,
    knew my lines perfectly,
    dressed like bait,
    arranged for the Association to sing
    Never My Love, on the eight track.
    My heart was ready to be purloined,
    at last, I’d lose my innocence,
    here, she would capture my heart,
    then I discovered, she thought,
    thou shalt not steal was a commandment.

  21. Avatarseingraham

    HIGHWAY OF TEARS

    So many women have gone missing
    on this road, most of them Indigenous
    and most of them not searched for
    by law enforcement with any real intention.
    The outrageousness of reasons given
    takes my breath away – “oh, she probably
    ran off; that’s what they do, you know– or,
    she lived a high-risk lifestyle no wonder she’s
    missing; what did she expect?”

    So, when enough mothers and aunties formed
    groups and complained en masse to the
    authorities got church groups interested
    in their concerns – a yearly march was organized
    finally. The police department said they weren’t
    going to authorize any money to pay for protection
    for any god-damned stupid march after the first year.

    But, it was interesting – the next years, the cops
    worked for free to block the intersections so
    the march went on without any trouble and
    some of them even marched with the folks.
    I remember one of the guys saying to one of the girl’s
    parents – “You must feel as if your daughter’s been
    stolen away from you…” and I thought, he nailed it.
    All of these women were more than missing, they’d
    been stolen right out from under our noses and no one
    had batted an eye, not until it was too late to do anything.

  22. Avatartimphilippart

    John 9:4-5

    Night is coming when no one can work,
    so I strangle the twilight,
    stealing the breath of day for
    one more lung full of life and,

    dread the coming,
    of nothing to exhale,
    when thumping stops and
    someone closes my lid.

  23. Avatarconnielpeters

    Sentimental Value

    I crocheted an afghan
    for my hubby,
    brick red, aqua and white.

    I crocheted an afghan
    for my daughter
    pink, pale blue, and white.

    My kids put them in a tent
    to sleep out in the night.

    Someone stole them from our yard.
    It surely isn’t right.

  24. Avatarconnielpeters

    Stolen Heart

    He stole my heart and then he left.
    It was his time to go.
    We couldn’t keep him anymore.
    It’s good for all, I know.

    I miss his smiles and his sweet hugs,
    the sounds he make each day.
    The house is very quiet now,
    since he has gone away.

    I try to visit every month,
    come rain or shine, it’s true.
    Although he does not verbalize,
    I know he misses me, too.

  25. AvatarPearl Ketover Prilik

    stolen?

    his first laugh and the gales that followed
    the way he pulled himself up and stood on
    two feet, ten toes unrecognizable to me,
    the flash of new teeth pushing through
    the color his eyes became after newborn days
    his third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth,
    ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth,
    fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth,
    eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first,
    twenty-second, months.
    the delight of recognition in his eyes
    when he sees me
    and reaches up
    for a hug
    this first-born
    grandson –
    six minutes
    in geography
    and an infinite
    abyss of un-
    explained
    unrelenting
    banishment
    away.
    Stolen?
    I’d say.

  26. AvatarAustin Hill

    What A Steal!

    I stole a silver dollar,
    one among your many.
    And thought you wouldn’t notice,
    there were surely more than twenty.

    It wasn’t on my radar
    that you fingered through them often.
    My needs and wants you always met,
    my guilt this would not soften.

    And when you’d made the official count
    and found you were one short,
    it wasn’t you; it wasn’t Mom,
    by elimination I was caught.

    You looked me straight in the eye,
    expressed your disappointment;
    “You would steal from me?” you said.
    this self-inflicted wound, no ointment.

    Your words, they cut me to the core;
    but it was your heart, now broken.
    And this is why I’m not a thief;
    to my Daddy, a promise unspoken.

    © April 2019 Suzanne S. Austin-Hill

  27. AvatarPearl Ketover Prilik

    Four and a half months

    On an April afternoon filled with sunlight
    I painted my kitchen with bright yellow enamel
    thought I felt The Universe smiling upon me –
    Until she crept into the day, stealing buried treasure
    Stolen: at four and a half months into an unaware
    childbearing – My tiny daughter, snatched, though
    I never knew for certain she was a girl, I felt her –
    Felt her trapped in a Fallopian Faustian horror –
    could see her, caught, captured and squeezed,
    beating her miniature fists and feet on closing walls –
    A well intentioned and sweetly Catholic friend-of-the-
    family surgeon – assured me when I awoke with –
    one tube and no child to be – assured me smiling
    gently that the child had been perfect – compounding
    the theft – demolishing any this-is-for-the-best peace
    of mind – successfully twinning grief and guilt
    grief and guilt – at my inability to keep her safe.
    I stayed on the maternity floor listening to the
    unstolen infants –my daughter’s future colleagues.

    That Autumn – the Universe called again – yet again just
    at four and one half months – of a newly anointed child-
    to-be – One I felt fluttering breasts strokes and somersaults
    within my womb – In a gush of blood more blindingly bright
    than any seen before or since …the theft began – again –
    A short time later – gowned and bedded – a student nurse
    at my side – I felt the slip slide of my child whoosh from me
    as its soul danced somewhere
    beyond my puny understanding.

    I believe the Universe is kind and often smiles upon me as on
    all others and yet, and yet.
    I know Her other face and name from long, long ago –
    Thief.

  28. Avatarbethwk

    Poetry Prompt: Write a Stolen Poem
    by Beth Weaver-Kreider

    I stole this poem years ago, actually,
    from a shelf in a corner of that old book shop
    on a quiet street down by the river.
    Dust motes twinkled in shafts of sun
    which slanted through the windows.

    I eased the leather-clad book from a high shelf.
    I thought I heard it whispering.
    My fingers tingled with is electric pull.

    I knew it would contain treasures:
    words like glisten and linger,
    like numinous, mellow, meringue.
    I thought it might glow on the page,
    hum my name, offer me words to ponder:
    tendril, exquisite, winsome, wander.
    And words strong and feral,
    like flame, wild, and bramble,
    courageous, incarnate, sycamore.

    I thought it might tell me how not to be afraid,
    how to not put so much stake in other people’s opinions,
    how not to trust the lure of the the easiest road.

    It did not disappoint.
    I’ve kept it, concealed,
    waiting for the moment,
    the right invitation,
    to reveal it.

  29. Avatarrobinamelia

    Stealing: A Triolet

    He was such a total steal
    I couldn’t possibly resist
    Dreamy eyes that made me reel
    He was such a total steal
    Breaking her heart was half the appeal
    But it was clear when we first kissed
    He was such a total steal
    I couldn’t possibly resist.

  30. Avatarmapoet

    Fog

    I wake up to a
    steel-gray day and
    strain to look for what is
    ahead of me. My eyes
    hurt because they want
    to see clearly but can’t.
    Relief will come when
    the sun gives the fog a lift.

    By Michelle Pond

  31. AvatarJane Shlensky

    Steal Away

    She looks around, exasperated.
    The tasks she put him to remain
    undone or unfinished. What kind
    of lesson is he learning about
    work and responsibility?
    “Where did he get to?” she says aloud.
    She will call his name, her voice
    coloring from anger to worry,
    her tone becoming plaintive with worry.
    Is he hurt? Sick? Kidnapped?
    Is he lost and afraid? Then
    reason settles in. She tracks him
    into dark corners, rooms grown
    too quiet for anything but sleep,
    closets, basement, and finally
    finds him in the pantry, squeezed
    beneath a shelf, asleep mid-chapter,
    the novel open on his knees.
    She stands over him, waiting
    for her outrage to be convincing,
    while she smiles softly instead.
    He’s a rotten worker, but that boy
    is an angel when he sleeps.

  32. AvatarJane Shlensky

    Rules of Story-telling

    Get a bunch of writers together,
    born liars and borrowers, add
    libations and food. Then watch.
    As characters develop, plots
    expand, and phrasing becomes
    delightful, laughter rings,
    sadness crushes, all with gusto.
    But look at their eyes,
    these born thieves, as recognition
    flickers. One by one, they remove
    tiny notebooks from pockets
    to steal your story. The better
    of them ask, “Will you use that?”
    The others simply steal it outright.

    Because we are mostly teachers too,
    I prepare a lovely parting gift:
    a lesson plan or two that works
    every time, a book, an idea I stole
    myself. The best gift is this advice:
    if you must, steal from those who don’t
    know how clever they are,
    how worthy their life experiences,
    how complicated, funny, and kind
    they are. They deserve a writer’s best
    efforts. Stealing from writers?
    That’s just tacky.

  33. Avatarskiiru

    AT THE FIELD

    On ridged metal bleachers behind the chain link, we cradled our
    Big League pouches of shredded gum
    and unfurled sunny hours in giggles and swoons,
    casting hopeful eyes
    at the shaded dugout,
    wanting /not wanting/ to be seen.

    (hey batta batta hey batta batta)

    Sometimes we’d shift to the worn grass,
    suddenly awkward among the mysterious moms
    as we waited hungrily for their sons
    to step out of the caged shadow,
    each bat a cannoned solo.

    (pick me up bud pick me up)

    We watched those cleated boys looping round
    the dusty stage, snagging themselves on second,
    and wished we could be the ones
    calling them loudly home.

    All those days clapping and laughing under the raging
    sun and I never saw how fleeting it all was,
    how irreversible,
    how one stolen base is either capture or triumph.
    There is no going back.

  34. AvatarDsistersdiaries

    …SET ME FREE…

    Why don’t you just set me free
    And let me go on with my life
    I feel like a prisoner
    Trapped in a cell
    Suffocated and tortured
    With your undying love
    I don’t want to disappoint you
    I’m thankful instead
    But can’t you understand
    It’s not you whom I want
    So don’t be too selfish
    To own my only heart

  35. Avatarfjtassone2

    I can hear Nirvana playing in my head again. Even though the converted bathroom my Special Education Department calls an office is filled, I unleash the melody of my earworm. Soon the tell-tale lyrical opening plays in their heads:

    Come, as you are, as you were

    as I want you to be

    As a friend, as a friend

    as my own enemy…

    “No, not that again,” Gina protests, too late.

    For I am Prometheus reborn, stealing the fire of workplace inspiration and divergent thinking and returning to my ever-burnt colleagues with that necessary treasure.

    Take your time, hurry up

    choice is yours, don’t be late

    as a friend, as a friend

    as my own enemy…

    I will lie chained upon my rock of routine by the Zeusian powers-that-be soon enough, and face the vulture of redundant attitudes by those whom I serve, as it feasts on the liver of my vocational hope again and again.

    a long wait

    for my own Hercules

    to enter the breach

    another breath taken

    while the wounds heal again

    https://frankjtassone.com/2019/04/05/14089/

  36. Avatarserenevannoy

    too far

    we went too far, she said,
    gathered ourselves into ourselves and
    struck out, across the water,
    farther than we had planned,
    farther than we were allowed.
    the boat was not ours,
    but we didn’t like to say we’d stolen it,
    so we talked about borrowing,
    made no plan to give it back when we were finished.
    the cold slick water was barely disturbed by us,
    by the small boat that wasn’t ours,
    by our plans that changed,
    by the straining of our arms as we propelled the small boat
    across the large lake,
    heading for a home we’d never seen.

    seven isn’t old enough to paddle so far.
    seven isn’t old enough to know that, either,
    but we knew the boat was not ours,
    and we knew our mother didn’t like us to be
    where she couldn’t call us in,
    couldn’t make us closer to her,
    too close for comfort.
    so we paddled, quietly, our pale cheeks red with cold,
    and with barely suppressed glee
    at our bravery,
    our treachery,
    our willingness to take this boat,
    this journey,
    this chance

    too far.

  37. AvatarSara McNulty

    Short on Decorum

    Stealing my heart
    Then moving
    On to another
    Lover–one of no substance,
    Empty upstairs, sassy surface–
    Not only wounded me but taught me

    How a coward operates–no confrontations
    Ever. If you cannot look me in the eye
    And speak honest words of explanation,
    Real relationships will never evolve for you.
    That time is gone; I am traveling on.

COMMENT

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.