A Broken Dreamcatcher

Doll by Emma Whitlock

Her dreamcatcher failed
And a nightmare slipped through,
One that ensnared her heart and soul,
Leaving her chasing the impossible
Until flesh was cleaved from bone,
The skeletal remains of her broken heart
Dangling in the breeze.

~~~ This poem was written for a photo prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Man in the Moon

Moon by Petr Kratochvil

I saw your face last night, 

Hiding in the shadows of the moon, 

Watching over me 

From the far off reaches 

Of the past, 

A secret presence offering 

Faint comfort to a wistful heart, 

And I can’t help but wonder 

If you've ever seen my face

Hiding in the shadows of the moon…

~~~ This poem was written for the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge Day 7 prompt, asking us to write a circular poem.

Life of Pi

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Life is a circle, 

The wheel of fortune

Spinning on and on,

Moving me 

A little further

Down my path.

I've spent years

Trying to measure

The distance across it,

Trying to see

Just how wide

I open I need to be

To wrap myself around it,

Finally realizing

The key to this cipher

Is to know my own value…

3.1415926535

~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Poetry Jam that asked us to take the title of a book on one of the New York Times best sellers lists and write a poem for it.  The book I chose was “The Life of Pi” by Yann Martel, which is #3 on the Paperback Trade Fiction list this week. This was also for the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge day 19 prompt of writing a wheel poem.

Freak Show

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Ladies and gentlemen,
Boys and girls,
Children of all ages…
I invite you to step inside the Halls of Idiosyncrasy
To witness to this spectacle of the bizarre,
Deformities on public display for all to see.

First, witness the contortionist.
Watch as she manipulates
Her limbs into unnatural poses,
Far beyond the limitations
Normally required of human beings,
Shaping herself to the whims of those around her.

Here we see the sword swallower,
Ingesting every blade handed to her,
All those cutting words of sharpened steel,
Risking evisceration with every mouthful,
Her bleeding scars unseen by the outside world.

Next comes the bearded lady,
Genetics and hormones
Transforming this once-beautiful woman
Into a hirsute horror
Seeking to hide her shame
Behind scarves and veils.

Behold the snake charmer,
Whispering just the right words
To calm the wrath of the serpents
Who slither through deception
Then coil in defensive postures,
Ready to strike at any moment.

Finally we have the fire eater,
Consuming blazing words
That should never be left silent,
Determination scorched
In hopes of avoiding annihilation.

And what sets these oddities apart,
You may ask?

This display consists of only one performer…
Me.

Welcome to the freak show I call my life.


~~~ This was written for my prompt this week over at Poetry Jam about the circus.  This is also for the prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us as poets to “break the fourth wall” of writing.

Soundtrack

© Kenia Cris

the soundtrack of my life
has switched keys,
transforming into
series of preludes
played through
old tinny speakers,
gentle waves of sound
that give no clue
to the insidious motives
of the band,
yet still I dance on...


~~~~ This poem was written for the Weekend Challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, giving us a choice of a form prompt or a photo prompt.  I chose a photograph by Kenia Cris, whose work can be found at her blog Poesia Torta.

Life as a Tree

Among the Tree by Jan Prikryl

Sinking roots into sacred ground,
My branches reaching toward the sky,
My duty I cannot defy.
I keep my watch without a sound.

The busy world goes rushing by
And never sees my leafy green.
Oblivious to nature’s scene,
They never stop to ponder why.

Through nature’s furies, I've survived,
The crashing lightning, raging fires,
But still, no matter what transpires
I’ll reemerge, refreshed, revived,

For nature always finds a way
To thrive against all likelihood.
I’ll make my stand in gnarled wood
And live to see a brighter day.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to write about the temperate forest.

A Season of Grief

Tree Silhouette by Peter Griffin

Her heart lies
Wounded and withering
From near fatal
Blows of mourning,
Languishing in darkness
For too many years,
Too many tears.
All seasons pass
With the turning
Of the calendar page,
But time crawls more slowly
With every loss,
Her hope dormant and waiting
For the next season to begin.

~~~ This was written for the Poetry Jam prompt of “endless seasons” or "change of season."

A Message from the Owner

Snow on Trees by David Wagner

I know you know I own this wood,
And yes, the view is awfully good
When snowflakes fall on wintry nights
On land where birches long have stood.

If you had only looked, you'd find
A wooden “No Trespassing” sign,
Hung in plain sight upon the fence
That serves as my dividing line.

From this day forth I would prefer
To keep my privacy secure,
So find another road to take,
But first, clean up your horse manure!


~~~  Written for the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge Day 8 prompt, asking us to pick a poem by a dead poet and write a response.  I chose to write to Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," tongue very firmly in cheek of course.

Write, Not Right

Journal by Junior Libby

For more than a decade 

Pundits have spoken 

Of the great right wing conspiracy, 

Those evil capitalists 

Lurking in the shadows 

Seeking to seize power 

Regardless of the cost, 

Heartless bastards

Fueled by greed,

Willing to sacrifice

Anyone weaker

To better shape the world 

According to their insidious schemes. 

I speak of a different quest, 

My write wing conspiracy:

A mission to illustrate my vision 

Of triumph and disappointment 

Both at a personal level 

And also on a grander scale.  

Words hold power, 

And one poem at a time 

Every poet possesses

The power

To change the world.

~~~ This poem was inspired by the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge Day 6 prompt, asking us to pen either a left poem or a right poem.

Three Minute Wait

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Three minutes can become an agonizing eternity 

Alone in the bathroom at 4 A.M.  

I hold that white plastic stick like a talisman, 

Praying that the tiny spark of hope 

That always resurfaces at times like this 

Would not be extinguished once again

With tears of disappointment. 

After years of dealing with a malfunctioning body 

Flooded with deceitful hormones, 

I understood that crushing emotion all too well. 

I’m afraid to breathe, 

Fighting back another wave of nausea, 

Wondering if this could just be anxiety,

Maybe a touch of the flu, 

Or perhaps something more…

My hands shake as the timer rings 

And I glance down at the indicator, 

Terrified of what I'll find.  

In that moment, 

Two pink lines showed me 

That miracles can happen, 

Even to someone like me.

~~~ This poem was written for the latest prompt from Poetic Bloomings in their poetic memoir series, asking us to write about a moment that changed our lives.  The moment that I found out I was pregnant with my daughter Emily certainly qualifies.

I was diagnosed several years with polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS.)  PCOS is a hormone disorder that affects an estimated 6-10% of all women.  Besides causing infertility in women, PCOS can also cause other symptoms including high blood pressure, insulin resistance leading to diabetes,  abnormal hair growth patterns, and obesity.  PCOS is treatable with medications, diet, and exercise, but there is no cure.  You can find more information about PCOS here.

Emmy at 2 months

Emmy age 11

  

On Election Results, 2012

The Gadsden Flag.  Image from Wikimedia Commons

When political charlatans

Divide and deceive the voters,

We all lose.

~~~ This poem was written both for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads prompt of telling who won the election in 20 words or less and the Poetic Bloomings form prompt of writing a lune.

The Path to Peace

Peace by Sabine Sauermaul

Our human hearts long for peace

Yet too many cower in the face of danger,

Afraid to stand together

With the courageous conviction needed

To make peace a viable possibility.

Peace comes from strength.

The bullies and tyrants of the world 

Have no power if they have no prey;

They feed on the weakness and fear 

Of those who would acquiesce rather than fight.  

The path to peace cannot be found

In a tempest of politically correct pacifism 

That only serves to sacrifice our beliefs 

At the altar of the politically correct. 

Peace is truly the ultimate goal, 

A laudable aspiration

For any freedom-loving people,

One that we must be willing to

Work for,

Fight for,

And, if necessary,

Die for.

~~~~  This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to write about peace.

Just Beneath Her Surface

Girl Behind the Mask by Junior Libby

Just beneath her surface
Discontent simmers,
The secret sorrow
That fuels hidden tears
For her sacrificed dreams,
All hidden
By her delusive smile.


~~~~ This was written for the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge Day 4 prompt, which directed us to make the title of our poem “Just Beneath (blank.)”

Never Alone

Monster by Francisco Farias Jr.

In this realm
Of unnatural darkness,
Caution is demanded.
I know I am not alone.
I hear footsteps,
Perhaps a spectral silhouette
Wandering
In search of retribution
For the sins of the past,
Unseen voices
Swirling around me
In guttural whispers,
The frigid breath
Of undetected demons
Chilling my bones.
I see eyes glowing
In the pitch black,
Always watching me,
A solitary soul
Caught in evil’s sight.


~~~ This poem was written for the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge Day 3 prompt of “Write a poem that scares you.”

My Choice

The opportunity has always been there,

Tantalizingly close to my fingertips. 

The time has come 

To climb the ladder  

And grasp my guiding star.

I have the ability to choose my direction,

To make a course correction if necessary, 

And I choose to move on.

I will never be content 

To live in the shadows of life. 

I want my opportunity to blossom, 

To stand in the sun and have my day, 

To seek the applause 

I so desperately want to hear,

If only for just one moment.  

I am tired of suffering in silence. 

Let me sing once again with the breaking morn.  

I cannot continue the way things have been.  

I know that staying the course 

Is a sure path to suicide 

And I will not surrender anymore.

I will not cede my power 

To some bullying tyrant 

Holding me hostage in my own life.

This is my life.

This is my choice.

I choose me.

~~~ This poem was written in response to a prompt from Poetry Jam asking us to write about choices.

Walking with Ghosts

Haunted Graveyard 1 by Junior Libby

I walk with ghosts,
The last traces of those who came before.
They float past me like forsaken servants
Of diminished usefulness,
Watching my dreams and aspirations
Dance in the fire.
I plead to Mother Earth
To hear my cries and release me
From the chains in my life.
I see the power in the flames,
The same power that lies
Dormant in myself,
Awaiting permission
To manifest into my world.
These ghosts guide me
Through spectral whispers,
Teaching me that life and death
Are much the same;
The only difference lies
In the ability of others
To see where our walk is leading.


~~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to write a ghost poem that incorporated a line from another poem about ghosts.  I chose a line from Anne Sexton’s “Ghosts.”

The Rogue Gods of Domestic Chaos

Socks by Peter Griffin

They send forth their minions
Who invade under the cover of the spin cycle,
Stealing socks and spiriting them away
Into the nether regions of the laundry,
Transforming cotton-woolen blends
Into wire coat hangers,
Those distorted instruments bent
On staging a clothing coup
And seizing control of our closets,
Leaving a path of disarray
Through our carefully constructed household bliss.

And that’s why you don't have any matched socks, dear.


~~~~ This poem was written for the Poetic Asides Poem a Day Chapbook Challenge Day 1 prompt of writing a matches poem.

A Helpful Hint

Photo from Google Images

For those young men seeking romance,
Good looks don't just happen by chance.
If you want to impress,
I cannot overstress:
Remember to pull up your damned pants!


~~~ This was written for the prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to write about our pet peeve.  I can’t even begin to tell you how crazy sagging pants make me!  I’m also linking this up for Open Link Monday over at IGWRT since I’m just a wee bit late with this offering.

Shrapnel to the Heart

Cosma by sabine Sauermaul

my heart transformed,

now a magnet for his shrapnel, 

love, an unavoidable vortex, 

a dislocating kiss 

in the thundering wilds. 

I hang my emotions 

on the clothesline

to dry my wrenched tears,

fevered delirium 

embedded in each fiber, 

a mournful marathon 

through an auburn Tuesday night. 

he rendered me helpless, 

a phantom vapor 

chasing her siren, 

holding his howls 

close as remedy

before planting myself 

in a sheltered corner. 

a melancholy wind blows, 

swaying my grasses,  

erotic scents floating 

with stray powders 

from fairy wands.  

I float on his tides, 

a helpless captive 

to his churning waters,

the ebb and flow of his world 

determining the shape of mine. 

~~~  This poem was written for the prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to draw inspiration from the words of a fellow poet and to write a surrealistic poem.  My inspiration came from the line “…sheltered in the corner of your shrapnel heart” from the poem “Box Shaped Heart” by Hannah Gosselin. I’m also linking this up for this week’s prompt over at Poetry Jam and the OctPoWriMo Day 25 prompt, which both asked us to write about love.

Driven to Perform

NASCAR by Todd Ellis
photo courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net

It’s a muggy summer morning

And the fans have filled the stands,

Anticipation building 

As they await the start command.

Would-be heroes of the asphalt

Are now strapping in their cars,

To fire up those engines

And go racing toward the stars.

The drivers are all focused

On the massive task ahead,

Except for one, whose thoughts trail off

To his post-race plans instead.

The freedom that he finds in speed

Sure makes his soul take flight,

But he finds the same wild feeling

On the stage at karaoke night.

He channels thundering metal

On the track and at the shop,

But when he’s got the microphone

It’s strictly girly pop.

Mariah, Whitney, Katy,

Man, that boy can sing it all;

In a smoky bar or Victory Lane

You’ll find him standing tall. 

We know the boy’s got talent,

He can drive like Dale or Jimmie,

But he loves to belt out Winehouse 

With an extra shake and shimmy.

So when the green flag flies

He drops the pedal to the floor.

The end of that first lap

Will find them racing door-to-door.

Lap by lap the miles race by

At a frenetic pace.

He drives his crew chief crazy

While he’s humming “Poker Face.”

By the time the race is over

And he sees the checkers fly,

He’s energized to go and chase

His karaoke high.

It’s just two sides of the same coin,

You can’t tear his worlds apart,

‘Cause he’s got motor oil in his blood

And music in his heart.

~~~ This poem was written for a personal challenge from over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking me to write a poem combining car racing and karaoke.

Shadows Dance

Photo by Mary Mansfield
Yard Haunt, 2012

At twilight, when the shadows dance,
The brave of heart can take a chance
Against the specters of the night
Who wander free in manic flight,

Unhindered by our mortal glance.
At twilight, when the shadows dance,
The witches brew their magic potion,
Strengthening their dark devotion.

The air is filled with howls and screams,
The kind found in demented dreams
At twilight. When the shadows dance
And sway across the dim expanse,

A demon risen from its tomb
Will lure us toward impending doom,
Ensnaring us in fear’s grim trance
At twilight, when the shadows dance.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Poetry Jam asking us to write a poem about shadows.

** Note:  Oops!  I had originally labelled this as a kyrielle when in fact it is a quatern.  Fixed the labeling!

Bleak Harvest

Photo by Mary Mansfield

Under the harvest moon
My fields lay barren,
A growing season lost
In the drifting confusion of my life.
The reapers stand silent
As I ponder a long winter
With nothing to fill my larder
And carry me through to the spring.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asking us to think about the “mechanical harvest.”

The Pain of Chores

Photo by Mary Mansfield

Chores are a pain.

Those words

Must have passed

My lips

A thousand times

As a child.

Dishes,

Laundry,

Vacuuming…

Who wanted

To waste time

Trapped in the house

When fun and friends

Beckoned from 

The yard,

The park,

The streets 

Of the neighborhood?

Those years

Have long gone,

And today

Chores are truly a pain,

Ten minutes 

Of vacuuming

Enough to unleash

A raging monster

Coiling around 

My spine,

Sending me writhing

Searching for ice packs,

Heating pads,

And painkillers;

Folding laundry

With numb fingers

Little more

Than origami torture

In a washable

Cotton-poly blend.

I’d trade a million 

Spaghetti-crusted pans

For just one day

When the pain of chores

Was not so literal.

~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Poetic Bloomings asking for poems about chores, the latest in its poetic memoir series.

Remembrances

© Margaret Bednar

Remembrances of gentle smiles
Give little reprieve to my pain,
Relentless tears that fall in vain,
No pardon from these grief-filled trials.

Sufficient reasons can't be found
To justify an early death,
A mournful heart that has no breath,
Filled with regrets, in sorrow drowned.

I’m drifting, lost, and so alone.
Stuck on a path of many ways
But none that lead to brighter days,
My anguish marked by chiseled stone.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to try out the In Memoriam Stanza, a variation on the envelope stanza.  The photograph was part of this prompt as well.  You can find Margaret Bednar's photos and poetry over at her blog Art Happens 365.

Spilling the Beans

Photograph by Mary Mansfield

In November each year, family from far and near
Would travel in their cars, vans, and trucks,
From all across the nation for Thanksgiving vacation,
A festive celebration deluxe.

Back around ‘82, if my memory holds true,
Aunt Rose was to keep us all fed,
So she chose a meal with widespread appeal,
A batch of brown beans with cornbread.

It’s quite the trick to survive cooking for twenty-five,
And Aunt Rose was well up to the mission.
With a quite happy look, Aunt Rose set out to cook
A warm pot of  some down-home nutrition.

So into the pot went the beans that she bought,
But things didn’t quite look like her plan.
“That just won’t be enough,” so she proceeded to stuff
Four more pounds of brown beans in the pan.

Now the beans that she bought to put into that pot
Were beans that had never been soaked,
And as most cooks should know, unsoaked beans tend to grow,
So Aunt Rose stirred, waited, and hoped.

To Aunt Rose’s surprise, right before her shocked eyes
Those brown beans began to swell up.
Her panic was showing as those beans just kept growing,
Filling up all her bowls, pans, and cups.

She borrowed containers from all of her neighbors,
Seeking any support she could find
To stem the great surge that began to emerge,
A crisis of the culinary kind.

Aunt Rose needed the means to dispose of those beans,
And the family clan seemed heaven-sent;
Feeding our brood took a whole lot of food
So straight into Bean-land we went.

We ate beans in the morning; even with forewarning
The pairing still came a shock.
Lord knows we weren’t ready for beans with spaghetti.
We ate those brown beans ‘round the clock.

Beans on buttered toast, beans served with pot roast,
Beans every which way we could fashion.
Bean salad and mash, bean burritos and hash,
Just the sight of more beans left us ashen.

Now the point of this tale is not to regale
Of the need for attentive bean soaking,
But to honor Aunt Rose despite her cooking woes,
And to make up for the thirty years of joking.


~~~ This poem is based on a real bean disaster suffered by my own Aunt Rose, a story that has become the stuff of family legends.  I began this poem during the Poetic Bloomings prompt asking us to write about our favorite food, but it fit so well with this week’s prompt from Poetic Bloomings wanting stories from family vacation.  The form is a Triquatrain; you can fine more information about that particular form here.

Bedtime Story

Dark Rose by Petr Kratochvil

She clutches her pillow as a charm
Against the unbearable stillness.
Night should bring
The mending serenity of sleep,
Not fevered paranoia
Wrought by brittle nerves
Crusted with the scars of the past.
A midnight breeze
Rustles the willow branches
Outside her window,
A sound more like the scratching
Of unsheathed claws
Waiting to pierce tender flesh.
She measures each breath carefully
With a silent prayer on her lips,
The lurking unseen demons
Waiting to explode into her room
Much less scary than
The monster sleeping next to her.


~~~~  This poem was written for my prompt this week over at Poetry Jam asking us to write about monsters.  This was partially inspired by the Day 9 OctPoWriMo prompt about sounds/noises.  I also used this week’s words from The Sunday Whirl.

A Rainy Remembrance

Sad Man and Rain by Jiri Hodan

He looks out
In the rainy morning light
And breathes her name,
Turning mist into memory
On his window pane.
He traces the shape of a heart,
So reminiscent of the curve
His fingers followed on her cheek.
He never understood
Her obsession with the rain
And its ability to mask sorrow;
Today he understands far too well.


~~~  This was written for the OctPoWriMo Day 6 prompt of “Remember.”

Chasing the Lighthouse

© Jaime Clark

I’m caught in a cerebral fog, 

An aimless drifter on stormy seas

With no map to guide my way, 

Trying to find meaning 

In this mental void, 

Wishing for 

An inspirational lighthouse

To set my thoughts 

Back on course.

I feel the void 

Echoing its lonely song 

Through my world, 

An aching that mirrors my every move.  

I’m lost in transience, 

A floating wisp of ether 

That never materializes 

Into something substantial.

~~~~ This was written for a photo prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  This also was written for the OctPoWriMo Day 4 prompt of “Inspiration and/or Rules.”  (Yeah, playing a little catch up on the prompts!)

Junkie Poetics

Salvia by Ben Kokolas

poetry burns in my blood,

strengthening me

as I forge meaning 

from words and lines,

a luscious roll

through syntax 

and 

connotation,

an addiction I can never

walk away from

having surrendered fully

to the insanity;

but let those words 

linger unsaid in my mind 

and I shake 

in uncontrolled withdrawal,

a fraud revealed 

for all to see,

a trespasser 

into the world 

of the artist,

a shell of a writer

frantically counting

syllables on my fingers

while

muttering incoherently

of iambic pentameter,

begging for 

just one more verse,

one more fix.

~~~  This poem was written in response to a prompt from Poetry Jam asking us to write about a love/hate relationship.

Tarot Stories

Candles and Cards by Katrina Joyner

In the Celtic Cross 

Each position is noteworthy, 

A glimpse into our fluid fates. 

The Tarot speak to me, 

Telling me the stories 

Hidden from others, 

Helping to light the path 

Of our own fool’s journey 

Through the world.

~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asking us to delve into the magical realm.

Fashionable Torture

File:Stilettoheels.jpg  from Wikimedia Commons

Cinderella was a masochist,
With feet trapped in unforgiving glass
Merely to curry favor with a prince.
The lesson remains unlearned,
We teeter about in stiletto heels,
Suffering the origami-like
Folding of flesh and bone
Just to satisfy the gods of fashion,
Our anguished steps inducing pain
In bodies shifted out of alignment,
Sadistic devices that would make
The Inquisitors of old envious.

What would they say to know
That five hundred years later
Half the populace
Volunteers for torture?


~~~~  This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to write about fashion.

Need for Speed

The Winner by Todd Ellis

my heart races 

as the engines roar

raging metal beasts 

accelerating into turn one, 

then out of turn two

hurtling down the backstretch 

in a blur of paint and chrome

balancing on the edge of catastrophe

racing into turn three

separated by mere inches

at the exit of turn four

diving to the inside lane 

completing the pass 

right at the start-finish line

only three hundred more laps 

of adrenaline-fueled chaos 

chasing victory and immortality

~~~ This was written for a prompt from Poetic Bloomings asking us to write about our passion/guilty pleasure.

resistance

Good Punk by Sabine Sauermaul

resist the poisons 

pumped 

into our weakened bodies,

man-made plagues 

set loose 

upon an unsuspecting world

resist the lies 

injected 

into our minds 

by manipulators  

seeking more sheep 

to cower 

at the feet 

of their masters

resist the misdirection 

of the magicians of power

with so much to hide,  

subterfuge 

their only armor 

against the truth

resist the invasion 

of the eyes and ears 

of the betrayers; 

gird your houses 

in silence,

for the time of battle 

approaches

there is no other option

we must resist 

~~~ This poem was written for a prompt over at Poetry Jam, asking us to examine ars poetica, didactic, and subversive poetry.

Polished

image by Jiri Hodan

Time adds shine 

To our memories, 

Enhancing 

The colors,

Softening the hard edges, 

Editing our pain.

~~~ This poem is linked up over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for Open Link Monday.

A Sunday Drive

© Margaret Bednar

Every Sunday finds her
Driving along County Road 6,
A dozen roses in the passenger seat,
Making her way to a simple stone marker
Under the swaying pines.

Some days she talks of the kids,
Her job, his mother,
Other times she sits in silence,
But each visit ends the same way,
With burgundy lips on his granite inscription
And a whispered, “I’ll always love you.”


~~~  This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, giving us the option of either writing a form poem (sevenling) or using a photo from the prompt for our inspiration.  The picture I chose was from Margaret Bednar, you can find her poetry and photography at her blog Art Happens 365.

Guest Post - Adventures in Reading

My daughter Emmy

 This poem was written by my 11 year old daughter Emmy today...not for any homework assignment but just for fun.  She has graciously agreed to let me share it with everyone here.

Love of Books by Jiri Hodan

I can sail the seas with James

All on a giant peach.

I can ride the train with Harry

To find the magic within my reach.

I can solve a mystery with Sherlock

Or maybe Nancy Drew.

I can eat green eggs and ham with Sam,

Help Horton hear a who.

I can go coon hunting

With Old Dan and Little Ann.

I can go through the looking glass with Alice

Into a wonderland.

I can go to Oz with Dorothy

And get the Wicked Witch’s broom.

All of these adventures in reading

Done from the comfort of my room.

In the Spirit of Landai

By Davric (Collection personnelle (personal collection)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads this week we were introduced to the poetic form landai, a two line form of poetry written by the women of Afghanistan.  You can follow the link to learn more about this form. Here are a few of my attempts to write landai.

He wraps his sins in the cloak of tradition
But her blood still seeps through.

Her wings damaged struggling against iron bars,
She still dreams of escaping into the saffron skies.

The scars of war scorch the earth;
Tears of the hopeful will bring healing.

Even with the stones of oppression threatening destruction,
The fiery spirit of the poet will survive.

The Worst Thing

Dramatic Sky by Vera Kratochvil

The worst thing
Was not the fire,
The weeks in the hospital,
Or the scars left behind.
The worst thing
Was not the secret
I was forced to keep,
The time spent without
The most basic necessities,
Or the bullying taunts
About out of date clothes
That reeked of kerosene.
The worst thing
Was not the betrayal of trust,
The bruises on body and soul,
The pain twisting through my life,
Or the loss of my independence.

The worst thing that ever happened to me…
I stopped believing in myself.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Poetic Asides asking us to write about the worst thing that ever happened to us.

Up to Bat

Ball Field by Peter Griffin

No designated hitter 

when life pitches 

a curve, 

a slider, 

the occasional screwball;

the best tactic

is to knock the dust 

from your shoes, 

adjust your grip, 

and swing for the fences.

~~~ This poem was written in response to a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads about fences.

The Fingers of Death

Dead Rose by Jiri Hodan

Death first brushed
His bony fingers
Through my world
When I was a child,
Leaving a vague sense of sadness
In a girl too young
to comprehend such finality.
As I grew older,
Those bony fingers
Touched my life again,
My grief intermingling
With teenage angst.
These days the fingers of death
Have me firmly in their grasp,
Plucking away loved ones
With unrelenting impunity,
An insidious caress
That continues to tighten
And one day will reduce me
To little more than dust.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Poetic Bloomings for their poetic memoir series, this time asking us to write about the our first experience with death.

Wishes in Waiting

Close Up of Dandelion by Sharee Basinger

A thousand wishes 

Dance on the head 

Of a dandelion, 

Waiting for some dreamer

To breathe them into life.

~~~This poem was written for a prompt over at Poetry Jam asking us to examine an object in detail.

Rebel Heart

Photograph by Don P. Northup

Her untamed her rebel heart
Still beats with the rhythms
of Souixsie and the Banshees,
the Sex Pistols,
the Clash,
her blood churning
with anarchy
as she runs the halls,
scissors in hand,
writing codes
on the wall
in invisible ink,
knowing those
who have given in
to conformity
will never understand.


~~~ This poem was written for a prompt from Imaginary Garden with Real Toads asking us to write about a rebellious female.