Monday, November 30, 2009

2009 November PAD Chapbook Challenge Shelter

Since the server for and its blogs (including Poetic Asides) keeps crashing and wiping out all the Poetic Asides poems and comments, I thought I'd set up this temporary shelter for our poetry and poetic discussion until the storm passes. I'm pretty sure Blogger will hold up.

Today is the final day of the 2009 November PAD Chapbook Challenge, and the prompt asked for poems about something that will stick with you (or someone or something else). Memorable poems.

Here's the one I wrote for the day:

"The world will worry for you"

Forget speaking in code; forget
telling it slant; here is what happened:

I rose to answer the phone, and then,
lost consciousness. As I lay there,

my breathing grew labored before
stopping altogether. My skin turned

crayon blue; my eyes stayed open.
This is how I've always pictured

my Uncle James when he died alone
on his land in the middle of nowhere.

I still remember grandmother crying out,
"No, no, no," on Easter evening

when my grandfather called. I could
have been found this way, but

Tammy breathed in my mouth, spoke
to my unresponding face. She would not

quit even as I turned less and less
alive. Later that night, grandfather

told us how they found James laying
on his porch with his door open:

"He looked horrible. He looked like
he was in pain." And this is what I can

tell you: I did not feel any pain,
any worry, until I came back to life.


Feel free to add your own poems, comments, etc., below. And if you feel like subscribing to yet one more blog, I'd be honored if you subscribed to this one. Keep poeming!


sara said...

Robert, beautiful poem. Thank you so much for all your time and effort to keep us poeming. Hope that you have a wonderful holiday.

28 Through this

Through This Story

My heart
Was revealed
The journey
The characters
Told me how
Each beat
Led me
Into his arms

29 Numbers


Didn’t think I’d
Do two
Too much
Was looking
For singularity
But my heart
Had other


30 An Event or moment

Returning to Florida

California winter
Misty cold
Seeping into
Bones and my
I was secure
With all the familiar
Family, friends
My smile
Was empty
About to
Slap pride
Make the call
The phone rang
His voice, warm and
Filled my smile
Safe didn’t

Anonymous said...

I believe that I saw in an earlier post this month how to find poetry that I've written. Can you tell me where I saw this?

Jeanne said...

The Journey: Day Twenty-nine: a number as title

Fifty-five: Age is Just a Number

Born in New Jersey,
lived in Virginia,
moved to Wyoming when seven.
Wore geeky glasses until a fifteen-year-old freshman,
contacts changed the way people looked at me.
Cheerleader, average student, homecoming royalty,
graduated—college an impossible dream.
Married a year later when eighteen (10 days before my birthday),
lived in Texas, moved back
Baptized into Christ a timid 20-year-old.
Miscarriage at 21, delivered first baby at 22,
three more followed over the next six years.
(After a slow start, they called me “fertile Myrtle.”)
Tubal at 28, and when I turned 30,
I finally felt like a grown-up.
Busy years—four young children, school bus driving in winter,
custom hay cutting in summer,
a never-ending loop of cooking, cleaning, laundry, driving,
loving, growing, becoming.
Started writing poetry, my sense of self struggling,
clinging to a muse as salvation.
Two semesters of two-days-a-week college, on campus,
after several years of “convenient” night classes,
one here, one there..
Guardian of baby nephew at 42, adoption final
just before my 46th birthday.
Graduations, weddings, grandchildren,
I sometimes felt like a kid in a fifty-year-old body.
Published some work over the years,
book contract (nonfiction) at 51, book in hand when 53.
Continue crafting poetry.
Now, husband semi-retired, a seventh-grader
making his way through school,
nine grandchildren, all of us healthy and whole
a new business.
I’ve heard it said, age is just a number—
but 55 feels more blessed
than the number may say.


Unknown said...

Robert, thanks for all you've done. Here's a poem:


Every body says love me I
am a child needing you

every mind says I know
the way, don’t tell me

every spirit, like a cat,
sits on the windowsill

looking at things we can’t see,
wondering when some one

will leave the door ajar
so it can scoot out.

Bruce Niedt said...

Thanks for this "haven" from hungry servers, Robert, and thanks again for another month of inspiration. I've been running a couple of days behind most of the month, but I'll catch up in the next few days. Meanwhile, here is my day 30 poem:


Of all the learned things
Joseph Campbell said,
none of them have stuck like
“Follow your bliss”.
It’s been my mantra
since I rediscovered
my love of writing poetry.
I can get through any
vicissitude of life,
any storm or setback,
the everyday grinding down,
as long as I still have a pen,
a keyboard, or even a mind
to compose an image,
a confluence of words,
the lines like a path
through my wilderness.

And here's the one I tried to post about 4 times for day 28: ("Through this..."). I just realized both these poems start with the same three words!


Of all the socks I wore,
none drove my wife crazy
like the pair I called chocolate brown,
but she described with a much less
appetizing adjective. They were nylon
with wide ribs, practically indestructible,
outlasting almost every other pair
that succumbed to holes or loss of mate.
I thought they were stylish;
she declared them hideous.
Once I thought they were lost,
and she was clearly disappointed
when I found them in the back
of the wrong drawer. So when Christmas
came around, she gave me new socks
and I gave her old ones – my crap-brown,
nylon ribbed pair, wrapped in a box
with a pair of scissors.

More to come: I still owe you for Day 26 and 29.

De Jackson said...

For the 29th:


She imagines
herself standing on the number line
right in the middle of her elementary mathematics book
both feet firmly planted on the 0
waiting for the numbers to come in, allow her to finally jump
with clear confidence in one direction
or the other.

De Jackson said...

For the 30th:


There's a science to these things
she thinks, more
chemistry than art, more surgery than massacre.
She will be a mathematician, making careful calculations
(numbers don't lie)
with cold and indifferent precision,
through a meticulous slicing away from the bone,
(measure twice, cut once)
she will find the heart of it.

She makes
algebraic equations
that will still be burned into her mind
(over matter)
years later
when they no longer matter
when she wonders why it was all so messy
when all the obvious -ologies fail her
and the music of her heart takes over.

De Jackson said...

Hmmm...the forced formatting here is a little maddening. Ah, well.

Just wanted to say thanks for everything, Robert. It's been a blessing to have a "deadline"...It's been a busy month, but I look forward to going back and reading what I can. Thank you!

De Jackson said...

And just in case, for the ever-disappearing 28th:

(Through this Fib she finds her footing)

for years.
She lets him.
Untruths so heavy
that one day the hard evidence
grows a fractured life all its own.
She stacks it high
with shaking hands
stands, and

Rachel Green said...

Beautiful poem, Robert.

A Good Story Stays with the Reader

She closed the book and sat back,
taking a long, slow breath and letting it out
three times:
in -- out – in – out – in – out
mixed emotions twisting her face
with relief the book had ended well
and for a story well told
but also sadness for the end of a journey
and a return to normality.

She rubs her fingers,
certain the print has come off the page
and transferred to her skin
but when she looks closer
she sees distinct words:
-- the needle burrowed deep –
burrowing into her skin.

She leaps to her feet
shaking her hand
trying to dislodge the phrase
but already it is in too far
she can feel the pricking as it enters the vein
and begins the voyage to her heart.

Anonymous said...

Day 28: Through This PAD Challenge

With prompts aplenty
We wrote and connected with
Poets far and near


Through This Confusion

Vanishing poems
Faulty codes, re-posts galore
Still we persevere

Day 29:1984

Once futuristic
Now its prescient visions
Belong to the past.

Day 30: Remembrance

Stick to me like glue
Dad would say-- now I stick to
Memories alone.

Thank you Robert for 30 days of prompts and inspiration, and fellow poets for words of encouragement and just plain good poetry. A final limerick:

But I'll Try

I come to this space twice a year
And post all my poetry here
But when it comes to weekly
I have to say meekly
I'm not sure I can see my way clear. :)

Nancy Bell said...

Hello All
Haven't shared much in this challenge, but I have a poem for each day and am lookin forward to putting together my chapbook. You all seem to have your own support groups in this and so I just lurk. I'm not usually much of a joiner. Some lovely poems here.

Sacred Numbers
Numbers hold the answers to the secrets
Of the ancients
The secrets coded in sacred geometry
Guarded by the Masons and the Templars
Held up to worship in the alignments and arches
Of the great cathedrals
Secrets hidden in plain sight by the master mathematicians
Melding the ancients mysteries into the mortar
Of the new Christian places of worship
The old sanctuaries overlaid by the new religion
But living still in the measure of the stones
And the glory of the sacred geometry of the arches
The Masons enshrined the faces of the Green Man
And the gargoyles and the ivy and dragons
On the friezes of the abbeys and great cathedrals
Speaking from their mouths of stone down
The centuries to those who look to hear them
St. George and St. Michael and the dragons
Along with the energy of the ley lines
That run through the sanctuaries
Sacred dimensions, Sacred Geometry
Sacred numbers
Nancy Bell

Salvatore Buttaci said...

Robert, here are my three poems in response to three of your prompts: Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, which I could not post at PoeticAsides:

November 27, 2009 Through…


I see what the mirror
wants me to see
a reflection of myself
the picture thrown back
each morning I awake
and wash the sleep away
from sandy eyes

each morning when I shave
that face looks at me
a long line of faces
changed by slow degrees
from those early days
when I'd stood on a bench
and hand-brush dark hair
free of eyes now failing

through the glass another me lives
in the silvering of the mirror
somewhere in silver forests
attentive to my visits
he appears on the other side
two compatriots at the looking glass
speaking in the same questioning voice

November 29, 2009 A Number


When they ask how many are her children,
Her response is always quick. She tells them “Eight!”
And I remind her four of them are gone,
But she smiles her enigmatic way,
And says, “Eight children God gave me on loan.
Four he took back, four are with me still.
“But Ma,” I say, “How many children do you have?”
She points her trembling finger in my face,
Repeats in a weak voice, not much louder than before,
“Eight! Eight! He gave me eight, and one sweet day
All eight of you will reunite in God’s good heaven.
I have eight, not four or five or six or even seven.”
Then she closes her eyes, wearied of it all
And rests. I am her fourth child. We are eight.


November 30, 2009 Something that Sticks...


I've quit trying to rid my head
of Anna's last day
the way she lay small and shriveled
bald and big-blue-eyed
like a birdling in a huge white nest

My older sister and closest friend
Raised her puny fists to fight
The cancer dancing circles around her
But she hit the mats still hopeful
She still had another round

No matter what was in my mind
Anna would flash across the screen
That white-toothed smile of hers
The tottering voice still saying I love you
Still saying I trust God with all my heart

I thought it best to forget that scene
That next-morning phone call
Wring it away like rinsing soapy hands
But now in my old age her visits cheer me
I know the woman taught me how to fly


Jane Penland Hoover said...

PAD #30

By Jane Penland Hoover

On and on in all directions
palmetto, sand, and slash pine stretch,
shadows long, fall back
the way we’ve come.

Earlier my ocean fervor
imagined all of us refreshed,
by the sea’s salt flavored air.

My husband weak from surgery.
paralyzed and silenced by the stroke,
still he’d smiled and nodded yes
when I asked, ride?

Edgy, one thumb extended now, I
stand the length of desolation
begging to be helped, taken -
a camper driver brakes.

I run from our stalled car – glance
at the four of them:
he in his stillness stares,
Grandma cradles our curly headed baby,
while her five-year old big sister
pressing face to pane, pleads: Mom...

Riding east for miles and miles,
I measured minutes, some desire
to flee responsibility, my world
waiting for a wrecker.

I remember that mechanic,
patient with the damaged parts,
those rescuers, trailing lights
leaving me alone,
us to navigate the rest.

Monica the Author said...

Another poetic challenge
has sped by. Now we
must wait until next
year for another one, and
practice and work
for that time.

Nancy said...

I'll post here too. I've enjoyed another month-long challenge. This November I haven't been able to comment as much as I like. (Life has a way of getting in the way of life, doesn't it?) See you all on Wednesdays.


Could anyone possibly be that happy?
they all wondered aloud to one another
after she passed them, humming her way
down the hall. It could be a sign of insanity,
said one wishful thinker, envious of her
corner office, her generous bookshelves,
her three—count’em, three--filing cabinets.

How could they know how she suffered?
Bits of “Muskrat Love” or ‘Julie, Julie, Julie,
Do You Love Me?” endlessly looping in
her head. The theme to “My Three Sons”
appeared from nowhere, even though
she hadn’t seen the show in years. No
whistler, she nonetheless heard the high
pitch sound of whistling and imagined
Andy and Opie, fishing poles in hand,
sauntering through her brain. Just one
reminder of junior high, and snatches
of “Lookin’ Out My Backdoor” or “Stop!
In the Name of Love” tortured her.

She sought no cure, endured instead
the endless repetition in her head,
until she learned that while she could
not make them go away, she certainly,
by the power of suggestion, could
imprint them on the soundtrack of
someone else’s day.

(from the German ohrwurm) The portion of a song or other music that repeats compulsively within one's mind, known colloquially as "music being stuck in one's head". Use of the English translation was popularized by James Kellaris and Daniel Levitin.

Unknown said...

Thanks for all the work and the great poems.

A decorative concrete sunscreen
Figures strongly in my mind
A double repeating pattern
As I lay in the upper bunk
My daddy was an army man
I lived in Asmara Ethiopia
We vacationed in Massawa
On the Red Sea
We swam with the wildlife
Were rowed out to Green Island
To walk the sandy beach
Picnicking under the trees.
Strongly I remember that sunscreen
Feeling the breeze as I listened
To the adults laughing and talking
It makes me smile

("Massawa Beach" lat=15.6083575063, lon=39.4696326713
"Green Island" lat=15.593598181, lon=39.4781900557)

Unknown said...

Thanks for leading by your fine example, Robert. A stimulating month of poems for me.

New Widow’s First Lesson

At quitting time Friday in late January
her dear husband took his last breath.
Neptune Society came
and whisked his body away.

Phone to ear, she hiccupped the news
to the people who most needed to hear.
Talked to her sister across country
several times.

Friends came by, held her close,
somehow the long dreary weekend passed.

On Monday afternoon she said softly
to her faraway sister, “But nobody
sent the widow any flowers.”

Stricken, her sister called cousins,
soon flowers were on their way.

The new widow went straight
to the grocery store, bought
the brightest bouquet they had.

She’ll never forget that first lesson
of her new alone-life—
If you want it,
you have to provide it.

Debra Gray-Elliott said...

What a great month! I have enjoyed all of your prompts and poetry in November. I am glad I took the challenge on.

To my poetry friends I love all your great work. I will miss chating daily with you. Until next time,

Now here is my last poem for Novemeber PAD

November PAD Challenge

I begin to write the words November first,
no words would come forth onto paper...
I cursed.

I got the hang of it on day two,
words began to flow...
time flew.

On day three,
the words got stuck...
oh gee!

Day four and five,
words came and went...
I will survive.

Six, seven, thirty days passed,
words dripped like molasses...
how did I last?

Now we’ve come to the end,
by words put together...
word that will stick with me
my friend.

©Debra Elliott November 30th, 2009 @ 2:30 PM CST

JennyD said...

Prompt for the 28th

Take the phrase "Through this (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

Through this fog

Through this fog, thickening
day by day, I watch your boat
drift slowly out to sea.

It’s deceptive – there are days
we talk when you see me clear,
your trailing hand cups water

and lets trickle down streams
of memory. I, on the wharf,
holding the painter tight

around a bollard, catch
the drips, taste them salty
on my lips, wiping splashes

from my face. But the rope slides
remorselessly through my grip
and you float away. The fog

dulls your voice until all I hear
is the breath in your throat,
like the quiet wash of waves.

Prompt for the 29th

Pick a number, make that number the title of your poem, and write a poem.


That was the year the earth
reversed its poles and threw me
out of the old certainties.

Where did I stand if North
was no longer above, nor South
below? Tumbled into space,

I found nowhere to set my feet.
Hurled from a height, I crashed
into blackness. But from that dark

unfurled a new dimension:
I jumped to the new world,
made a new life, lived it.

Jenny Doughty

JennyD said...

Prompt for the 30th

Write a poem about something that sticks with you.

Starting school

My mother walked with me to my new school
just after Easter, nineteen fifty-five.
We’d been in India, where I was born,
and grimy Yorkshire streets were strange to me.
The building – blackened brick, a tiny yard
with walls around, brimming with children’s shouts –
was not inviting. Someone rang a bell
and silence fell. The children got in line
and marched through scabby wooden doors
marked ‘Girls’ and ‘Boys’. We followed them
and walked down corridors past crowded rooms.
Smells fought with each other – sweaty sneakers,
sour lukewarm milk, damp coats and unwashed child.

“Oh yes, she reads quite well,” my mother said
to the headmistress. I sat in a chair
so tall my feet did not quite touch the floor.
“Perhaps you’d like to read this book to me?”
Miss Doxy leaned towards me. Her black hair
Was stiffly permed. She smelled of lavender.

The book was all about two children called
Janet and John, who seemed to do no more
than run and play, say “Look!” and eat their tea
or throw a ball for their dog Spot to fetch.
It wasn’t very interesting and I
gave it straight back to her and told her so.
She found a book of fairy tales – more fun
for me but easy. In the end I read
aloud the headlines from her Daily Mail.

She took me to my class. We walked right past
a room where children played with bricks and toys.
A rocking horse that had a shiny mane
stood in there and I longed to go and play,
but we moved on to Mrs Hunter’s class
where girls and boys all sat in double desks.
I had to share a desk with Stephen Mould,
who had blonde hair, green teeth and smelled of pee
and couldn’t read although he was quite big.

JennyD said...

Whoops - should have signed the 'Starting School' poem.

Jenny Doughty

Sally Jadlow said...


Cancer comes and goes
for twelve years.
Last round, doctor says,

Resign ourselves
to the inevitable
with prayers
for her comfort.

Her last day,
family gathers
round her bed;
sing hymns
as she swallows
and is gone.

Leaves her
ragged and worn
earth suit behind
no longer needed,
for she has
a new one now.

She prepares
to receive us
on the other side.

Sally Jadlow said...

Robert, your prompts were very inspiring. I love to hear all the different voices from one lone prompt.
Thanks for all the fun.

Laurie Kolp said...

Day 28
Through This Experience

the cancer scare gave her reason
to appreciate each new season
let go of what could have been
and be grateful for a chance to win

eyes now open wide
able to see the pain inside
willing to try and work things out
and make it through the long drought

heart now soft as snow
can finally empathize and grow
back into love once again
discarding all senseless sin

Ann’s life came to a halt
when she was faced with fault
but then she came back to life
and returned a loving wife

the cancer scare gave her reason
to appreciate each new season
let go of what could have been
and be grateful for a chance to win

Day 29 (Number)


I am a tree.
I stand tall and strong
against the storm;
my trunk, my soul
solid and firm,
grounded in faith.
I am a tree.
They are my branches;
my husband the biggest
one, from which many
smaller branches,
our children, grow;
along with friends
and relatives to keep
us balanced with love.
I am a tree.
Together we are hope.
We protect each other from
the elements, and cry
when there is pain;
supporting one another
with our loving arms,
the branches we spring
from. My eyes fill with
wonderment of what lies
ahead and I am comforted
knowing that, although
I am one, I will never
be alone as long as I
live. I am a tree.
I am free.

Day 30 (Coming together)

Here We Are

Years ago we came together as man and wife
promising to love and cherish for life.

Together we now sit at a table for two
hands intertwined, hearts reunited too.

Has it really been thirty years ago
since we sat here and you secretly proposed?

I know the last few years were not our best
and I am sorry for causing such unrest.

But now I value the life that I live
with you by my side and the love you give.

So let’s make a toast to thirty more years-
may God bless us and dispel all fears.

laurie k.

AC Edwards said...

AC Leming here. Just finished NaNoWriMo. I won this year, but ended with a lot of surreal drivel just to get the word count in, since lack of sleeep (what's that again?) finally caught up with me tonight. *Sigh* That sort of explains these three late additions...

Day 28: Through this (blank)

Through this mixed bag of genes,
I live in the world.

Through this mixed up family,
I love the world.

Through this choked off body,
I experience the world.

Day 29 Number Prompt:


I've always liked learning German,
but I love this word like no other.

It sounds like an actor with a bad
Russian accent attempting to say,

"Ze wolf iz at de door." I am no
longer afraid of 'ze beeg, bahd wolf'

because his bigger, badder brother 'ze
strohk' has already sunk his teeth into

my neck and shaken me until I can
not longer stand on my own. So 'ze

beeg bahd wolf," he no scare me any
more. His brother took me down

when I was 'zwolf.'

Prompt 30:

Last words

My last sound,
a scream in my father's ears.

My last scream,
full of life altering pain.

My last whimper,
at the news:

That I would live,
and how.

rosie said...

This is an older poem but wanted to share what will be with me ( and many of you) evermore.

Wake up call

It was Tuesday morning
and all was well
such a beautiful day
as inner spirit
joined hands
with sunshine
that danced on front lawn...
there was a calm
in the air...
its softness
brushing my cheek
birds sang their greetings
as if to wrap me
with a sense of freedom
almost as though
I were a butterfly
with wings taking flight...
free to just be

without warning
everything changed
all hell broke loose
with a blazing fury
the devil himself
had to be behind
this turmoil
and destruction...
without pause
or question
floodgates opened
brought us to our knees...
I remember...
I reflect...
and I weep

September 11th
We know where we were
what we were doing
we remember the planes
first, second
third and forth
we listened, watched
in disbelief
switched channels
wishing, hoping, Praying
it was a mistake
a bad dream that we could
awake from
it was a harsh reality
that surrounded us
with chaos, questions,

September 11th
Another Anniversary
and we remember...
recalling each moment
over and over again
as if sifting through ashes
of memory
that are burnt forevermore
in our minds...
the pictures still clear
of pain, fear, loss of life

September 11th
Several years have passed
it seems like only yesterday
as if time were standing still
we see ground zero
the resting place
of so many innocent
and why? for what?

September 11th
We remember the Twin Towers
images of people
jumping to their death
two tall buildings joining them
as thick dust and smoke
blackened the sky...
stench of human flesh lingered
screams, panic, horror
disbelief, anger, shock
and a fear of the unknown...
what would follow?
would we ever overcome?
ever be the same?

September 11th
Will always be remembered
is etched deep in all hearts
forever scorching our minds
with dismal charred visions
of 2001...
we Pray for those who died
and for those left behind
we Pray for world peace
and for our troops overseas

September 11th
Men, women and children
buried under tons
of rubble and debris
Fathers, Mothers
Sisters, Brothers
Friends, Family
young and aging
all perished, ceased to be
due to a senseless act...
an act of terrorism
against the United States Of America

September 11th
A day in history
to be always reflected upon
as dark Tuesday
the horrific day
that brought tears
to Mother Liberty

September 11th
The beginning of the end?
a wake up call
that tomorrow has no
a reminder that
in a flash
life can be altered...

September 11th
when songbirds silenced
and Angels wept

Let us remember to never forget how precious life really is...

November 30th, 2009
(prompt-memorable poem)
(c) Rose Marie Streeter

irThumper said...

Robert, very powerful poem, extremely. I can't believe it is the last day of the November PAD... I sure hope WD gets all the bugs worked out before April's PAD rolls around! Here is my last one for this month...

~What Really Matters~

I just want to hide a while
I've shed too many tears
and had too few smiles

Sometimes I dont want to care
I don't want to feel the hurt
live through the dispair

In a crowd I feel alone
no one understands
no place is my home

I sit by myself, staring out at the sea
watch the tide rolling in
waves of sadness washing over me

Then I close my eyes
hold my head in my hands
as rain begins to fall from the sky

Raindrops join the tears on my face
as I silently pray
for a better time, better place

Why do the bad things keep coming
I have no more strength
I'm tired of running

Sometimes all I need is a friend
Who like God will be there
with me in the end

When I reach that door
what will it be like
when my time here is no more

Who else will be with me
along with the Lord
when my soul goes free

Will I be alone
will I have been loved
or ever have had a home?

The minutes go ticking by
sand through an hour glass
the days seem to fly

Try to hold on
and catch them when you can
for time is never really long

I want a life to live
want to love someone
I want to give

We only have the day
the moments that are given
there are more for me I pray

Turn stumbling blocks to stepping stones
remember God is with you
you're never alone

Perhaps someday I'll get my wish
and so I keep going on
trying hard to remember this

...It's all that really matters.


LM T.Richardson

Davidcjohnson said...

Hello Bob!
Thanks for sheltering my
30th November poem
“I only made one thing to bring home”

I remember the smell of the boiling fish-bone glue
In the sticky-rimmed glue-pot that sat on the flame
In the work-shop at my junior grade school
In all the years of attending the class
I only made one thing to bring home
A wooden money box with a slot in the lid
That could never be opened thanks to fish-bone glue
I soon stopped saving my pennies in there

Katherine H said...

Thank you for hosting poem-a-day in November. It was a great exercise for me in "showing up" at the page; writing something every day. I look forward to hearing more about the chapbook contest, also.

Here's my last entry.

Katherine Hauswirth

How You Stayed

You told me
fog was clouds
on the ground

That dew
on the grass
heralded fine weather

You sang to me
in your deep baritone--
Waltzing Maltilda,
Long Way to

I drank
every word
you shared with me

I was left thirsty,
never quite quenched

When the dew soaks
my sneakers,
when fog settles
in thick, cottony clusters,
I think of you

When I belt out
a good song
or hear a man’s
low voice
I think of you

I wonder what
will stay with
my own son
when I am gone

I hope it’s silly songs
and walks in the woods
and lingering by the water,
those moments where
everything dimmed
except the light
we walked in