Slowly catching up. Posted below are my five daily poems from April 20 through April 24. I'm already imagining the editing process on these poems. But for the time being, they will have to do. Consider them simply ideas captured---place holders awaiting final revision. Sometimes that's as good as it gets.


April 20—Write a message in a bottle poem. Imagine your poem is being rolled up and put in a bottle for someone to find and read.

To Whom It May Concern
By Bill Kirk

Hello out there—anyone.
This is my last recently emptied bottle.
I’ve been here a while—waiting.
The days I’ve counted number 173.
But I can’t be certain
I haven’t missed one or two.

Please hurry—well, at least
Get here as soon as you can.

I used to think everyone
Ought to have a chance
To be alone—solitary.
You know, to spend some quality time
Getting in touch with one’s self.
Been there. Done that.
No—Am here. Doing that.

Guess I can take that
Off my bucket list, right ahead of
“GET RESCUED.”

Please hurry—well, at least
Get here as soon as you can.


April 21—Write a second thoughts poem. You could have second thoughts about something you’ve done or thought in the past. You could write something about someone (or something else) having second thoughts. Or you could even take a poem you wrote earlier in the month and flip it in a new direction.

On Second Thought
By Bill Kirk

Second thoughts have pros and cons;
They have their goods and bads.
A second thought can save the day
Or turn your glads to sads.

Second thoughts for some are weak.
They say we hesitate—
As if allowing time to think
Suggests we’ll be too late.

Others say the best approach
Is leaving ample space,
For second thoughts to bounce around
And win the thinking race.

Just remember, if in doubt,
It’s wise to heed the id.
Its best advice? “On second thought,
Let’s not and say we did!”


April 22—Today is Good Friday and Earth Day. Write an “only one in the world” poem. This only one in the world might be a person, an animal, a place or an object. Think of someone or something else and write.

Earth As An “Only One”
By Bill Kirk

Granted, what I know
Has its limitations.
But wouldn’t you have to agree,
Earth in its unitary form is, indeed,
The only one of its kind in the world,
And that earth and the conditions
That make it possible,
Are universally singular?

In fact, how can it be any other way?
For nothing can be exactly
And precisely duplicated,
On earth or elsewhere.
So, everything
On the earth,
In the earth,
Of the earth and
Beyond the earth is
Totally,
Inexorably,
Unquestionably
Unique.
The End.


April 23—Write a quit doing what you’re doing poem. This could be about something you need to quit doing or that someone or something should quit doing.

Ode To Inertia
By Bill Kirk

Inertia is a funny thing,
Whether a body’s
At rest or in motion.
If inertia comes into play,
By its very nature,
It always involves
The quitting of some particular thing.

For example, overcoming
The inertia of running
Means you will slow down
And maybe stop.
Taking a nap? Time to
Wake up and move,
And so forth and so on….

Figurative inertia gets even better.
Movement, or lack of movement, notwithstanding,
That meal you are eating or
That game you are playing or
That dissertation you are writing or
That job you would just as soon not be doing
Will hopefully, eventually, end�

April 18—Take the phrase “Like (blank)”, replace the blank with a word or phrase and make the new phrase the title of the poem.

Like It Or Not
By Bill Kirk

Like it or not,
My memory is going.
I suppose the good news is
I realize it’s happening,
What with the misplaced
Keys, checkbooks, glasses
(Both of the eye and wine variety),
Not to mention the
Occasional article of clothing—
Nothing critical, mind you.
But you would think a
Baseball cap, gloves or a jacket
Would be relatively easy
To keep track of.
It’s not as if I haven’t worn
Either for six months.
Come to think of it,
I know exactly where
The stuff I used six months ago is.
What’s up with that, anyway?
I’m virtually certain the cause isn’t
Those two or three weekly glasses
Of Gnarly Head Old Vine Zin
I’ve been enjoying the past few years.
Guess it’s time to start working
Those crossword puzzles again.
Can anyone remember
A six-letter word for psycho-cyber storage
Of thousands of random factoids
Within seconds of instant recall?
Starts with “M” I think.


April 19—Two for Tuesday: Write a love poem or an anti-love poem. It doesn’t have to be romantic love, whether for or against it. But it could be.

On The Matter Of Abstractions
By Bill Kirk

Does devine love always fall
On the side of right?
Could there not be room for error,
Especially when it comes to
Abstract concepts,
Beliefs and doctrines.
Would God ever favor
Both sides of a fight?
Or always and only
One side or the other?

Perhaps He can and does do both
By allowing temporary advantage
To one side while knowing
There will be lessons in loss
As the wronged will at first be broken,
Then healed and strengthened
Sufficient to snatch victory in its time.

Yet how are we to know
Which side in any conflict
Is the absolute purveyor of good
And, therefore, utmost deserving
Of devine intervention?
Might perpetual discord
Be the natural product
Of man’s meddlesome nature,
To be rectified by
The gift of boundless love
Only beyond the pale?

During our earthbound life,
Could the old saw “might makes right”
Indeed make all the difference?

Do conceptual abstractions
Only have temporal value
In the feeble minds of humankind?

Do our human weaknesses
Doom us to perpetual strife,
With brief bouts of global rest,
Just long enough to regroup
For another round of
Self-justified righteous battle?

Does the capriciousness of
Where one is born determine
The national abstraction
To which we will devote our
Loyalty and love,
Defending it to the death?
Is it simply the side we’re on
That puts us in the right?

Should we even allow
Such questions
To trouble the soul,
Knowing the answers
Will always be
Just beyond our reach?

Perhaps pondering
Such abstractions
Is best left to others.
A warrior at the point of the sword
Has little time for such reflection.

Regretably, I was away from my home base and unable to post my daily poems after April 13. So, now I am catching up and will post three or four a day until I reach the end of the April challenge. Although I much prefer the daily postings, this will have to do....

April 14—Write an “Ain’t none of my business” poem.

None Of My Business But…
By Bill Kirk

I know you may think
This ain’t none of my business,
But why did you stuff that soda can
Into the planter box outside the restaurant?
Who’s your mother this week, anyway?

And did you figure no one would mind
Your lighting up in the airport bathroom stall?
What were you smoking anyway?

I gotta tell you it was pretty clever
The way you spray painted your name
Halfway up Half Dome—I guess you’re probably right.
If John Miur had had spray paint in his day,
No doubt he would have done the same thing—NOT!

Give me a break! You may think
This ain’t none of my business.
But think again.


April 15—Write a profile poem—a social media profile, your own profile or someone else’s.

(Note: For some reason, this assignment was difficult—just couldn’t get my head wrapped around it. I gotta say, to me a person’s social media profile is not all that poetic. And then there are the dating/matching profiles, the professional networking profiles, author site profiles and the various ISP provider profiles. Nope—those ideas still don’t help in the poetry department. I suppose one could read “profile” literally and describe a silhouette in poetic fashion as a type of profile. I’ll leave that to someone else to try.)

Can You Believe Some People?
By Bill Kirk

Six feet-two, eyes of blue,
MA, PhD or two.
Soon I’ll be in a town near you.

Sure I’m special—sure I rate.
Don’t say no and don’t be late.
Dinner, dancing, it’s a date.

Yep. That’s my photo on the net.
Rugged, slim and trim? You bet!
Come on. Don’t play hard to get.

OK. Tall, may be a stretch.
School and job? I’m quite a wretch.
You saw me listed as a letch?

Whadya mean I have some gall?
You say the date’s off after all.
Change your mind, give me a call.

Can you believe some people?


April 16—Write a snapshot poem—something that makes you think of a photograph.

Flash Point
By Bill Kirk

The old man stands ramrod straight
Behind the proper lady seated
In a white gingham dress
That covers all from her neck to the floor,
But the toes of her shoes.
Their piercing eyes gaze ahead.

A long row of buttons stand out
Against his dark suit.
The brass tips of a tightly woven
String tie dangle nearly frozen,
Swaying ever so slightly;
Her hands shift then settle
As they both take one last breath—
One-two-three, don’t blink.
FLASH!


April 17—Write a “Big Picture” poem (covering big ideas, emotions or concepts).

In Search Of The Next Big Thing
By Bill Kirk

Is it the idea itself or
The thrill of the search
That spurs us on to discover
The next big thing?
Is leaving well enough alone
Ever really good enough?
If it were, would we be
Where we are today?
Or would we instead
Still be mired in a distant past
Unable to see beyond
The current reality,
Thus leaving human progress
Dead in its tracks?

In Honor of National Bar-B-Que Month, here is a smalln offering for anyone who has had the misfortune of losing a hotdog to a roving rover on four legs. Hotdogs right off the grill are just so tempting to man or beast.

What Happened To My Hotdog?
By Bill Kirk
(Published in Wee Ones magazine in July/August 2005)

What happened to my hotdog?
Dad cooked it just for me.
And while it popped and sizzled,
I waited patiently.

When it was done, I fixed it,
So it would taste just right.
I set it on the table,
But now it’s out of sight.

I’m looking for my hotdog,
All plump inside its bun.
With ketchup and some mustard,
It glistened in the sun.

So, where’s my missing hotdog?
It’s nowhere to be found.
Is that a splat of ketchup,
I see there on the ground?

Now, something looks suspicious--
I think I see a trail.
Oh no! There goes my doggie.
He’s wagging his short tail.

“Hey, doggie, is that ketchup
And mustard on your nose?
I wonder how it got there--
By hotdog, you suppose?”

What happened to my hotdog?
I guess we know by now.
My doggie found my hotdog.
And made it doggie chow.

April 12—And just like that, we're already on to our second "Two for Tuesday" prompt of the challenge. I know this is a prompt that some poets have been craving, while others probably not so much. Regardless, I did this one on Tuesday to provide some options:

1. Write a form poem. This could be a sonnet, pantoum, lune, or even something as sinister as a--dare I say it--sestina. If you need a list of poetic forms and there rules, click here.

2. Write an anti-form poem. Just as there are poets who love playing with forms, there are poets who think they are the worst thing ever. That's fine. Express (in either free verse or a prose poem) your feelings on writing in traditional forms.

On Formlessness
By Bill Kirk

Could it be some days the poetry
Will be less well formed than others?
I’d have to say, it’s true.
Tonight, my brain itself is a formless blob.
Thus any attempt at poetic form
Will likely have scant chance at success.

Yet, I suppose the very capture of
Any thought or idea takes on
A certain structure, even if drawn
From wordless mush—much as
An artist’s blank canvass will
Eventually move toward an
Expression of artistic form,
Even if very sketchy.

Far be it for me to
Squeeze, mold or force
These words into a shape
They have no interest in taking.
Perhaps words on a page
Will somehow find their natural form
Much as water seeks its own level.
Might formelessness be its own reward?

April 11— For today's prompt, take the phrase "Maybe (blank);" replace the blank with a word or phrase; make the new phrase the title of your poem; and then, write the poem.


Maybe This Isn’t Such A Good Idea
By Bill Kirk

Have you ever noticed how
All through the day we are faced
With decision points—large and small.
Should we do this thing or that?
Should we go this way or that?
Why not push on, full steam ahead?
After all, we’re on such a roll,
And wouldn’t it be a shame
To lose our momentum?

On the other hand,
We could simply stop—everything—
And allow ourselves in that moment,
That pause-for-a-breath moment,
To think, maybe this isn’t
Such a good idea after all.

That’s not to say we won’t do it anyway.
But if your gut is giving you pause
And your brain is holding open the possibility
Of considering an alternate course,
Mightn’t it be worth a wondering wait?
And could giving in to a second thought
Be a rare golden opportunity
Just waiting to be tapped?
Something to think about, no?

Then, again, an argument could be made
That trading prudence for the pay off
Gained from a little risk taking
Might be worth the price.
But, to paraphrase, whether something
Is a good idea or not, is ultimately all in the risk….

April 10—For today's prompt, write a never again poem. Maybe you'll never again fall in love or never again tell a lie. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll never again not write a sestina.(Like that? It's a double negative.)

N’er again will yester be—
That time is now behind us.
Yet, perhaps in memory,
Its ghost may come and find us.

Will it ask us once again
Those questions long avoided—
Scraping wounds until our pain
Has fully been exploited?

Or will it probe a different trace,
Like, would our path be altered?
Had we run a different race,
Would we have won or faltered?

Truth be told, as life unfolds,
No matter how we’ve striven
Faith must shape what each life holds,
For we just get what’s given.

For today's prompt, write a time of day poem. In fact, make the title of your poem the time of day. For instance, "5:54 a.m.," 2:23 p.m.," "Midnight," etc. Then, write your poem. Of course, different things happen at different times of day. So have fun with it.

4:15 P.M.
By Bill Kirk

What a miserable
Time of day 4:15 p.m. is.
It’s in that limbo time
Between lunch and dinner
When it’s too late for
A mid-afternoon snack,
Yet the hungries are on the move.

You can feel them slithering around
Somewhere down in the bowel.
And then the sounds start—
Just a slight nagging at first,
Becoming more urgent
As they change from a quiet rrreeee-errrr
To a full blown grrr-ow-w-w-l.

For kids in school, let’s face it.
They are on the food clock
As soon as the last bell has sounded.
If they are quick about it,
And maintain their focus,
They will manage to get themselves
Home in time to do some grubbing
Before the 4:15 p.m. snack curfew strikes
And the time for grubbing is gone.

With all that late afternoon suffering,
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist
To figure out America is clearly
Out of touch with global gustatory reality.
Could there be any other explanation why
4:15 p.m. just happens to be time for tea?
There’s little doubt it is a
Pure survival strategy designed
To get them past humankind’s
Most vulnerable point in the day.
Why, tossing all that tea into the harbor
Those many years ago may have
Inadvertently put us on a
Terminal trajectory to our own doom.

Personally, I’m not a great fan of
Tea and crumpets but I must concede,
Crumpets trump cramps no matter the time
But especially at 4:15 p.m.

And don’t get me started on
Daylight Savings Time

April 8—For today's prompt, write a ready to celebrate poem. You could chronicle the actual celebration or even write about the anticipation of one.

Are You Ready To Ce-le-brate?
By Bill Kirk

Some might say a cause for celebration
Hardly comes along every day.
Yet maybe that’s cause enough to be ready,
Wouldn’t you say—to giggle, smile, shout, congratulate?
After all, there’s always plenty
To bemoan our pitiful circumstances
And ample reason to groan and complain,
Wondering why this or that hard knock happened.

But then, along comes some happy time
Or its memory or the anniversary of one,
That curls up the mouth corners, even if only slightly.
So, shouldn’t we be ready for those happy-nings,
Whether anticipated or unexpected?
You know, just in case?

Oh, sure. We could also be ready
To sink into the depths of depression.
After all, deference to the sensibilities
Of those who suffer loss is at times
The only right thing to do.

Yet even in the midst of inconsolable sadness,
The spark of joy and gladness awaits its turn
To give another day of life its due,
In anticipation of yet a better one.

“This is the day the Lord has made;
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)

April 7—For today's prompt, write a "what if" poem. It could be a "what if" from the past, present or future.

What If?
By Bill Kirk

To ask “What if?” implies
A certain choice, does it not?
Do we dwell on past events,
Wondering what might have happened “if”?
Or is time better spent turning our “what ifs”
Toward the future where hope still resides?

For what are the chances
Of predicting a different outcome,
Had we chosen a different path?
What if we had been given different gifts?
Would any one thing done differently,
Have made all the rest the best?
Or would results have been unkinder yet?
How could we possibly know for sure?

And what of decisions made today?
Are our predictive powers any better?
Or might applying lessons learned from past mistakes
Simply make us better guessers?
And what of the cards we’re dealt?
Life context provides a rich field of “what ifs” to harvest—
Divergent pathways in the woods, awaiting our next steps.

For me, color blindness may have been my salvation.
If I were to discern a different color palette,
What are the chances I would be writing this poem—
Or celebrating my wife’s birthday today?
What will you do with your set of unique circumstances?
Will you follow a lemonade dream?
Or do you relish your lemon drizzled over grilled salmon?
Same juice, different use.

What’s in your bracket?
And how will you give voice to your choice?

April 6—For today's prompt, take the phrase "Don't (blank), (blank);" replace the blanks with a word or phrase; use the new phrase as the title of your poem; and then, write your poem. Some possible titles might include: "Don't walk, run," "Don't fight, dance," "Don't turn around, they're right behind you," or whatever else you can think to create.

Don’t Say Don’t. Say Do
By Bill Kirk

Just thinking DON’T is such a drag—
It’s nothing but a frowner.
For DON’Ts can’t end up in a smile
Because a DON’T’s a downer.

It doesn’t matter if a DON’T
Is practiced in the present,
For any DON’T said here and now,
Is hardly ever pleasant.

But even DON’Ts from yesterday
Won’t generate much action.
An old DON’T—just a DIDN’T then—
Still gets no satisfaction.

Now, if a DON’T done later on
Is what you are intending,
That future DON’T becomes a WON’T—
A DON’T that’s merely trending.

And if you might not do a thing,
The “might” makes DON’T a “WOULDN’T.”
To be polite about your WON’T,
You must insist, “I COULDN’T!”

Yes, DON’Ts abound in all their forms,
From SHOULDN’T, MUSTN’T, SHAN’T.
And if we listened to them all,
We might just think, “I CAN’T!”

So, when you’re asked to give advice,
Think what you’d like to hear.
If you were in another’s shoes.
What word would you hold dear?

Just one small word will say it all.
Two letters and you’re through!
You WON’T get far with Mister DON’T.
So DON’T say “DON’T.” Say “DO”.

April 5—For today's prompt, do one of the following:

1. Write a goofy poem.
2. Write a serious poem.

(Note: This one could go either way---you choose.)

Lament To My Absent Muse
By Bill Kirk

It’s dark and cold at 4 a.m.
Yet I can hardly sleep.
Instead of writing poetry
I should be counting sheep.

For truth be told, this rhyme’s gone cold—
My poem is a flop.
No matter what I try to write,
My brain keeps yelling “Stop!”

Oh! What the heck. I think I’ll quit,
And leave my letters lost.
This search for words is getting old
It’s time this tome is tossed.

So, wrinkling up this scribbly page,
I’ll turn off every light.
If dribbly doodle’s all I’ve got,
It’s time to say good night.

April 4—pick a type of person and write a poem about him or her. To help set the scene, you may want to title your poem as who the type of person is. For instance, you could write a poem titled "Firefighter," "Cynic," "Optimist," "Teacher," "2-year-old," etc. The list is endless.

The Drummer
By Bill Kirk

The drummer stands alone, waiting.
Poised and ready, his sticks hover above skins
Stretched taught over their frames—
Simple implements await his bidding.
Then, as if some solitary nuclear clock
Finally emits its primordial pulse,
The first strike of stick against skin
Signals life through action.

Tak! Tak! Tak! Tak!
Vibrations scream a one-note staccato—
R-r-r-racketa! T-t-t-tacketa! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Ripples push the sound barrier,
Seemingly broken in an instant
On the surface of the drum’s head—
Its micrometric amplitude
Hardly perceptible to the human eye.

The drummer calls his cadence without speaking
Save for the insistent sound spreading in ripples
From his drum’s core—through the rest of the
Drum corps on the floor around him.
His fellow drummers respond in kind with their first step,
And another and another still—
They answer the incessant urge to move.
Then in quick succession, they pick up the beat—
Accepting it as their own, completely owning the next strike,
And the next,
And the next,
And the next.
Crisp. Clear. United.

The very essence of integrity—One cadence. One team. One line.

The drummer carries the corporal beat—the rhythm of life.
Yet where does it come from and what does it mean?
Certainly the merging of rhythm, sound and intensity
Is more than mere technique.
Might there not be a subtle nuance
That defines the drummer’s very nature?
Could it be the soul’s search for perfect resonance?
And how does one discern such things?
Indeed, might drumming not be considered a metaphor for life?
The call of the distant drummer
Tapping out his cadence
And hoping it will be heard, headed and followed.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The pulse of life beckons loudly—
Not wanting to end but having to.
In one beat, the performance is over.
Rejoice and be glad in it.

April 3—Write a poem in which you imagine the world without you. The world could be a much worse place, pretty much the same, or even better. Anyway, it's interesting to contemplate our individual contributions to this planet in ways small and large.

Were I Not Here
By Bill Kirk

Were I not here,
The lawn might be mowed,
The weeds would be whacked and
The bare window sill would already be primed and painted.

Were I not here,
The blown down back fence would be replaced,
The crack in the driveway would be patched and
The front door latch would work and not stick.

Were I not here,
The ivy would not have overtaken the side yard,
There’d be no birds nesting in the attic and
The perilously leaning pine would be long gone.

Were I not here,
The taxes would be done before April 14,
There might be more money for vacations and
There’d be less money needed for life insurance,

But were I not here, there would also be
Fewer cups of coffee at bedside each morning,
Fewer lunches made each work day,
Fewer omelets cooked each Sunday after church,
Fewer miles run for the pure pleasure of it,
Fewer pick-ups after school,
Fewer haircuts at Grandpa’s house,
Fewer children’s rhymes written and read,
Fewer reminders about Scout meetings,
Fewer camping trips with the old man,
Fewer holiday turkeys cooked and carved,
Fewer New Year’s Day black eye peas for good luck and
Fewer kisses goodnight.

So, all things considered,
Consider me here.

April 2—The prompt for day 2 is to write a postcard poem. Make it brief and communicate what it is like where you are. Also, make it personal.

Postcard Wishes
By Bill Kirk

Just got to my “room”.
There are windows galore—
On all sides, in fact,
From ceiling to floor.

A post at each corner,
In the middle, a mast;
We’ll tie off our hammocks
Oh, wow! What a blast!

We’ll sleep in “plein aire”—
A canopy above.
We four happy strangers—
Hey! What's up with the shove!?

What do you mean
Those "shoves" are a gale
And our very large tent
Is now a large sail?

You’ve got to be kidding!
Pack up my gear?
Vacation is over?
Wish I weren’t here....

I suppose I might have written an April Fool's Day poem. But alas, I didn't. This is the first day of the Poem A Day Challenge. Based on it's ending mood, I hope it's not my last. But it is what it is....

What Got Me Here
by Bill Kirk

Certainly it's true,
Some goals and objectives
We reach by design.
You know---the planned ones,
For which we set our destinations,
Whether figurative or literal, ahead of time;
Then plot our path,
Pack our provisions,
And strike out,
Relatively secure in the knowledge
We will get there---
By our own two hands.

Other times, pure serendipity wins the prize
For getting us to where we are---
Landing us square in the middle of
Good fortune or not,
Where we are left
To take advantage of unanticipated
Targets of opportunity.
And quick thinking alone
Makes the outcome our own,
As if we are the ones responsible somehow
For being where we are,
For better or worse.

Yet, on occasion isn't it simply
The passage of time
That allows us simply to be,
Never mind how we got to the spot?
Mightn't such unplanned "while you wait" moments,
Be the sum of the what and the how of where we are---
Like the instant between breaths
When there is neither ebb nor flow?

During those times,
We sit in the midst of quiet or turbulence,
Doing nothing in particular
And certainly nothing of special value
Or personal advantage in mind.

Such circumstances of time and place
Neither sought nor pursued
Are gifts of a sort---wanted or not,
For which there is nothing to do
Beyond acknowledging the
Unexpected blessing of another moment
In hopes of an equally unexpected,

Yet inevitable...

End.

Hello to all poets and poets in waiting. April is National Poetry Month and tomorrow (April 1) begins the annual Poem A Day Challenge at Writer's Digest. If you have ever felt the call to write poetry or if you have heard the whispers of the poetic muse perched on your shoulder, now is the time to put pen to paper or digits to keys.

The Poem A Day Challenge is exactly that---write a poem each day for 30 days based on the daily prompts provided by Robert Lee Brewer on the Writer's Digest poem-a-day page. Here is a link to the guidelines for the challenge: (http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/2011/03/01/2011AprilPADPoemADayChallengeGuidelines.aspx). You'll get the hang of it in no time.

So, why bother? Well, apart from uncovering your poetic genius, you will end up with a pile of 30 poems at the end of the month, which is no small accomplishment. With any luck, a few will be really good and a few others will at least be a good start on the way toward something really good. Besides, it's not everyone who can honestly say they have written 30 poems in 30 days.

Forget about those who say, "Who would want to?" Hey, it's a challenge and some people just simply aren't up to it. So, dust off the poetic cobwebs and let's get cracking. Robert Lee Brewer's first prompt will be available tomorrow morning and you have until midnight to wax poetic in response... and so on and so forth.

Show us what you got unless, that is, you're averse to it....

(Or the top ten longed for responses from editors and publishers)

By Bill Kirk

Dedicated to all writers everywhere--especially the new kids on the block--who are awaiting responses from the many submissions you have mailed out. Sometimes the anticipation is as good as it gets. But every once in a while, you might get lucky.... It could happen.

(NOTE: The order may vary depending on the size of the envelope, weight of the manuscript and the diameter of the coffee ring on the outside.)

#1: No response from the publisher….

The editor must be still thinking about it. So it's been a year---some people are thorough.

# 2: Your original outgoing envelope, returned unopened-manuscript still inside, with no notes, no form letter or any other indication that anyone or anything besides a Pitney-Bowes mail sorter has touched it....

I wonder what that little pointy finger next to the "Return To Sender" stamp means?

#3: A returned SASE with nothing inside….
Must have liked it so much they made copies and are still passing them around the office!

#4: An SASE with a pre-printed, unsigned and unmarked form letter....

Ya gotta love the extra effort and attention! Besides, someone had to write the form letter, didn't they? So, I coulda been the first one they sent it to, right?

#5: A returned SASE with a SIGNED letter with one box checked.... Wait. All SIX rejection boxes are checked! Woo! Hoo!

Now we're talking! I can feel the love---every box is individually hand checked! Someone actually read me!

#6: A returned SASE with a SIGNED letter and an encouraging rejection note-like, "I read this twice before throwing it away." or "Next time, don't waste your postage on a SASE"�.

OMG, a perk! They're going to pay the return postage on my SASE next time. Quick! Send them something else---preferably before the postman drives away!

#7: A returned SASE with a marked up manuscript---in color crayon---and three Cheerios inside....

OK. So, the editor could have her 3-year old child on the payroll. Besides, some kids are prodigies.

#8: A returned SASE with the manuscript inside, marked up with legible comments like, "This is truly beyond belief! In my 25 years as an editor, I've never seen anything quite like it...."

Be still, my heart! Finally, someone who really understands how unique and creative I am.

#9: A returned SASE with a form letter and a signed hand-written note asking to see more….

YES!!! Hey, honey, where did you put the car ads? We gotta Jaguar in our future....

And the #10 response: A returned SASE with a SIGNED letter and an anticipated date of publication... sometime within the next ten years....

Finally! I'm adding this puppy under my name at the bottom of my email messages!

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL….

In honor of Saint Patrick's Day, here's a jaunty little rhyme for March. I was once told in a very nice rejection letter that a serious math journal wouldn't publish such doggerel. But that's all right. It was fun to write. Enjoy.

"Numbers Rap"
by Bill Kirk

Numbers, Numbers, all around us.
Numbers, numbers, they astound us!

Integers can be quite mental;
Fractions, never transcendental.

Counting numbers may well taunt you.
But ignore them and they'll haunt you!

Adding them to do your sums,
May take fingers, toes and thumbs.

If subtraction is your game,
Minus signs, you'll need to tame.

Try division if you're able.
Multiply? You'll need a table.

Odd times odd is odd, not even.
Odd times even's "even Steven."

Do your tens to reach a million;
Times a thousand is a billion!

When you're counting, don't be frugal.
Who knows? You might reach a googol!

Learning numbers is a quest.
To succeed, just do your best.

Once in a while, it's time for every young lad to get his locks trimmed. Here's a story about a little boy's trip to the barber shop and how he manages to make it through the experience. Maybe it will bring back a few memories....

A Snip-Clip Trip To Joe's Barber Shop
By Bill Kirk
(Originally published in Stories For Children Magazine, 2009)

"It's time for a haircut."
That's what my Dad said.
"It's time for the barber
To clean up your head."

"Your ears are all covered;
We can't see your eyes.
Your hair sure grows fast
For someone your size."

"We'll go to Joe's place;
His haircuts are fun.
He'll give you a prize
When your haircut is done."

We walked to Joe's Barbershop,
Just down the street.
I waited my turn,
Then I climbed on the seat.

"Just lower his ears."
Did I hear my Dad right?
Would my ears be removed?
Would they be out of sight?

"What does that mean, Dad,"
I asked with a frown?
"Will my ears be OK?
Will they be further down?"

"Don't worry, my son,"
Dad said with a smile.
"Joe's been a good barber
For quite a long while."

Joe started his work
With scissors and comb.
I wished he would hurry
So we could go home.

But before I could ask him,
"Is this gonna to hurt?"
Hair flew down the cape
That covered my shirt.

With clippers and snippers
Joe tickled my ears.
And when he was finished,
I shouted, "Three cheers!"

At last it was over,
And Joe was all through.
I looked in the mirror
To check out my "doo."

As I hopped to the floor,
Joe opened a box.
It was time for my prize
After losing my locks.

I picked a small plane--
I knew it would fly.
Then, we gave Joe a wave
As he called out, "Good-by."

After finding my ears
And both of my eyes,
I guess it was worth it
To get such a prize.

But if you ask me,
Instead of all that,
I'd let my hair grow
And just wear a hat?

The latest edition of the Guardian Angel Kids E-Zine is on the street and it's full of fun tidbits to share with your children.

M E D I A R E L E A S E

CONTACT: Donna McDine, Editor-in-Chief, Guardian Angel Kids Ezine

Email: [email protected]

Website: http://guardian-angel-kids.com


February 2011 is certainly coming in like a lion and hopefully spring will arrive sooner rather than later. With so many of us dealing with the frigid winter, now is the perfect time to bunker down and enjoy the February 2011 issue of Guardian Angel Kids Ezine http://www.guardian-angel-kids.com with another round of wonderful activities, short stories, poetry, and a parent/teacher article to bring excitement to your days.

Be prepared to spend memorable time as you both explore the monthly features:

Featured Books:

Does Heaven Get Mail Flip Book written by Marilee Crow and illustrated by K.C. Snider

My Grandma’s Kitchen Rules Flip Book written by Bill Kirk and illustrated by Marina Movshina

Children poetry, stories, and article:

“Tea with Grandma,” by Carol Zook thrills us with memories of tea time with grandma.

“Grandpa Bud’s Big Blue Truck,” by Allyn M. Stotz takes us on one adventure after another of treasures and practical tools from Grandpa Bud’s good old truck accompanied with a delightful illustration by Julie Hammond.

“The Wheels,” by Gabrielle Prendergast is a time spinning tale of passing traditions to one generation to the next. Samantha Bell’s illustration depicts this heartfelt story beautifully.

“Understanding Learning Styles: What Educators/Parents Need to Know,” by Dorit Sasson brings forth the different learning styles of our young muses. Sasson’s important article is for anyone having the opportunity to teach our young muses, whether it be a teacher, parent, grandparent, librarian, or tutor.

Grab your favorite snack and pull up a chair alongside your child and enjoy the interactive world of Guardian Angel Kids where the delightful stories take you on awe inspiring adventures.

Thank you for your time and interest. Full Media Kit and more are available upon request electronically.

With every revelation of the Hubble telescope, the universe appears ever more mind boggling. According to NASA, a massive black hole has been detected by the Hubble in the M84 galaxy:

"The Space Telescope Imaging Spectrograph measured a velocity of 880,000 mph within 26 light-years of the galaxy's center. This measurement allowed astronomers to calculate that the black hole contains at least 300 million solar masses. M84 is located in the Virgo Cluster of galaxies, 50 million light-years from Earth, and a nearby neighbor to the more massive M87 galaxy, which also contains an extremely massive black hole." (NASA)

Just think of it. We are but a speck in a quite small solar system "only" several hundred million miles across. Our solar system is among millions of other solar systems inside the Milky Way galaxy, which itself is only one among millions of other galaxies, of which M84 and M87 are just two. Those two galaxies are part of a cluster of galaxies called the Virgo Cluster, which itself is 50 million light years away from us.

That means it would take us 50 million years traveling at the speed of light (about186,000 miles per second) to get there. I would try to calculate the distance in miles. But I'm certain I'd drop too many zeroes. Perhaps even more amazingly, on top of it all, the black hole discovered inside galaxy M84 contains the masses of more than 300 million suns. And, get this, according to the NASA report, in the middle of that galaxy velocities of 880,000 miles per hour have been measured. Such high velocities are apparently used by scientists to detect the presence of a black hole.

Compared to the speed of light, 880,000 miles per hour is really way slow. But just think. Traveling at that speed, it would only take us around 15 minutes to get to our moon. This is definitely one of those "things that make you go "Hmmmm". The scope is almost beyond comprehension. If you ask me, in the overall scheme of things, whether or not the furniture got dusted this week is probably not worth worrying about.

"Once Upon A Teacup"
By Bill Kirk

Inside the kitchen cupboard,
That sometimes is quite bare,
There sits a special china cup,
Placed upside down with care.

The teacup's edge is broken,
For it had hit the floor.
The missing piece had left a hole
Just perfect for a door.

My Grandma keeps that teacup
To use again one day.
"As soon as I can find some glue,
I'll fix that cup," she'd say.

The cup was long forgotten,
Until a little mouse
Had moved inside it with his Dad
And made a teacup house.

Each day the mouse would wake up
And run outside to play.
Sometimes he'd find a little snack
To munch along the way.

At night, his Dad told stories
About their teacup home
And how they'd always be a pair,
Wherever they would roam.

One day they heard soft knocking
Upon their house so snug.
"Who could it be outside our door?
A spider or a bug?"

A lady mouse was looking
For a place to rest.
"Might you have some room for me,
Inside your comfy nest?"

She stayed a day, then longer.
Soon Summer changed to Fall.
She helped them make their teacup warm,
When Winter came to call.

The little mouse decided,
He liked their family.
Their teacup was the very best
Mouse-house that it could be.

But though he really liked it,
They soon ran out of space.
In Spring, they left their teacup house,
To find a bigger place.

So, if you find a teacup--
A chipped hole on one side;
And if it's tucked behind some plates,
Where little things can hide;

Although it might be dusty
And covered up with grime.
It may have been a mouse's house
Once upon a time.

(Childhood winter time memories stay with us wherever we go. May these recollections take you back and bring you home.)

"Remembering Winter"
(North Dakota Horizons, 2007)

Silhouetted sentries stare,
Standing leafless, stark and bare.

Snowflakes, on their wingless flights,
Swirl in winter wind that bites….

Silv'ry, golden strings of lights,
Star-filled skies on nippy nights.

Snowsuits, mittens, itchy tights,
Sledding, skating, snowball fights;

Steaming cocoa-whispered sips,
Smiles on children's rosy lips.

Sticky, frosted finger tips;
Scrumptious s'mores and chocolate chips;

Scents of winter in the air,
Sounds of children everywhere;

Stockings filled with special treats,
Stories Grandpa still repeats.

Simply said, though far you roam,
Special memories bring you home.

Quick! What's the first feeling you get when someone mentions "cleaning", as in "we're cleaning this weekend" or "we can't put off the cleaning any longer"? Let's face it. It's a combination of dread, resignation and resistance. I like to call it "dre-sig-nis-tance".

When a wave of dresignistance comes on, suddenly climbing Mount Everest and cliff diving in Acapulco seem like things you ought to be doing instead. Now, if you could only find those travel brochures you picked up last year---as if you thought you'd ever actually do those things in the first place.

I'm not sure what makes cleaning such a chore. Maybe it's because it's almost the worst kind of chore. First of all, depending on how brutal you decide to be, you have to retouch everything at least for the second time---if not third, fourth or fifth---even the stuff you should never have touched to begin with.

Then there's the dust, most of it laying there waiting to explode with the slightest breath, like one of those dandelion seed tufts. How do those little dust bunnies form, anyway? There they are, just lurking in corners and under furniture, waiting to pounce---or escape ahead of your approaching rag or mop.

The worst part may be the mental battle between the left and right sides of the brain, first trying to remember what made some particular thing so darned interesting at the time, then reevaluating whether to delay its immediate demise---a-g-a-i-n.

Cleaning has no gender boundaries either---there's no preponderant male/female claims to chronic collector status. Doesn't everyone have stacks of cherished magazines and catalogs, from Playboy to Pottery Barn, from "O" to "Q", from Real Simple to REI? All of them are so hope-filled and glossy.

Sure, we'll get back to that compelling relationship article eventually or try that recipe for goat cheese-vegetarian lasagna with avocado and a hint of mint. Toss them out? How could we? To paraphrase the classic, "these may never come this way again." Hope springs eternal....

But wait. Maybe the act of the cleansing purge (we're talking housework here) has gotten a bad rap all these years. When you get right down to it, cleaning is really just a mini-archeological excavation, with surprises under every layer.

Now I know why retail stores rotate their product lines so often. It's really just a business exercise in cleaning. Just as a fresh, clean store draws the eye and corrals customers, so too will your home, divested of its dust and clutter, be inviting to all those visitors you've been meaning to have over---you know, someone besides your best friend who loves you even with all your warts.

Just think of the fun in the discovery, nay even the reward, that awaits you. Have you browsed through the rows of packages and cans in your pantry which are months or even years beyond their "best if used by" date. What about the caches of expired coupons in that little basket by the phone; the knic-knacs and chotchkys---priceless dust catchers lined up in formation on shelves and hutchtops; and the pages of three-hole punched portfolio reports added monthly and quarterly to the "file later" pile?

Ah, but the true irony lies in the well-intentioned buckets and bags of partially and never used cleaning supplies shoved into the dark recesses of "the under-sink"?

So, what's to be done with the dust and clutter of times past. Can we ever part with our accumulated stash of good stuff which seems to have taken up permanent residence? Isn't it time to toss off the tantalizing tyrany of "too much"? To soundly trounce the trash evolved from treasure? To finally unburden the body and soul?

Come on. You can do it. Compulsion is under rated. Just think of it as turning your cleaning quirks into fashion statements. That damp rag tucked under a rubber band at your wrist will eradicate errant smudges in a flash. White gloves with a spritz of dust spray? Perfect for swi