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Pat Lewis left these two poems in the comments.

Travel by Armchair
You can take a trip by Greyhound,
motorcycle,
paddle-
wheel,
ocean liner
(package
deal)—
I prefer the
bookmo-
bile.

* * * * *
Weather by The Old Masters
The Michelangelo thunder
of an April
cloudburst
hints
at what follows
a great
rinse:
spring meadows in
Monet
prints.

Carol Weis left this poem in the comments.

Great Blue
The great blue heron tries to hide
itself in tall
grasses,
yet
passers see this
nature’s
pet,
take photos to
not for-
get.

© Carol Weis. All rights reserved.

Greg K. of GottaBook left this poem in the comments.

Halloween
I counted down October days.
Tonight, at last,
Waiting’s
Through.
I prowl the dark,
Seeking
You.
My costume on,
I’ll shout,
“Boo!”

Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.

October 31st
Night. A graveyard. A single boy
walks soft as a
new-raised
ghost,
with each step re-
gretting
most
making that quick,
daylit
boast.

Laura Purdie Salas left these poems in the comments.

Weapons Make the Warrior?
Marching in time, but out of time
into the harsh
light of
day:
Emperor Qin’s
army.
They
wield bronze swords in
arms of
clay.

* * * * *
Putting the Art Before the Horse
In Emperor Qin’s afterlife,
he would rule by
timeless
force.
But death had its
way, of
course.
Lesson? Don’t ride
a clay
horse.

Amy Ludwig Vanderwater left this poem in the comments.

One Hen Speaks
We make eggs inside our bodies.
Roosters chase us
make us
mate.
Every egg is
tempting
fate.
Farm life or your
breakfast
plate?

Julie Larios of The Drift Record left these poems in the comments. And yes, the first title is longer than the poem!

In a Nice Restaurant, I Use My Fingers to Tap Out Syllables on the Tablecloth, Which Worries the Nice Couple at the Next Table Who Appear to Be Having a Romantic Anniversary Dinner

Constantly counting syllables
alarms the shrinks.
While some
probe
tales about our
frontal
lobes,
none dare call us
zeno-
phobes.

* * * * *
A Zeno to Ze Nose
Ze nose eez nice, eet smell ze rose,
eet shine so pink
with wine.
Ooh-
la-la, ze nose
eet grows
blue -
eet sneeze, eet honk,
eet drip -
eeewww.

What secret incantations do
you write upon
the sky?
Light
poems on a
summer
night
flash on, flash off --
"Hold me
tight!"

Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.

This Thing I Love in My Yard

I loved that great fir tree,
watched it growing for thirty-eight years.
It kept walkers on School Street
from staring into my bedroom windows
and a resident Downey full of bugs.
Now there is an empty space
where a lightning strike
killed what wind and rain and snow and ice
and three climbing children
had never damaged at all.
But this new space, where the wind blows
red and gold leaves about
like crazed autumn dervishes
is inviting in its own way.
Dear One, it says, make a stone garden here,
a place to sit, read, enjoy the sun,
to contemplate the rambling house
now that husband and children have left it.
Put statues here—an owl perhaps, or a plaque,
slate stones with phrases from poems.
Emily Dickinson might be best:
“A word is dead, when it is said,”
“Tell all the truth but tell it slant,”
“I’m nobody, who are you?”
Short, pithy, like the space
now that the tree is gone.
Make a monument, a statement,
make a taradiddle, a fantasy.
You are good at that.
And you have less time to do it,
than the tree that has given you the place.

© 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

Diane also left a poem in the comments.

Appreciating the Rarae Aves

Winter afternoons...
cold, gray, joyless
until a flash of cardinal
red opens my eyes.

Spring mornings...
chirps, twitters, love
songs of early risers gently
awaken me to possibility.

Summer dusks...
in the dash dart of swallows,
finding proof that every
creature is a piece in the puzzle.

Fall evenings...
far off honks of geese,
reminders that the
trip is all worthwhile.

Shutta Crum left this poem in the comments.

Sea Song

I had a life as simple and full as the sea.
And out of the surf I carried stories—
wet, and unraveling.

I had a man who dove into water
and cradled my heart like a prize.
I had a child with tides to travel,
and another with kelpie eyes.

I had land on a windy cliff,
and a house that danced as it sang.
I had cats and dogs that spoke my tongue,
and a bird that proclaimed my name.

I had a strong hand clasped in mine,
and hallowed work to craft.
I had little hands that followed,
and mysteries that made us laugh.

I had a piece of floating ribbon
plucked from my mother’s hair.
I had a word of wisdom my father
found pooled in a magical year.

I had a friend who died too soon,
and another who died too late.
I had brothers and sisters and strangers,
who waved as they rounded the cape.

I had a place in my own time,
and a joy for the labors I sing.
I had a son, a daughter, and a man,
and hearts to set a-cradling.

So make me a promise will you?
If you should ever speak of me,
remember what I’ve said:
I had a life as simple and full as the sea.

And out of the surf I carried stories—
wet, and unraveling.

Julie Larios of The Drift Record left this poem in the comments.

A Love Song

To Dappled things, of course, but why stop there?
To Hopkins and his God, to Yeats and Heaney and O'Hara.
Ditto the bare bottoms of toddlers, plus their plump thighs.
Love those. To their ear lobes. To their mangled prose.
To the sighs of various tides from Bahia Kino to Banyuls.
To toolboxes. Lunch boxes. Pencil boxes.
To knocks at the door when I know it's my sister.
To Bronte's mist on the moor. To Mr. Rogers - miss him.
To Whitman loving everything large, to the way
he sang. Still sings. And other things: Yellow in January,
deep green in July. Saturn and its rings. Crescent moons.
Cupcakes plain or pink. The blink of an eye that’s long.
Last but not least, jujubes. To all these things - Glory Be.

Still Loved

I miss the clothes line
sheets snapping in the wind
smelling of sunshine and lilacs
though that lilac bush is long gone

I miss the crabapple, mulberry,
weeping willow and white birches
yet it’s the Rockefeller Center-worthy
firs that hold my imagination
My brother once jumped his pony over them
now they tower far above the house

I miss the lily of the valley,
white trilliums, black-eyed Susans,
Queen Anne’s lace, pussy willows,
cattails and silver dollars
flowers of my youth

I miss the smell of manure,
fresh cut grass, spring in bloom,
summer rain, leaves in fall,
fires in winter

I miss the snow,
the blank canvas
wrought by each new storm

I miss the uneven slate floor,
naked baseboards,
drafty hall, narrow stairs
squeaky closet doors,
the wabi sabi of the home
my father built

I miss who we were there

Julie Larios of The Drift Record shares a poem entitled Pre of the Fixed.

Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.

OVER

--lay

When my beloved husband died,
And after I cried
For a thousand days,
Making myself unhappier
In a thousand ways
I realized that the problem
Was neither warmth nor sex,
But that like that turtle
“Twixt plated decks,”
I have no one to lie over
Or under me.
That fact alone
Practically sundered me.

--mantle

Looking into the mirror
A year after his death,
I saw an old woman
with eyes like shallows:
cold, inhospitable,
covered with rime.
I shall get to know her
In time.

--come

We shall,
I shall,
Make a life,
Not a better,
Not a wife,
But a new
And fierce
Alone.
What was two
Is now
Quite
One.

© 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

Laura Purdie Salas left this poem in the comments.

circum-

be
circum-
spect
don’t dive in
to that hole.
is there a bottom?

circum-
navigate
instead.
black.
endless.
peer in,
gasping.
scrabble back from the edge.

circum-
locution
may be the only
way around the
unanswerable
question.
drown it in words
larger than the hole
itself obliterating
its unknowableness.

study the
circum-
ference
of the
question.
is it
pi times
the d(ying)
all around you.
the dying that
you fear?

circum-
scribe
your thoughts,
defined
within
walls of words,
borders of phrases,
continents of
poems.

--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved

Susan Taylor Brown of Susan Writes finally joined us for a stretch! Hurray! (and Welcome!) Her poem is entitled SEMI.

Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.

The Sorcerer Chants

Tera
It twists like fire
in my mouth: sands pour
into glass and mass,
demanding the spell-shape.

Peta
I aim the word
like an arrow with eyes
and magic hisses
the name of every star.

Exa
Thought trembles down
the bones of mountains.
My incantation
rises like a golem.

Zetta
I leave behind silences,
as if I were dragging
a thin, jagged tail
through the dust.

Yotta
It isn't enough to tell
the size of the darkness
I have bloomed
into being like a new flower.

—Kate Coombs

Linda of Write Time shares a poem entitled UN.

Sub

-divide
Cleave attention
halve time
part ways
our days are
split and split and split

-atomic
It’s really all about
the little things
the tiny
bits and pieces of
our lives

-ordinate
I am
so small
so insignificant
so meaningless
in the grand scheme
of things

-sist
still …
I
am
here

Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.

Faces

Kerri has 500 photos
of herself on Facebook:
pouting sexy like a model,
then cute and funny, sitcom girl,
very Kerri, never scary.

I let her take photos:
they're supposed to be me.
A smile I practiced
for Picture Day,
dragon dabs of mascara,
a dropped shoulder
(Kerri says to, but I feel like
the hunchback of Notre Dame).

She doesn't get it. "Not one?
This one! This one is perfect!"
No. I go home.
I take out my paints,
my brushes, my scissors and paper,
a bottle of glue. A feather
I found on the sidewalk,
a button, a twig.

I take out the day I was born,
smoothing it with my hands,
the time I cut my knee
and it bled on my green dress
like geraniums,
a quarrel tasting
like unsweetened chocolate,
the ruffled pages of books,
my mother's daisy of a sneeze,
the times tables lined up
as if they made sense,
my sister's baseball bat swinging
through the air like a song,
and my secretest secrets,
like the heart of a stone or a tree.
I'm making
a picture of me,
and it's going to be

nothing like anything
in that book of faces.
It's going to be so me
that if wizards came,
they'd take one look at it,
and know my true name.

Diane Mayr of Random Noodling left this poem in the comments.

INSANITY

Having my picture
taken over and over
and each time
expecting to see
someone else.

Laura Purdie Salas left this poem in the comments.

Author Mug Shot

one hundred twenty five pixels square
double chin, cowlick, frozen stare
they told me this pose would make me look stunning
now black pixel bars restrain me from running

my crime: an unphotogenic cliche
my punishment: infinite awkward display

--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved

Linda of Write Time left this poem in the comments.

Picture Day

Last year I stayed home
sick on picture day—
I wasn’t even faking,
my stomach ached
thinking about my face
forever fat
on the yearbook page.

I had a plan
nothing but salads
I’d be skinny-jean ready
by re-take day—
It didn’t happen.

So I promised myself
a new me
in the new year.

But tomorrow
is picture day
again—
and already
my stomach
aches.

I face the mirror
on the wall
practice smiling
stand real tall
tilt my head
rest hand on chin
try to mask
the fear within

The face that stares
at me each day—the one
I know by heart
is not the one
that is revealed
in photographic art

I

Leaning in
at this point farthest
from the sun
we still burn and sweat
while waiting patiently
to tilt away

II

Nights glow and sing
thick with fireflies
and crickets

Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.

Chocolate Love

I want chocolate, dark as kohl,
Lining my eyes,
Slathered between my legs,
Decorating my nipples.
I could eat it for every meal,
Rub it into my arm pits,
Crush it between my molars,
Suck it through a straw.
I dream of chocolate each night,
Running down my chin,
Hot and cold,
In a cup, in a cone.
My tongue gives it a deep kiss
And I am lost in its sweet tartness.
Can you tell I am on a diet?

© 2009 Jane Yolen

Stephanie Parsley from Sparble shares a poem entitled While you were at your father's in July.

How to Unburden Your Soul

Pull journal from its hiding place
Find a good pen
Retire to a comfortable chair
Put your feet up
Collect your thoughts
Start a new page
Admit to:
      drinking milk straight from the jug
      eating the last piece of corn
      stealing your husband's change (every day)
      crying for no good reason
      backing into the mailbox
      an incredible lack of patience
      swearing like a sailor in the car
      a desire to throttle close friends and family
      spoiling your son
      missing a birthday
      failing a friend
      being human
Close journal
Let go
Breathe a sigh of relief