How to use this Page

You don&#39;t toy with a pantoum - it toys with you!<br /><br />For another example, here&#39;s Joyce Sidman&#39;s <a href="http://gottabook.blogspot.com/2009/04/joyce-sidman-spring-is-time.html" rel="nofollow">Spring is the Time</a> from last year&#39;s 30 Poets/30 Days. She makes it look so easy! Unfair!

I love this form. It&#39;s a great tool for coming up with poems that aren&#39;t pantoums, but simply grow out of the lines the pattern forces on you. <br /><br />Lost Scents<br /><br /><br />The smell of butter rum <br />Will not take her back, though it should,<br />To a high-ceilinged room<br />On Ponce de Leon Avenue.<br /><br />It should take her back. It should<br />Let her re-live

Funny, I just recently wrote a pantoum... <a href="http://knockingfrominside.blogspot.com/2010/02/caribou-shadows.html" rel="nofollow">Caribou Shadows</a><br /><br />My captcha says &quot;everse&quot; E-verse? :O

Oh, I was so glad to see that it doesn&#39;t have to rhyme! I was having heart palpitations just thinking about fitting in the form AND the rhyme. I may actually give it a go...but not today.

Another Spring: A Pantoume<br /> <br />If I never see another spring--<br />the green thrusts of daffodils,<br />the violin curl of ferns--<br />I will still remember them.<br /> <br />The green thrusts of daffodils,<br />the scatter of crocuses.<br />I will still remember them<br />when I am under earth.<br /> <br />The scatter of crocuses,<br />like children in a playground,<br />when I am

Boy, this was hard! I tried to tell a story with it, so here we go.<br /><br />The Treasure of Old Captain Bones<br /><br />A Pantoum by Nicole Marie Schreiber<br /><br />Old Captain Bones, in a cave off the coast,<br />Sits waiting with his treasure for you.<br />Cursed by the hand of a siren so fair,<br />Beware, to all those who go seeking.<br /><br />Sits waiting with his treasure for you,<

More rain here in Southern California...<br /><br />Rain Again<br /><br />Rain comes graying back again,<br />dropping over sky like a stage curtain.<br />Blue fades, coolness creeps in,<br />and we all lift our umbrellas.<br /><br />Dropping over sky like a stage curtain,<br />rain silvers everything in sight,<br />and we all lift our umbrellas,<br />dry hearts hopeful as houseplants.<br /><br /

Wow! What a challenge. Not sure I did it justice, but it was fun! Here&#39;s mine. <br />http://marcieaf.blogspot.com/2010/03/poetry-stretch-pantoum.html

It&#39;s good to be back....<br /><br />Pants of Doom<br /><br />I fill the tiny dressing room<br />with pairs of pants for this pantoum:<br />pinstriped trousers, denim jeans—<br />they all are bursting at the seams<br /><br />Pairs of pants for this pantoum<br />fill the stall with signs of doom:<br />they all are bursting at the seams—<br />I’ve gained a pound or two, it seems<br /><br />They

Just a note for Jane: As always, you&#39;re writing such honest and beautiful poetry.

What Will I Wear<br /><br />What will I wear when day is done,<br />When all my skin and flesh are gone?<br /><br />How will I know which skills to hone<br />When brain and heart are also gone?<br /><br />Who will I speak to, in what tone,<br />When mouth and ear and throat are gone?<br /><br />Who will I love when I’m alone<br />And all I know are dead and gone?<br /><br />©2010 Jane Yolen all

Technically I think this is a ghazal, not a kyrielle. Wikipedia has an example of a ghazal by Agha Shahid Ali-- you can find it at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal near the bottom of the page.

Well, I&#39;m not in the mood for rhyme, so here&#39;s my variation...<br /><br />Maybe<br /><br />Maybe this is the day to begin.<br />I can sort of see it, but I hesitate.<br /><br />Today I will sprout a future<br />like green wings. Except--I hesitate.<br /><br />If I can just drop that habit,<br />life will gleam. I hesitate,<br /><br />wanting to keep it and drop<br />a different one. To

An Artist Mother’s Plea<br />A kyrielle by Nicole Marie Schreiber<br /><br />I’ve laid the plan, the plot’s in sight,<br />I think it’s time to sit and write.<br /><br />But laundry&#39;s piled and money’s tight,<br />With dinner to make, how can I write?<br /><br />With dishes reaching such a height,<br />And whiny kids who cry, “Don’t write!”<br /><br />Whatever it takes, the muse must fight,<

Tried again. But you know, rhyme in the wrong hands can be a dangerous thing...<br /><br />Something Fishy<br /><br />At breakfast, James does not feel well,<br />staring like a mackerel.<br /><br />His skin gleams coolly as a shell.<br />Fetch water for the mackerel!<br /><br />And then, of course, there is a smell<br />of ripe and briny mackerel.<br /><br />Oh, surely someone&#39;s cast a spell

I looked up kyrielle and found this: The kyrielle is an old French form used originally by the Troubadors during the Renaissance era. It was named after the kyrie, an aspect of the Christian liturgy. Kyrie is a derivative of kyrios, a Greek word meaning &quot;Oh, Lord.&quot; (From http://www.world-class-poetry.com/kyrielle.html)<br /><br />So, I decided to incorporate a little &quot;Lord, have

Here&#39;s an alternative form of the kyrielle -- from a collection-in-progress of mine.<br /><br /><br />RIGHT WHALE BONES<br />Eubalaena glacialis<br />By Steven Withrow<br /><br />One day I&#39;ll take a whale watch boat<br />To see your great descendants float<br />And breach up their enormous girth,<br />Before they perish from the earth.<br /><br />That day I&#39;ll hear their right whale

Stroke<br /><br />It wouldn&#39;t be a bother<br />to help take care of Mother,<br /><br />but she only wants my father<br />to get her out of bed. So I said, Mother,<br /><br />you really need another <br />pair of hands. Well, then my mother<br /><br />took a fit of temper and she stuttered<br />I should listen to my mother.<br /><br />It&#39;s easy to misjudge her<br />even if she is my mother

Oops. Forgot to type the final couplet.<br /><br />What is it now? Oh, brother.<br />Lord, have mercy on my mother.

Blogs are so informative where we get lots of information on any topic. Nice job keep it up!!<br />_____________________________<br /><br /><a href="http://www.ukdissertation.co.uk/Shakespeare_Dissertation.htm" rel="nofollow">Shakespeare Dissertation</a>

Shema<br />By Liz Korba<br /><br />Their father said that God was One<br />Two brothers – each he called his son<br />But One was not to be their fate.<br />”Awaiting Easter – God is Great.”<br /><br />I pray not knowing if I’m heard<br />Petition, sorrow, praise – Absurd?<br />Yet I must hope, that is not my fate<br />“Awaiting Easter – God is Great.”<br /><br />These words I whisper - this my

Here&#39;s my contribution: <a href="http://knockingfrominside.blogspot.com/2010/02/dowry-of-bride.html" rel="nofollow">Dowry of the Bride</a>

Here&#39;s mine: <br />Winter poems, spring poems, poems for today<br />come along, play along, it’s Poetry Friday<br /><br />Old favorites, poetry stretch, original word play<br />Share one, share two it’s Poetry Friday<br /><br />Some interview what poets have to say<br />others review the latest on Poetry Friday<br /><br />Don’t be shy, linger awhile, and enter the fray<br />I’m rounding them

Actually, I have a poem on file that pretty much sums up yearning for me. It&#39;s for a YA collection I&#39;m writing (slowly).<br /><br />Sometimes There’s Something<br /><br />Sometimes there’s something<br />I want so much I think<br />my hands will fly off,<br />fingers fluttering like birds,<br />to search in the east<br />and my feet will run fast<br />by themselves to the west<br />and my

BACKGROUND<br /><br />Reporter&#39;s microphone captures <br />background sounds of children <br />playing and unknown birds a-twitter. <br />Both groups unaware that they <br />put the war in context and make it<br />that much more unbelievable.

This is an old poem, but it has that sense of yearning in it so I thought I would share:<br /><br />Round Frame<br /><br /> My father&#39;s past lies hidden in an round frame.<br /> The child there has plump cheeks,<br /> uncolored eyes; a heavy Russian hat<br /> perches awkwardly on his baby curls.<br /> He stares out at me, through me, daring me<br /> to take away his

<b>ALL I WANT FOR BREAKFAST</b><br />By Steven Withrow<br /><br />is to hold<br />the interminable<br />spoon<br />of time<br />over the bowl<br />of what&#39;s possible<br />and wait,<br />to savor,<br />eat,<br />forever.

Each year I yearn<br />to write some fiction.<br />I think of dialogue <br />and diction, <br />characters <br />and motivation,<br />unreliable<br />narration,<br />rising action<br />point of view<br />(He and She<br />or Me and You?) <br />I do my best <br />with prose and plot<br />to do what poetry <br />does not:<br />Go on and on <br />and on and on<br />and on and on <br />and on and...

I love this Julie!

I wrote this one a few years ago. It was a time of very deep yearning for me. <br /><br />Still, She Cannot Write the Spring<br /><br />It was a cold Christmas<br />That chilled the roots and left no promise<br />Against the hard consonants of November.<br />A songless sparrow picks lichen<br />From trees standing bare in the wind<br />And listens with her for a touch<br />Of sunlight, for words

What I’d say to the mountains<br /><br />Your blue edges blur<br />Beyond the belltower<br />at the edge the town,<br />over the river<br />outside my vision, just,<br />but hovering over us<br />to catch us <br />in the event of a sudden loss of gravity.<br /><br />Why are you not here<br />In this flattest, barest place<br />Where no blue exists,<br />Nor belltowers, nor even towns,<br />Only

&quot;The hard consonants of November . . .&quot; YES! <br /><br />It reminds me of Dickinson&#39;s &quot;the very Norway of the year.&quot;<br /><br />And Julie--your poem made me giggle.<br /><br />JaneY

Thanks, Jane. I am honored to have your comment on my poem. I&#39;m looking forward to seeing you in person in Atlanta next week at the Southern Breeze SCBWI conference. <br /><br />Doraine

Yearning<br />by Nicole Marie Schreiber<br /><br />For passports and postcards,<br />countries with castles,<br />anywhere there’s tea brewing,<br />and tall ships at sea.<br /><br />For sunrises on bridges<br />beaches with seashells,<br />anywhere with ruins,<br />and a tale not yet told.<br /><br />For flowers and fairies,<br />dancing and music,<br />anywhere to read a book,<br />and a pillow

I have to leave this quote:<br /><br />&quot;Truth and beauty ain&#39;t the same thing, after all<br />The things I&#39;ve been reading on the restroom walls<br />Are often true, but seldom beautiful.&quot;<br /><br />--Judy Henske, &quot;Tin Star&quot;, from her album <i>Loose in the World</i>

I don&#39;t have a poem but I did want you know I love your quotes. Beauty has always been a prized thing in societies, but I am lucky to have grown up in one that values hard work and academia just as much. Or at least that was my perception, which is why I grew up relatively unscarred by the issue of not being considered beautiful.<br /><br />But as a parent of two young children starting to

Write a Poem about Beauty<br /><br />What isn&#39;t beautiful?<br />Self-pity, cruelty,<br />bodily excretions<br />(except those of oysters),<br />the hungry sound<br />of a dentist&#39;s drill,<br />office cubicles<br />filled with grayness,<br />most souvenirs—<br />especially plastic ones<br />in insincere colors,<br />printed with place names.<br /><br />Just about everything<br />else is

Mirrors<br /><br />All mirrors lie,<br />showing me as I am,<br />ravaged by age and gravity,<br />by time and tears and loss.<br />Here’s the scar on my chin<br />from my tumble onto the concrete<br />from the height of my skates,<br />on Rosh Hashanah.<br />There’s the mole I am too vain<br />to have removed.<br />The breasts sucked dry by three babies.<br />The slash across my stomach muscles<

STEPS TOWARD A FULL-MOON MACHINE<br />By Steven Withrow<br /> <br />First, believe in glories,<br />in satellites and sorceries of sky.<br />Any meddler in moonstuff<br />who&#39;s punched enough holes<br />in night will tell you:<br />Doubt&#39;s the thing to lose.<br />Certitude&#39;s essential<br />in cleaving the celestial.<br />Nothing grounds a moon deeper<br />than doomy howls of gloom.<br

Jane and Steve--Wow!

field of snow...<br />the sparkle of the sun<br />and the strutting crow

No poem but the saying I heard all the time from my mom growing up: &quot;Pretty is as pretty does.&quot;

My mother used to say, &quot;One must suffer for beauty.&quot; She was, I think, talking about diet, haircuts, and makeup. I heard it differently.<br /><br />Jane

Here&#39;s one of mine about beauty - or, more precisely, the loss of it:<br /><br />DAPHNE’S MICRO-MORPHOSIS <br /><br />She likes her skin to be skin,<br />likes only a thin tip of change, <br /><br />likes the shift sub-dermal, <br />likes the inward gist of that.<br /><br />Change that&#39;s Meta is not her style.<br />Why should people know?<br /><br />Why would Apollo chase her<br />once

&quot;once the bark began to show.. . &quot; Shivers, Julie. The sign of a poem absolutely working for me.<br /><br />Jane

Rose Window<br />by Liz Korba<br /><br />I see through glass<br />A solid thing<br />Invisible<br />Like beauty<br />When it&#39;s there<br />A verb<br />Unbound

A revision of an older poem, but it&#39;s all I have time for this week.<br /><br />SNOW PLOWS<br />By Steven Withrow<br /><br />Frigid night,<br />first light snow<br />frosts blacktop.<br /><br />Plows shiver to life<br />after silence,<br />sleep.<br /><br />Truck engines<br />cough quietly,<br />frothy exhalations.<br /><br />All move out,<br />slow, coordinated<br />convoy.<br /><br />Snow

Last Night&#39;s Snow<br /><br />The white eraser<br />took out black lines<br />of roads, dark<br />roof rectangles,<br />and scribbled branches.<br /><br />It rubbed away<br />colored-pencil cars,<br />gray streaks of fence,<br />and etched hedges.<br /><br />But it can&#39;t erase<br />my new red boots,<br />my yellow scarf,<br />or my blue coat<br />as I tromp along,<br />rewriting.<br /><br

Living in Buffalo, NY, I write many snow poems. Here is one from the past...<br /><br />Snowflake<br /><br />Born in a cloud.<br />Lived in sky.<br />Died on my mitten.<br />Why?<br /><br />-Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

I&#39;ve put my snow poem up at <a href="http://julielarios.blogspot.com" rel="nofollow">The Drift Record</a>

first snow...<br />the puppy&#39;s nostrils<br />full of it

Amy,<br />I grew up in Rochester and taught and went to grad school in Buffalo. There is much I miss about it, but definitely not the snow!

Oh my goodness! We have some things in common - my husband grew up in Victor. Did you go to UB? I&#39;m presently at UB for my library science degree. Where did you teach? I used to teach fifth grade in Sweet Home. If ever you miss snow, I&#39;ll be happy to mail you an insulated envelope full of it. We live down in Holland, so it&#39;s white for many months in our parts.

Quiet<br />is the sound<br />of snow.<br />Hush.<br />Can you hear it?<br /><br />--Barbara J. Turner

Snowflake Designer<br /><br />I’m quick.<br />I’m careful.<br />I work when I wake.<br /><br />I’m cool.<br />I’m quiet.<br />I make no mistake.<br /><br />Each winter<br />I sketch<br />I measure<br />I bake<br /> flake after<br /> flake after<br /> flake after<br /> flake.<br /><br />(If I find a double<br />I take it and break it.)<br /><br />- Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Ode to a California Winter<br />By Nicole Marie Schreiber<br /><br />I know it’s why people move here--<br />Sunny. <br />Mild winters. <br />72 degrees.<br /><br />But just once, I’d love to see snow <br />sugaring those orange poppies,<br />if only for a day.<br /><br />Just once<br />instead of car chases<br />and Amber alerts<br />and traffic congestion<br />and illegal immigrants<br />all

Hi Tricia ~ I love writing about snow, but especially liked Kate&#39;s take on it this week. <br /><br />DRIZZLING SNOW<br /><br />A drizzle of snow<br />laces the field<br />where stubbles <br />of corn stalks<br />bear witness <br />to turkey tracks<br />sprinkled across<br />its wintry breast.<br /><br />© 2010 Carol Weis

Southern Snow<br /><br />Trees steeled themselves <br />against the coming cold.<br />Sparrows and squirrels snuggled<br />deep in strawed nests.<br /><br />Children caught the first flakes <br />on trembling tongues, scraped<br />white powder from the dry grass,<br />and threw wet balls at friends<br />until the unfamiliar cold <br />hurried them inside <br />in search of hot chocolate <br />and

Still<br />so still<br />all muffled<br />buried<br />overwhelmed<br />All motionless<br />suspended<br />breathless<br />under the<br />veiled<br />solstice moon.<br />The years<br />fall away<br />on either<br />side, and for a moment,<br />all is<br />still.<br /><br />copyright Feb.3, 2010

Much snow?<br />No go.<br /><br /><br /><br />Jane Yolen<br /><br /><br />PS I have done two books of poetry about snow and ice: SNOW, SNOW and ONCE UPON ICE., both from Boyds Mills WordSong imprint.

Tricia,<br /><br />Here&#39;s a bunch of original snow poems that I posted at Wild Rose Reader in the past month. Choose any/all that you&#39;d like for the Poetry Stretch Results.<br /><br /><br />Snowflakes falling like fairy dust...<br />I turn my face to the sky,<br />Cold white kisses<br />Melting on my cheeks<br />(First draft)<br /><br /><br />Wrapped<br />In a robe of white<br />Numbed

You just keep getting the snow. Like the NW last year. Here&#39;s mine: http://maclibrary.wordpress.com/2010/02/04/poetry-friday-responding-to-prompts/

Snow True<br /><br /> snow<br /> snow snow<br />snow snow snow<br />snow snow snow snow snow snow<br />snowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnowsnow<br />SnowSnowSnowSnowSnowSnowSnowSnow<br />SNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOW<br />SNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOW<br />SNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOW<br />SNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSNOWSnowSnowSnow<br />Snow Snow Snow Snow Snow<br /> snow

POINT JUDITH LIGHT<br />By Steven Withrow<br /><br />That Sunday you wanted a drive,<br />So we drove south, you and I,<br />Singing alphabet songs, to the sea.<br /><br />Some roads lead only to the sea.<br />We passed a sign for “Scenic Drive,”<br />You pointed out a lighthouse, which I<br /><br />Saw was a mammoth lowercase “i”<br />Topped with a beacon, and the sea<br />Strove with its

Four days till the SCBWI Conference and I&#39;m excited.<br />Nervous.<br />Scared.<br /><br />My first New York Conference so I&#39;m scared.<br />Excited.<br />Nervous.<br /><br />Who knows what could happen? I don&#39;t, so I&#39;m nervous. <br />Scared.<br />Excited.<br /><br />Excited, Nervous, Scared... but mostly excited. That&#39;s me.

Doesn&#39;t feel much like a poem to me, but here goes:<br /><br />To write a poem takes great heart , <br />But do not leave behind the head. <br />Of course the other body part is the foot. <br /><br />With poetic coin, the bill you foot,<br />But never neglect great (h)art.<br />Still, some poems begin in the head.<br /><br />The poetic road that lies ahead?<br />You will need to go on foot

The Deluge<br /><br />I imagine the deluge began <br />in the winter&#39;s darkest days <br />when the already bone-chilling rain<br /><br />turned to relentless bone-breaking rain.<br />Beating, bashing, battering, it began<br />to obliterate nights and days.<br /><br />No difference between the days<br />and nights--just pain--and rain--<br />and pain. Until the fortieth night began.<br /><br

Wow, Diane, do you live in Southern California, too?<br /><br />Rain<br /><br />Last week the sky was made of gray<br />and all the eyes reflected rain,<br />the kind of weather that asks why.<br /><br />Like children tugging, asking why,<br />we waded through a sea of gray,<br />the only light in gleaming rain.<br /><br />But there are those who read the rain,<br />who think its falling tells us

Sneachers<br />By K. Thomas Slesarik<br /><br />Pet shops seldom sell ‘em (those sneachers) <br />because they’ve a small cerebellum <br />but some sing karaoke by day. <br /><br />They make little pay working each day <br />and many teachers are really sneachers <br />so please don’t stress their cerebellum. <br /><br />And don’t speak of their cerebellum <br />‘cause it likely will ruin their

No, Kate, I don&#39;t live in CA! ;-) <br /><br />We had a very cold gray rainy day yesterday that chilled me to the bone. It wasn&#39;t a &quot;soft and gray as eiderdown&quot; rain here!

My temper makes me want to hit.<br />On me, it has such a firm hold.<br />Dealing with it daily can be a drag.<br /><br />Stressed, I’m found in need of a drag;<br />or as it’s known, by some, a hit;<br />on this joint which I stand and hold.<br /><br />I light it, breathe it in deep and hold;<br />before, to the car, my bag, I drag,<br />It preps me for a practice of rugby hits.<br /><br />

Diane--Yes, rain is a lot softer when you look out the window than when you&#39;re stuck outside without an umbrella!--Kate

Independence<br /> Barbara J. Turner<br /><br /><br />Strolling through the apple orchard, just you and I. <br />You don’t want to come, but I insist. So me and you <br />bask beneath plump red fruit, unseen by even him.<br /><br />I feed you apples under the boughs, never thinking of him. <br />I see the man you were, the man you could be. I<br />see light in your eyes, feel your

In the damp, she peeled up moss<br />piecing the rugged squares <br />together again under the trees.<br /><br />The wind shook the wet off the trees,<br />the soft bed of moss<br />squished in their cushioned squares.<br /><br />Mud sealed and joined the squares,<br />little flowers fell from the trees,<br />decorating the moss.<br /><br />A patchwork quilt of moss or what she considered squares

My First Tritina<br />Oh how does one begin to find a way<br />To write three words repeating in ten lines<br />Four times - change ‘round the order ‘till the end<br />Where three words reflect what’s written at the end<br />Of the beginning lines (first three) (No way!)<br />Just how to make that happen in the lines<br />Complete with thoughts to read between the lines<br />I’ve no idea…but

Well, Tricia, I covered winning an award in my last week&#39;s poem. Does that mean I don&#39;t have to do one this week? ;-)

BEST OF A BAD SPELL<br />By Steven Withrow<br /><br />Losing the Williams Junior High School<br />spelling bee, on “eleemosynary,”<br />was, I now see, an act of charity. <br />Knowing the Latin root for “alms” <br />(could you use it in a sentence?) <br />guarantees no one a varsity letter.<br /><br />Although it burned me that I flubbed<br />the double e’s, entreating the floor <br />for the

I saw my friend Friday, and I&#39;m guessing he has less than two months left. It&#39;s raining--seems symbolic.<br /><br />Peter<br /><br />There is no winning<br />now, no trophy with its rim<br />curved like a golden smile,<br />no tape to burst through,<br />no joy to shout, no hands<br />to bear you aloft, no song<br />to sing except a lullaby<br />as you turn gray<br />with pain and

P.S. Steven, your poem brought me back to 6th grade, when I came in second in the school-wide spelling bee because I couldn&#39;t spell &quot;kernel.&quot; Funny how those deal-breaking words stick in our heads for life!

Kate,<br /><br />I have a close friend who has been battling a rare form of cancer for more than three years. In the last couple of months, he&#39;s lost a lot of weight. He seems so tired and weak. It breaks my heart to see him like this. He had always had such gusto for life. I&#39;m doubtful he&#39;ll live out the year.<br /><br />Your poem was touching. It certainly spoke to me. I understand

Yes, Laura--in so many ways! And thanks, Elaine. I won&#39;t show him this poem, but it was nice to share it with our group when it popped out in response to the prompt. I&#39;m actually going to take a book of Mary Oliver&#39;s poems to read to him later this week--very uplifting.

Hmm...I left a comment yesterday with my poem...somewhere! It didn&#39;t show up here. Yikes. It&#39;s wandering around somewhere it doesn&#39;t belong.<br /><br />Anyway, as soon as I read the prompt, before I read any poems, my traumatic third-grade spelling test scandal came to mind. So...<br /><br />3rd-Grade Drama<br /><br />I missed the weekly spelling test—<br />I was shelving books in the

Massachusetts Mourning<br /><br />Yes, I voted, and would have voted twice.<br />But I am a good girl, moral, clean, and nice.<br />I always stop for red lights, I listen to advice.<br />But if I could have,<br />I really would have <br />Voted yesterday<br />Twice.<br /><br />©2010 Jane Yolen. All rights reserved.

Historical Fiction<br /><br />They aim<br />The guns<br />Life lost<br />War won<br /><br />-Liz Korba

It is my plan to write a first poem this week. Great idea!

How about first time participating in a poetry stretch? ;^)

Names<br /><br />My first kiss was a revelation,<br />not because it was deep, soulful,<br />full of tongue, <br />but rather hesitant<br />or perhaps respectful,<br />hard to know at the moment<br />of such new, sweet heat<br />or even years later, trying to recall.<br />A quick peck on the lips,<br />a butterfly not a wasp,<br />and yet I was stung<br />there under the Vermont trees.<br />That

I&#39;ve adopted the fake it till you make it attitude for 2010 and that&#39;s why I&#39;m participating in a few blogs. This is some industry humor as well as a nod to Jane.<br /><br />My First Poem this Week<br />by Ken Slesarik<br /><br />Can you fix this poem? <br />For Jane Yolen I am not. <br />It’s not a sonnet or an ode <br />with a complicated plot. <br />It’s closer to a limerick, <br /

Not sure I have been in a poem since my college boyfriend wrote a poem for me and my husband before he died wrote me a love haiku and a birthday apology poem.<br /><br />Thanks TKS!<br /><br />Jane

Okay, I&#39;ve tried to post this twice and the formatting got all screwed up. If it doesn&#39;t work right this time, so be it! Here goes...<br /><br />Come to think of it<br />I&#39;m now sixty and I<br />have yet to roast a turkey,<br />or even to cook a roast<br />beef. I&#39;ve got endless<br />&quot;firsts&quot; possibilities--<br />making the aforementioned<br />roasts, knitting--

That&#39;s great, I left off the title:<br /><br /><b>First Time Roasting a Turkey</b><br /><br />(You&#39;re not going to believe this, but the verification word required for me to post this is &quot;sucko&quot;--I kid you not.)

WHEN I FIRST KNEW<br />for Lesley<br /><br />February night, stuck inside<br />a stuffy, dim-lit dorm room,<br />people talking nonsense.<br /><br />I say to no one, anyone,<br />&quot;I&#39;m going for a walk,&quot;<br />hoping it won&#39;t draw a crowd.<br /><br />I&#39;ve got your attention.<br />You ask, &quot;Can I come too?&quot;<br />We grab our warm coats<br /><br />slip out the door to

A modified tanka:<br /><br />Creek gurgles, out there.<br />Trout sizzles, in here.<br />My first time to crunch down whole,<br />Head-first, a bony small fry,<br />While outside, fish rise to feed.

The End<br /><br />First Child<br />How I waited<br />Prayed and yearned<br />For you <br />To be<br />To see <br />The you<br />Of you<br />Alone – with a small part of me<br />And he – the one I love the most<br />(He waited<br />Wanted too)<br />But you<br />Of all we thought should be<br />You<br />Alone<br />Will never be<br />No part of him<br />No part of me<br />No dream<br />No hope<br /

A First<br /><br />Hands shake.<br />Knees quake.<br />Smile too wide.<br />Tongue? Tied.<br />Teeth brushed.<br />Breathe rushed.<br />Mirror glance.<br />First dance.<br /><br />(Greg Pincus, 2010)

First Sentence<br /><br />It was a dark and—<br />no. She ran, shrieking—<br />no. The breath of dawn,<br />the pink breath of dawn?<br />No. No. I couldn&#39;t believe—<br />If an octopus would only—<br />maybe. Tilly had flown<br />just once. Not bad. But if—<br />okay. His fangs dripped—<br />no. Absolutely NO vampires!<br />The hydrocephalic earwig—<br />yuck. Or maybe...<br />I wanted to

I wonder if anyone had a first love like mine?<br /><br />it was his lack of<br />respect for <br />capitals<br />titles <br />spacing<br />punctuation<br />that I fell for<br />his (parentheses)<br />flitting<br />out of nowhere<br />his words<br />swaggering down<br />the lines<br />flirting<br />luring me in<br />with mouth<br />watering<br />pulsations<br />my blossoming body<br />could only

FIRST BREATH<br /><br />Scrunched<br />a month or more<br />in chysalis,<br />limbs sore<br />and stiff at this<br />moment of awakening.<br /><br />Emerging,<br />surging wings<br />oustretch,<br />antennae strings<br />pop, unflex.<br />A butterfly’s first breath.<br /><br />--Barbara Turner

These first love, first kiss poems are wonderful! --Kate

Oh boy, these are all lovely. This prompt certainly inspired a lot of emotion this week.

Here&#39;s mine.<br /><br />FIRST KISS<br /><br />Not my first kiss<br />not my first boyfriend<br />but a first kiss from<br />that friend<br />who knew me better than anyone<br />that friend<br />who happened to be a boy<br />that friend<br />who rode his bike<br />miles and miles<br />to my grandmother&#39;s house<br />to stand like a shy soldier<br />on the yellow front porch,<br />the dirty

Taking the Years Away<br /><br />i gave you a piece of my mind<br />and you took it away; kept it with <br />my heart (which i gave you the day we met)<br />in an old Liquorice Allsorts tin<br />you bought at an antiques fair.<br />i lost my mind when you left<br />but you stayed in touch<br />and over the years came to love me<br />like a well-remembered aunt<br />and you gave me back that first

Here are mine: <br />winter’s first snowflakes<br />dance the twirl-a-whirl at dawn<br />hummingbirds tremble<br /><br />seek refuge from cold<br />hidden in branches<br /><br />++++++++++++++++++++<br /><br />first trembling kiss<br />mountains and valleys the paths<br />a twenty year journey

Thank you for not giving a detailed, complicated challenge this week! I&#39;m trying to ease back in:&gt;)<br /><br />Here&#39;s mine, based on what happened during cross-country skiing with my daughter last night:<br /><br />Owl, Meet Skier<br /><br />Shadowy,<br />Solid shape on tree<br />Lifts, spreads, swoops—<br />Hoo-hoo-hooooo!<br />Introduction drifts like snow <br />Hangs in twilight sky

I hope you don&#39;t mind but I used rhyme and did three. This is fun! <br /><br />Onion Thief<br /><br />He took ten <br />yellow onions from <br />a garden <br />late last week. <br />Then snuck back in on Tuesday <br />but just took a leek.<br /><br />c2010 by K. Thomas Slesarik<br /><br />The Peculiar Mosquito<br /><br />It landed <br />on my arm with a <br />sweet, simple, <br />lilting

Shadowrama x 4<br /><br />This shadow<br />lifting from a branch,<br />a shadow <br />of a branch,<br />into the shadow-filled sky<br />reminds me of you.<br /><br />This full moon,<br />caught in the tree’s arms,<br />the dead tree,<br />roost for owls,<br />knocking place for woodpeckers,<br />reminds me of you.<br /><br />Each small thing,<br />in nature’s cupboard,<br />each shadow,<br />and

Because weddings and having a bad cold make me philosophical:<br /><br />My Nephew&#39;s Wedding, 1/02/10<br /><br />Too much noise,<br />too many people,<br />too much food...<br />But the best<br />too much was the look in her<br />eyes, the look in his.<br /><br /><br />Still Life with Yogurt<br /><br />Blueberries<br />clump in a white bowl<br />beneath clouds<br />of yogurt.<br />I think

Toughest kid<br />in the seventh grade<br />was Paul Corr --<br />known as Moose --<br />who&#39;d hit a girl with glasses<br />for her lunch ticket.<br /><br />We feared him,<br />but I saw him once<br />running late<br />to a car<br />and a fat fist cuffed his cheek --<br />gift of Papa Moose.

Happy New Year to all Stretchers, and thanks, Tricia, for the challenge. The word &quot;shadorma&quot; made me hungry. And sleepy.<br /><br />Shadorma<br /><br />sleep sizzles<br />aromatically<br />on the spit<br />of night. carve<br />juicy slices onto white<br />sheets of pita bed.<br /><br />2010 Heidi Mordhorst<br />all rights reserved

Thank goodness everyone seems to be having more of an &quot;up&quot; day than I am. Here&#39;s my shadorma:<br /><br />NOT EVERYTHING IMPROVES WITH AGE<br /><br />When I was<br />younger I lobbied<br />for peace. Once <br />when I went <br />to buy a banner, the flag <br />store had only one--<br /><br /><i>Peace on Earth</i>--<br />over a manger.<br />Christmas is<br />just ONE day!<br />Every

Heidi--&quot;Pita bed&quot;? LOL! What a funny, strange, cool poem about sleep! <br />--Kate

Interesting form but I wonder about the why behind it. Is there something about the syllable count of this one that appeals to the ear? Maybe it&#39;s all those prime numbers...do our ears pick that up? Or maybe I&#39;m over-thinking it. Here&#39;s my contribution: <br /><br />Inquisition <br /><br />A poor Moor<br />waiting at your gate, <br />too late now<br />for fake faith, <br />I hear a

Oops - that doesn&#39;t work - I have too many syllables in the next-to-last line. Oh, shoot. Well, strike the &quot;Si&quot; in that line.

Julie - This is a Spanish form. I wonder if there&#39;s something that we lose in translation. Do Spanish words just &quot;fit&quot; better?

I was wondering that, too, Tricia. It&#39;s possible that all the latinate words in Spanish, which tend to be more multi-syllabled (lots and lots of three syllables)than the blunt Anglo-Saxon words of English, lend themselves to this form. I&#39;d love to see some in Spanish! Maybe I&#39;ll try to write one?

I took some unexpected time away from writing and am slowing crawling back to it. This was harder than I thought it would be.<br /><br /><br /><br />in silence<br />words impatiently<br />wait for me<br />beg me for<br />stories only I can write<br />soon, I promise, soon

Hi Tricia ~ found this form a real stretch this week.<br /><br />JUMBLED INNARDS<br /><br />Interview<br />twists up my belly <br />jumbles my<br />innards and<br />hurls me into a cyclone<br />of boisterous dread. <br /><br />© Carol Weis

Left Behind: 2009<br /><br />Thirty-six pounds,<br />a lust for chocolate,<br />regrets,<br />a heavy pocketbook,<br />five pairs of size 16 pants,<br />several boxes of books<br />I will never read again<br />or use for research,<br />the word awesome, <br />anger at friends,<br />boots that are pointed<br />and not water-tight,<br />an ice cream maker<br />with missing parts,<br />a jealous

A Song for New Year&#39;s Eve<br /><br />1. Endings<br /><br />Tail of a horse, flapping<br />like a slow flag. Last page<br />of a book, its surge of words<br />vanished. His back as he walks<br />away, smaller and smaller.<br />Song&#39;s final note, hovering<br />like a dragonfly, then suddenly<br />gone. Sunset kiss at the end<br />of a movie. December 31st,<br />dry as a spent Christmas tree

Birth (Beginnings)<br />By K. Thomas Slesarik<br /><br />Aww diaper, bib, and baby bottle, <br />a newborn girl to hold and coddle. <br />Trouble comes when they start to toddle; <br />at first a little, then a lot’ll.<br /><br />c2009 by K. Thomas Slesarik<br /><br />Re-tirement (Endings)<br />By K. Thomas Slesarik<br /><br />Grandpa is re-tired. <br />It’s really kind of sad. <br />I’ve been

<b>SOMEDAY</b><br /><br />Someday, my friend, you will find yourself smack <br />dab in the middle of a bow. You&#39;ll be encircled by <br />the light. Embraced by it. Move, and you&#39;ll still be<br />centermost. You are the proverbial right person <br />in the right place at the right time--rain before you, <br />sun behind you. The angle is right. The reflection<br />is right. The

I am LOVING these poems. Thanks.<br /><br />Jane

I also am enjoying these poems as they make me want to try writing a free verse poem. Thanks<br />Ken

A New Year Begins<br /><br />Like a field of fresh fallen snow<br />a new year sparkles<br />with possibility<br /><br />unblemished, unspoiled, unbroken—<br />a magical moment<br />gone too soon.

**on the beginning of winter...**<br /><br />FIRST SNOW AT THE NEW HOUSE<br /><br />Shoveling snow at the curb, I<br />trade heaven for earth weight—<br />the high convergence<br />of stratocumulus<br />that ribs the sky like a scroll<br />is lost to digging and lifting;<br />it is only later, at my desk,<br />under an easeful lamp,<br />that I climb to reach winter’s roof.<br /><br />Three steps

(Hope the format holds! and Happy New Year, everyone! <br /><br />Julie <br />***<br /><br />A STORY FOR THE NEW YEAR <br /><br />She spent last year&#39;s ending <br />in a muddle, meaning to begin again, <br />but began mid-way unraveling, <br />began traveling to foreign places <br />but found the language – well - foreign, <br />the pacing off, the setting wrong, soon longed <br />for home&

Forgot to say wow! nice work this week! Thanks, as usual, Tricia.

Been meaning to say, I&#39;m glad you&#39;ve joined in, Steven--I really like your poems.<br /><br />And Julie, nice line about the &quot;familiar adjectives and prepositions.&quot;<br /><br />Jane, I&#39;m still trying to figure out how to leave my lust for chocolate behind!

Thank you Tricia! And Happy New Year to all the wonderful poets who gather here. <br /><br />VIRGIN EMBRACE<br /><br />A new year <br />beckons<br />with arms <br />spread <br />amply <br />inviting me <br />into<br />its virgin <br />embrace.<br /><br />© Carol Weis

Ring drum blanket<br />In memory of MCL<br /><br />Midsummer,<br />on a blanket,<br />under the canopy<br />of an alder tree<br />we marry one another.<br />You place a ring<br />of bark shaving<br />on my finger<br />and kiss me solemnly.<br />My heart drums as madly<br />as a fusion klezmer band.<br />There is no glass handy<br />for you to stomp on<br />so you crush a beer can<br />between

Rather eerie...I just happen to have a Civil War poem that uses these three words.<br /><br /><br />Letter from Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, En Route<br />By Steven Withrow<br /><br />I hear the cannons&#39; distant concussions,<br />dismount and march among my men,<br />all men of Maine on a trek to hold a hill.<br />We march with muskets high like Trojan spears,<br />Union coats more gray with

New Year<br /><br />Ring the new bell<br />and drum the table<br />with open palms,<br />with elbows,<br />and with sticks of bread and salt.<br /><br />Stomp your feet<br />and rock your chair –<br />until your mother<br />gives you that look – <br />then kick the empty air.<br /><br />A new year is too late,<br />for you, anyway.<br />but it’s yours to have<br />unfolded before you<br />like a

A Ring and a Drum<br /><br />The baby was wrapped<br />in a blanket, sausage-shaped,<br />and tucked in a basket.<br />That&#39;s usual. But we found<br />two things besides. That&#39;s not.<br />A ring—real gold,<br />with leaves etched<br />like a small treasure forest.<br />And a drum, a toy one<br />with red and blue bands.<br /><br />Do they think the children<br />here at St. Finbar&#39;s

Kate--a poem, yes. BUT the start of a novel, too.<br /><br />Jane

Jane--Ha. I once submitted a collection of fantasy-themed poems and was told by the editor that most of them should be middle grade novels.<br /><br />Merry Merry!<br /><br />--Kate

Tricia,<br /><br />Here&#39;s the poem I wrote last year when Janet Wong and I challenged people to write poems that included the words ring, drum, and blanket at Wild Rose Reader:<br /><br />The Early Sixties: A Summer Day<br />By Elaine Magliaro<br /><br />On an old army blanket,<br />a rough, khaki-colored island<br />floating on a sea of sand<br />at Devereaux Beach,<br />we sit in a circle…<

a ring of warm cat <br />replaces my lap blanket<br />--the drum of cold rain<br /><br />Happy holidays everyone!

Here&#39;s mine. It&#39;s short: <a href="http://knockingfrominside.blogspot.com/2009/12/homecoming.html" rel="nofollow">Homecoming</a>

Tricia, <br />Here&#39;s the poem I wrote last year for the ring/drum,blanket challenge.<br />Happy Holidays!<br /><br /><br /><br />ring of white-tailed deer<br />circle our crabapple tree<br />hooves drum frozen ground<br />pulling back blankets of snow<br />in search of a midnight snack

Hi Tricia -- I, too, write about war, which seems to be a common thread in a number of recent poems. <br /><br />Love last line in yours, Jane! <br /><br />FLAUNTING TOLL<br /><br />Snow<br />lays blanket<br />over graves<br />of fallen<br />soldiers, <br />as drum<br />thrums<br />cadence<br />into <br />shattered <br />hearts, <br />while<br />gunshots <br />ring, <br />piercing<br />the air,<