Poetry Stretch Results - Beat the Heat

The challenge this week was to write about ways to keep cool and beat the heat. Here are the results.

Mad Kane shared an AC-related limerick she wrote last year entitled Hot Limerick.


Steven Withrow shared a poem he and his five-year-old daughter wrote based on one of her drawings.

ELEPHANT’S OASIS
By Steven and Marin Withrow

One morning on his way to school
The elephant stopped for a shower.
He dipped his trunk into a pool
And siphoned up with sucking power
Liquid through the tubelike tool

His nose became that scorching hour
Sun shone slant—a cruel jewel—
Then held aloft his water tower
And drenched his bulk in drops of cool
Refreshment, like a nourished flower.

©2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved

Diane Mayr of Random Noodling shared this poem.

a tanka

wrists thrust under
a cold running faucet
sweat drips
into eyes always looking
forward to the next season

Recipe for Cool
by Jane Yolen

Here's a recipe for cool.
1. Dip body into pool

Haven't got a pool, you say?
Move to Scotland, no delay.

2. Ice cream can be a treat

Lactose you are loathe to eat?
Scotland then, don't miss a beat.

3. Air conditioner on the fritz?
Bits of water now it spits?

Come to Scotland, no delay.
We had summer yesterday.


Ice Cream Cone
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Chocolate,
vanilla,
chocolate chip,
run through the sun
with a drip, drip, drip!

Strawberry,
bubble gum,
peppermint stick,
run through the sun
with a lick, lick, lick!

Neapolitan,
butterscotch,
caramel gold,
run through the sun
with a mouthful of cold!

--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved


How to Beat the Heat?
by Julie Larios of The Drift Record

Tube it -
tied together
floating down the river.

Cube it -
lemonade
with ice and shivers.

Popsicle it -
guaranteed
to keep you cool.

Cannonball it -
off the high board
at the City Pool.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - The Sun

The challenge this week was to write a sun poem. Here are the results.

Beachcomber
by Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Sitting in the sand,
sifting through her pail
of wonders from the waves,
she whispers to a shell
a secret that the sea-sound
sings back to her.
Her rescued rocks
are round enough for skipping,
and her bits of beach glass,
blues and greens,
shade the shoreline
a shimmering rainbow.
The crown of her cache
is a crab’s claw, freshly
dug from a dune
with a double-headed shovel,
like a buried bone,
a bird’s fossil,
Neptune’s ghost-glove,
or a knight’s gauntlet.
Her tiny bucket
is a treasure box
of human jetsam, too:
a hard-plastic juice cup
cracked at the lip,
a red crayon, the lid
off a popcorn can,
a pearl-toothed comb
a mermaid dropped
among the driftwood
for a girl to find,
a gift of friendship
and a message sent
to make certain
someone will recall
the sacred code.
The gulls, in loops,
fly low over the ground,
hunting for scraps
and screeching hungrily,
angrily, echoing
at every angle
around her head.
She hears their ruckus
only as a murmured
music from the ocean,
a lullaby,
a barnacle’s laugh
as the rising tide
tickles its ribs.
The dappled sun
will soon go down.
Her sieve is full
of falling sand.

©2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved


Mad Kane shared a limerick entitled Healthy, Or Half-Baked?. She also left this poem in the comments.

A woman was feeling undone
By years in the hot, baking sun.
Her skin was a fright.
What a rough, wrinkly sight!
And suitors? Alas, she had none.


Julie Larios of The Drift Record shared this poem.

Undone
by sun
today,
I play
and get
all giddy.
Ready,
set, go goofy
on the lawn,
running
so the sun
will see me
and be pleased
as punch -
ooooooo-
eeeeeee,
flying
like a bumble
bee, I buzz
goodbye
to my
rain funk,
today
I'm twirling
on the grass
because I'm sun-
drunk.

Julie wrote to let us know that the kind of sun in her poem hadn't hit the Pacific Northwest yet. Apparently, Jane Yolen isn't seeing much in Scotland either!

Another Grey Day

The Scottish sky is a pearl,
grey and white, full of lustre
with no sign of sun.
Yet the garden pulses green
and flowers lift their dewy faces
in hope towards the sky.
As do I.
As do I.

©2011 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Rhopalic Verse

The challenge this week was to write a rhopalic verse. This form was not for the weak-hearted. Here are the results.

TeacherDance shares a poem about trees.

Egg
by Kate Coombs of BookAunt

Egg whitely incubating
its contents: intricate machinery, imaginary
innovation.

We're waiting.

But nothing emerges.
Not chicken, rattlesnake,
owl, swallow, platypus.

It's simple:
Eggs matter
when shattered
from within
by pipping, curious, oxygenated
new earth-kin.

--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved


The Deck in Spring
by Laura Purdie Salas

Grey, weathered survivor
of winter, fossilized
bones, backyard skeleton

Your secret compartment,
last summer’s Memorial,
held July’s thunderstorms
held August’s sunflowers
held even September’s disappearing
heat

safe during December’s
white, fluffy, beautiful
snowfall,
safe during exacting January’s
cold, stinging
blizzards
safe during demanding February’s
old, bitter hollowness

safe, waiting
for April
for
me


Breakfast
by Barbara J. Turner of Not Kansas

crisp bacon sizzling
hot atop mountainous
egg islands sunnyside
up, finger sausages,
toast, apple marmalade,
juice - orange, unsweetened,
all eaten happily, irregardless
of nasty calories.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Peace

The challenge this week was to write a poem about peace. Here are the results.

Lessons Fathers Only Learn at Home
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.
Mark Twain

Mommy’s off all afternoon. Saturday
is daddy’s day. Such a noise escapes
the hurricaned house―pent-up power
of penned-up toddler―our neighbors
suspect bears or bands of bandoleros
of shuddering drizzled windows
and putting squirrels off their ease.

Trees blown down, block towers
tumble to brobdingnagian boredom,
and twenty-piece puzzles pull apart
like planetoids around a weak sun.
Drawing won’t do, her crayons too
thin (too old) too fat (too new)
for crinkled construction paper.

I conscript sock puppets into service,
buy ten minutes, before breaking out
Rockin’ Baby Boombox Blaster
for a quick karaoke-dance-party
that fizzles after our fifth encore
of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”
(How I wish for Mommy’s car).

After bribing her with ice cream
to sip her juice cup at the table,
I sweep up off the sticky floor
the wreckage from the storm:
chaos of animal cracker crumbs,
rubble from a buttered bagel,
an anarchy of alphabet magnets.

I look over at my burbling girl,
once the white and flattened face
of the moon in a sonogram photo,
the now-calm eye at the center
of this maelstrom’s crushing path,
this aftermath, and I start to laugh
at all my wild and cataclysmic joys.

©2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved


Peace
by Carolyn Arcabascio

If I could hear it
It would be leaves
Thin and green and breezy

If I could taste it
It would be flavored
Round and orange and warm

If I could smell it
It would remind
Of fabrics, stitched with home

If I could touch it
It would rest small
And smoothly in my hand

If I could see it
It would be wide
And shapeless as tomorrow

(c) 2011, Carolyn Arcabascio. All rights reserved.


The First Day
By Kate Coombs of BookAunt

The first day of summer,
before Mom thinks of chores.
My mind an empty blue pool
I might dive into
this afternoon when it gets hot,
but for now I slouch
on the back porch, snap
the top of my grape soda,
banish a curious bee
and turn the page
to read myself deep
into somebody's summer.

--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved


BREATHE PEACE
by Carol Weis

Breathe in
Breathe out.
Just follow
the flow of
breath and repeat.
Breathe in
Breathe out.
Let the mind meander
through rooms filled
with mayhem.
Don't start clearing
just notice and
keep breathing
in and out
until the upheaval
in your
head
slips
away.

© Carol Weis, 2011, all rights reserved

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Going Buggy!

The challenge this week was to wrote a bug-inspired poem. Here are the results.

Tall Moth Tale
by Heidi Mordhorst of my juicy little universe

Come quick--
I found something,
beating its wings
so violently
against the window"
I could hear it
on the stairs!

I think I know
what it is--
a Giant Moon Moth
the size of my thumb.
It's completely white and
camouflages against the moon;

Come; we'd better
let it out, before
the violent beating
of its wings
shatters the window--


J. Patrick Lewis stopped by to share a poem! Huzzah!

Butterfly and Moth
by J. Patrick Lewis

Butterflies wear designer suits.
Moths get theirs at K-Mart.
Butterflies are rainbow beauts.
Moths all wear the same art.

Butterflies migrate nonstop.
Moths are not so daring.
Butterflies sip flower pop.
Moths eat what you’re wearing.


BETWEEN SEASONS
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Twin lady beetles
Climbing the winter window—
Come back, warm red June!


dragonfly days
by Carolyn Arcabascio

while ants have leaves for draggin' I
just zig on breezes zaggin' by
and while I don't like braggin' why
it's great to be a dragonfly

© Carolyn Arcabascio, 2011. All rights reserved.


AFTER FLYING AWAY
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

Mother, do not let your
grief overwhelm you.

Let not your guilt
cripple you. You did

your best. You picked
the hops for its juicy

aphids. You gave your
children a good start.

That's all a coccinellid
can do. For the farmer

the decision was easy--
let the children burn.

Save the beer!

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved


Little Brother Lament
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

My brother really bugs me—
he pokes me with his wings.
He tickles me with all six legs,
and when I sleep, he sings.

He's got a whiny, buzzy voice.
He gives me sticky hugs.
I fly away, he follows me.
My brother really bugs.

--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved


THE FLY
by Carol Weis

Oh me, oh my, I see a fly,
Buzz 'round my window pane,
Why it's been there, a year, I swear,
It's driving me insane.

© Carol Weis, all rights reserved


Elaine of Wild Rose Reader has written a post highlighting many of the insect poems she has written.

Mad Kane shares an insect related acrostic limerick.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Lost and Found

The challenge this week was to write about things lost and found. Here are the result.

Lost and Found
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

The day loses color
as the sun slides away.
Gold turns to blue
and blue turns to gray.
Gray turns to charcoal
and charcoal to black.
I'll live without color
till dawn brings it back.

--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved


Lost and Found
by Jane Yolen

I have lost love,
am trying to find it again.
Not like a black ribbed sock,
lost in the washer,
or a puppy unleashed
who has run away,
or a noun once firmly in my head
and now somewhere in the ether
of an aging mind.

My love was lost to the crab,
to a succession of treatments
that prolonged but did not sustain life.
And now I am looking,
like a bad country song,
in all the wrong places—
on the Internet, at conferences,
during dinner parties,
at gray-haired men on Scottish streets,
in the assembly line of old hands
wanting one more chance at the gold ring,

©Jane Yolen 2011, All rights reserved


Lonely
by Amy LV of The Poem Farm

It’s lonely here in lost and found,
one mitten whispered to one glove.
I hope someone will help me find
the child I will forever love.
I miss throwing piles of snowballs
with that hand I used to hold.
I wonder if he has warm pockets.
I hope he does.
It’s getting cold.

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater


The Changeling
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

Okay, so the baby wasn't perfect,
blemished we often wrapped her
in a blanket of myth. But her
constitution was so sweet.
Admirable. She was loved.

The fairies came under cover
of flag and cross. We became
distracted by trinkets. Our thoughts
shut out by constant noise.
We lost sight of our precious baby.

And the fairies had their way.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved


LOST AND FOUND
by Carol Weis

That single
staggering word
the one you’ve
lifted rugs to find
swirled lusciously
inside your head
while you dawdled
around your day
lost with one
innocent twirl
of spaghetti
sauced spoon
when fixing
dinner last night
only to reappear
split-secondly
as you sank
deep into
paralyzing
sleep.

© Carol Weis, all rights reserved


Susan Taylor Brown of Susan Writes left this poem.

found
on Christmas eve
1 turkey, stuffed
1 bowl of potatoes, mashed with butter
helpings of sweet corn, slices of bread
pumpkin pie, 2 pieces
numerous glasses of wine and champagne

found
on Christmas morning
a stocking full of
fudge, peppermint sticks
a breakfast of bacon, eggs,
biscuits drizzled with butter and honey
more champagne

lost
1 waistline
and most of my willpower

© Susan Taylor Brown, all rights reserved


UPON LOSING ANOTHER EARRING
by Julie Larios of The Drift Record

It’s a long story with lots of losing –
one earring, two earrings, ten, then my hearing,
then the fine hair of my right ear’s interior,
then my balance and my bearing.
Believe me, what’s happening
is the opposite of win-win but why
start whining about the small things?
Soon the lobes will go, and the cartilage after,
as well as what’s larger, what’s between one ear
and the other, then the neck and everything below,
shoulders to toes, breasts, elbows, knees,
God knows there are no safe zones, all of it
will go missing soon enough, just toughen up,
buy another pair and get on with it.


Missing Person
by Toby Speed

I looked for you in the letter you sent.
I looked for you in your chair.
I looked for you in the steam of the soup.
I drew a picture of you, and I looked there, too.
I looked for you in the veins of the leaves.
I made up a song about you, and the song evaporated.
When I looked in my pockets, I found my hands.
When I looked in my hands, I found my face.
I looked for you in half a moon, but you were in the half I couldn't see.
I dreamed you were standing on a hill far away, and the hills kept moving.
I looked for you everywhere,
and I couldn't find you anywhere.

Then I heard your voice on the telephone.
You said some words, and I heard the inside of your voice and not the words.
I looked in the mirror, and I saw you.
I looked in a pile of leaves, and I saw you.
I listened to a chord on the guitar, and I heard you.
I smelled the scent of pine needles, and I smelled you.
I bit into an apple, and I tasted you.
When I looked at the clock, it told me you were coming closer.
I drew your picture in my palm.
I kept that picture in my glove.
I looked for you anywhere,
and I found you everywhere.

My son got a ship in a bottle kit for Christmas. The informational book that came with it was all about tall ships. The USCG vessel Eagle graced the cover. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind since. So, here's my contribution for the week.

Memories of the Eagle

Found
Courage while climbing the main
deep love for the sea
an iron stomach
respect for Mother Nature and her fickle ways
the ability to do almost anything

Lost
Ever so briefly, a fear of heights
clipped on and hanging
more than 100 feet above the deck

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Just Questions

The challenge this week was to write a poem that used only questions. Here are the results.

Officer Morrison's Vampire Poem
by Kate Coombs of BookAunt

Did you come at dusk, flying in bat's body?
Or did you smile your way in the door,
made welcome by the woman whose shining hair
is now stained with rust? Did you speak
charmingly to the party guests, telling tales
of old Romania, perhaps New Amsterdam?
Or did you cut to the chase, going straight
for the jugular, sucking the life from the life
of the party? And what happened
to the others? (All these spilled drinks,
broken glasses and splashes of wine everywhere.)
Are their bodies waiting to fall heavily
out of coat closets? Or did they simply run
and run till they were safe at home
and could pretend they were never here?
That they didn't leave their hostess
to deal with you, to take your hand
and welcome you into her breath,
to the bright red party of her death?

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved

Wilbur Asks Charlotte Ten Questions
by Jane Yolen

1. Is interspecies communication
actually possible—or necessary?

2. Is the barn our world
or is the world larger than the barn and yard?

3. Do you really spin silk out of your body
or are you slowly unraveling through time?

4. How did you learn enough human language
to mount a publicity campaign?

5. What’s with the rat anyway?

6. Can food eat food?

7. Is E. B. white? Gray? Pink? Alternatively pigmented?

8. Was he truly a Dear Genius?

9. Did you have to die? Couldn’t you have just rested up for awhile?

10. Where was Pa going with that axe?

©2010 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech shares a poem entitled Giant Pacific Octopus.

LUNULA
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

Who picked this musical name
for the part of the fingernail
that is, in most cases, completely hidden?

How many more extravagant vocables
do we miss by not paying attention
to what is at our fingertips?

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved

Are You Afraid?
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

Are you afraid of growing up?
Are you afraid of dying?
Are you afraid to tell the truth?
Are you afraid of lying?
Are you afraid of squeaky mice?
Are you afraid of inky nights?
Are you afraid to give a speech?
Are you afraid of climbing heights?
Are you afraid of dental tools?
Are you afraid of haunted places?
Are you afraid of getting shots?
Are you afraid of tiny spaces?
Are you afraid of circus clowns?
Are you afraid of scaly snakes?
Are you afraid of lightning strikes?
Are you afraid to make mistakes?
Are you afraid to be afraid?
Why do you let your fears invade?

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Julie Larios of The Drift Record shares a poem entitled Jump Rope Rhyme.

Finale?
by Liz

Where does all the music go after it is played?
So present in the moment to forever fade away.
Remembered sounds and feelings held within -
Could this be gone?
Once touched, heard, met, encountered
What becomes of life’s love song?

So, it's been a long time since I've written anything. Here's my contribution.

Ramblings While Revising

Since when is judgment spelled with an e?
Why does realize look so much better with a z?
Why do alphabet books lamely eXplain away the letter x?
Why does an historian sound so strange?
Why are data plural?
I know Latin, so why do I question?
How do letters and words come together in the form of a poem?
Why must they be beaten into submission?
Why can't they play nice and come along quietly?
Why is writing so damn hard?

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Birthdays and Beginnings

The challenge this week was to write about new beginnings or birthdays or both. Here are the results.

Stu Pidasso of Mudville Musings shares a poem entitled Old Dog and New Tricks.


Everything Is Beginning
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Everything is beginning:
this breath, this doubt,
this cell phone ringing,
this smile, this curse,
this better, this worse,
the glitter of sunlight
on a splash of water,
the soft living weight
of my baby daughter.
Everything is new
in this world, every bit,
every sound, cell, byte,
every worry, glory, fight.
The skitter of a bug,
my walk across the rug.
The rug's very oldness
makes it a surprise,
not the same it was once
in the weaver's eyes.
These words are new
and your thoughts,
that one, just now—
it was new. So are you.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved

One Whole Year
by Amy LV of The Poem Farm

Look at me!
I'm different.
See?
I'm not the age
I used to be.

Last night
that number
disappeared.
I'm older now.
One whole year.

Today's my
birthday.
Look at me!
Can you see
a change?

I still feel
the same.
Growing up
is strange.

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater


Stephanie Parsley of Sparble shares this letter poem.

Dear Dallas,

Nearly a decade has passed since I fled
your potholed streets and stony store clerks.
I'd buried a daughter and a marriage here,
and I didn't look back.

A new town welcomed me, all warm-red brick
and tall live oaks thick with dove.
There, church bells rang out hymns
four times a day. My daughter played
with neighbor kids until dusk.
Random old people struck up
conversations in the grocery line.
It was impossible to be lonely.
I married and began to laugh again,
grew stronger, stood taller, felt safer.

But now, against my will and
because of it, and to do what is right
(because that's what I do),
I've come back to you, Dallas.
Temporarily, I remind myself,
temporarily.

My first week here, I wore my shell
and invisible weapons,
icy stare and shoulder chip
weighing me down.
Yet you are somehow softer than I remember:
Gentlemen hold open doors,
receptionists call me by name,
you are filled with people who are just plain
people.

Sure, I expect the bottom to fall out of my car soon
because of your bumpy, neglected streets,
and that blonde woman in the Mercedes
cut me off in the carpool line this morning,
almost side-swiping a teacher-on-foot in the process.
But the teacher smiled and mouthed, "Thank you,"
when I stopped to let her cross in front of me,
and the AT&T guy was nice enough yesterday.
Of course, he'll bill me for that.

-- Stephanie Parsley, 2010

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Back to School

The challenge last week was to write about going back to school. Here are the results.

Shoes
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Left flip-flop cracked,
with tar on the back.
Right flip-flop sandy,
smeared with cotton candy.

Left school shoe shines,
ready to stand in line.
Right school shoe grins,
set to walk in.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


Ready
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

I'm ready to be a grade older.
I'm ready to ride the bus.
I'm ready to meet my teacher.
(I hope she's ready for us.)
I'm ready to use these pencils.
I'm ready to make new friends.
I'm a little bit sad
but I'm ready.
Summer always ends.

© Amy LV


COOL! SCHOOL!
by Carol Weis

A B C
Hey look at me,

Sneakers all tied,
Smile’s this wide.

How can that be?
Will anyone see?

That I’m just some fool
Who thinks school is real cool!
Carol Weis © 2010


WISE UP
by Judy Beck

My teacher at school doesn’t like me.
She hasn’t a reason I’m sure.
My personality is delightful.
My manner is simply demure.

In the class I do everything perfect.
In math I am really a star.
When it comes to language and writing,
I’m better than the others by far.

But my teacher at school doesn't like me,
And for what reason I haven't a clue.
You should see how I truly help her.
You should see all that I do.

If she struggles when she is teaching,
She knows that I’ll kindly step in.
And of course I’m there to remind her,
If she ever does it again.

I’m also helpful at recess.
I tell her what others do wrong—
If they are breaking the rules, or fighting,
Or simply not getting along.

But my teacher at school doesn’t like me,
And she hasn’t a reason I’m sure.
Since I’m not the one with a problem,
It’s obvious that it must be her.

Judy Beck - all rights reserved

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Macaronic Verse

Well, it appears that last week's challenge put me in a bit of hot water. Sheesh! I didn't think it was THAT hard. Here are the results for macaronic verse, or poems that include bits and pieces of another language.

Subject is Matter
by Jane Yolen

Subject is matter,
And matter is verse.
The one can be versatile,
Or something worse.
Verser and verser,
Berserker we go
Into the mental
And magical flow.

Floe is the answer,
A berg of real choice,
When verse is much better
Than verbiage or noise.
And so burgermeister
Come sell me some rhymes
That I can take with me
In virtual times.

©2010 by Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


GRATIAS
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Mother of merci
beaucoup
and grazie mille
and muchas gracias.

Estranged relation
of vielen dank
and mange takk,
among many others.

You grace—you gratify
my philologist’s heart
with your Latinate
morphology.

Gratias,
Gratias,
Gratias tibi ago,
Thank you so.


No
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

I cannot make a telephone calle
or cut the abundant grasa.
I will not shoot the revolver
or lift the heavy masa.
I won't congratulate the champú
or buy a movie pasa.
Nor will I pet the cat's furia
or polish up the brasa.
Don't ask me to drink a cola
or shelve books in a casa.
And no matter how fast I can run,
I'm not going to win the raza.

—Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved

NOTES:
calle = street
grasa = grease
revolver = to turn
masa = dough
champú = shampoo
pasa = he/she passes
furia = fury
brasa = live coal
cola = tail (of an animal)
casa = house
raza = race, lineage
("No" is the same in Spanish and English.)


Econd-say Anguage-lay
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

Igs-pay are riendly-fay.
Igs-pay are mart-say.
If you ike-lay igs-pay
Ou'll-yay do our-yay art-pay
to isten-lay ell-way
to peak-say in wine-say.
Irst-fay etter-lay ast-lay
Add ay
You'll e-bay ine-fay.

(If is-thay is oo-tay
ard-hay or-fay ou-yay,
emember-ray...
igs-pay peak-say
Glish-enay oo-tay.)

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater


Song in Macaroni
by Barbara Turner

Just south of Rigatoni
is the city of Bologna
and for a pocket full of pennes
you can get into the fair.

Where Ms. Elizabeth Rotini
Signs her book on Ditalini
Who painted Acini de Pepe
with the long spaghetti hair.

--Barbara J. Turner


Not Lost In Translation
By Liz Korba of Correspondence.org

English can bee sew confusing.
(How can “says” be said that way?!)
I am walking. I am running. I am sading… (No? Can’t say?!)
I walk slowly. I run quickly. I work hardly… (Not that way?!)
Every rule we know gets broken. My pants ARE?! Shirt IS! (Ok…)
You my teacher good and friendly. Gracias for help and tries.
Here’s a card – “In Sympathy” – What?! It’s for when someone dies?!
Read my note, then you will see…
“Thanks for all you did to me.”

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Some Like It Hot

The challenge this week was to write about something hot. Here are the results.

Kate Coombs of Book Aunt shared this untitled poem.

Today has a fever,
but the ocean puts cool fingers
across its hot forehead
and says, "Shhhh.
Soon it will be night."

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved

VANISHING ACT
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Nine years old, bored with summer,
sick of sunburn, watermelon,
almost wishing for September,
I follow my patient father
through hanging vines,
chain-linked swings
of our equatorial jungle gym,
where earth turns daily
and vegetables grow.
I plunk myself down
between red radish rows,
leaves like ping-pong paddles,
while Father thrusts
a spade into soft soil.

At garden’s margin
a fat, black rabbit
tips slack ears
like a conjurer’s top hat
at miracle finale
of a mirror-shadow show.
(Father doesn’t look up;
this trick’s for me.)
Long-eared illusionist,
with rabbit sleight-of-foot,
nabs one red radish,
into tall grass disappears,
without presto, bravo,
or wherever-did-he-go.

Pepper
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

It was such a cute pepper
the size of my thumb.
I bit off the tip
and I felt pretty dumb
for though it was little
that pepper was strong.
I thought it was sweet.
It was hot.
I was wrong.

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Diane Mayr of Random Noodling shared this untitled poem.

afternoon heat...
gray cat flops on her side
to stretch long
against the cool wood floor
still and silent as a shadow

Air-Condition
by Liz Korba of Correspondence.org

It's hot.
I'm not.

Jone of Deo Writer shares a poem about the heat.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - By the Numbers

The challenge this week was to write some mathematically inclined poetry. Here are the results.

CAT'S TWELVE TAILS
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

One she wore on Sunday mornings
strolling with a friend.
Two she took on pleasant outings
by the river bend.
Three she kept for secret errands
prowling in the dark.
Four she hid beneath a bush
beside the city park.
Five she dressed in scarlet ribbons
meant to catch the eye
Of chickadee or meadow mouse
or bashful butterfly.
Six she bought on market day
and paid a level price.
Seven tagged along behind
against her own advice.
Eight she gambled and she lost
in midnight games of chance.
Nine she broke while practicing
a whirling-dervish dance.
Ten she groomed to gleaming black
until her tongue turned red.
Eleven she abandoned
for a buttered crust of bread.
Twelve she had inherited
at birth with regal pride.
She curled it close upon her breast
and wore it when she died.

© 2010 Steven Withrow. All rights reserved


Four Leaf Clover
by Amy LV of The Poem Farm

We hunted on our knees in clover
running our fingers through grass
trying to find four leaves
in a green sea of threes.
My little sister turned her back
took two clovers
ripped one leaf from each
twisted both stems together
and called, “Look I found one!”
I used to do that
so I almost told her it wasn’t real
not a real lucky clover.
But then
I remembered how Grandpa says
"You make your own luck."
I gave my little sister a thumbs up
and she smiled.

© Amy LV


Proper Fractions
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Whole numbers endlessly march up the line,
their long journey never is done.
But fractions stay home to slice up the space
that lies between 0 and 1.

The whole numbers always add units:
plus one and plus one and plus one.
The fractions divide it, then use only part,
for some reason, they think that's fun.

A fraction may cut up the unit
like a pizza into six, eight, or four.
Still, the work's microscopic: a fraction can cut
that one into a billion or more.

The fractions look sadly restricted,
as they slice and re-slice the same space.
Yet they can divide it in infinite ways,
though the fractions seem stuck in one place.

Oh, the whole numbers grab our attention
with their soldierly march up the line.
But there in the space between 0 and 1
the fraction world plays with design.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


UNDER THE APPLE TREE
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

One little bee seeing an apple under a tree,
flew back to the hive as quickly as could be.

Two curious bees seeing the first bee's dance,
flew away from the hive at the very first chance.

They scouted around, then flew back home,
alerting three more at the honeycomb.

Four hungry bees who just couldn't wait,
flew off to the apple tree and ate and ate.

They ate and ate and ate some more,
and the last five bees got nothing but the core.

Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.


MATH JUNGLE
by Violet Nesdoly

The number pathways
in my brain
are grown over
with words

Mental machete’s
what I need
to clear the nouns
and verbs

And make again
a traffic trail
for all those
integers

© 2010 by Violet Nesdoly (all rights reserved)


Number Facts
By Liz Korba of Correspondence.org

IMAGINARY numbers!
Do they vanish in thin air?
My teacher says in sixth grade math -
“Just know that they are there.”

I did a little Google search -
According to one text
REAL numbers and IMAGINED ones
Create what’s called COMPLEX.

IRRATIONALS struck me this way
Since they’re so very long,
But they’re still REAL though they won’t stop
(I’m shocked that I was wrong.)

The NATURALS I understand -
To order and to count.
And NEGATIVES make sense to me –
Alas, my bank account!

The INTEGERS are NEGATIVES
And NATURALS with “OH”
A most important number
They discovered long ago.

Its other name is ZERO
Somehow EVEN – with no leaning
POSITIVE or NEGATIVE,
Divide with – there’s “no meaning.”

Which leads me to the “number”
That I read about today
It’s NaN – that’s “NOT A NUMBER”
And it’s quiet – so they say.

Ten digits should be simple
(Though INFINITY’s a lot.)
I fear I don’t KNOW numbers
Be that RATIONAL or not.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Colorful Poems

The challenge this week was to write a poem that is about or relies on color(s). Here are the results.

Sea Is Sound; Air Is a Door Ajar
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

Sea is sound; air is a door ajar.
Sound is glass; door is the color of plums.
Glass is brine, stippled with plum-warm rain.
Brine is black; sea is glass-colored sound.
Air is a jar of warm plums.
Sound of rain is a door:
Sea stippled, brine black, jar glass.

©2010 by Steven Withrow. All rights reserved.


Puce
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

You never hear red, yellow, and puce
when kindergarteners talk crayons.

Never lavender and puce when girls
and their mothers plan bridal showers.

Puce isn't painted into sunsets
in poems, or the shadows of flower petals.

It's never puce for a hero's t-shirt
or a heroine's dress, except

in historical fiction, and even then
puce is reserved for unpleasant

teapot-wielding ladies named Gertrude.
Poor puce, which sounds like "puke"

and is uncertain—dark red or a sort
of grayish purple, depending.

To finish off the indignity,
its Latin root means "flea."

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


Lee Wind of I'm Here. I'm Queer. What the hell do I read? left this poem in the comments.

Blue is a song
It makes me look in
A spring feeds the river
I go for a swim
Each stroke gets me nearer
To the story-filled sea
Blue is a song
And a feeling set free.


Brown
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

Brown is a color that feels like a friend.
It's that sweater you wear every day.
Brown is cool earth in a garden you tend
on the very last weekend in May.
Brown is a quiet old cat in your lap
purring secrets into your soul.
Brown is firewood.
A nest full of eggs.
Warm oatmeal in a bowl.
If you ask my favorite color
I think of cornstalks and tea.
Let others have neon and rainbow.
Brown is the color for me.

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater


Color Smells
By Liz Korba of Correspondence.org

The colors in a crayon box
Smell all the same, it’s true
But that’s the scent of crayons,
Not of red or green or blue.
Bright yellow smells like lemonade
Lime green like new mowed grass
Red is the rose perfume of spring
Black’s hot-tarred road - or gas.
Dark purple – that’s grape jelly
Pure white – new fallen snow
Brown is a blend of dirt and leaves
That fell some time ago.
Blue is the air beneath the sky,
Blue changes with each season
But orange has an orange smell -
For some peculiar reason…


SPRING LEAVES
by Carol Weis

Encircle me in lushness
wrap your branches
tightly about me
as I breath in your
verdant bouquet.
Envelope me in
your innocence,
the chartreuse of
your tender glow,
oh soft and delicate
leaves of spring
just one last time
before you go.

© Carol Weis, all rights reserved


Silhouettes
by Violet Nesdoly

Black cormorants claim the poles
silhouettes against the sky
knobs, columns or a spread
of wings hanging to dry.

© Violet Nesdoly (all rights reserved)


GRAY
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

Two months before he and Mrs. Lincoln
went to Ford's Theater, the president

had a portrait taken at Mr. Gardner's
Gallery. The photographer caught

the shadow of Mr. Lincoln. He was
by then, merely a body without its soul.

Little did John Wilkes Booth know,
his bullet would only be the coups de grace.

Note: this was based on one of the saddest photos I have ever seen. It is the quintessence of gray for me. It was taken by Alexander Gardner, who, ironically, later "shot" the co-conspirators in Lincoln's assassination.


maize
Doraine Bennett of Dori Reads

golden tassels bend
beneath yellow cornsilk sun
a buttercream breeze


sister AE of Having Writ shares a poem entitled Dressing in Black.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Homework

The challenge this week was to write about homework. Here are the results.

Homework
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

My teacher assigned me to write a report
on the habits of honeybees.

I wish she had asked about habits of kids—
I know a lot more about these.

For example, "Please tell where the animal lives."
I know just where kids can be found.

They spend time in classrooms, or on monkey bars,
dangling their heads upside down.

What do they eat? Hamburgers with catsup,
or pizza, taquitos, and chips.

Plus ten kinds of candy and slurpies and slushees
that give them strange colors of lips.

We have to report on communication,
and kids do a whole lot of that.

"No, you can't make me go to the dentist!"
Plus meowing right back at the cat.

Behavior: kids play on computers and text
or spend time interacting with balls.

They can also be seen with markers of green
writing words on the living room walls.

Too many people write about bees
and their boring behavior in the wild.

But I would be happy to write a report
on the habits of the human child.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm shares a poem entitled Homework Spot.


NO HOMEWORK
By Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech

No ravenous dog.
No Martian invasion.
No thirty-mile slog
To a family occasion.
No sudden swine flu.
No CIA visit.
I’d homework to do.
You wonder, “Where is it?”
No grandmother died.
No nibbled by mouses.
No night trapped inside
The most haunted of houses.
No transformer crashed
Blacking out my whole block.
No asteroid smashed
Shelling me such a shock
That the part of my head
Where I store my assignments
Was tattered to shreds
And knocked out of alignment.
No bully’s reprisal.
No baby bro’s vomit.
No search of the skies
For a hundred-year comet.
No freak springtime snow.
No lottery winnings.
No open bus window.
No game past nine innings.
You say, “Give it here.
No lies. No excuses.”
Is this the cold fear
That NO HOMEWORK induces?


Home Work
by Heidi Mordhorst of My Juicy Little Universe

Reading Log: Friday 6:35 am
The Great Brain, Chapter One
Read "The Magic Water Closet"
out loud in the bathroom
while first-grader
with mercenary tendencies soaks
filthy fingernails in the tub.

Upper Elementary Media Studies: Saturday 8:30 pm
In 90 minutes, conceive, cast, script, make up and costume four amateur actors for a short film entitled "Small Talk: the YouTube talk show about everything too insignificant to matter!" Extra credit for including a theme song to the tune of "Heart and Soul."

Advanced Logistics: Saturday, 10 am
If travel time from home to
Camp Open House Destination A
is 30 minutes and travel time from there to
Camp Open House Destination B
is an additional 20 minutes,
and if Soccer Game A begins at 1:30
and Soccer Game B begins at 12:50,
1)how many cars are needed,
2)which Camp Open House Destination should be visited first, and
3)at what time should each Parent-Child pair depart for soccer?

Math Basic Facts: Sunday 12:20 pm
Mother's Day Smoked Salmon Spread
12 ounces smoked salmon =
16 ounces cream cheese.
Our smoked salmon says "NET WT 4 OZ".
How much cream cheese should we use,
which of the half-dozen plants
in the herb garden is the dill,
and where does the Wizard of Oz
come in?


Homework: Become a Snake
by Laura Purdie Salas

My editor said,
“Write a poem
about this picture”

Slithery snake
wearing a sly smile…
two tiny pink mouse feet
and one whip-slip tail
disappearing down
the snake’s throat

Couldn’t I just conjugate
“to swallow” in Latin?

Or write a 500-word report
on the habits and habitats of corn snakes?

Or diagram snake anatomy,
including spine and stomach, heart and fang?

But I am a writer, a poet, a magician.

I must be the snake,
undulate my muscles across fields,
soak August sun into my scales,
and feel the crunch of fragile mouse inside my mouth

and like it

--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved


NOT AGAIN
©By Mary Nida Smith of Life's Beautiful Path

Ah, Mom
Homework
Not again tonight.
I know,
You told me before
If I do all my homework
I’ll be smarter tomorrow.

Ah, Mom
I am already smart.
I don’t have time,
There is much
To do outside
Like exploring
And learning
About nature.

Ah, Mom
Can’t I have any fun?
Yes, Mom, I’ll hurry
I’ll do my homework
So, I’ll be smarter
Tomorrow.

Ah, Mom
When I grow up
I’ll never do homework.
I’ll play and explore
While I tell
My kids that story,
Do your homework
You’ll be smarter tomorrow.

Ah, Mom
Not again!


A tanka
by Diane Mayr of Random Noodling

his pencil breaks...
he slips out of his seat
to hug the dog
and to be reassured that
he's still a good boy


Coming Soon (I Hope)
By Liz Korba of Correspondence.org

Someway, somewhere, someday
I know
They’ll make a homework pen.
Someway, somewhere, someday
For sure -
(Can hardly wait ‘til then.)
And YES
I will be buying one
Somehow, right there, that day.
This pen will do my homework –
Oh, at last, free time to play!

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the results.

Poetry Stretch Results - Eggs

The challenge this week was to write a poem about eggs. Here are the results.

From NESTING DOVES
A manuscript in progress by Steven Withrow

MIRACLE EMERGES

While Father is away
Foraging it happens

While Mother is asleep
Dreaming of her new nest

Miracle emerges
In the shape of a stone

White as any feather
And rounder than a bone


AFTER RAIN WE MAKE REPAIRS

Patch of dirt, dollop of mud
A stitch of pitch-black gravel
A gummy glop of pine sap
Where the stick-ends unravel

Dewy grass for new-made bed
Touch of dandelion head
Patch of dirt, dollop of mud
Turns the nest to well and good


INCUBATING

We live brief lives
But sitting still
Warming our egg
Warming our egg

We live brief lives
But sharing this
Extends our time
Extends our time


DREAM OF EGG

World is round
Sky is ground
Night is white
Light is sound

Sun is full
Moon is pale
World is wet
Bird is whale


HATCHING

Shell shakes
A crack
Appears

The first
Thin break
Of beak

Displays
A face


Sun
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

The sun sits on top
of the morning like a fried egg
on a bowl of bi bim bop
with its spring greens.
What a yellow, yellow yolk
for breakfast today!

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


Tiel Aisha Ansari of Knocking From Inside shares a poem entitled Break Me My Bounds.


Envelope Keeper
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

I can't reveal its secret
even if you beg.
This little note tells
which came first
the
chicken
or
the
egg.

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater


Thoughts from Inside
by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater of The Poem Farm

I'm one day old. It's warm in here.
Sitting is my mom's career.

It takes three weeks for every batch.
Once we're big enough we hatch.

But some of us will never grow.
Who will live? It's hard to know.

I'm not sure how I should feel.
Am I a chick or just a meal?

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater
4/26/2010 7:01 PM

Elaine Magliaro of Wild Rose Reader shares a poem entitled Chick Chatter.


Humpty
by Jane Yolen

Humpty Dumpty
was not
eggs-actly
your average
kind of a guy.

A wee bit
cracked, he
sat on a wall
and watched
the world
go by.

A poet?
A dreamer?
A teller of tales?
He was.
And so
am
I.

© Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


Diane Mayr of Random Noodling shares a tanka.


Jone of Deo Writer shares a found poem.


Humpty Dumpty Wonders
by Nicole Marie Schreiber

What am I doing up here?
Sure, the view is nice,
the breeze brisk
against my smooth shell.
I can even see all the way to the
ocean from here,
white caps and all.

And yet, this wall is just so…so high.
My brains must be scrambled
to climb up this thing.
But it’s the only way I can see
into the window of the castle’s kitchen,
and catch a glimpse
of Cook’s egg basket
lying on the window ledge.

Which lovelies did she collect today?
How I love the arcs of their oval shells,
their differing shades of brown and tan,
and their shapes!
Some more bulbous than others,
yet my heart sizzles for them all.

If only I could be just a tad bit taller,
as Cook has taken the basket away…
Perhaps if I stepped upon this higher ledge
I could gain a better view…
Wait! My footing!
Noooooooo!
Splat!

Ah, to love.
Perhaps it is not all
it is cracked up to be.


Piping Plover
by Liz

Streak of timid
Flecked with brave
Amid the sand and waves…
You place your eggs
Your hope – exposed
And there is hope
Revealed

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Shoes

The challenge this week was to write a poem about shoes. Here are the results.

Steven Withrow of Crackles of Speech shares a poem entitled Heels of Hermes.

Stu Pidasso of Mudville Musings shares a poem entitled Shoe Prince.

A Shoe Spiritual
by Jane Yolen

Click my heels.
Leap my soles.
Darn my heart--
My socks have holes.
Insteps dance.
Laces sing.
And I can make
The floorboards ring.

Tongues call out
To Peter’s gate.
I will not have
Too long to wait.
Click my heels,
Tap my toes.
Where these shoes go,
Heaven knows.

©2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


Old Sneakers
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

When I opened the box
you were bright white,
gleaming like TV teeth.

Not anymore. Now
you look kind of gray,
like two old men—

your skin covered
with wrinkles and spots,
weathered leather.

Yeah, you remind me
of my grandfather's hugs,
good old sneakers.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


Tap Shoe Jive
by Nicole Marie Schreiber

Clickety clap,
Tippity tap,
Hearing myself,
Go snappity snap.
Always moving,
Always grooving.
Rhythm and rhyme,
Steppin’ in time.


Julie Larios of The Drift Record shares this untitled poem.

Bernie loves
his Birkenstocks -
not the knock offs.
Only real.
Falls for a girl
in chic stilettos -
(red kid leather,
5-inch heel.)
Bernie woos her,
shoes and all,
(B. doesn't let a
stiletto stop him.)
Starts to like
the spiky things,
tries them on...
Girl is gone.


Riding Boots
by Amy Ludwig Vanderwater of The Poem Farm

We're riding boots.
We don't wear out.
We rarely touch the ground.
In the ring
On forest trails
We mostly hang around.
Riding rhythms of each horse
Walk
Trot
Canter
Gallop
Leather stirrups hold us in.
We feel our rider on our soles.
Who knew that feet could grin?

© Amy Ludwig VanDerwater


Elaine Magliaro of Wild Rose Reader shares a poem entitled Sole Song.

Jone of Deo Writer shares a poem and a photo.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Lipogram

The challenge this week was to write a lipogram, a poem composed of words selected to avoid the use of one or more letters of the alphabet. Here are the results.

Stick Trick
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Well hidden,
she slides
between trees.
The breeze
ripples her shirt.
Her knees
are skinned.
She is thin.
The girl grins,
creeping behind
the swing.
She'll greet
her friend
with a stick,
clever and light—
insect prickle,
shiver, tickle.
Then Kell will
shriek
with frightened
delight.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved


Amy Ludwig Vanderwater of Poem Farm shares a poem entitled Which Letter to Use?.


the tryst
by steven withrow of Crackles of Speech

steven, lesley meet.
deep-freeze eve.
they tremble, speechless,
free. wedded eyes
tell secrets. even
the evergreen trees
keep shy. temps
descend by twelve
degrees. yet every
step feels fever,
swelter. yes, every
breezy zephyr swells
sky's sweet glee!


Julie Larios of The Drift Record shares a poem entitled Body Knows.


Spring
by Elisabeth M. Priest of Endless Books

Listen --
wind in trees
billowing breeze
birds singing
chimes ringing

See --
violets, periwinkles,
showers, sprinkles,
green emerging,
blooms unfurling,
spiders spinning,
life is winning

I've been working on a number of different poems, but the pesky letters I was trying to leave out kept popping up. I should have had my thesaurus handy while working on this challenge! Anyway, here's one of my poems.

MISSING D-A-D

He's gone now
too long

My home of youth
now foreign
is no longer home

I miss his
blue eyes
smile
unwilling hugs

I miss his
strength
work ethic
stoicism

I miss his
quiet love

I still journey home
however impossible it is
to return

I miss him terribly
but nothing like my mom

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Reverso

The challenge this week was to write in the form of reverso. Here are the results.

Harriet of spynotes shares a poem entitled Tafelmusik.

Heart To hear Is A small shift With a flick of the bow, Like two sine waves crossing, At once Coming together and Flying apart, A duet.

A duet Flying apart, Coming together and, At once, Like two sine waves crossing With a flick of the bow, A small shift Is To hear Heart.

Julie Larios of The Drift Record shared this poem.

It’s a neat trick, This slick reversal: Can I handle The movement, the tick to tock, the click to clack of it, the back to back - I mean, the down to up? I love the frown-to-smile of it, The way that Singer sang it. I’ll try it.

I’ll try it the way that Singer sang it: I love the frown-to-smile of it - I mean, the down to up, the back to back, the click to clack of it, the movement, the tick to tock. Can I handle this slick reversal? It’s a neat trick.

Pat (is that you Mr. Lewis?) left a poem entitled Nicholas Needham: Book Head-Case and Bookcase Head.

You can read him like a book Nicholas Needham—take a look: As he grew a book-case head For he read and read and read He would need ‘em through the years Bookmark nose and bookend ears Grew enormous bookworm eyes Nicholas Needham, child-size, Barely three feet from the floor Sprouted up and read some more Lucky, as a little weed, Nicholas Needham learned to read.

Nicholas Needham learned to read Lucky, as a little weed, Sprouted up and read some more Barely three feet from the floor Nicholas Needham, child-size, Grew enormous bookworm eyes Bookmark nose and bookend ears He would need ‘em through the years For he read and read and read As he grew a book-case head Nicholas Needham—take a look: You can read him like a book.

Nicole Marie Schreiber shares a poem entitled A Look in the Mirror.

With pen in hand, still I stand, all astonishment, as my reflection speaks. “You are a writer?” “No.” I shake my head. It all means nothing. Fingers aching. Pages blanking. Words not flying, Stories dying. Such a sham. I’m not a real writer. I am false.

False. I am a real writer. I’m not such a sham. Stories dying, words not flying, pages blanking, fingers aching… it all means nothing. I shake my head. “No! You are a writer!" speaks my reflection, as all astonishment, still l stand, with pen in hand.

Kate Coombs of BookAunt shared two poems!

If it rains the sun will bow her head like a yellow flower and blue will turn gray, night seep into day. All will be mysterious.

All will be mysterious— night seep into day and blue will turn gray. Like a yellow flower the sun will bow her head if it rains.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved

Once upon a time a boy set out on a quest. He crossed mountains. He forded rivers. He sought his fortune. He met an old man— he was given an amulet. He asked a question: He spoke to the sun. He spoke to the moon. His way was long... He grew strong.

He grew strong. His way was long. He spoke to the moon. He spoke to the sun. He asked a question— he was given an amulet. He met an old man. He sought his fortune. He forded rivers. He crossed mountains. A boy set out on a quest once upon a time.

--Kate Coombs, 2010, all rights reserved

Mary Lee of A Year of Reading took a quote and turned it into a reverso.

Jone of Deo Writer shares a library/book inspired reverso.

Carol Weis shares a poem entitled Scorching Spring.

Soaring temperatures Accelerates blossoms Scorches spring Rips off t-shirts Tosses on shorts Heat

Heat Tosses on shorts Rips off t-shirts Scorches spring Accelerates blossoms Soaring temperatures

© 2010 Carol Weis

M.F. Atkins of World of Words shares a reverso for spring.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Limericks

The challenge this week was to write a limerick. What fun everyone had! Here are the results.

Nesting, An Egret Limerick from An Egret's Day
by Jane Yolen

Our home it is here in the sticks,
With three very boisterous chicks.
They bully and fight
Until they take flight,
But it’s nothing that we cannot fix.

©2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


Andrea from Just One More Book!! took a break from chemo to offer this poem. Send some healing vibes her way and see how she's doing at We Can Rebuild Her.

a woman on chemo one day
thought the world was just crumbling away
then she felt the clouds lift
and said thanks for the gift
of my life. Now I think I will stay.


Jane Yolen shared this chain of limericks.

A writer who wrote only prose
Took a very unwelcoming pose:
“There are things that no poet
Could bloody well know, it
Takes more than addressing a Rose.”

But the poet, in turn, gave a look.
Said, “It’s more than just writing a book
Of hundreds of pages,
Of arcs, plots, and stages,
Or catching your fish with that Hook.”

The reader addressing the two,
Said, “Nothing you say or you do
Can make my heart twitter.
So stop with the bitter.
Really, you haven’t a clue!”

So which of the three has it right?
Is there poetry or prose in your sight?
Or do both have a place
In the read-writing race,
Bringing all of us readers delight?

© 2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


Kate Coombs of Book Aunt shared this poem.

A housewife once started to jog
With a ferret, three kids, and a dog.
She set a slow pace
And got red in the face,
So instead she decided to blog.

--Kate Coombs, 2010


Jane's Back! Here's what she had to say.
"OK--so limericks are addictive. In honor of Barbara Cooney AND our fair hostess here, I wrote this last one. And now I am quitting cold turkey."

Miss Rumphius loved things of blue
So decided she knew what to do.
She spent her spare hours
By planting blue flowers,
And my! How those hours just flew!

© 2010 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved


Sam wrote this limerick for the Pinkwater Podcast contest. The theme was insects...

There's a fly who parasitizes
and on one beetle it specializes.
It lays eggs in their larvae.
Maggots hatch and are starvy.
So they eat them from their insideses.


Amy Ludwig VanDerwater shared this poem.

There once was a cat with no tail
who ordered herself one by mail.
When it came she said, "Thanks.
I’m no longer a Manx.
It’s too small, but I got it on sale."


Elaine Magliaro of Wild Rose Reader shared a limerick she wrote many years ago.

Gorillas and camels and gnus
All hurried to line up by twos...
Couldn't wait to embark
Upon Noah's new ark
And relax on a forty-day cruise.


Williamean Limerick
by Liz Korba of Correspondence.org

I want to write poems – it’s true.
Amazing Word-Art – wouldn’t you?
But how is it done?
I’m having no fun.
Is this meter right? I’ve no clue.

A poem – I think shouldn’t be
So hard that one needs a degree
To understand it,
To deem it legit -
But then I watch lots of TV…

They say Shakespeare wrote in fine rhyme.
I wonder if he’d have the time
If he lived today
Could he find a way
To cook, work AND write words sublime?

OK, so a Shakespeare I’m not.
I’m just a raft. He’s a yacht.
Is that metaphor?!
Would you like some more?
It may be that I have a shot!

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

Poetry Stretch Results - Pantoum

The challenge this week was to write a pantoum. Here are the results.

Lost Scents
by Doraine Bennett of Dori Reads

The smell of butter rum
Will not take her back, though it should,
To a high-ceilinged room
On Ponce de Leon Avenue.

It should take her back. It should
Let her re-live summertime
On Ponce de Leon Avenue
When sirens were but a sound in the night,

Let her re-live the summertime
Of strawberry pie and apple peels
When sirens were but a sound in the night
And she was safe under handmade quilts.

Strawberry pie and apple peels,
Glass doorknobs, cedar trunks, jasmine vines
And she, safe under handmade quilts,
Watching lights play through Venetian blinds.

But, glass doorknobs, cedar trunks, jasmine vines
Lie tangled in a web of silk threads,
And no one watches lights play through Venetian blinds.
She stares instead at faded walls and regrets

The tangled web. Silk threads
She stitched in time unravel in her hands.
She stares. Instead of faded walls and regrets,
She dreams an old romance. Memories,

Stitched in time, unraveled in her hands,
Linger in a high-ceilinged room.
She dreams an old romance, straining to remember
The smell of butter rum.


Tiel Aisha Ansari of Knocking From Inside shares a poem entitled Caribou Shadows.


Another Spring: A Pantoume
by Jane Yolen

If I never see another spring--
the green thrusts of daffodils,
the violin curl of ferns--
I will still remember them.

The green thrusts of daffodils,
the scatter of crocuses.
I will still remember them
when I am under earth.

The scatter of crocuses,
like children in a playground,
when I am under earth
will still look the same:

like children in a playground.
The violin curl of ferns
will still look the same
(even if I never see another spring).

©2010 Jane Yolen all rights reserved


The Treasure of Old Captain Bones
A Pantoum by Nicole Marie Schreiber

Old Captain Bones, in a cave off the coast,
Sits waiting with his treasure for you.
Cursed by the hand of a siren so fair,
Beware, to all those who go seeking.

Sits waiting with his treasure for you,
For anyone who dare to try.
Beware, to all those who go seeking,
For all who have tried have died.

For anyone who dare to try,
One piece of advice I do give.
For all who have tried have died,
Choosing one jewel out of many to live.

One piece of advice I do give--
Find which of the hoard that she seeks.
Choosing one jewel out of many to live,
It’s not as easy as one might think.

Find which of the hoard that she seeks.
With a ruby or strand of pearls,
It’s not as easy as one might think,
To appease a siren of the sea.

With a ruby or strand of pearls,
You shall never soothe her jealous soul.
To appease a siren of the sea,
Remember what the siren seeks most.

You shall never soothe her jealous soul,
Cursed by the hand of a siren so fair,
Remember what the siren seeks most--
Old Captain Bones, in a cave off the coast.


Rain Again
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Rain comes graying back again,
dropping over sky like a stage curtain.
Blue fades, coolness creeps in,
and we all lift our umbrellas.

Dropping over sky like a stage curtain,
rain silvers everything in sight,
and we all lift our umbrellas,
dry hearts hopeful as houseplants.

Rain silvers everything in sight.
Our footsteps splash on sidewalks,
dry hearts hopeful as houseplants.
The sun goes back to bed, sulking.

Our footsteps splash on sidewalks.
Blue fades, coolness creeps in.
The sun goes back to bed, sulking.
Rain comes graying back again.


M.F. Atkins of World of Words shares a poem entitled A Plead for Spring.


Pants of Doom
by Heidi Mordhorst of My Juicy Little Universe

I fill the tiny dressing room
with pairs of pants for this pantoum:
pinstriped trousers, denim jeans—
they all are bursting at the seams

Pairs of pants for this pantoum
fill the stall with signs of doom:
they all are bursting at the seams—
I’ve gained a pound or two, it seems

They fill the stall, these signs of doom.
My mood is dark: I scowl and fume:
I’ve gained a pound or two, it seems—
Pants of nightmare, not of dreams

My mood is dark, I scowl and fume;
Pinstriped trousers, denim jeans:
Pants of nightmare, not of dreams—
Fill the tiny dressing room

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.