# data[].attributes.body
Background image: "Enter" by Thomas James Caldwell

# data[].attributes.body
He is a homeless guy
He habits a bench on St. Benedict Street
He always searches the city streets
He never finds what he’s looking for
He is my neighbor.

© Linda Mitchell

*Inspired by Painless Poetry Session by Jill Work 11/11/17

# data[].attributes.body
Construction gauze—
bandaids for fire-singed rooms
healing their scars

© 2017 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)

# data[].attributes.body
Words written:

hut, hovel,

shed, shack.

Others see:

boards nailed askew,

rust roofs of tin,

wild words flung at found scraps.

I see a mom and dad scrabbling a home

for their children.

Ragged doors and curtains

keep the world outside,

the love inside.

No matter how it is,

parents do it.

Linda Baie © All Rights Reserved

# data[].attributes.body
They are a pest to my dad
Lions in our yard
I think they're kind of cool
Sunshine manes
Green leafy tails
My mom says that are tasty
Though somehow despite their
Beauty when
My dad mows the grass
He hollers out they're just weeds
I gather them in a handful and
Mom puts them in a vase
These lions hold shush mystery
Changing into balls of fluff
With just one breath wishes
Fill the summer skies
I wish dad could see their beauty
These lions are more than weeds
My toes do agree as my
Bare feet run through grass these
Lions tickle my feet

poem By Jessica Bigi

# data[].attributes.body
Scribble fits, wiggle blitz

The anguish a sigh emits

Scratch outs and smudges

The pencil point’s lame

Letters sway two and fro

Nothing stands in a row

But look at his face aglow

He just wrote his name

Karen Eastlund, 2017

# data[].attributes.body
Little letters laced together,

Sound upon sound,

Word upon word,

Fastened together,

Gibberish or significant,

Void of emotion,

Yet strung in hate, they cause pain and panic,

Strung in hope, they cause happiness and healing,

Little letters can alter the world.

Copyright 2017 Sandra Bohman

# data[].attributes.body
The lost boys hunker lonely
in a bunker without windows.
Some say rats or roaches
scritch-a-scratch behind those walls.
Most have never seen them
or even bothered trying—
like weapons
in a shoebox
tucked away in darkened halls.
They scritch-a-scratch
in shadows,
like whispers or a promise,
and listen for the voices
that will get them through the night.
Damaged goods in transit
with contaminated motives,
they scritch-a-scratch
to understand
and one day find the light,
to make their moms and grandmas proud,
their daddies understand,
they scritch-a-scratch
their fingers raw
and let the anger simmer.
They scritch-a-scratch
in veins of ink
that bleed onto the paper,
until, in silence,
words ignite…
and cast a golden shimmer.

© 2017 Michelle Heidenrich Barnes

# data[].attributes.body
I am drawn
in hard black charcoal

staring out

of stone walls

yet when you see my image

your heart cries for me.

If you could
hold this star light high

a mirror

in my eyes

step into my wall, hold me
would you come so near?

Margaret Simon, 2017

# data[].attributes.body
Once it was red

now no longer

the color of ox blood

the barn stands gray and bleak

in disrepair

gaps where boards have split

the farmer would paint it

replace the boards

if he were still alive

pigeons don’t mind

roosting on rafters

cooing in the morning

mice don’t mind

sheltering in aging straw

hiding from the owl

the wind doesn’t mind

it blows through chinks

reclaims the loft

and one day

collapses the boards in a heap

of memories

strong as the smell

of fresh-baled hay

Juanita Havill ©2017

# data[].attributes.body
A dirty shade of brown

I shake it, it’s brittle.
I look closer and frown
It’s cracked down the middle.

I throw it down the path,
It lands in a puddle.
It bobs in its bath,
Then disappears with a bubble.

I go on with my life,
Many years go by.
Then it gets hit by strife,
I notice everything that goes by.

Down the lane where there was a puddle,
I once threw an acorn that was cracked down the middle.
A great Oak tree stands with leaves of green,
From cracked to beautiful, nothing between.

As I get older I wither and age,
The tree keeps growing strong.
My imminent death I gauge,
As I keep scraping along.

The tree will surely outlive me,
It had a rough start to life.
That start that makes me see,
The tree will survive.

by Angelique Pacheco

# data[].attributes.body
by Laura Purdie Salas

I was thinking about self-conscious many girls/women feel about their bald heads resulting from cancer treatment...

# data[].attributes.body
extends tumorous limbs across the road,

the mass of leaves a marvel of deep shade

despite disease—like our Walmart greeter

ticking off receipt items with a grin.

He’s forgotten the lumps under his skin,

ignores the way eyes skitter from him

to the latest sale or the cashier making change

or the house shoe-clad girl in the next aisle.

The discomfort not his. He smiles and greets,

his roots sunk deep in some whispered truth

only his ears are tuned to hear

and bestows his grace-filled shadow

without reproof.

© 2017 Doraine Bennett

# data[].attributes.body
It turns forests to gemstones of bright neon green,

the most brilliant disguise that I’ve ever seen.

Moss scatters it’s net over rocks by the stream,

catching birches and oaks in its velvety gleam.

But soft as it is, it’s a powerful tool,

with fingers of steel and a stillness that fools.

Who’d suspect a small plant to break boulders in two,

and smash them to soil? It’s equals are few.

A moss merely sits, it has nothing to say,

as it tackles this backbreaking job every day,

and like worms spinning silk, in cocoons inch by inch—

it makes the miraculous look like a cinch.

By Janice Scully

# data[].attributes.body
A silky, silty, brown expanse

A secret, hidden , muddy dance

Creatures dig and scoot and scuttle

Through the dark and murky muddle

From above - an empty space

From below- one busy place

Worms and snails and cockles roam

Through the mud they tunnel home

Shore birds stroll and poke and prod

Mud crabs scurry, bow, and nod

A bubble rises to the top

It bubbles up and soon it pops

A hidden world  it does reveal

A tasty treat- a mud flat meal

2017 Janie Lazo

# data[].attributes.body
When viewed as whole,

the forest holds

a charm, a beauty undenied.

In seasons all

its splendor proved:

balletic boughs and leaves that hide

the dirty work,

the underside.

Inspection shows the grit, the grind,

the work that goes

unnoticed and

the workers that are oft-maligned.

The hyphae spread

their tendrils: webbed

destruction, ruin reaped, stage set

for comrades raid

the remnant woods.

Detritivores: they aid, abet,

they squirm, they ooze,

they crawl, they flit.

Death-eaters singly seen disgust

but duty-bound

they persevere.

With careful study, eyes adjust.

We view the woods’

true whole, not part.

The rot, the foul: ‘tis forest breath.

Diverse the work

complex the dance;

we see how life renews in death.

Copyright 2017 Rebekah Hoeft

# data[].attributes.body
by Irene Latham

# data[].attributes.body
A buzzard circles
Ever higher in the sky.
Dark clouds prowl beyond.

2017 Kay Jernigan McGriff
http://kaymcgriff.edublogs.org/2017/11/10/poetry-friday-is-a-buzzard-beautiful/

# data[].attributes.body
Dry summer
the cockroach sips from the puddle
in the kitchen sink.

by Keri Collins Lewis

# data[].attributes.body
Robert brought his pet to school.
He said the pet was new.
But when he sauntered into class,
the kids and I screamed, "EW!"

A sewer rat!
Imagine that!

Fierce bond between the boy and rat,
swelled our hearts with beauty.
Everybody fell in love, and...
thought the rat a cutie!

Dianne Moritz

# data[].attributes.body
There's a girl in my class with the prettiest scales
and the pointiest ears
and the lumpiest nose.
Do you think we'd be friends if I had some nice fangs
or a long twisty tail
or more fuzz on my toes?
If I looked in her eyes, all her beautiful eyes,
as they bugged and they bulged,
as they crissed and they crossed,
do you think that she'd smile? Maybe wave a big claw?
Would she notice I'm here?
Would she tell me, "Get lost"?

©2017 Suzy Levinson

# data[].attributes.body
Dear darling thirty-legged centipede,

though your sight may cause consternation,

if you bite it’s slight–like a bee sting.

You scour our bathroom all through the night,

clearing cracks of other night frights:

cockroaches, termites, bedbugs and more …

Scutigera coleoptata

look at you lasso! Like a cowboy,

when prowling for your evening delights.

Darling centipede, do mind your step,

some grow weary of your waviness.

Your low profile’s key to stay awhile.

© 2017 Michelle Kogan

# data[].attributes.body
I have six striped legs

and a beetle I may be,
but I am no jewel,
nor false bombardier.
Not a golden tortoise
a horse-bean longhorn,
a globemallow leaf,
or a pleasing fungus.

I may have flirted with
a darkling, teased an
assassin, ridden
a devil’s coach horse,
but I’m not ironclad,
death-feigning, clicked,
blistered, net-winged
or any form of weevil.

If you call me an ox or
a coconut rhinoceros, then
we shall not be friends.

I dreamed I was an
Ashy Gray Lady,
but when I woke,
I was not.

When I come back,
I want to be a whirligig
and dance circles on
sunny lake water.

Or perhaps a
fiery skipper
turning circles in
the wind.

Most of all,
I want to know myself.

Copyright 2017 Brenda Davis Harsham

# data[].attributes.body
Something is eating the milkweed plants,

nibbling them naked,

stripping the garden bare.

Something is chomping this tattered leaf.

It left its mark in the shape of a C—

C for chewing

and crawling

and caterpillar

and cheering!

Hooray! The monarchs are here!

JoAnn Early Macken
www.joannmacken.com
One way to find tiny monarch caterpillars on milkweed leaves is to look for their characteristic C-shaped chewprints.

# data[].attributes.body
Moving lace
a snail's face
smile tiny
wet shiny
slimy cheeks
never speaks
likes a touch
not so much -
waves goodbyes
then it hides.

Tell me again
where its face began,
and how that foot
its face overtook.

by Donna JT Smith

# data[].attributes.body
Gross slimy
blob,
how is it that your
loathsome taper
makes this
exquisite
tracery of silver script
in such
fine flowing filigree,
leaving not
a single blot
of snot?

© Kate O'Neil 2017

# data[].attributes.body
Creeping through the night,
glistening trail in it's wake,
hated but helpful.

2017 Maria Marshall

# data[].attributes.body
Feces, droppings, poop
left on the ground
in brown, putrid piles

frass, castings, waste
what bodies do not need
thrown away

smelly, disgusting, unsanitary
leavings that will become
the backbone of growth

compost, soil, earth
fertile and rich
teaming with future

air, food, creation.

© 2017 Sarah Grace Tuttle

# data[].attributes.body
When in the garden
you have dug
and come across
a creature smug
remember this:

It captures bugs!
It slurps up slugs!

Just thank the toad--
no need for hugs.

© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.

# data[].attributes.body
After the rain,

paddocks thrill

with the shrill trill

of crickets,

as courting cane toads

convulse swollen, speckled throats,

burbling leathery love songs,

like the melodic thrum

of rattle drums.

© Kathryn Apel 2017

# data[].attributes.body
Sing we now in praise of mud!

Sing hey! nonny nonny

Sing hey! in praise of           mud

For it swells upon the April rains

To welcome the shovel and pail

Sing hey! nonny nonny

For it squishes syrupy through the toes

To slather the shinbone and navel and nose

Sing hey! nonny no

For it tracks itself down stairs and up

To blacken the porcelain tub

So sing we all in praise of mud!

Sing hey! nonny nonny

Sing hey! in praise of mud

Stephanie Farrow copyright 2017

# data[].attributes.body
boring brown puddles,
on bring-your-umbrella days,
transform in bright sun
into billowing-cloud skyscapes
or shimmering rainbow art

Copyright 2017 B.J. Lee

# data[].attributes.body
Suds sparkle

Shimmer against jet

Porcelain.

Light bends as

Bubbles pop and shrink into

Abundant water.

© 2017 Trina Haase

# data[].attributes.body
Pile of dishes in the sink -

remnants of our food and drink.

Fulsome meal and laughter, too -

now we have a job to do.

Messy saucepan, crusty cup;

we’ll need time to clean this up.

Spray of water, sudsy foam –

we are grateful for our home.

Grateful, grateful

here at home.

©2017 Robyn Hood Black

# data[].attributes.body
The ordinary sounds of quiet…
The creak of wooden floors,
Worn smooth and cool,
From the feet of barefoot women

The clink of pan on stove, food to fire,
Bowl to table and back again,
From the hands of barefoot women

The swish of long skirts, cotton-on-cotton
Swinging, cotton-on-skin,
From the hips of barefoot women

Sirens all, with songs of their own,
Spun with skeins of bitter and sweet,
From the hearts of barefoot women

…making extraordinary,
the sounds of quiet.

© 2017 by Kimberli McWhirter

# data[].attributes.body
You’ve brought the cascading spring
To me
In glittering plastic with waves
My hand can grip,
Transparent as thin air.
I lift your life giving flow
To my lips
And drips
Escape in my haste
To refresh, and
Re-wet my whistle;
When I am done
You crinkle in my hand,
Then tum, tum, tum on the table edge.
I rest my bottom lip on yours and blow
Till you make a low ship’s bellow that
Attracts my dog’s finely tuned ears.
When done
I slip you, weightless,
Into the white abyss
Of the recycling bag
Where you, dry and empty, reside
Making the occasional crinkly, snapping,
Resounding sounds
Reminding me
To recycle so
Remelted, remolded,
Remade, rebottled,
You might carry more
Baubled, bubbling sips
To renew other lips,
Continuing
This water
Cycle.

by Donna JT Smith

# data[].attributes.body
Denied - appreciation until - the respiration

of a baby’s gasp and cry,

when we wheeze and gulp and sigh,

or in loss, we say goodbye.

We ignore this bashful beauty -

a mistake we shouldn’t make.

Whisper “thank you” when you wake

for every breath you take.

Linda Baie ©All Rights Reserved

# data[].attributes.body
Five years only, loving, sweet

Interrupted, incomplete

Casket, light mahogany

Poignant, heartfelt eulogy

Roses, orchids, peonies

Clinging, precious memories

Mourning faces glisten grief

Exquisite pain denies relief

Broken hearts will never cease

Little beauty, rest in peace

© 2017 Mindy Gars Dolandis

# data[].attributes.body
A thistle

on a bad hair day,

a spiky fray,

a summer's relent.

No pinkish tone,

its green all gone,

drawn out by

autumn's airy vent.

About to bald

in unfair wintry winds,

about to leave a sepal wrinkled,

curled, dry,

brown, atop

a dead stem, tired,

bending,

bent.

Its beauty went

unknown,
all summer long,

while swaying with

a splay of cousins scattered

in a distant prairie field.

It stayed,

tall, waiting,

till I wandered,

unexpectant,

to see its splendor,
spent.

© Damon Dean, 2017

# data[].attributes.body
It arrives
unexpectedly.
Song lyrics
driving home.
The woodsy clove scent lingers
with his memory.

Grace moments,
sorting memories.
Hold this one,
free others.
Watching the sunrise with him.

Soaring with eagles.

© 2017 Jone Rush MacCulloch. All rights reserved.

# data[].attributes.body
Brown and dry,
they look like weeds.
But there is promise
in their seeds.
Wrapped up tight
to take the cold-
next year's flowers
now on hold.

© 2017 Cindy Breedlove

# data[].attributes.body
You stand in spring

barely a bud growing

on tired branches.

Woodpecker tests your trunk, tat-a-tat,

chipping sweet, soft wood.

Your roots search

for sustenance in summer drought.

Patches of bark slough off your trunk.

Beetles inscribe your weathered wood

with tales of their youth.

Tattered leaves wither and drop

as summer turns to fall.

You rest, naked against the gray sky.

Rain seeps into ancient scars

carrying spores of rot close to your heart.

Winter covers your crown.

Ice encases each sparkling twig.

Creaking, an old limb

cracks and breaks,

thumping on frozen ground.

Lighter, you wait for snowmelt

and endure.

--©Buffy Silverman

# data[].attributes.body
Wrinkles lined upon her face
reveal the woman’s life of grace
as crow’s feet radiate from eyes
once filled with laughter
tears
and sighs
forehead laced with worry lines
troubles deep
sorrows fine
thinning lips and shriveled brow
stories told of then and now
a life of lessons gladly learned
all these wrinkles she has earned

© 2017 Judith Valko

# data[].attributes.body
old chocolate

no longer melts well

tastes just fine

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2017
http://www.maryleehahn.com/2017/11/old-chocolate.html

# data[].attributes.body
creepy texture,

smell of fermented socks,

cauliflower

makes creamy soups,

delicious pizza crust,

and sticky rice.

Yum!

Kathy Mazurowski

# data[].attributes.body
Your eyes see me, and they detect
pain. Search deeper; you will find beauty,
splendor, love, and majesty.
I am a thorn, and I hold a thistle,
I am a thorn, and I house a rose,
I am a thorn, and I am joined with the Great Barrier Reef.
I live on crisp fresh Christmas trees and on sea urchins
called flowers, I am anteaters and spiders.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
What do you behold?
When you look my way remember this,
there is no rose without a thorn.

Now look again, what do you see when you see me?

Robyn Campbell

# data[].attributes.body
by Laura Purdie Salas