Sometimes It’s Better to Read Than Write - a Poem for Day Seven of PAD

The prompt for day seven of PAD to write a discovery poem:

This poem could be about making a discovery; it could be about something discovered (by someone or something else); or something you’d like to discover. I can’t wait to discover what new poems poets will create.

Some Days It's Even Better to Just Enjoy the View

Sometimes It’s Better to Read Than Write

Some poems
are so disappointing,
not worth the wait,
not worth the late-
night struggle to write.

A glass of whiskey
and a snuggle
with Rumi,
I’ve discovered,
never leave me discontent
like those
cantankerous words
holed up
inside the barrel
of my pen. 

***

She Laughs No More - a Poem for Day Six of PAD (April 2017)

I'm a little behind, but I hope to catch up today. 

Here is the prompt for day six of PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a poem about a sound. The poem could be about a small sound, a loud sound, a happy sound, or a creepy sound. And yes, music sounds count as well.

Her Footsteps Are Gone

She Laughs No More

Restless child
murmurs sleep,
grasping sheets
for something
to hang onto—
comfort, peace.

Screeches fill
the midnight sky,
abduct innocence,
pillage dreams
rumbling underneath
imaginary safety
of shuttered
eyes.

Tiny fingers
slip
from the futile
grip
of adult guidance—
none left
in her world
as she takes
her final
gasp.

Off
in the distance,
a church bell
sways,
and clangs,
the only sound
left
in the rubble.

***

Neon and Nitrogen: A Love Story? - a Poem for Day Five of PAD

It's hard to believe it's day five of the PAD Challenge already. Here is the prompt for today:

For today’s prompt, pick an element (like from the periodic table), make it the title of your poem (or part of the title), and then, write the poem. Anything goes from hydrogen to oganesson.

He Lit Up My Senses

Neon and Nitrogen: A Love Story?

He took my breath away . . . but he always 

thought he was so important—needed (or used)
practically everywhere. I’d always thought
it was flattery when he said I was a noble
gas—a rarity on Earth. Later I heard
he’d referred to me as “Neon the Volatile.”
But really he didn’t know me very well—
non-toxic, illuminating, slow to react.
At least no one could ever call
me burnt air. After we parted ways,
I read in the newspaper, he’d died
from self-asphyxiation. Yes, it turns out,
he also took his own breath away.

***