PAD poems 19,20,21

Prompt for day 19
Write an angry poem



Angry

No, I am not angry
I am however

Annoyed
Nuts
Grumpy
Riled
Yielding not…

So get over it
and shut up.

Kellie M Shanley © 2009



Prompt for day 20
Write about rebirth


Rebirth of the tiny brown bird
A tiny brown bird, floating in water too deep,
is cold and ready to sleep.
Eyes closed tight, not a breath, not a sound,
solace, in the dark stillness, it found.

In those last moments, on the brink of death
a girl spots the bird floating…it must be dead.
She reaches in, the water to deep,
cups her hands around the body asleep,
gently lifts it from its watery grave,
and tries rubbing, rubbing the cold away,
then swaddles the diminishing life in a handful of fresh mown hay.

Sadness she feels for the tiny finch, alone and cold,
watching it collapse in the bedding of hay.
Placing it in the palm of her hand, she feels
its body twitch with eyes still closed,
not a breath she sees… its death exposed.
With warm hands, she holds it for just a while,
and spots a cross of white feathers, on its tiny brown neck,
She then lays it in the sun on the bedding of hay and
waits and prays for the magic of the rubbing and the sun to give way.

After a while the warmth of the sun and the gentle rubbing does bring,
the tiny brown bird to open its eyes again.
A few days later, her day is made
for in the light brown dust, of her walking pathway
the tiny brown bird, with feathers of the cross, is bathing away.
Glad is she, she’d taken the time,
when all life seemed gone, to lift it from its watery grave
giving it a chance to live a new day.


KMS © 2009


Prompt for day 21
Write a Haiku


The air crisp and cool.
Breathless-the air freezes still
Cold words suspended.

Kellie M Shanley (C) 2009

Poem 18

Yes I am a tad behind, but I'm still plugging

Prompt 18
Write a poem with interaction

Dancing with the Wind

I hold my breath and listen close
as the wind taps on my windowpane.
Sometimes it s a flutter
sometimes a murmur within a raging rain.

A whirling dance it’s wants from me,
in its beckoning call, but
fickle is the wind when asking for this dance
for it runs from me that I can’t catch it,
is it playing games of chance?

Changeable is the wind, first high, then low.
Confused of which way to go, I turn to walk away.
Afraid I’m saying no to the dance, it grasps my hand,
wraps it’s self around me and lifts me off the ground.
Then suddenly lets me go, leaving me to stumble all around.
.
Sometimes it plays with my affections,
touching me so light.
I reach out to take a hold,
again, it runs away in fright.

Though I do not understand
the ways the wind does blow
I love the wind and feel alone without it.
This feeling scares me so.

The wind will have to play its games,
if only for a while,
tapping at my windowpane, dancing like a child.
For I might say yes and take the chance
to dance this dance the winds do ask of me.
But should I say yes and stumble needlessly,
the wind must promise to catch me and in fright not flee.




Kellie M Shanley © 2009