I make my contribution through this month of blogging, which has become an unexpected tradition. For me, it means 30 days of reading, writing, and thinking about poetry, but more than that, thinking about it in ways that I can share it with people. It means a free pass to discover new writers, to question my own tastes and tendencies in poetry. It means searching for ways to convey that poetry has enormous importance, that it doesn’t have to be an intimidating, foreboding art form to be stared at and passed by, that it can instead be an accessible and even necessary way of viewing the world.

It means an opportunity to invite in guest bloggers and see how my friends and family bring poetry into their lives, whether it’s through the recitation of long-remembered verses, the discovery of new poetry, the appreciation for poetry that withstands the years, or the interpretation of poetry into art.

It also means, this year, a unique chance to invite people, poets or self-proclaimed non-poets, to not only find a way into poetry through reading it, but to use it as a tool of self-expression by writing it. I have enjoyed every moment of the Poetry Out of Nothing Challenge: it is an enormous honor to have people trust you with their art, to read the words they put on the page in response to the details of their days and the ongoing joys, struggles, and questions of their lives.

Obviously, I’m a bit sad that April’s over, that in a few short hours this month of celebration will come to a close. But I also know that even as the calendar flips to May, I’ll continue reading and writing and thinking about poetry, and I hope you will, too.

Until next April, happy reading and writing.

P.S. Voting for the Poetry Out of Nothing Challenge continues until 11:59 tonight, so if you haven’t already voted, you should! I’ll be tabulating the votes over the next day or two, and I’ll announce the winners early next week.

Sometimes
My words tumble from my tongue
and bounce like rubber balls
smacking my students’ foreheads
like concrete
rejected, they quickly fly away
and settle lost within the corners
of the room.

I wish my words would always flow like water
washing over their faces
causing sensitivity
to subtle changes in the air
and seeping in
through their pores.

Not feeling it today
who cares whatcha got
knocking at the door
no answer, no one home
steppin up in spite of me—delivery

pen to page here we go
dodging thought of a rhyme
just don’t panic write it down
energy focused emotions abound
mission accomplished for now

Temper is a wonderful thing. Don’t lose it.

Patience is a valued thing. Don’t abuse it.

Love is a splendid thing. Don’t misplace it.

Memory is a solid thing. Don’t disgrace it.

Childhood is a happy thing. Don’t harm it.

Youth is a fragile thing. Don’t alarm it.

Laughter is a necessary thing. Don’t forget it.

Tears are an important thing. Don’t regret it.

Friendship is a strengthening thing. Don’t bend it.

Truth is a shining thing. Do defend it.

Life is a welcoming thing. Dare to live it.

Death is a peaceful thing. Learn to forgive it.

Hope is a heartfelt thing. A gift we all give.

Faith is the cornerstone. By which we all live.

Dear ones to all the above, please to pay heed.

Laugh…love….cry
Live life indeed.

Exposing myself to the outside world
makes way for much fatigue;
consolidating the hours to seconds
enforces pressure beyond belief. This
loyal campaign can only prevail if I
decide to pay it forward.
Running through this daily mission
deliberated my style and I can’t
stop rejuvenating this life-line
for the outside world is waiting.

There is this foul congress, a gathering of doctors
whispering about mama’s condition— don’t utter the “C” word
or say it aloud—cancer

carrying on its wings more crosses to build; blood clots
have travelled up mama’s leg splitting in twos to her lungs
and cancer is the subtext; and chemo has to wait for Coumadin

to labor like our laughter about memories stored-up in basins
of dirty water—mapping the miles that juxtapose where mama is
and where I type. Words are my habitual comfort

phone calls crumbs that don’t satisfy my need to see her eyes
airplane tickets— I can’t afford to buy another one. Gas priced
above my head and I’m chaired to a city I’ve never loved

mama’s hands too far to rub; gray strands holding to
her aging scalp I can’t braid; my son prays

I write, breathe and remember coffee cups and
mama’s contagious love for fresh white bread

He’s so bad
But he’s so good
That damn dog
My furry son

A random shoe on the file cabinet
resting on its heel
stiletto actually
awaiting
the return of its owner
or at least its perfect mate.

forgotten in the midst
of a holiday soiree
AAAAAA—as is the elegant woman who hopped away in the night

it remains months later
waiting to be filed under “Heels, High”

or become a work of found art.

In my imagination, I see the docent, in sensible shoes,
pointing to it.

caramel colored
puppy paws,
milk chocolate eyes,
rough-tongued kisses,
a strong toothy grip
and wagging tail,
he welcomes us home.

Swollen veins, coursing with arsenic
Corrosive blood seeping from every wound
At once protecting and decaying before evaporating in the sun

With socks of iron and shoes of concrete
you rise to new heights. Not a chameleon,
still your form is a mimic, a skeletal Xerox

Pine, melded with steel and sweat
How many years until the elements take their toll?
How long before you too lie on the lawn, decrepit

Like the one you replaced?