And this is it for 2019 National-Poetry-Writing-Month for the Cedar Bark Poets, we hope you have enjoyed  30 Days” challenge for National Poetry Writing Month

Each day we have  been following the prompts from
—-> NaPoWriMo

Tune in again next year for more NaPoWriMo.


Day 30

The final prompt for this year! I’d like you to try your hand at a minimalist poem. What’s that? Well, a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion. Haiku are probably the most familiar and traditional form of minimalist poetry, but there are plenty of very short poems out there that do not use the haiku form. There’s even an extreme style of minimalism in the form of one-word and other “highly compressed” poems. You don’t have to go that far, but you might think of your own poem for the day as a form of gesture drawing. Perhaps you might start from a concrete noun with a lot of sensory connotations, like “Butter” or “Sandpaper,” or “Raindrop” and
– quickly, lightly – go from there.



Day 29

Todays prompt – Write a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully. You might try including a dramatic, declarative statement, you might try addressing your feeling directly, as if it were a person you could talk to. There are as many approaches to this as there are poets, and poems.

Cast in Resin

Thinking outside of the box is easy, getting out is hard, getting in near impossible,
figuring out why you’d want to sometimes

The sharp corners
Uncertain mass

The thing sits
Unapproachable, Yet

Even proportions
Odd feelings invoked

Yet now inactive
Terror contained

Look closely, The pattern veined
Far reaching

It’s not the box, but the contents
Never content not to try to peer inside, but it calmly resists

There are corners in the mind, corners that hide boxes, of boxes without locks or keys,
sharp corners un-dented, that turn, churned into points,

Surreal walls of boxes, beige
Mazes within the grey of mind, of changes in time

Packed away and harmless, we let them slip away into the back of our mind,
Lacked caution of causation in the untucking of box flaps

Here in lies the Black cube,
entombed in detritus, bubble wrap and scrunched up newspaper

of, the boxing of the old, no longer needed
Change comes to all things, next steps come

the strange black cube,
of moments, places, meetings, plannings, we have left behind

the startings of startling new things underway
now the ‘beginning’ terrors packed away

Past, sweating of palms, pacing, endless glances at the clock
moving to the middle, past starts, new

Come to, and must remember resolutions
of present solvable woes, as was

of the moment, confusion, will not last
no matter the concussion of things around us that seem to blast

Past hesitations and doubts
Should act as packing slips, proof that we can fight our way out

Through madness with passion and solid reason.
out of chaotic winter, to spring to the next season

onward out of the box,
dive into the next thing that blocks

Past past doubts
the reminder cast, set forward touts

Cast in resin
Past, the set fluid madness of flailing reason

– W.B.


Day 28

Todays prompt – Write a meta-poem, Which are poems about poems


Is this a grocery list or a poem?

Avocado, three onions, Sponge cake
if the list you even remember to take

A rhyme here and such and such there
words don’t even need to a wine pair

a reusable bag, meal plan, or just plain wing it
there are endless things into a poem about meals to pit

Should poetry make you hungry? or fill you up
Could all the rules be reversed
like all hors d’oeuvres and an overflowing cup
or should words be main course, poised and pursed

Like a meal of herbs devoid,
and are there ingredients with which you plain become annoyed

a favourite meal, just plain, just plain, just plain repetition
just plain, just plain, just plain, just plain, just plain, until interdiction
seven days a week, a habit now, or a superstition

three courses set, following a set length
alternately ending the same each time
Patterned the same, onward to the same strength
Same message, set to run again to mime

I ponder all this, waiting in line, poetically preparing to double bag in kind
perhaps I just am hungry with a meal on my mind
But also I crave poetry, and its many variations I find.

so is this a poem, or a grocery list
shelves full still, of all the poetic devices I’ve missed
carting off if only a few, of poems or Groceries, I think you may know the gist.

– W.B.


Day 27

Todays prompt -ReWrite a Shakespearean sonnet, I’d like to challenge you to “remix” a Shakespearean sonnet. You can pick a line you like and use it as the genesis for a new poem. Or make a “word bank” out of a sonnet, and try to build a new poem using the same words (or mostly the same words) as are in the poem. Or you could try to write a new poem that expresses the same idea as one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.


most the day, directed shade would shadow
show dreams bright blessed clear, When in heavy sleep
show How fair form day shines thy sightless dark,
when happy with looking on unseeing
clearer look would sleep, When unrespected
But form to dreams on eyes made light To wink!

thy imperfect nights whose much living day
then darkly say mine eyes How, I do see
bright night in stay, dead view When things best so.
For the shadows Through days doth see Then nights,
And in thy days bright, thee make shadow’s on
eyes, mine doth see bright, they By thy shade me,
All are in thou, And I, when all they be;
I do thee, thee eyes are thee! till to I

– W.B.

XLIII (-the Original)

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

– Shakespeare


Day 26

Today’s prompt is centered around repetition. Write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a word, or phrase. You can even repeat an image, perhaps slightly changing or enlarging it from stanza to stanza, to alter its meaning. There are (perhaps paradoxically) infinite possibilities in repetition.

There is in the middle a center.

There is a forest in the middle of the trees
Of evergreen trees in the middle of a deciduous ring.
Straw birds nest, sits in the middle, with two bright blue eggs,
On sticks and straws in the middle sat, a leg to either side.
Overhead, cloudy sky, in the middle one darker, menacing
a somewhat mid tone, in the middle of greys I’d have to say.
Drifting, in uncertainly in the middle of moods,
Rain or merely shade, in the middle of deciding.
Blustering wind across, in the middle of overriding,
as the blue clearing sky in the middle sliding,
filled out and took over in the middle of the afternoon.

Half way across dashing, in the middle of a stride the eyes shift,
A dashing fox stops to look in the middle of the clearing,
A small Purple flower sits, in the middle yellow stamens sure to stain,
lazy bumble bee circles in the middle, working his ways, of dusted pollen, strays.
The fox watches his ways, in the middle of a daze,
Transfixed and captivated in the middle of his way.
Dozens of times before in the middle of the month
he’d just run on through in the middle without a care,
today, is a bee buzzing in the middle at which to stare.
Of pollen it took a share, in the middle of it all hurrying to finish,
this flower, then the next in the middle of its route.
How he looked the brute, in the middle of kicking his legs out to scoop
But the quick old fox, lost in the middle of his day dreaming,
of bees, flowers and flying, in the middle now, of mid day,
had got lost in the time, and in the middle of being led out of his way,
now dashed off quickly from in the middle of the forest.
To a canopy of leafs where, in the middle of each a stem, divided, a line drew,
and somewhere this morning in the middle of dripping branches, ran a drop of dew.

A low flying bird, back to its nest in the middle, somewhere,
With a twig firmly in beak, held in the middle, darted between branches,
under a clearing sky of blue in the middle, singing a song in tittle.

There is center here, holding in the middle, the hub of nature,
in the middle it radiates from in the middle to dazzle the birds, foxes, and bees,
Even the now blue sky seems in the middle to freeze

From a center point held fast in the middle to please.

– W.B.


Day 25

Today’s prompt -Write a poem that:

Is specific to a season
Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
Includes a rhetorical question.


The blinding smell of seeds.
The pungent sound of budding flowers.
Velvety weight, heavy feeling, of unfurling leaf.
Flavourful colouring in stones under a runoff stream.
The shiny look in lightness of air.

The odour of the sound of spring,
warming feel of flavours of things soon to again sing,
rain showers, fogged behind the last due dew of winter

What sense do you have past the last hour of winter, into the first of spring?

– W.B.


Day 24

Today’s prompt -Write a poem that, like “Dictionary Illustrations,” is inspired by a reference book. Locate a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia, open it at random, and consider the two pages in front of you to be your inspirational playground for the day. Maybe a strange word will catch your eye, or perhaps the mishmash of information will provide you with the germ of a poem.

X 6426-6427

From Dusty shelf, piled at the end

Harmsworth’s Universal Encyclopedia Vol.X ‘Pensn-Rotti’

Somewhere in the middle,
Opened Pages, 6426 – 6427, of Volume Ten
From the days past, when you had twelve volumes of anything
from the Q’s,a page to spring

There is a nobility in the small print, justified
Top of page ranges,
6426 Quadrat to Quagga
and facing
6427 Quai D’Orsay to Quantock Hills
Underlined, the Importance of words

Fine inline illustrations in greys,
of Quadruplet, Sir Richard Quain, Quail, and Quake Grass
Spread across pages inline to stay,
adding another element of class

Quadrat, Quadric Equation, Quadratrix, Quadrature, Quadrilateral, Quadrilateral, Quadrille, Quadrille, Quadrireme, Qudroon, Quadruplane, Quadruple Alliance, Quadruplet, Quaestor, Quagga

It sounds like an incantation when spoken in time, incantation 6426
words off the tongue flicks.

Flip to facing, 6427,
Quai d’Orsay, Quail, Quain, Sir Richard, Quake Grass, Quaker Girl -the musical comedy, Quakers, Quality, Quality Street, Quamash, Quantification of the Predicate, Quantity, Quantity Surveyor, Quantock Hills

Quality quantity of words here to make you all but ’Quake’, but oddly not here.

From Quai d’Orsay in Paris, beside the Seine, to Quantock Hills in Somerset England, the words are crystal clear.

Printed between embossed fancy covers, a family of twelve,
23,500 Illustrations, into to delve

The brown bound, black lined set, on a shelf set,
in lieu of bookends, the first, and last, three, turned to stack at ninety degrees

– W. B.


Day 23

Todays prompt – Write a poem about an animal.


Raise to the Menagerie

The Oryx

Oh the Oryxes, I had never seen,
African, arid loving Antelope
Herd nearly never heard again, or been
Drinking melons, like me and cantaloupe

The Quoll

Cat like, short legs, white spotted coat, pink nose
Sitting poised , eyes steely, marsupial,
No idea, by night, where to he goes
Solitary, with ears perked, nocturnal

The Raccoon

Greyish fur, adaptability, lies
Ringed tail, Climbing fence, dexterous front paws,
Facial mask, Black band. Whiskers begging eyes
Without fear, constant pleading for its cause

The Ferret

Attentive little thief, slender and long
secreting away little items, quick
Sleeping mostly until dawn to dusks gong
Dance, frenzied sideways hops, leaps looking slick

The game is on, ‘It’s Friday’ is the phrase
Foursome, unlikely nightly poker game
Ante up, to the menagerie raise
Party animals, raising stakes the same.

– W. B.


Day 22

Todays prompt -Write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.


Ode of Terroir

In the countryside,
Of views far and wide.

In descriptions of colours and shade,
of posts pegging down the hill as it laid

Of the expressions of silty soils,
and how light lime green climbing tendrils around wire coils

Of Weather, Moisture levels, Sun and Temperatures, that would peek to new highs,
of seasons, birds flying off for the winters, and their goodbyes.

Picturesque hill sides, landscaping,
and new paths and levels reshaping

Wiring, Drip emitters, Mulching and post
of spring birds again to spring, and around clouds to coast

all of these things form pictures, paintings, poetry and stories
The narrative of it all can turn out incredible works and great glories

But all are editable, retouch-able, rework-able pieces.
even if they start to go bad, there are certain releases

But what of the vineyard, wine produced
there is, until too late, not ever really any way of even knowing if it’s quality has been reduced

There is a unique form of each Terroir grounded
That must be in each batch of fine wine be carefully founded.

With only one single chance
you have only a few chances to get it to dance

On the pallet, and off the nose
there are a thousand decisions of which direction best goes

The committed art of wine making
more that a mere thirst to be slaking

for there is less satisfaction, for Grape Juice, grape skins to be breaking
so much to take for granted, so much information for the taking

Elements bottled
and all the issues and processes that need to be throttled

And finally in the art of patently waiting
for reviews by critics stating.

– W.B.


Day 21

Todays Prompt -Write a poem that incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.


Does it Bend, or Break

Pages turn, not over, but in content in kind, when put away, or read by another
Worlds there in reinvent themselves, plots refine and details redefine
The March of letters, march off to new adventures, come back to record the details of undone deeds done
Never Booking off, Bookcases cover for the absence, knocking over or the pushing off others,
The world is in motion, only seen when we still move against it
Covered for in story, exposed, changing when unseen
Is there gravity when you sleep, as in the floating slumber
May words worm off to change before tomorrow comes.

The dawn brings illumination of that that the sun did not glint off last night, in the setting.
Garden Gnomes, become trusted by commercialization, friendly things that alter surrounding by night, moon powered mischievous things, that softly sings, trouble in delight, trouble by morning light
Garden Gnomes, with implements rusted, March not ever onwards, oddly trusted
Marching never past garden fixtures trussed
Walking, waking, through un-dreamt gates slaking.
The hose, the hose.. did you leave it uncoiled?…
In chase, or league with, something over ground unspoiled.

Do you remember, from above, the line, ‘of the book spine’ from before
Can this change you simply ignore
will by the end these lines be anymore….

Dream, notice not as unusual, the Beaver that comes for your nickels,
nor the Fish that asks you if you are alright, note that he doesn’t seem out of sorts in doing so.
But are you still awake, woken to an assertion that you were out of pickles
or dreaming still, un-woken by the tickles, untouched as you go


Gaps, gaps? lapses?


Money brings time, and time will not buy you space, but space will give you no credit, and Money does not make change.
Where slim wallets are heavy, and giant bulky tiny purses float, yet there will be nothing given for getting on the boat.
The trip to a sunken shore, where footsteps raise in a sunken sand, and the path behind you builds up into mountains, walls of popular paths, to stop you from going there again.
The smell of scentless-ness-ness pervades, into borders that smell bad wafting into solids
Sinking into sinking evergreen trees, roots branching into the sky, and leaves that leave to delve back into the earth.

Bands of blue, trap madness, in stagnant earth, Happy Garden Gnomes denoting sadness?…
A tale of, written, in a book knocked over
Of floating hose, recoiling from the imprint, in a field of clover
Dimes sail by, across an insomniacs dreamy sky to fly.
Unwavering, in a world of change,
Of unwritten laws and bills,
That flutter around the flying carp that harps, on serious questions asked on a lark
Who nose what smell next is to be unknown,
or what things, in wrong directions grown.
Smaller now, than then, will it shrink enough to one day end, only to have to begin again.

all mannerisms sum, the maths add up, the equations done
but life is variable, and the variables make it run
you just need to work out, a simple estimate of just how stout is the pun
of just how much it does it bend, or break, is it by dream or by a reality, a madness spun.

– W.B.


Day 20

Today Prompt – Write a poem that “talks.” What does that mean? While it isn’t a monologue, it’s largely based in spoken language, interspersed with the speaker/narrator’s own responses and thoughts. Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken – not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play, but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life. You might incorporate overheard speech or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you – the idea here is to get away from formally “poetic” speech and into the way language tends to work out loud.

Say “What!”

“How long… They left at Two forty five, remember, it’s the last turn on the left.”

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish

“No, left, last one on the left”
“Got it”
“No? Left is right… err, correct”
“Three forty five”
“No, two”
“Two forty five!”
“Can I scream Now?!“

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish

“$17.99 for flowers, and wilting ones at that!”

“The head is not always in conversations, not when romance takes over as the dominant driving factor, there is, you know… the haze of heart taking away weighting, Words lose their balance and… a haze of heart fogs the way,”

“Is that what they used to say. Surely there has to be something to do,”

“Fog horn, really loud bloomin foghorn, I mean thats going to be your only chance really, but really, probably you’ve already figured it out.. I mean, your either on the rocks already or drifting out to sea, and! It’s bloody ice cold out there.”

“It’s almost Three, are we gona make it?….”
The other half of the statement was silently, implied
“Questions and answers, Questions and answers,” Questions and answers,…

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish… ‘unless you know better’, they’d said that before, I don’t think I got that, but I’m sure it’s fine.

“Their replies may not be exactly what they are, Time wires us together you know, the unseen expressions heard”
“Does any of that even make sense?….”
Pauses, Pauses,… “Pause?”
“Pause? do we really even have the time anymore…”

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish

“There are conversations you have with yourself right,… one sings in the shower,.. everyone sings in the shower right?… and there are place to have conversations out loud, thoughts that need to reverberate through air, echo off surfaces, safely contained in private areas where there is no one around, possible with a white noise of a soundtrack playing in the background…right…?”

“There are conversations that you have, and they just seem to fill in the blanks”
“There are these conversations that you have where I fill in the blanks, and wonder if I just had it alone, I wonder if was I alone… or did I just have it for you, were you even there at all… “

“Did I say any or all of that out loud? Say what!…

– Wait,.. am I just thinking this, or saying any of this Gibberish out loud….

“Excuse me?” was that a Question? “Were you talking to me?”

“What?” !

– W.B.


Day 19

Todays prompt – Write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness.

An Up and Down, or across Zig-Zaging

Anyone know where or when the Zebra
became obsessive of his Youth?
Changing up his stripes like a bad Xerox
dramatically, Thinking he was upping what he considers his worth
Every moment contrasting his self virtue,
for a Zebra can not change his stripes underneath,
great efforts aside, as he might try
he will ultimately be sorrowful
in that he will no doubt rue
just about every line and thing he tried to hide or redrew, as his self demands started to Que.
Keeping him unsatisfied and unable his wants to placate,
leaving little outward
modifying, line by line neatly,
neearly into new lines thinking himself moulding.
Off to fit into greener pastures, thinking to contently, confidently lay,
pushing ever onward for new ground through, hopping fences like a kangaroo,
quash doubt by leaving behind questioning jurisdictions,
running by lines of shadows, strobing black and white inked,
stubbornly unwilling to look back, only forward to hoof
trying along the way to not to look too aloof, failing greatly.
Undeniably, on him grating going forward,
virtue always seemed over the horizon, ever elusive
where ever he found himself for the night dreaming, or daydreaming.
X-ray like stripes revealed his innermost self, by caught.
Yielding to patterns of self torment wrought before
zags of stripes, slowly as they were, he came one day to adore.

– W.B.


Day 18

Todays Prompt – Write an elegy, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it.

O Leaf De-leaf

Green, yields to brown, to skeleton of frame
delicate ribs and stem, fade to the earth
no longer to shimmer in winds that came
ornamentation lost of a trees worth

Serrated edge, to slice into the wind
capturing the suns rays, feeding the world
holding onto branches, offset pairs twinned
peeking out between flowers to unfurled

Tree sustained, another seasons refrain
feed a ring, branch for perched bird to sing
one of a kind, never to be again
your time to shine like a jewel, crowned a king

O De-leaf

Green leads to brown, to mottled brown, to bare skeleton of frame
cleft leafstalk, sits down now on exposed roots
I shall not, my dimmed skyward view, any longer by you be blocked
Yet I shall not have your purview in my view any longer, so it’s all rather blandly moot
But I shall miss your curved form, and dipping tip, the delicate ribs and sturdy stem,
as they slowly to fade, fade as you return to earth

to see no longer you to shimmer, dance around in stiff breezes and strong crosswinds that came

the bare frame now, now that ornamentation has been lost, a certain loss of a trees worth
the bareness of my days that I must winter though bitter fall

for all the days of the months to watch as your serrated edge, bit, and moved to slice into the wind
Turning it back on itself in self defeat
Twisting tracking, capturing the burning suns rays, a delight of joy feeding the world
joyfully holding onto gnarled bark of branch tips, dancing in offset pairs in synchrony, of maneuvers twinned

Peeking out between buds, and as flowers unfurled
a counterpoint overlooked, oh how my love tapered towared your tapered form and where you curled

A mossy crooked tree sustained, by green another green seasons refrain
I know soon the past memories of joy will bud to ease my pain

Of that you fed for a year a ring, and grew a branch for a perched song bird to sing
flying as a flag fluttering in tune on the wind.
You were one of a kind, growing with your siblings in a line, but a singular singer and singular all around, and never to be again
Of joy, heavy branches to bow in the wind
It was all your time to shine, like a jewel, in the crown of a tree, crowned as a king.

– W.B.


Day 17

Todays prompt – Write a poem that presents a scene from an unusual point of view. Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery from the perspective of the apple. Or the shootout at the OK Corral from the viewpoint of a passing vulture. Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm, as experienced by a raindrop.

The Life…

There is nothing on the TV, till Channels I flick by
in a dim room, the light illuminates
Running down halls and through rooms
To ninety seconds worth of microwaves, into popcorn to explode
Click of a phone being hung up on a telemarketer
Another email processed lands in an inbox
clock to tick over another minute
Coffee brews
Wired, spinning down again.

In the blink of an eye, all these things done
a thousand times, pulled away
Jumping form one task to the next
Dysfunctional nuclear family I pull away from
a negativity that drives me away
into electrifying adventures
running, nucleus to nucleus to play
The power, the light, phases of emitting
right down to a simple heartbeat as you are sitting.

I do it all, where ever I stray,
Jumping from one point to the next
flowing power to the world, across what ever conductive path lay
In batteries stored up,
in generators vortex vexed

An obstacle course before, pushed, pulled, held
Cumulated, dissipated or converted
in analog or digital,
Amperage or volts,
I find solitude of Ohms.
You never think of all the things I run through, or just how much work it is that I do.
all the little junctions jumped to near conjunctions
Every time you use anything that functions

I run your life, I know all
every time you switch on anything, I come to call
watching, as I race by, every time for electrons you trawl

This is the Life of an Electron

– W.B.


Day 16

Todays prompt- Write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane.


There are 4,528 Pennies left
There is little room left in the jar
There in the corner
There dust sits over the edge of the lid
There saving, because it has built up from it not being opened
‘There fund’, started a life savings, misspelt because it was long ago written by two small children
There in red crayon, because red was all there had been
There it had grown
There to all whom walk by shown
There was a pride in accomplishment
There another jar started beside
There had been a dispute
There it was decided that each should have their own
There, unknowingly it was raided by a sibling
There she went when she needed bubble gum and shiny things
There was sometimes a repayment, but not always
There, a spot of wax to seal was added
There a daily check, and measuring of level started
There where shinny sat next to dull
There one could dream of what one wanted to buy
There of change, day to day was little changed
There still tucked into the corner, a side table square
There sat four thousand five hundred twenty eight faces
There in every direction out to gaze
There for the counting on rainy days
There for catalog items wanting to be for paid
There all change had to come to stay
There of pockets emptied into, before laundry hamper
There waiting to bank
There only bringing interest in the form of intense staring
There, crude knurled slot, centred in lid
There to swallow coins
There to stop them being shake-d or snaked out again
There in hiding, sailing ships, worth all of ten cents
There to sail seas of copper, with beavers swimming around too
There also paddles the occasional Moose
There was nothing loony way back then
There became the need, the slot to extend
There is nothing that jar can not buy, given enough time
There is frustration in stores, from people waiting in line behind
There comes delays in counting it all out
There, the realization dawns, that the bank becomes a better option
There, to pool larger, Childhood dreams that would grow
There, from soon to be relocated, as on a high counter I lined up change, rolled in rows
There a maturing portfolio, of that that had outgrown a simple jar
There though was only the journeys end, the jar still was the start
There today still Four thousand five hundred and twenty three dated pennies lay
There sitting still, as growing as I grow still
There only on a blue moon now, another found stray penny to come
There now, mostly nickel and dime-ing along, as lonnies and toones seemed to be immediately re-spent
There until I unscrew the lid in moments of week will
There sitting all these years under my window sill
There cashing in on left over money
There There, my jar of change
There nobly waiting another clink,
There of another new coin, to the bottom to sink

– W.B.


Day 15

Todays Prompt -Write your own dramatic monologue. It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare, of course, but try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker” of your poem, and that could be acted by someone reciting the poem.


What is this world?
When choices are different
Just upon fact of birth
Born either
Boy or girl!
Seems slight
Of hand
To understand
The seeming
To be a man
Across the globe
For young
Or old
Us fems
This fem
Continues to demand
For you
For me
Balance in all things
We be
I hope for those
Still being born
We all can matter
Just the same
Cuz gender discrimination
Remains very lame!

– Katheren

A Moonlight Soliloquy

Tyranny of gravity, will not relinquish its hold on me
Tightly I am held, no matter how I plead!
The night gives me chilly reception, clouds mock me by their very conception, darkness hovers overhead as far as I can see
I know the moon is still there, it’s shifting glow illuminates the blocking clouds from behind as I stare
Slowly melting through to show bare
Gravity draws me, but of another, the tug of the moon, near causes me to swoon

But this blue pearl, and encapsulating clouds that around swirl close in, in a curl, to hold me,
But can not stop tides of torment that rack me from within, as down to this world I find myself unwantedly pinned.
Overhead, in part, the machine of the skies cratered cog, turns without turning, stitching across the woven black fabric of the night sky, pulling from afar as it traverses by.
Stirring the very sea, beneath it to lie. Into a distorting mirror of sky
But across them both I dream to fly, even space to pass by.
And to the moon, in opposition of foul gravity! I must decry
But why this idea, must pull at my eye
I need to make the leap, to the moon, I simply have to try.

There are of course stories of flight, and sunspots icky blight, of, of course Icarus and his last half flight, the story of suns and wings bound of wax, but I’d never pay attention to any warning so lax.

Besides the moon is too cool, to ever fall onto like any old fool
The moon, has me entranced by perfection, even with all its flaws and cracks
Even if someone has already walked there, I still dream of following in their tracks
But gravity, my body down heavily tacks
Unyielding foe, it tries my foolish ways to stow, but onto that monochromatic sphere I feel I must go.
If but gravity would just leave me be, I could, this crusty boundary, flee.
Float across to the moon, would the earth even notice my loss
But over absolutes, and rules, it will simply not gloss
It just has to show me the complexities of whom is the boss

The moon drifts away, to be lost into another day
Yet still with me the pull will still play,
Deep within I feel it lay,
As somewhere it goes to sleep, where ever it must stay
But it still pulls at me all the way.

The moon I wish to tuck in, but the earth will not let me toward it splay
Trapped here under a sky slowly turning an unremarkable gray

The moon fades out, and back in again through overlapping cloud
In quiet breezes of wind, and gusts exhaled loud
Pulling at me all the while in the crowd
soon too far of the horizon to be too proud

I shall beseech, and I shall not just watch as it slips back into its shroud.
But by gravity I shall not, into submission, be cowed.
I shall not accept that it is unbreachable
Unreachable, is not a word I will let bound me
I shall keep trying, until the moon wholly surrounds me

– W.B.


Day 14

Todays prompt -Write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms, or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.


Sin Crony

Bach’s back
Bench pressed
Keyed up
Butt composed
Weighting notes
His bent bee
Oh pus peace’s
Nun Bea
Rocket rolls
Witch bean
Awl eye new
Moor thyme
Fine alley
Eye herd
Grate fingerlings!
Muse sick
Four soothe
Wee classes

– Katheren


The english language, in effect, is greatly about affect.
To muse, bemuse and even amuse.

At first sight one has to cite councils that have long counselled from positions of loose morality and lose objective and subjective perspectives over climactic climatic waves that crash over sites of great battles and arguments of words, sentences and paragraphs, their ability to weave together words to waive all responsibility. To breach through arguments and counter arguments, eyed firmly from a breech.

Evening minute battles, to compose shallow compromise comprise, to digest, and digress of overly long digests. settled in less than a minute in late evening .

It complements by compliment where it assumes to presume bizarre facts that come to bear, laid bare, as if some odd bazaar duel between dual meanings that faze at every phase. Formally formerly formidable formative words, to honed statutes back home, of noble figures honoured in statue, as some sort of naval bust, oddly just from the navel up, to practical practicable peaks to peek at, while not succumbing to parody, or pique of the lack of parity.

– W.B.


Day 13

Todays Prompt -Write a poem about something mysterious and spooky!
Your poem could be about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive.


Eye Twitch

At birth
So tall
So fair
Completely unaware
One day
Calm lake
Single look
My ‘Clan’
I ran
But alas
Spell cast
1000 years
Since passed
2 worlds
Mean lumped
Tears clumped
I jumped
Oh fooled!
Back the trail
I followed
Truth swallowed
Heart hollowed
Soon entered
Forest deep
I knew the way
Slowly return
Tho stomach turned
Here at least
I am known
Full grown
I will teach
High reach
For Human
To stop stealing
From each other
‘Hello Mother’

– Katheren


A Number of Spooky Horrors

An unknown horror sits inside…
Held fast within, but only by two staples…
Many boxes,
Some eerily highlighted!
Lines strung between some of them
I think to trip you up
carefully you try to figure it out…
Almost otherworldly, the strange language
Incomplete, full of gaps that make it difficult, if not impossible to read outright.
Eerie floating numbers punctuate the mystery.

Even more mysterious instructions offer no further help,
a creepy crinkling sound as you turn the pages.

Flipping back and forth, the numbers change before your eyes
Disbelief grows…
A cold shiver raises in your spine as the number again higher goes
Spilling over, box after box changes before your very eyes
In motion, varying still.
BAT LIKE FLUTTERING!, suddenly takes flight, spills out, caught by the light!
You futilely give chase, only to loose it as it lands somewhere just out of reach under the back of the couch
TOO many unknowns there to go after it?… But it must be caught!
You can not let it escape, or it will bring Doom!
So you circle the room, trying to find it’s hiding place,
But alas, it stays concealed, mysterious enigma, perhaps redundant, maybe no longer needed!…
it has no way out, as you stand guard over its only escape Route, but it’s location still not revealed

Of defence, to the last line, without it, you have little.
The vast lines of evil within,
plotting escape, at your expense.

Trapped! the hidden trigger, or perhaps it will be caught and bring salvation.
Found finally under the coffee table, discovery bring momentary elation.

A last, T4,
To slot into a box on line 3314 (or some other number you’ve come, by repetition, to deplore), but certainly not one to ignore!
For there is nothing more Spooky and Mysterious, to bring shadows of grey to the fore
than a tax package,… filled with red tape to the core!

But will it bring a good end or evil, I wont know till over far more numbers I pour!
over all the unknown, mysterious things it still has in store.

– W.B.


Day 12

Today prompt -Write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it. Alternatively, what would it mean to you to give away or destroy a significant object?


Soapstone or Granite

How faithful
So common
So seldom noticed
Tattered and
Old now
Only some random
Doctor cares!
Looks in and checks
Much more often
Then I
God given
Felt it grow large
Other times shriven
It was home
Before each
Is ever, even born
Given away
So faithful
Ever grateful
This journey
Of my heart
From finish to start!

– Katheren

A plain thing, worn Matt

I’m not even sure what it was,.. or is
In it’s simplest sense it was garbage,
But, chance, I came upon it
so I guess I could also call it lucky.

Carefully machined, the ribs and lines catch the light,
Bolt holes and pins, though I do not understand it’s ins,.. nor outs
I can see its long history through wear marks and nicks.

I envision it’s rhythmic operation, its rhythm, like an old song pulsing
It could be a paper weight, or door stop
yet it is neither of those things.

It sits in a corner, Casting shadows
This part of a part of a former thing

We all have our broken pieces
and the things we have worn through.

Its a dull thing, a worn piece of metal
Found scrapped, in an oily rag wrapped

it is a mystery,
a commitment to some operation, I shall probably never know or understand
Designed, refined, machined, cleaned, maintained.
Each detail, a function?
a supporting feature of another bit?
Mounted outside, or deep inside to sit?

it is a worn dull thing, hard worn with use and age.
Ground down in places, where time has taken its tole
seemingly uninteresting in its whole
but it no doubt has it’s individual story out to roll

And don’t you just have to love all that!

– W.B.


Day 11

Todays Prompt -Write a poem of origin. Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots. Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers and dust disappearing down an unpaved road. And having come from there, where are you now?


Land of Freedom

My country is a symbol
For all:
Good and true
But underneath the shiny gloss
Runs deeply through
No where seems safe
Village,city, town
True justice seldom found
Many work to lift
To build
To stand
Reach for policy,laws
Yearn across our country
Rights and equality
Much more healthier lands
First Peoples suffer most
Others not far behind
One by one
We rise- we rise
Hope eternal shines
From peoples eyes
Soon -soon
Working truth
May we all find!

– Katheren


Multi plane

Two buildings, another slotted between
On the hill side. By things downhill slide.
Brick building, stucco, Laundry line between strung,
the balance hangs,weighted, to one side to lean
The small windows from past behind between.

All life runs down hill
to water, to laundry, to practical things.
All life climbs mountains,
to lay foundations, of villages higher up.
Rivers and Oceans to cross, new beaches across to mill
beachheads to rally, to new views uphill

In forests, across vast grassy fields,
Dotted by tiny trees, life, you can wrap your fingers around.
Cool shadows and ferns. In time, of limitless imaginations, a possibility burns
Of other far away seas, Expanding under blue clouded skies, plowing, shadowing growing fields.

Two houses, another slotted between, of green grass and a view, a scene.
A marbled pool in the back, far from here, other side, mountain set, foot of stream
All water comes to one, to fill pools, or just drink, and water crops.
Milking in rewards of travel and hard work past, unseen

Drive back to the shore
commute, Traffic lights to dispute
Yet one lives conveniently, just blocks from the store
in flat land, built up. Instabilities, built up to shore

Of memories of other tiny tree dotted expanses, life, you could wrap your fingers around.
Now overgrown, and getting cut down.
Changing faces, of remembered old places, cutting down to build up
it is never the same town, as you look around.

But of all the places they have been, the balance hangs, weighted, to one side to lean.
All life climbs mountains, In forests, across vast grassy fields,
milking in rewards of travel and hard work past, unseen, in flat land, built up. Instabilities, built up to shore
It is never the same town, as you look around. As back over the edge to look back you lean…

This is the past, with it’s angled planes, this is where I have been
This is where they came from,
this used to be the scene
I am still in me, a part of everything that they had ever been….

If none of this helps you, try to find photos, mountains and valleys of old,
old foundations, tree forts and foot paths, that lead to places more bold
From far away places, and hand build spaces,
in shadows cast of bright shining lights, of lanterns tarnished and old.

– W.B.


Day 10

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon. You may remember one from growing up.


Fishing for a Chinook

I tire of the wet winds treading around me
the cold ones deflate my soul
Turning, the storm drives again under eaves, pelts the windows

For the clouds are fluffy white,
the cold rain drops are blue.
One comes from the other,
but the meteorologists don’t seem to have a clue!

It was supposed to be a very nice day out Eh…
that means rain, just aboot the time you get outside.

But stereotypical Canadian weather never keeps us in doors
even when it just outright pours.

But some days I want to escape from drizzle,
leave the streams of cold rain, and in sun somewhere sizzle

Perhaps I should take a ride, go up to the mountain side,
on the oft chance that down, a Chinook may slide.

A warm wind to dry, and towards an end of cold, damp, winter guide.
Net that better weather, that about, that forecaster lied!

It’s either that, or sit here overcast on the window sill still, and for spring wait my time to bide…

Or just get on and go aboot my Business, in the fishy weather outside

– W.B.


Cat’s and dogs

Off the roof
They did fall
Unto the ground below
What they were doing
Up there anyway
Perhaps we’ll never

Tales of old
Roofs were thatched
A place to keep
Small critters warm
It all became
Weather turned
To storm

Frogs,snakes and fish
Have also fell
From a golden sky
Scooped up by chance
Mother Natures hand
Like a terrible
Ne’er do well!

I carry an umbrella
For one never knows
What the sky
Might drop on us
Other then
Rain or snow!

– Katheren


Day 09

Todays prompt for the day asks you to engage in another kind of cross-cultural exercise, as it is inspired by the work of Sei Shonagon, a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings, including lists with titles like “Things That Have Lost Their Power,” “Adorable Things,” and “Things That Make Your Heart Beat Faster.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.” What things? Well, that’s for you to decide!


> Morning Joys

Waking slow
So warm
Smell of pre-set coffee
Bird song
Whether or not
Sun creeping
Over the rise
Greet the new day


> Dislikes unavoidable

Meeting bitter angry folks
Spewed views
Oh those damned teenagers!
Discourse on addicts
Bomb this area
Let them all die!
The whole world is terrible
Judgment, judgment
From glass houses!


> Happy times

Meetings with friends
Artwork and poetry
Good food
Lovingly prepared
Bargains and discounts
Start the car!
New movies
Neighborhood children
Playing outside
Hopscotch and laughter
Calls from family
Good news
We can share


– Katheren



The new life of a pillow book

Lists of change, dated elements in need of change, or things oft to be stuck with unchanging
The start of a new season, or day 9 of a journey to unknown results. The retouching of things, the recollections of things you wish to remember as depicted

Things to clean up after
-Marigolds, beloved racing pony
-The dog, it’s not my dog, but the dog that seems to think this is his front yard!
-Uncle Bob, and the trail of muddy tread marks, from a lawns edge that he didn’t feel a need to stay of
-a bed of tulips, that used to sit at the edge of the lawn…
– years of neglect

The rewards of an empty space, just cleaned
– a newly turned flower bed, it’s black compost waiting for seeds, smelling of earth
– a shiny shovel just hosed off, and the old wood grain of its ash handle
– a clean shed, freshly emptied of things , as all its contents are scattered about the yard for the season
– a taped room, trim tucked under a band of masking tape, waiting

The following of a ladder, in the picking up of small things knocked over

One forgets how many things one owns, or to what degree one cares for them until they become under threat. Dotting counter tops, shelves and niches that you forget to even notice in the course of everyday life, imperilled by first and last rungs most particularly, as when carrying a ladder one can only pay attention to one end at a time in transit.
The swiftness of action and lightening fast reflexes is a testament to the human machine. A fast ranking in aftermath of the durability of items you have come to collect, and prioritization of relocation to safer spots before the ladder make a return journey later.

New colours to paint things, and contrasts of trim
-A fire engine red
-Cobalt blue
-The colour of a seagull’s beak, and the futile attempts to describe that colour
-Shadow line of dark grey under, to bring a colour to fore
-That left over can from… something, I mean it’s here, it’s only half full, so it had to be from something…
-Large wooden planter, brightly painted in three coats to stand up to the weather, and possibly Uncle Bob’s bumper, if still not seen.

Stinking stench of solvent

Even when not used, its the brilliance of man, and his eventually coming up with low odour paint, the strange bit of memory that still make you smell it when cleaning brushes after all these years still… The quarter jug of thinner, still in the garage, even though you never use it anymore for anything… just in case… only to be found to be dry.. when finally found that is. The mystery of why, as you don’t need it, as the paint cleans up with soap and water…?

Rows of pictures that refuse to hang straight

-Scratching freshly painted walls with their sharp corners in trying to get them to obediently set onto hooks
– each a degree off each way to the opposite side from level as you shift them
– beloved Marigold, giving you the eye, framed
-painting of flowers, leaning in the wind, well I could claim, if not for the canted frame
-equally canted family in the photo, or at least some of them
– the arm of uncle Bob, not all of a family fits into a frame you know

Seven items taken off a shelf, yet only five of them fit back on….

-the lack of recollection of what order they had been in before,
-realization that if you can’t remember, it really can’t make all that much of a difference
-dawning afterwards of the reason why it made a difference, and that you don’t have time to rearrange everything again
-the misplacing of the last two items when you finally think of a good place to put them
– the eighth item that might have been on that shelf, but you instead just now threw to spook that dog off your newly planted flowerbed before getting down to business.

Life is far more boring in its whole, than the minutia of its anarchic parts
the messy bits, and things that stink, but you just have to do to make the whole thing sing.

– W.B.


====================================================Day 08

Todays prompt – I’d like to challenge you to think about the argot of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem.


$2.00 Maximum Bet

Casino Blues
Black Jack
Merely a worker
The ‘pit boss’ though
All up-town!!
Strutting like a crow
A wheeler and dealer
At times we see
That long nose grow!
More like a penguin
Dressed black
Builds self up
No matter the fight
Like one who
Owns the joint!
So sure it is their
We all playing with
Tells me I must
In emergency
Cover the dough
Not worry about
To Me
Are you crazy!
These rules
Seem shady
Next I worked
In a cafe
Oh the Chef’s!!
Too proud!
I need self employment
Don’t do well
In these crowds!

– Katheren
Station Cat: Similarly, the ‘Station Cat’ is the officer who wanders around preening themselves like an arrogant tomcat, finding any excuse possible to avoid work


Wholly Sidelined

In the path of life,
navigating, rather than preferred avoidance, of strife.
Unless hiding in the hole.
Waiting for the crackle of a radio, waiting to be told to go,
There is only forward, there is no point in going back.

But what of standing still in the hole?
Head down, I stay on track,
red board sat upon,
until opposing has gone.

The black cloud comes,
Slowly creeping across the horizon.
It comes, hovers overhead, passes on,
a clacking thunder rolls by as a storm,
Gathering speed and intensity,
shakes the ground.

I look on for a sign
The storm can not last forever…,
though it seems as if it already has.

The sliding of time on the side lines of a siding,
as by another train, and the hands of a clock, endlessly by fling.
Sitting here listening to the idling engine sing,
waiting for a highball to go again riding.

– W.B.

-In the hole: This is a word for the siding where a train waits for another to pass
-Red board: Stop signal
-Highball: Signal made by waving hand or lamp in a high, wide semicircle, meaning “Come ahead” or “Leave town” or “Pick up full speed.”

Day 07

Todays prompt- Write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?



This place remake
Share together
A peaceful world
Fair give
Fair take
Fear never to be known
A planet of love
Food and health
Organic and home grown
Already we have
But we forsake
This natural wealth
All we truly
Need is here
Garden of our time
Miraculously sown!
One day soon
Will our Mother
Reclaim her own
With a Goddesses mirth
Her beautiful earth
Wiser re-set
Re group
Will we start again
End the same?
Begin a new game
Of life
I offer my hand
Out firm
For all to take
As together
We journey
Space time long
At least to know
We hold
Each other
Truly we
Are Sister & Brother
Understanding and true
So hard sometimes
The day and nights
Be lonely
If only I knew
Were my friend
Held me tight as well
Id never need wish
Smile into
The beginning
The end
Love is the
Never release!
Join me Please
Pass the popcorn
Start the show!
Here we go

– Katheren

No thing = Nothing

Of all the things, it was the nothings I loved the best.
The tiny memories from the dark,
in shadows of rocks and trees,
a long burned candle from the bees.

Bared twig, fallen blossom, or tiny things that had gotten comparatively big.
Flit leaf, bit of bark, corner of a paper; creased,
colourful cloth, knotted string,
simple bell to ring.
Paper crane, shell, polished rock. Little gifts found of, to take stock.
No, things to over look, no nothings to be mistook.

Small bits of bigger things, possibly with a slight crook,
sits on shelfs; at ends of stacks of books.
No, no things,
These are a precious gift
into special little places to lift.

Trinkets and bits,
given to make the pulse ping.

Anything, but no thing, more than to make the heart sing,
these are the power of no ordinary things.

– W.B.


Day 06

Todays prompt -write a poem of the possible. What does that mean? poems are squarely focused not on what has happened, or what will happen, but on what might happen if the conditions are right. Today, write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,” of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.



At least 4 archaic
Of classic upright man
Hominid and x
(one we still don’t understand)

If people lived across this earth
Thousands years prior to recorded time
How could we say we Know
We know!
Old journeys
Ancient plans?

Should we make assumptions
Hide away new fossils finds?
DNA is telling tales
New stories
What we thought ‘cavemen’
Archaeology reveals
New glories
Stretching modern minds!

Old majestic ruins
30 k years before
If we could know
Will we know?
Which way our knowledge
Of Our Human History
Is about to go!

– Katheren


If if, possible If

If if was a thing
If If could wish
if if, into action could spring
if if inferred
if if could be summed up by a single word
if if should be sir-ed
if if never became lurid
if if of uncertainty could be cured
If if became iffy
if if became spiffy
if if knew, what would if be willing to go through

If if
If If as I, had sat at the window, watching, instead of leaving to stew
if if as I, had gotten involved, instead of watching it all go by
if if as I, and you had worked it all through
if if as I, might have better imbued

if if had wandered into shrubbery, of twisted shadows and bulbous berries at the dawn of night, to see shifting perspectives in undulating patterns of growth
if if had

If if drew along the tall trunks of shadows, branching into coulds and shoulds rooted in the woods
if if would, dancing across tree tops shading the forest floor

if if had open eyes to see, refused to ignore
if if realized it might have held a key, and somewhere lay a moss covered door
if if stopped being stumped
if if grew on its own, instead of being into groups clumped
if if found that it’s step extended into bound
if if

if, if impossible things were possible, only if

if if, only if, if could cut it’s strings
if if would have, should have, could do incredible things… if….

– W.B.


Day 05

Todays Prompt – Write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way. If you can use two elements, great – and if you can do all three, wow!

The classic villanelle has five three-line stanzas followed by a final, four-line stanza. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternately repeat as the last lines of the following three-line stanzas, before being used as the last two lines of the final quatrain.


I have a Dream.Full stop

I have a Dream.Full stop
To know our distant moon
Shiny suits that come with props?

Van Allen radiation danger belt
Somehow past we must hop
I have a dream.Full stop

Problems leaving orbit post op
Bubbles from the pool
Tethered to that bunny hop?

Space agencies tall tale talks
Jonah and his whale
Quadrillions spent,I balk

Humans investigating like cops
Truth in the end be known
I have a dream.Full stop
What is this place so close to home?

– Katheren


Don’t forget your towel

Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?
This became the baseline for the entire proceedings, short of the last, and final instruction
Don’t Panic

In times when advice was priceless and divisive
one never left anything behind, for fear, of others near, that it might be picked up.
Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?

Diving in, for a few laps in another skin,
you had to make sure to get away before there was nothing left on you that they could pin.
Don’t Panic

For there was a constant refrain, held in the back of ones brain, that there had to be more here to gain
yet flat out, hard as you dare, but reserve enough to stay sane, till the end of the game. Just stay in your own lane.
Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?

In your head, time is away ticking, as at your nose endless waves licking
The dirt to you has surely sticking, waves of panic into, needles and pins pricking
Don’t Panic

Swimming through emotions and maters political, trying to stay somewhat analytical
one needs to wash one’s hands of it to again feel clean, but suddenly realizes one has left ones towel in the machine!
Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?
Don’t Panic


– W.B.


Day 04

Todays Prompt write a sonnet sad poem, but one that achieves sadness through simplicity. Playing with the sonnet form may help you – its very compactness can compel you to be straightforward, using plain, small words.


1980 Helen
Mountain side gave way
Lahar flowed
Experts agreed
All will go
Predictions based on other
Tops that had blown
Loss of life
Homes, bridges
Ohh Cascadia!
800 mile range
California to BC
Modern seismology claims
They are
Ancient but ready
Today we have
Clear blue sky
Mother Nature
Has surprises
Inch by inch
The land up rises
Mere mortals
At her whim
No matter we try!
Will local Baker be next?
It breaths
It has flex
I watch the mountain
Waiting for
The next immense fountain

– Katheren

Gone, the Old Mill Bridge

The old mill bridge closed for good late last year
Gone after memories of a lifetime
that old wooden bridge, bridging water clear
in times of trouble it was a lifeline

Weathered wood grain railings held securely
in moments, anxiety or despair
a place I thought alway around, surely
but now it’s torn down, and no longer there

Unburdened, empty stone abutments sit
The void reflected in my empty heart
of abandoned feelings that will not knit
across two banks forever held apart

I will not walk the old mill bridge again
the empty echoing footfalls refrain

– W.B.


Day 03

Today’s prompt (optional as always) – Write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time. Perhaps, as you do, you can focus on imagery, or sound, or emotional content (or all three!)


Elixir of Life

20,405 days
I begin
Child like plays
Watch cartoons
Listen bedtime stories
Enjoy my days
Let go
My worries
Giggle unstopping
Life is just
Room now for
What I could
Do then
Safe now
In neighborhood
Reclaiming all
Standing tall
Fun times
A hopping!
Overcoming a life hateful
Blessed now
I am grateful

– Katheren

Of the many stops between here and Willoughby

There are many stops, between here and Willoughby
that I have yet, in depth to see

There are few stops, the middle of the line
None worth stopping at at any rate
Half the morning, clacked away
Trying to sleep, as sleepers chatted by
the whispering of rails bedded, ballasted by crushed stone
none with anything to say, but for a dull hum
a hum and a clacking, like a clearing of the throat as if waiting,
pausing before something important.
The small violets, peeking out in passing,
flashes of colour too soon gone to comment on perhaps
A sale in a glass paned window
the last item sold, rumbles by, the carriage shakes
Shadows hide, shift out of sight
Sales come and go
Violets, … Violets sprinkle themselves thinly
Dainty, special, defused through the country side,
Clustering in small pockets
As if in groups, running to catch a train
Desperate to escape here
here and there, waiting
un-dissuade by lateness.

The tic-tock of sleepers, passed over
a clock like metronome, lulling on sleep
to slowly fall behind, again the engine sighs
Yawns out, falls off it’s time table.
Wanting to rest, by pillow like moss peeked outcroppings,
Climbing into rail beds cut into mountains,
the climb onwards tires.

Weary, the end of the middle passes behind
Junctions, shifting paths to navigate.
Chipping of china, clatters travels onward from the dining car
preparing for the oncoming night.

Lit squares of windows, slowly climb the mountain side
Parts, too cold for Violets, or some with no sense of heights
far below watch the line of square lights chug away,
A station name, I never bother to recall, on to call
Pause, wait for seeming nothing, before waiting no more
This, ahead we drive for, again several station for

I have seen it all, traversed similar before,
all the stations in the middle seem a bore.
Yet of the end of the line, I have no idea whats in store,
as somewhere a well dress conductor starts to snore.

Top of the mountain, and down again
with the unbroken sound of a tired engine’s yawning refrain.
I shall perhaps not see Willoughby
Last on the line,
at least as far as I am going, in my time.
But where ever I get off, until, I shall lazily recline,
until jostled and tussled on my way across the line
Marking the dim sight, of the next station sign….
It’s not to be Willoughby, says the faded white lettering, half covered in vine.

– W.B.


Day 02

Today’s prompt – Write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.



Just a frequency
You and me?
Self aware
Inter dimensional
Is where?
Breath & bones
A bonus?
Questions re
Future & of
Do you have answers
Our great mystery
All of us
One day
Shall see!
Will we?

– Katheren


Where the box flaps fold in?

In corrugations of brown
Is it the ridges that show, or the depressions between?

Running around the corners
darting in circles
Beginning to beginning
End to end?
Is the joint where it starts, or where it ends?

Depth folds into height
Darkest corners open to light?

Can you feel it, if it doesn’t feel right?
Has someone already opened, peeked inside, your parcel tonight?

– W.B.



Day01 – NaPoWriMO 2019

Todays prompt -Write a poem that provides the reader with instructions on how to do something. It can be a sort of recipe. Or you could try to play on the notorious unreliability of instructional manuals (if you’ve ever tried to put IKEA furniture together, you know what I mean). You could even write a dis-instruction poem, that tells the reader how not to do something.



Say nothing
That means anything
Make it all
Speak Cardashian
Clothes and travel
Shh about truth
Don’t let
Mirages unravel
Cute puppies
Save my cat
Don’t look
Don’t see
Not sure I
To be ‘part of’

– Katheren

Check Telescope

I have fallen so far behind, and so laggard
and it is only the beginning of time
there is a whole universe of night to stretch before me
one step at a time, to check

Simple eye piece, -Check

it’s all so simple
a view to such complexity, -Check
seemingly over simplified –
in near black and white -Check

Dark night sprawls out before me -Check
Sun just having finally moved far enough -Check
it’s streaks of grey fallen from the sky -Check

knobs and angles, tilt -Check
and yet…

Space and time, do not before me unwind
I am left with just blackness in kind

of constellations I am blind
all the night sky, from a box
but right now its all a bit too much to ply
as nothing come to focus before my eye
dusk cap off -Check
right way up to detect -Check
No new images to my brain to inject,… sadly -Check.

My telescope, the sky will not court,
instructions read, as matter of last resort,
seeking solution to import.

Even as with clouds I try to comport
yet, despite the checklist, no success to report

– W.B.


Day Zero warm up! And HERE ( NaPoWriMo ) we go
National Poetry month for 2019.
Cedar Bark Poets writing


Day 00 -Early-bird prompt

Todays challenge -to write a poetic self-portrait. And specifically, we’d like you to write a poem in which you portray yourself in the guise of a historical or mythical figure

My pogo like spring away from limelight

In unseen photos, Near unseen
Trapped in glare, of overexposure
Lapped by the shadow of wave
Pin behind, half out of frame

Capped by obscuring branch
din of camera, tips off
Shin, I turn on to evade the frame
Clapped, nearly by shutters late snap

Grin, missed, away into grainy grey
Mapped off, cropped
Gapped too far to fit in
Spin down to cutting room floor

Apt alterations, can not restore
Binned photos, to be ignored
Wind blows elusively
Dapped, caught dapple evidence flawed at the core

Thinned, Proof lacking
Sapped, Ogopogo like photos
Tapped too fast to be certain
Tin, tinted glare, was there any anything there?….

– W.B.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *