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    Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 251

    Categories: Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

    For today’s prompt, write an elsewhere poem. Maybe elsewhere is a physical place–like Ohio instead of Georgia. Maybe elsewhere is a season–like summer instead of winter. Maybe elsewhere is a state of mind–like happy instead of depressed. Whatever your elsewhere write it today (and through the week).

    Here’s my attempt at an elsewhere poem:


    Maybe it’s the pralines or mossy oak trees,
    maybe the ghost stories and mystery,
    or maybe the ocean air covering everything,
    but when I get down and out and need a break,
    you’re the destination I want to take.


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    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer

    Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems, which is filled with elsewhere poems (hopefully better than his attempt this morning). If you’re in the neighborhood, check him out in the upcoming months reading and signing books in Seattle (for AWP), Hickory (NC), and Austin (for AIPF). He’s married to the poet Tammy Foster Brewer, who helps him keep track of their five little poets. Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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    About Robert Lee Brewer

    Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

    122 Responses to Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 251

    1. veronica_gurlie says:

      My trip to Atlanta Georgia

      You call it love,
      from the glow, the warm, the sunny kiss,
      the rhythm, the song, the bliss.
      I call it living; peace in the shade
      perfect, except the dangerous highways.

    2. lddillard says:


      I wanna be cruisin the strip,

      watch the lights blur by on either side

      drivin blind

      not knowin where I’m goin

      just feelin the sensation.

      I wanna be strokin in the ocean

      muscles screaming for oxygen

      salt in my face, goin no place

      but forward.


      out of the place I’m stuck in

      on to a new day, Oh somehow

      lookin for a new way to be


      I wanna be screamin down a mountain

      bitter cold air bitin’ me

      hittin bumps at full throttle

      think I oughta slow down but no

      I gotta keep movin forward.

      If I’m not movin forward

      I’m either standing still or moving back

      That ain’t gonna cut it,

      can’t hack it, gonna crack

      If I’m not moving forward.


      1-10-05…. 4:15 pm

    3. IT’S IN THE AIR

      In the winter park, an empty picnic table
      beside the lake. A picnic draws lightning,
      you say simply, out-of-the-blue. I imagine
      chardonnay – a bottle and two glasses.
      But in this year of drought, the vineyards
      are gnarled and leafless, land laid out
      in dead-calm grandeur of the sober line,
      the dry-pen sketch; unadorned gallery
      of taupe.
      That’s no color at all,
      you say. That’s why we need lightning.
      The lake’s so low. Yet,
      even as you speak, the water starts
      to pulsate from its shallow
      Or is that sky, about to cloud?
      How I want
      to believe your lightning.

    4. LexiFlint says:

      There is a seaside village
      I can visit in my mind
      anytime I need a break
      from the hustle and bustle of everyday life
      On the shore I hear seagulls
      I feel the warm salty breeze
      against my cheek.
      Walking barefoot
      the cool water splashing my ankles
      the soft wet grainy sand
      squishing between my toes
      Sitting along the edge of the ocean
      watching the sun rise over the crashing waves
      the tide rolling out to lands unknown
      carrying all my anxieties away
      This is the place
      where I can just be me
      not a mom
      not a wife
      not an employee
      as I sit in the sand
      my breathing in rhythm with the ocean waves
      I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving
      into the wind,
      sailing on the wings of the gulls
      out to sea
      following the horizon
      ascending to heaven.
      and God’s waiting ears.

    5. tunesmiff says:

      When it’s ten degrees below freezin’,
      And the temperature’s still goin’ down,
      And I have to go and thaw out my truck,
      Before headin’ my way into town;
      When the frost is on the pumpkin,
      And the pumpkin’s on the table;
      Then I’m headin’ south to the warmth of the beach,
      Just as soon as I am able.


      This is why man
      is not meant to be immortal
      in this world:
      the world passes him by.
      He becomes extinct while still
      breathing. Awash
      in passwords he couldn’t remember,
      electronic updates that wouldn’t
      update his brain, lost
      in the circuitry – at last he’s
      washed up here, stellenboshed
      to this backwater of field
      and rail fences where he can’t
      do damage to the cause
      of socioeconomicpolitical progress;
      pitching hay and mucking
      out stalls, learning the slow
      intricacies of whickers and neighs; where
      he’s never been happier.

    7. Misky says:

      A Walk Down a Dark Alley

      My feet
      keep pace,
      a rapid race
      with my heart,
      a trace
      of fright,
      and I wish myself
      to be elsewhere!

    8. cstewart says:

      There’s a Wonderful Place Called Tomorrow land
      And It’s Only A Day Away…


      Having been an artist all my life
      I sit and write this poem.
      Thinking why I have not painted lately
      Drawn lately, photographed lately.
      And my mind is in the studio as I
      Walk, talk, and go about my business.
      I view the art space in my mind,
      And it calls to me as it always has,
      To my vocation, my dream, my heart.
      The colors, the line, the space,
      Endure as if I just put them down
      An hour ago.
      Nothing is ever lost,
      Nothing is ever done,
      Time passes by and drags
      A brushstroke of cadmium red #2.

    9. lionetravail says:

      The Memory Graveyard

      In neglected corners of my mind,
      where cobwebs now cluster thicker than dead memories,
      the foundations of yesterday,
      crumpled and forgotten today,
      lie moldering, unable to support the fancies of tomorrow.

      Yellowed and faded like rotten lace,
      images of
      ancient, abandoned pain
      forgone, forlorn regrets
      once, carefully stockpiled rue
      lie scattered like the massacred corpses of hopes and dreams.

      Half-formed, half-mad ideas lie decomposing on sterile ground,
      hollow whispers soughing through their skeletal remains.

      Those dusty corners, long-untended,
      are cursed with restless ghosts.
      Long hopes that time would sweep them clean
      and exorcise their inexorable denizens,
      are dashed against the need to walk through them, remembering.

      I think I will let all lie fallow,
      as I have not the strength to carry a broom there,
      let alone pay proper respect to unhallowed dead.
      I will take the coward’s path, for now,
      hoping for the courage to scour the forsaken elsewhere and restore it to some sense of order
      when I again have the promise of new memories worth the housekeeping.

    10. EfrainThePoetK1n9 says:

      Yahualica de Gonzales Gallo

      The roosters crow into the morning air and mix with steam
      swirling up towards the rising sun;
      the smell of Nescafe, and morning dew, and burning wood and shouldering coal are rising with the sun.
      I hear the milk truck play the milkman’s call recorded long ago. The butane truck will be here soon.
      The butane man will play his swoon, an unintelligible rhythmic that hasn’t changed since I was three.
      Pyramids made of bricks still smoke from the fires lit to harden them the night before,
      The smell is a sweet intoxicate.
      I love these mornings.
      Atop the hill I see my city. When I was born, here, the city was half the size and then a town.

    11. Glory says:

      There Goes that Song Again

      how they come and go
      like that old man river’s
      ebb and flow.

      by moonlight I hear its song
      I did it my way
      as it marches on

      becomes you, did you know
      how deep my love
      for you did grow

      kisses, a love so strong
      you keep coming back
      like a song.

    12. PressOn says:

      (apologies to Harold Arlen and E.Y. “Yip” Harburg (Over the Rainbow)

      Elsewhere, under the daybed,
      way down there,
      there’s some dust that’s just waiting to thrust
      up into the air.

      Elsewhere, up on the mantel,
      dust flies too,
      and sunbeams in their slanting streams
      render it in blue.

      Some say that people come from dust
      and when we die all that dust just
      floats down near;
      if that is so the mortal dust
      surrounding us like carbon rust
      once might have lived here.

      Elsewhere, under the daybed,
      someone comes,
      or goes, under the daybed.
      What, oh what then, gives here?

      If happy little specters fly
      under the daybed,
      where, oh where, will I-I-I-I-?

    13. De Jackson says:

      Softer Saints

      We stand in shadow, and you bid a quiet
      where to? like some kind of New York cab

      -bie with laryngitis and a penchant for song.
      But it’s been too long since my toes have

      touched unknown ground, and I’m as lost
      as ever, found only in your gaze. We praise

      the moment in front of us, the step we know
      and wait for the next to appear, but not be

      -fore we must swing our feet out as though
      it’s already there. Other lands await and

      we can feel their breeze and smell their salt,
      but we wonder if these soft cocoons contain

      vivid butterflies or fluttered moths struggling
      toward dark. And really, aren’t both miracles?


    14. pmwanken says:

      (a shadorma)

      Heart and mind
      are not held within
      this body,
      they are found
      elsewhere…in another place,
      held by another.

      P. Wanken

    15. Poetic Discipline

      My mind is elsewhere,
      not on this poem:
      reading a Mary Higgins Clark novel,
      swimming laps in a pool,
      laughing with my sisters,
      walking with my husband,
      in Phoenix with my kids,
      in Alaska riding electric bikes,
      coasting down a mountain in Maui,
      worshiping at church,
      but my body’s in my recliner
      as I tap keys on my laptop
      and look at my screen
      between my cat’s ears.

    16. Jane Shlensky says:

      Feeding Time

      I fill the feeders; it is cold, a wind driving the chill around.
      The air is hollow, echoes sound, the snow buffers the cardinals.
      I wait to see which bird will be the first: it is a chickadee
      who locates food and sends a call that there is seed for one and all.
      He’s dapper, this one, waistcoat, cap, a little scarf, sweet chipper voice,
      spreading the news, two cents, no more, a breakfast buffet is in store.
      Elsewhere, a hawk sits high atop an oak, his vision keen and bright,
      watching for chipmunks, mice, perhaps, or songbirds chirping in the light.

      • PressOn says:

        I enjoyed picturing this. I didn’t even mind the hawk, albeit I hope it was a buteo, not an accipiter. Chickadees are my favorite feeder birds, though you can’t beat a cardinal against the snow.

    17. dford says:

      I especially like “Savannah”, it’s transforming.

    18. dford says:

      Paint by Number Memories

      Each time mother would bring home a paint by number craft, I was elated by its potential. It was as if I were one of the chosen elected to create. The fine, soft-tipped paint brush gently moved amongst the canvas. Each stroke, closer to perfection.

      Although the outcome was clearly displayed atop the box, it didn’t deter. Because somehow mine would be special, a one-of—a kind masterpiece. Unless, or until, the inevitable occurred–someone forgot to close the paint top and reversal was not an option.

      It was going to be my finest, now what I possess is simply incomplete. Though I longed to declare a win; it was not meant to be. I was forced to abandon my brush and canvas, while bowing down, to defeat.


    19. Jane Shlensky says:


      Hibernation counts on spring, floes turned to flows, alive with yes;
      and so I weather snow and ice and grow attached to barren bark,
      while you, down under on a beach, brave scorching sun, and I am warmed.

    20. deringer1 says:


      I know a wonderful place to go.
      We should all go there–it’s free!

      This exciting place is called Elsewhere.
      Please come go there with me.

      All you need is a comfy chair
      and a good book on your knee.

      It’s like a magic carpet ride
      to other places far and wide,

      to worlds that you’ve not seen before
      where you will never find you’re bored.

    21. Heather says:

      awaken the dawn

      she throws her voice in the forest
      little whispers carried across rivers
      tugging at heartstrings,
      earlobes and doldrums.

      she dances in the canopy
      rustling leaves with toes
      stirring sleeping creatures,
      fingering fur and feathers
      until the forest
      drowns out her voice.

      she awakens the dawn
      following the sun,
      affecting the moon
      held elsewhere in the sky.

      Also published at http://heatherbutton.com

    22. Cin5456 says:

      Then and There

      There’s a place where sunshine soothes eyes’ florescent ache
      a place where heels are not high in kicked sand
      where hands hold each other forsaking ink and keys

      There’s a time when slow sun supplants revolving hands
      and tiki shadows cast romance on unsuspecting smiles
      when silver glow abides in colorless hedges until pillows

      There ebb and tide keep count of nothing unimportant
      there chuckles and giggles exchange speech unspoken
      there we meet on a special unanticipated someday

    23. NoBlock says:

      I ponder the idea
      Of a place, a time unlike ours
      Life thriving yes,

      Familiar characters though
      Unseen, unfelt, unheard
      Is it possible, life void of

      Hate, predjudice, fear
      No struggle to overcome
      One another

    24. annell says:

      Writer’s Digest #251 For today’s prompt, write an elsewhere poem.


      Dark before dawn
      Image creeps
      Into my mind
      Like sand pouring
      From one chamber
      Of the hourglass
      To another
      Keeps the when
      It happened
      Not where
      The hourglass
      Makes no predictions

      A map
      Is needed
      Location finder
      The where
      Takes form
      Into focus
      No windows
      No doors
      No escape

      Chocolate chips
      Gathered into
      My pocket
      Search for answers
      Consult old books
      With tattered covers
      Smell of mold
      Chew the bindings
      Talk with friends
      Old and new

      Everything changes
      In a second
      How much am I
      Willing to give
      I am nowhere
      I am here
      The answers slowly
      Reveal themselves

    25. julie e. says:


      I held them close, those little babes,
      when other arms could not
      and walked them ‘round in circles
      till the dawn
      I fell in love every time
      and gazed into each face
      and laughed and talked and smiled
      till they went “home”
      sometimes to moms, sometimes to aunts
      and some to strangers who
      held them tight as if born
      of their wombs
      I held you close, my little babes,
      and think of you still now
      wondering where you are,
      and still I pray.

    26. snuzcook says:

      I opened one eye.
      My clock stared back like a face in the mirror.
      It scolded me with places to be and things to do.
      I closed both eyes, comfy.
      I dreamt of places I could be, things I could do.
      An hour later,
      the clock glared at me again, on the cusp of late.
      I had a choice: be here or be there.
      The clock’s insistent metronome
      Demanded my decision.
      I closed my eyes.

    27. priyajane says:

      Elsewhere exists for real, in my head
      A phantom, in my opera of life
      Like a shadow tugging me from behind
      Or a floater fluttering from within my lashes
      I haven’t really paid much attention to it
      I just know that it’s there, somewhere
      Just not here, now—

    28. Direction

      I will not look
      at you, your sadness
      pooling in your eyes.
      I will look at the ocean,
      sun streaking water blue
      to green, to turquoise.
      I will not be pulled
      down into that black
      hole where you choose
      to live, like a mole,
      all pleasure passing
      you by like a ship
      in the night, that might
      have been a lifesaver,
      if you had only reached
      out for it. No. I will look
      in places where beauty
      blooms, faces are soft,
      and life is lived.

    29. seingraham says:


      Lately, every time I go on-line,
      every time I open a new site,
      or someone posts some new link,
      I really wish I could be anywhere
      but where I am…
      Just…elsewhere, you know?

      There are these photos of obviously
      wealthy men (and if it isn’t obvious by
      their clothes and grooming; they tell you
      in the captions just how very well-off
      these decadent sorts are)…slumped
      recklessly in a canvas-backed chair…
      At first glance, it almost looks as if the
      man with the perfectly coiffed silver hair
      might be just stroking a large male lion…

      But there’s something off about the lion
      And it doesn’t take long to discover
      he’s been skinned, he’s dead —
      and then further reading leads to the
      abysmal fact that he’s just one of many
      that was raised specifically to be “hunted”
      down and slain for this man’s pleasure
      (or another just like him).

      Of course, lions are just one large game
      species that fit the bill for this abhorrent
      practise…and this, this is legal and above
      board…it’s all about the money.
      What isn’t legal but still goes on at an alarming
      rate, is poaching – rhinos, elephants, tigers -
      you name it; if it’s becoming extinct…it’s
      still being poached.
      Of course some animals are already gone,
      hunted or poached into extinction — they’re,
      I guess you could say…already elsewhere.

      Enough of that, on to the next big thing
      in my notifications…
      What’s this? Parents are filing an appeal to
      keep from being put on trial for killing
      their daughter…
      This would be their infant daughter that
      starved to death after being beaten and neglected.
      She was a twin, and her sister narrowly avoided
      the same fate as she was just a tiny bit stronger.
      Her brother, on the other hand, thrived in
      that household.
      I don’t hold any of this against the boy…he’s not
      responsible for the actions of his parents.
      They though, are very much responsible, for everything.
      Every time I hear another development in this
      story, I either want to kill one of them, or both
      Or, as say, I wish to be elsewhere…

      There are many things in my life that make me
      glad I am not anywhere but right here
      But there are those things…there are some…
      Yeah…the elsewhere things…I could write a book.

    30. Not Right Now

      “I know all about it, so you don’t have to shout it
      I’m gonna straighten it out somehow” – “Miss Ohio” by Gillian Welch

      Because when I drive I-75 south
      sash across neck and spiked heel
      on a pedal and the rag-top’s down
      because it’s broken but I’m claiming
      the wind makes me feel sexy.
      All I really wanna do
      is stop at a Steak-and-Shake
      in Lexington or Chattanooga, god, even
      Oak Ridge, pick at the ketchup beneath my
      chipped nails only after I’ve finished
      the cheeseburger and fries
      Mamma told me I shouldn’t eat.
      I didn’t for weeks, did I?
      Crown me with rhinestones, baby,
      and I’ll smile like it’s worth it
      and drive you down south
      in the spring where everyone
      pretends it’s warm and easy.
      They said that about me
      but didn’t look close enough,
      did they, at the goose bumps
      on my arms and the running
      in my eye sockets. Write a
      song about me and call me
      country. Because all the ones about
      the road sound the same.

    31. Julieann says:

      Without You

      Sun of gold
      Sky of blue
      I am lonesome
      Without you

      Your arms I miss
      Your smile, too
      Tears I shed
      In memory of you

      Love’s as fragile
      As the morning’s dew
      Weeping and misty
      Morning you

      I traveled the globe
      For someone new
      No one I’ve met
      Compares with you

    32. Damn Cold Right Outside My Door

      Outside, it turned colder,
      colder still because of the coming night.
      The nights here, like the days, were full of snow
      and darker ice.
      But, somewhere, elsewhere, my wife,
      and life, are waiting, not patiently.


    33. RJ Clarken says:

      Intelligent Life Elsewhere in the Universe

      “Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us.” ~Bill Watterson, Calvin & Hobbes

      I think intelligence exists,
      not just on earth, but elsewhere, too,
      ‘cause otherwise, heck, we’re alone.

      I get the alien-ish twists,
      but couldn’t they have gotten through
      or is this just some space postpone?

      They’re prob’ly in the Pluto mists,
      especially since we withdrew
      this planet as a planet. (Groan.)

      This ‘uncontacted’ thought persists
      which is my elsewhere world; my view
      of what we call the great unknown.

      I admit this all is knotty.
      Time to beam me up, please, Scotty.


    34. GHOST TOWN

      My gas gauge slipped toward empty
      on the long, deserted, dead-end road. But
      we had a tail-wind. We got there.
      Gas-pump petrified in time. A winter
      wind down bare hills, through the boarded
      town. I hoped for a bit of magic here,
      of mystery – but there wasn’t a soul,
      at least none with a body. In what was left
      of a storefront window, an ancient doll,
      quite dead; and a small, moving
      image. A girl? Then gone. My dog pulled
      me the other way, up winter-bare
      hard into the wind. At hilltop she stopped,
      sniffed, taking in whole histories
      of scent. A shadow passed across
      the opposite hill; a man? Bent against
      wind, in tattered coat the color of earth.
      He beckoned or was it wind in my
      eye, sun-glare? Gone. Winter-sun-sparkle
      like precious metals scattered on dirt
      or buried for the digging. Those whispers
      were wind; they held stories, every
      one with an ending. The road out of town.
      My gas gauge magically not yet empty.

    35. lionetravail says:

      Business Trip

      The blue of the sky, and green of this land,
      Are not my greens and blues, no.

      Familiar, but alien,
      they approximate those which color my world
      in the way a dreamed romance-
      mysterious, exotic, and evocative-
      pales beside our reality.

      My greens, I am certain, are more emerald,
      and radiant with health and growth.
      My sky- cerulean and vivid-
      is warmer and softer
      than the empty blue above me now.

      It seems that the watercolors of my memory must be sharper,
      more tangible, somehow, than what I see on the palette before me.
      I wonder if it is the work of the artist, this beauty,
      Or, instead, merely the perception of this beholder.

      Or perhaps, instead, it is you,
      so intensely present on the canvas of my mind,
      who gives the blues and greens their definition.

      And, when I am so far away
      this dull sky and these meaningless leaves
      offer no distraction from thoughts of you.

    36. Clae says:

      Girl from Elsewhere

      She sits alone on the white sand beach
      pristine, isolate, serene.
      Watches the crystal shells wash up
      from a jasmine scented sea.

      She sits alone in a coral garden
      Peach blossoms drift down
      Meet raindrops in the fairy fountain
      Splash softly scented sounds

      Branches droop with oranges,
      star-fruit, apples on the tree
      that grows alone among the coral
      enchanted garden by the sea.

      She sits alone beneath the moonlight
      remembers the nights of elsewhere
      Folds herself deep in a warm salt breeze
      She sits alone among the flowers
      remembers the fires of elsewhere
      wonders if anyone else was freed

    37. julie e. says:

      I actually wrote this about all the “invisible” illnesses people suffer from, the kind where others tell us, “but you don’t LOOK sick.” Mental, physical, emotional.

      I rise easily
      and s t r e t c h,
      my face to sun
      Then sit
      to tie my shoes and
      since I can,
      go out and run
      I bound
      lighter than the air
      I breathe
      my legs reach long
      the day
      is a melody
      my body
      is the day’s song

      when I close my eyes
      the light
      within me glows
      and free
      of encumbrance
      in my
      body, heart, soul


    38. elishevasmom says:


      Where do I want to be?
      Not here.
      Just about anywhere
      but here.
      Just somewhere
      where the word
      does not exist.
      Just somewhere
      where that word
      would hold
      no meaning.
      Just about anywhere
      but here.

      Ellen Evans 1.22.14
      an “elsewhere” poem.

    39. Where The Air is Warm

      and the bluebird sings,
      toes caressed by grass.

      A child laughs
      and bubbles float,
      a butterfly on my knee.

      The warmth of sun kissed skin
      and nature’s cologne,
      mingling with the trees.

      Where the air is warm
      and arctic air
      is just a memory.

    40. writinglife16 says:

      Could’ve been elseswhere

      I could have been
      Perhaps at home, watching t.v.
      or pretending to read.
      But I was sitting by his bedside.
      Watching the machines work.
      Beeping and ringing and clanging.

      I could have been
      Sitting at the ball game and
      Eating peanuts.
      But I was sitting by his bedside
      remembering that that was something
      we used to do.

      I could have been
      But I didn’t want to be.

    41. bclay says:

      Different Stars

      If I could type asterisks for asterisms
      and we could be there, any else where,
      underneath a light of different stars,
      in nebulaes and foreign clusters,
      walking barefoot on other worlds or
      on spacestations around black holes,
      all of it would not feel as so lonely,
      as long as we were not apart.

    42. Ann M says:


      On the state highway
      past Albany,
      we pass the prison,
      a long concrete hull
      in a ring of wire,
      like a ship without sails
      dug into a ledge
      with granite chips.
      It was a mine, cracked open
      and long abandoned,
      you say.
      And you say the prisoners
      are from downstate,
      miles and hours away
      from this forsaken place.
      The buses don’t come here.
      Not for 10 or 20
      or 50 years.
      Not for never.
      I grip the wheel.
      The highway
      rises and swoons
      along vast snowfields,
      beneath a rising moon
      cut from the frozen sky
      and over a river
      rushing under ice,
      glad to be moving,
      moving on.
      I press the gas.
      The pavement is slippery
      and the curves,

    43. PowerUnit says:

      An old Hot Wheels car lays in the dirt
      Expelled by the thawing ice
      Shot up the track in slow motion
      From its launching a decade and a half ago
      Where he used to play
      Miles of separation
      The physical realities of independence
      Maturity and physical degradation
      His real car is not in much better condition
      But it has tires, and it runs without little hands pushing it
      All I can do is use my words, from afar
      And praise him
      For moving forward
      Down his slippery track

    44. Xandri says:


      Home, where Home used to be,
      Minute distance from pearly seas.
      Ships pass by day, perhaps by night!
      Fishes shimmer in the Morning Light.
      Touching my sweet soul to jest,
      On the fulsome rise of the robin’s breast.
      That place where in sure peace I find,
      The generous give of my home land.

    45. Elsewhere

      While you were elsewhere—
      nursing the sick child,
      failing to crank your car,
      stubborn in the cold,
      rolling over for forty winks
      more, trying to snare
      the tail end of your dream,
      we did not sit waiting,
      wondering where you were.
      The repartee witty, talk
      more stimulating
      than caffeine. A song
      playing in the next room,
      might have reminded us
      of you, but no one stopped
      to speak your name
      since you—by choice
      or fate—were elsewhere.

    46. PKP says:


      Oh Elsewhere
      ring in the clamor
      of castles ….
      sweeping trains
      cross marbled floors
      turrets, banners
      moats and the like
      as one lone princess
      with pounding imprisoned
      passion constrained
      stands above looking
      out to rolling sea and
      ponders all philosophically
      in the vast lands of

    47. PressOn says:

      NO, NOT ME (Based on Aura Lea)

      When the black cat hunched to spring `neath the willow tree
      wrentit in the tree took wing, singing, “No, not me.
      No, not me; no, not me; you can crouch all day
      till your claws turn to jelly and your fur turns grey.”

      Cat, go flee; cat, go flee; find your prey elsewhere;
      you will eat, but no, not me, that’s my fervent prayer.

      Then the cat looked all around `neath that willow tree
      till he heard a squeaky sound chirping fitfully:
      “No, not me; no, not me; leave us voles alone;
      we are not fair game for thee, and we taste like stone.”

      But the cat said to the vole, “You are quite a treat;
      I will eat most all of thee, save thy dirty feet.”
      Then he launched into the air, toward that wisp of sound
      till he landed gracefully on the barren ground.

      Cat, go flee; cat, go flee; find your prey elsewhere.
      You will eat, but no, not me, Go, and chew on air.

    48. PKP says:

      Else Where?

      Grass grows always greener
      Romance, riches, lifestyle
      Even dancing more rhythmic
      Some say and still
      Here in delicious contentment
      I snuggle in my burrowed place
      No void I need to elsewhere search to fill

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