#april pad

[the-pinetree-poet]

2025 APRIL POEM-A-DAY CHALLENGE: DAY 5

AFTER THE STORM © 2025 G. Smith (BMI) =================== After the storm, When the skies have cleared, After the wind and rain and hail, Have all disappeared; After the clean-up, Of the unforeseen mess, Then we will realize, How much we’ve been blessed.

After the storm, After the counting the cost, After we realize, How little we lost, After the clean-up, Of the unforeseen mess, Then we will realized, How much we’ve been blessed.

Oh, the winds may howl and the lightning flash, And the rains pour down and thunder crash, But after the storm and its unforeseen mess, That’s when we realize we’ve been truly blessed.

After the storm, When the power’s back on, And all the branches and damage, Are a longtime gone, After the clean-up Of the unforeseen mess, We will be thankful, That we’ve been truly blessed.

We are so grateful, To have been truly blessed.

[goneahead]

Rain after a long drought. I'm sequestered by a coffee shop window. The flurry and fury of coats and umbrellas, the city's passengers clutching their jobs like tickets, jostling and grumbling at the inconvenience, glaring at the dark promises on the horizon. More rain's coming. I sip my coffee, inhale the scent of thunder and dry earth unfurling, and think of angels. I met an angel once, at least I think I did. A thin man, hands and face of smoked mesquite, wearing gray, battered clothes and a bright, golden smile. He was digging cans out of a dumpster in an alley. Nobody notices angels, just like nobody notices the concrete-shackled ash trees, their pale, thin branches thrown skyward in joyful bliss at each cold drop. More rain's coming. More rain's coming.

@nosebleedclub prompt: petrichor, what form do angels take

apriil pad: city

[omelette-du-collage]

April Poem a Day - 3 April 3rd - 1st cell phone call made in NY 'Greeting like "Hello" Odd language in reply Mumble your goodbye '

[goneahead]

I have an appointment today, with fairy tales. Down at the pond, a leopard frog squints sleeply from its castle of marsh marigolds, while a herd of magical gambusia gallop under the surface. Water-gliders are spinning the gold of sunbeams, and everywhere, knightly dragonflies in bright turqouise armor bow to shimmering damselflies, dressed in spun glass for the ball tonight, when courtly fireflies will dance attendance on an old whiskered king catfish, still enthroned in his submerged log. If I miss your call or don't return your email, please understand that I have an appointment with fairy tales- and I cannot bear to be late.

prompt: appointment

~~~~~

note: Gambusi are those drab little fish tossed into ponds in the south to keep the mosquitoes down. Yes, I absolutely adore gambusi :)

[goneahead]

Captain Joe Byrd Cemetery

No

great men

sleep here. No

men with voices were

ever buried, here, in this plot

of unloved ground. No mourning chant

except the growl of the excavator, cutting another

trench for the season and faintly, the laugh of childhood dreams

that never played out. Winter storms and spring

rains are the only regular visitors, and

sometimes summer rays racing

through, stopping just

long enough to

caress an

'X'.

Just convicts.

~~~~~~

prompts: use convict, great, play, voice, seasons, and race in a poem.

note: Joe Byrd Cemetery is where Texas buries its executed prisoners.

15.2021.738

[goneahead]

Forgotten Cemetery Under the flying paws of my pup, I think I see one stone and then another, Shove the tennis ball back in my pocket, and kneel, fingers questing deep into dark mud for forgotten sleepers. Under the wild clover, I feel your fingers, and clasp his gifts, closer to my breast. I miss my beloved boy, his laugh and his step, and the crunch of his shovel, burying sweet wooden love notes. prompt: write from the view point of an inanimate object

[goneahead]

Fake ID

The voices keep getting louder and louder, experts and celebrities and reporters, Don't you believe in the moon. Don't you dare believe in stars. At school, at work, in line, in traffic, I nod, obediently hand over my credit card, my debit card, my job, my ID, Don't you believe in sunsets. Don't you dare believe in sunrises. This morning, I pushed back the curtains-and immediately froze, because everyone's watching, because everyone's frowning. No, of course, I don't believe, not in the moon or stars or sunsets. but there's a glow, there's a warm glow in the east, and sometimes, I wonder- Don't you dare believe in sunrises.

@nosebleedclub prompt: Fake ID

april pad prompt: believe/don't believe

[goneahead]

Not Quite Paradise Parked in a Walmart, watching as a trucker eats his lunch, and a kid makes lazy circles, rounding up grocery carts. A woman in a stained fast food uniform cradles a baby on her hip, two children in tow, as she clutches grocery bags. The truck's radio is playing, but all I hear is random notes. Just beyond the town are the folded-blue foothills, the beginning murmurs of what will become the mighty Appalachian prayer for us all.

@nosebleedclub‘s Poetry Month Challenge: paradise

prompt: metaphor

poetry form: choka+sijo+choka. heh.

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