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Failure Dismissed I used to think failure was OK for others but not for me. It just didn't happen to me. I never fail Oh, except for today. Total failure And now I start over I should be devastated but strangely not. It just is and I'll do better. A plan, a study, a less busy time frame. The crazy thing is I was rewarded for it. ~~Judi Van Gorder

Why? This didn't used to be so hard, I wrote with passion to record my thoughts, events, actions. I wrote in love with words. I would write into the early morning, sacrifice sleep for a poetic symphony; allow the dishes to sit in the sink while I let my fingers talk to the page. The sun is setting, the hum of the dishwasher is lulling me away from the screen, I'll try again tomorrow. ~~Judi Van Gorder

Unknowable Agnosticism Worldly Atheism Tudor Anglicanism Sun-loving Atenism All-theistic Baha’ism Ritualistic Roman Catholicism Thought-controlling Celestial screenplayism Spiritual-healing Christian Scientists Social Justice Confucianism Rational Deism Nature-worshipping Druidism Kabbalistic Hasidism Greek Hellenism Karmic Hinduism Life-affirming Jainism Egyptian Kemetism Five-solas Lutheranism Polygamous Mormonism Satirical Pastafarianism Ecstatic Pentecostalism Black-empowering Rastafarianism Hedonistic Satanism Otherworldly Shamanism Japanese Shintoism 5-k’s Sikhism Mystical Sufiism Mongolian Tengriism Humanistic Universalism Puritanical Wahhabiism Meditative Zennism Darkness-and-light Zoroastrianism Luddite Amish Whitey’s Creativity Movement Ancient Roman Cultus Deorum Norse Asatru Street-preaching Ekklesia Hard-preaching Fundamentalist Baptists Communal Hutterites Proselytizing Jehovah’s Witnesses, Peaceful Mennonites Shaking Quakers, Saturday-observing Seventh-day Adventists Finnish Sumenusko Home-meeting 2-by-2’s Magical Wicca

Thanks Juris, the theme of my April, books and daisies. Super busy working on a fundraiser to provide books for students. April 23 is International Book Day. I'm just about done and I'm going to try and make up my missing days. ~~Judi

Clearing Cobwebs Black sticky threads cling to eaves and spread in lacy patterns from corner to corner. My Springtime sweep swipes away a Winter's creation. Reclaiming my space outside free of this artistry of nature. ~~Judi Van Gorder

Ghost City Review has selected "Thirteen Ways of Looking at 50+ Years of Poetry" for their April issue. You could say I have thirteen poems appearing there, all of which are updates to pieces first vetted on this forum. They can be found individually on PMO along with links to the source material that is being lampooned for each section, not to mention the discussion brought by PMO members who helped me hone this satirical laugh-in. GCR poetry editor (our own John Compton!) was particularly taken with section IX and graciously requested that I submit the piece in its entirety. Here it is, thirteen(!) years after original composition. David W. Parsley — Ghost City Press Enjoy! - David

Thank you very much

That is marvelous and lovely! Thank You, Judi! falling behind again;-)

Welcome to the forum, Caseyjo. I’m excited that you’ve joined. Nice inaugural entry. Please re-post this in the Showcase where it should be more visible. Here’s the link: Showcase (I tried to move it, but the software won’t allow me to move it from the Blogs to the Forums like Showcase.) Looking forward to seeing you around, Tony

Starting Again trying to carry on sometimes you wonder where it went wrong you have to try and fight all the way sometimes you have to fight everyday!

Books and Daisies The daisy days of April stretch into lazy days lost within the pages of a saga for the ages. It's the surest route to to take us all about. jvg

The Crucifixion Of The Bear “The Teacher asked -- Please raise the window shades -- Two students got up and rolled the shades up in exactly the same way -- on returning to their seats the teacher said -- One of you has it -- the other doesn’t” -- Zen Koan Con/Jur/d, 4/16/2024 Those of you who been with us since the first cemetery walk, will recall the crucified toy bear, slicked back, threatening mildew remarkably rot free, appearing to be ceramic the elements having caused a uniformity to the bedraggled gray synthetic fur like stuffing sack, the plastic black eyes peer beadily into the corner of Floral Park: Historic Name Dropping and Statuary Garden, reserved for stillborn, children and one assumes pets, since you will remember such a striking scene, we’ll spare you the details and record only impressions, in the style of a lesser, mostly ignored painter in Claude Monet’s Impressionist school The sharpness of shadows delineate Spring, weathermen can no longer accurately, predict temperatures in Fahrenheit or Celsius The twisted older tree standing accidental guard on two daughters dead in 1913 belies the instability all around us the shadows its limbs cast cut darkly through the freshly greened feral grass Taking in the pollen laden air accompanied by a headache of unknown origin, possibly the blood transfusions in the Fall has introduced a previously unknown histamine response, like our mother’s new allergy to Poison Ivy after getting a kind stranger’s hemoglobin when she had a difficult miscarriage Surprised by the size of the fly one wouldn’t think, with the tempest of temperatures and conditions it could successfully move from egg to maggot to pupate in this short time, maybe defrosting rather than sexual reproduction We know the only question worth asking is, who is replaces the bear when it rots, synthetic fibers attract no flies yet, the wind the hail, without miracle, moves stones uproots trees, reveals squared hollows among grassroots, boneless in this damp, an occasional gold tinted splinter, yet each season a crucified bear, often rehung, on the cheap gray slowly rotting crossbeam with the peeling faded gold, squared mailbox letters: SNUG L S This season, however a separate board of equally suspicious scrap-pile provenance, upon which our toy bear, who one suspects was never called Teddy, is attached sitting upon a pile of other stuffed and rotting toys, Hieronymus corpses, the idea of play, is similar to the dog, who brings to his companion a human femur expecting to play fetch it seemed, the bottom toy was of Disney’s Pluto Partially buried in the freshly defrosted muck teeming now with worms and nematodes And, if we were to know, who lovingly refreshes this memorial, this gate to the underworld this statement, unobserved yet, maintained or at least ignored by the caretakers, and gravediggers, would we want to meet them? We may say yes / You may say no Which one of us has it which one of us doesn’t?

Agreed. That is how I think of writing in form. It forces me to step away from my natural flow and think of alternative routes in writing. Not always the best way to communicate but makes me stretch and practice tools I might otherwise ignore. Building poetic muscle, learning new skills. I've sort have tried that in different ways, but no one here pays attention to the playground or at least seems uninterested in form or specific challenges. Im just grateful you continue to post here so I'm not feeling so alone in this April quest that I'm kind of failing this year. Super busy with less energy. Gettin' old. ~~Judi

Ahhh, sure, but I think the bulk is more like fiber, it improves digestion, makes the production of poetry better. I was just thinking, that maybe you should do a weekly poetic forms course. just to familiarize us all;-)

I have some poems appearing here: https://flightofthedragonfly.com/phil-wood-2/

I have a couple of poems appearing here https://borderlessjournal.com/2024/04/15/poetry-by-phil-woods/

Anyone Can Write a Poem A poem a day, come on . . . . . A poem a week is a stretch. A poem that paints an image A poem that sings a bird's song A poem to share a story A poem that assuages pain A poem to inspire a smile A poem with words that harmonize Anyone can write a poem, the goal is to write poetry. ~~Judi Van Gorder

Such lovely ladies, All of them! Such lovely ladies: Some teenagers, Some adults, Some middle-aged, some elderly. Such lovely ladies: Some fair-skinned, Some dark-skinned, some oriental. Such lovely ladies: Some wear short skirts, Some wear pants, Some wear shorts, Some wear swimsuits, some wear long, flowing robes. Such lovely ladies; Spectral, walking through thick mists, in single file, entranced, Towards a well, Bearing water-filled buckets Buckets that leak, Unnoticed. Such lovely ladies; Pouring empty buckets Into the well, Chanting monotonously; “We cannot rest until we fill the well!” Such lovely ladies; Returning through the mist, Filling their buckets- For eternity!

Reminded of the mini-horse dream after reading Judi’s poem about contemporary distractions Con/Jur/D, 4/13/2024 We had to ask our wife about the mini-horse, cat sized that scurried across the hay bails while her dappled colt, partially submerged in the dried grass stems, bravely followed, being the size of a mouse, with difficulty “Did we see that on TV last night?” since we are partial to fantasy epics but even as we asked, we saw the outline of a singular horn, flowing into mottled scales, the smell of burning oats, and two suns on the horizon, she asked us “What the hell is that?” and we couldn’t answer caught up in the day dross, of what was made for dinner, anxiety about the upcoming colonoscopy, how the early spring cold felt on our face vs. the temperature of the blankets as we decided, was it time to get up? So many memories happen this way miracle we remember who wakes up and what they believe.

Love Song #1 (The Axis of Love) Con/Jur/d, 4/13/2024 There is no god who makes you special, Baby We don't know where and we don't know when and we don't know what it means but be assured love is the axis around which we spin Baby Just being here alive for, a time in this world of dawn after dawn night after night spinning through all this unknown all the way up and the unknowable all the way down makes you and me especially free Baby We don't know where and we don't know when and we don't know what it means but be assured love is the axis around which we spin Baby I've met gods who help and I've met gods who harm, and I've met people who wouldn't know a god shouting at them in the street dressed in rags and glory, while the little book divinity they feel gets crushed between their palms We don't know where and we don't know when and we don't know what it means but be assured love is the axis around which we spin Baby We didn't make it We didn't build it We didn't birth it by believing, nor does it STOP One, two when you do so just be and you'll see you don't need anything ‘cause just because you just are divinity, Baby Stop, telling me and you what's going on, claiming your story’s better ‘cause we're all just babies here, Baby We don't know where and we don't know when and we don't know what it means but be assured love is the axis around which we spin Baby

too true

like them both, but the whiney has a nice pazzaz 😉

Yup, many wonder and who knows. Soy allergies are apparently worse in asia. WTFK

I love this! Sorry for not being around, a little overwhelmed and distracted;-)