A daily poetry practice to generate and sustain the Life/Lines among us, for published and novice poets alike
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Write a short poem (rhyming not necessary) that includes each of the following 5 words (anywhere and in any order). Poems should not exceed 7 or 8 lines.
Send us your poem via our Submissions page or post on Twitter or Facebook using the hashtag #lifelines.
Today’s words were contributed by Cheeraz Gormon, author of In the Midst of Loving and founder and executive director of Sibling Support Network, an organization dedicated to people who have lost blood-related or fictive kin siblings to violent crime.
Poems submitted for April 17
A sudden gust of wind
Against the bedroom window glass
Wakes me from a soft dream
Honey bees rest on the dining table
Where I lie still
In an empty house
Get some rest, she said.
Honey, you need it.
Put the glass down, right now.
Just sleep, you need it.
The wind gust came
soft as a cloud.
I finally relented
and sighed out loud.
— Kelley Lingle
The gust of the tongue on the keyboard keys
Then, I see and hear what silence says.
How terrible this high-minded judgment
feigning friend. It is broken
glass pretending to be liquid, it is soft
pedantry borne of misery. I’m tired
of wanting my right to a different opinion.
Honey, let’s give it a rest.
— Julia Gordon-Bramer
Busy, busy bee, at rest at last
On the glass of a shuttered world.
No honey to be made,
No buzzing comb to shelter him
From the gust, the drench, the lightning.
Fate will have its way
With this soft body.
In a glass
— james goodman 4.17.20
Morning takes a breath, takes a rest
in the soft light from the clouds.
Rain runs down fogged glass like honey
slower and slower, the puddles
on the deck hungry. Suddenly blossom,
bird, water lifts in a furious gust.
— M.E. Hope
POEM AFTER WRITING ADAM HALE IN PREVIOUS POEM AND NOT NATHAN HALE
Soft in the head, practically with a glass eye
for not seeing I wrote "Adam" and not "Nathan" Hale,
the honey of self-congratulation for sweet, fluent diction,
and not feeling the stingers that carelessness brings,
my mistake uncovered by a waking gust of wind,
I took to write this poem the morning after.
Okay, it is executed, dropped in the poem can.
Time for a rest so I can be at my best tomorrow.
— Dan Cuddy
The tranquility of the moment, soft as butter,
Oozed into my body, like honey on a slice of warm toast
When a gust of wind broke through my reverie,
Shattering glass shards into my world.
The invisible enemy lurks like a hungry lion.
I cannot rest.
I cannot rest.
A soft bee incubates inside my young one's mouth.
Honey lubes his shattered-glass little boy gut.
Exhausted from rest stacked weeks-high,
each time he hacks up fear in a warm gust
he wonders if this time HE has been stung.
"I don't want this in my mouth, really bad, Nana.
People get a cough and die from it."
I'm bringing home a baby bumble bee...
— Linda O'Connell
The wind must rest somewhere.
Imagine a gust glides greedily
Over the soft flank of a country
Only one day to spin itself
Tight as a crystal, which a curious child
Picks up, carries home, holds safe
In a glass jar, for a long while,
Like a caterpillar or old, frustrated honey.
— John Randall
When I took my Fused Glass class last fall
It gave me time to rest my analytical brain
It was a gust of refreshing that broke through the wall
Sweeter than honey I could easily exclaim
My brain has not gone soft or gone lame
It has balanced itself out and ready for a new game
— Maureen Kleekamp
Darkness looms again.
Muffled sounds mask a restless world.
Left standing, I press my fingers one by one against the glass.
I open the door; a gust of wind hits my nose and both sides of my face.
Softness is lost.
I bow my head and lean forward.
My hand clutches the scarf at my neck.
I step down three stairs; walk the short path to the street to return to my home.
— L Dennis
At first gust
the soft honey
rippled then rested in the glass
— 2020 04 17 by Lloyd Klinedinst
17 April 2020
A gust of wind hit the glass
with the soft hands of death.
The honey glued in the glass
I sipped my soul with the elixir of words.
O dear death
Please come to me
But with a face.
— Jey Sushil (Track for International Writers)
we remain behind the glass
for our safety so they say
a soft gust or sneeze may make us sick
but not today, please not today
the bees still make their honey
the birds still build their nest
and we can watch them labor
through our long required rest
SEE THE LIGHT
Soft light was shining
Through the glass
When a gust of wind passed
The light looked like honey
As it did a shimmy and shake
The shadows then slowed
And the movement was at rest
— Betty Springfield
I was in New York
when I first heard God's soft word calling
as I was walking on broken glass.
A girl named Honey put me to my rest.
I remember the window being open
and a gust coming in. I remember
dreaming of a sacrifice.
— Matthew Freeman
She couldn't rest
after the gust swept
the glass of Madeira
to the soft grass
were the earth
drank it like honey.
— Joyce S Brown
Honey colored walls. Tinted by the morning sun.
(The moving shadows prove the light.)
Old, leaded windows rattle with every gust.
(The bending willows prove the wind.)
A soft touch. A deep kiss. Warm breath on naked skin.
(Should words or silence prove our love?)
Transparent on our bed of glass.
(We choose the silence.)
We are at rest.
— Kevin Farrell
A fifth symphony of shattered glass woke us
I recognized the soft scent of your body
Absent next to me on the bed.
Like a gust of honey after a horror scene.
The rest was not silence but sirens:
A concert of cars, the polyphony of the police.
— Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo, Comparative Literature
A gust of wind awakens the chimes from their rest.
Then she hears the tinkle of glass as he dips the honey from the jar.
Slowly it drips on the soft, soft bread.
— Karen Engelkenjohn 4/17/2020
We are the debris and the dirt,
spread to the four corners of earth;
strong like a gust of warm wind,
moving slow like honey across the land.
Soft as glass when it meets flame,
home is where we rest our heads
upon a bed of stone and sand.
— Susan Lively
After weeks of being locked away
like an antique plate behind glass
an intense gust of frustration
soft and sweet
— Carol Haake 4/17/2020
The bottle he decried now empty
Rolled to soft rest on the glass table.
A spilling gust rendered messy its emptiness,
“Honey, bring a mop and towels if you are able.”
Respite During the Time of Rona
The glasswing butterflies rejoiced
with all the other creatures.
After decades of battling blurred vision (through no fault of their own)
and invasive cacophonies,
the fullness of sight and sound they all required
to mate, to birth, to find their way though air and water, over land
returned to them, somewhat.
Even the softest moans of the whales, registered.
Bird song, carried by gusts of wind, travelled unfettered
along with growls and yips, howls, whimpers, chitter, croaks and all the rest.
Colors of wings and blooms, crests, crowns, intensified.
Honey gold, rump red, cornflower blue.
The night was also, mercifully, darker, though not as deep as previously.
How were they to know it was all only temporary.
— January Kiefer
The wind blows, a sudden gust
slamming windows against the coming storm
last remnants of soft sunlight
filter through limbs and leaves
and, finally, curtained glass
spread like honey
rest at my feet
— Steve Givens
growing ever soft
arrive like drops of honey
through retracting glass.
burst through in a gust of reflection,
repose in their luminescence,
and rest like distilled water
on a mirror of time.
like stepping stones across a stream,
always find their way to me,
with ceaseless vigor
and a fluid spirit.
My soft honey kissed sweetheart
Your binary oscillations- savage bolts and leisurely rests
Your paw prints color my rose colored classes
Riding the gusts of stormy winds home!
We Are Here Together, Alone
The glass breaks.
Startled, she quickly looks back, yet slowly regroups.
There is no rest and her rhythm is off.
Not just unbalanced by a gust of wind.
She must maintain a soft touch with a voice, sweet as honey.
In this small room, her words need to calm and comfort;
to quiet his tension.
She thinks, we are here together, alone.
— Laurie J
A wanderer, though still
I might rest
but for the cold gust
hard against my skin, now
cracking like glass.
Oh, to reside forever
in halcyon fields where
the wind flows sweet
and soft like honey…
— James B. Moog
La maja desnuda del siglo XXI
"Las mujeres son suaves suaves suaves"
she whispered in my ear as we touched
soft skin, soft tongues, wild honey curls.
Must have been 3 am, we were drunk off wine
and I didn’t know what to do with my hands
so I let them rest on the balcony railing
until a gust of wind rattled the glass doors
and pushed me inside, back to her
My sentences slipping behind my two eyes
A polite gust scatters what I tried to say
Why does 2 AM stretch thoughts to nebuli?
A dancer swimming on the stage of ballet.
Head obeys the pillow as refuge plays grass
Falls and falls like melting honey made of glass.
I know eyes dripping with rest can’t be controlled,
Yet I try anyway and trip in black hole.
— Ellery Saluck
A gentle gust sweeps across the pages of the book,
An ancient memory that I put to rest,
Lays on the glass table top as I look
At the reflections of the soft light
Creating the color of honey on my sketchbook.
The sun pours down like honey
And reflects off the lake, water as smooth as glass,
No gust of wind to ruffle its surface.
I long to lie in the soft green grass,
But Time is a tyrant
And will not let me rest.
Indeed, my time will come.
— Pam Hughes
i wonder why blood tastes sweeter than honey
tasting soft manna
i wonder why instead God
just shoved glass down his throat
a gust of wind brings me restful supplements
for now, we celebrate murder
a sprawling oak,
cooled by little gusts,
pale blue skies,
smooth, though as
white as Easter lilies
soft as new fleece
Land flowing of milk and honey
suffused with eternal rest.
When Swallows Come
I dream her left hip, and my palm
come together like waves slipping gravity. I want
to kiss those lips open, to taste her easy laughter
in soft grass as bees labor the business of honey. We
shape meaning with mouths and hands, desires
speak her name in the language of birds, as swallows
fill the glass blue sky in a gust of warm feathers
— Casey Hampton
The sand is cool as I dig my toes into the white expanse.
On my solitary walks, I hunt for seashells and bits of sea glass,
once sharp edges now soft from the continuous rush of waves.
Zigzagging through the sunbathers with their sand pails and beach blankets,
children squealing with glee, or crying with frustration, many without sunscreen.
Adults wanting only to read in peace, and to rest this sunny afternoon.
A sudden gust of wind tilts umbrellas, honey-scented lotion fills my nostrils.
— Kim Lehnhoff
There are too many words and worlds and subjects
Between the restless glass and jar of honey
Too many times we were nothing but the soft patter of feet
Climbing shelves and repeating
Passing hours like gusts of wind
Winding backwards, backwards and back
— Nicci Mowszowski
This is fun, but I'm tapped out
Mouth glazed in hot honey spit
Swallowed whole the desert gust.
Aeolian song of sand beating sand
Like tinkling glass and lonely whirring.
Rattle of labored decrescendo
The soul is a shapeshifter—
Soft-bellied and sidewinding into night.
Honey into Hot Water
The glass shattered with a soft pop!
Its crash lasting but a moment - as gentle as a soft gust of wind.
The party screeched to a halt, eyes turned, laughter stopped,
Like a movie, music stopped playing, cheeks turned red,
A rush of blood, hand still resting around an imaginary glass, no longer there.
She retreated to the kitchen to calm her shaking hands, her shaking breath.
Scooped honey into hot water and braced herself to try again.
Just one more time.
— Tanvi Kohli
As honey is to a bear at rest,
As a mirror-glass to a narcissist,
A strong gust on a sailor’s chest,
As soft sheets feel to a tired guest,
So does my morning coffee taste to me,
In the early hours,
When I feel so blessed.
— Robert Henke
Ruminations, Day 33
what I really want right now is a big goofy honey-colored labradoodle
with saucer round eyes of shiny obsidian
and a soft curly coat that furls and unfurls with each gust of wind
I want to be sitting at an outdoor café, sipping a glass of chardonnay
my honey-colored labradoodle at rest on the bricks near my feet
I want to name my labradoodle Sean Duffy
after Adrian McKinty’s Belfast detective sergeant
(not after the american politician CNN pundit)
I want to be waiting at the café for a friend
His voice trickles over me smooth as honey
velvety soft caresses
my skin awakes
He steals my breath away
a thief in the night
My soul on fire with a gust of burning flame
Bodies entwined now
deep with calming rest
The tranquility of the after moment
smooth as glass
— Alexandra Steszewski
Bread, if there’s any left.
Honey. Do I still need honey if they’re out of peanut butter?
Do I still need peanut butter if there’s no bread?
A gust-a-tory dilemma!
Fuck it, I’ll look for the rest next week.
Honey peered through the stained glass kitchen window
Into the backyard garden
Watching the weeping willow wave
In the wind gusts.
"A storm's comin'. We'll be able to pull the rest a dem weeds tomorrow when the soil is soft," she said.
— J. Thomas
Days are an endless soft
Enveloped in the blanket folds of home
Constellated spheres merge into a continuous continent of comfort
I want to rest, remember how to watch
Sunlight ooze like honey through our quiet daily hum
Filling each glass jar room with sticky golden nectar warmth
These windows and walls, our standing stones for reading time.
Outside, spring gusts gather fickle seasons,
Murmurs of summer hushed by wintry lapses into grey.
Without the sun I forget to measure time.
— Maeve Elder
These days stick like cold honey,
Burn like soft, scalding glass.
The cold wind of separateness
Gusts through the house—
It is impossible to rest.
— Jo Schaper
Today, wind gusts against the glass
windows. I want to rest under the
soft, warm blankets, Honey, but the wind
gives me no peace. The virus threatens,
the clouds move in, the temperature drops.
Let me hold your hand again, let me
finally get warm when the sun returns.
— Mary Ellen Benson
We hope for gusts,
hardsharp slapping windbursts.
Still days recline,
into honeyed warmth, soft
Life under glass lays prone.
The wind at rest
makes no sound at all
it hovers and hints
of some kind of magic.
Magic as sweet as
the surprise of fresh honey
discovered within the buzz of a hive.
Then a soft stir, a sweep of a gust
the tangle of string
dangling crystals of glass-
beads of bright colors,
the cast of a rainbow
ancient songs and earth secrets
set free now to sing
in the voice of the wind.
— Bernie Mossotti
without the bees,
no buzz in the air
without the bees,
no honey to share
without the bees,
no rainbows flare
on wings like glass,
with bees at rest.
bees in a flurry,
surf on gusts of air.
bees a bit furry,
nestle soft in their
hive of a home,
first a dance to show
where the other bees in the hive should go.
— Bernie Mossotti
there is stillness in finding honey-scented
rest, bathing in the soft edge of
glass before running your hand
along the morning gust
— Sabrina Spence