On this page you will find both poetry and prose from writers who responded to a challenge on our message board. This is the challenge and below the challenge are the responses:


Challenge: You are a statue, located in a spot of your choice. You may be a historical figure, an animal, or something else. You can not speak, but you have feelings. Tell us how long you have been in your spot. Tell us what you have seen and heard. Tell us what makes you happy and what makes you sad. Are you marble, wooden, granite, or bronze?


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A Dolphin


There are some people who think marble is cold. If the sun is shining on it, and you touch it, it's warm.

On the beach at Long Beach Island, between Stratford and Jeffries, there is a statue of a dolphin. The marble that it's made from is a pinkish gray. It looks out to sea.

There is a dolphin smile on its face but then again, dolphins always seem to be smiling. If you think you see a dolphin with an angry face, LOOK AGAIN! That is called a shark.

I have been here many years but until the last Nor'easter I was under tons and tons of sand. The storm moved out and there I was!

I watch anything and everything on this beach. In the summer the tourists come by the busload. Sometimes they leave trash by the busload too! Since I washed out of the sand they seem to remember to pick up the garbage. Maybe my presence reminds them that the ocean isn't just a really large puddle. It is a home for a lot of things. I think that is the reason for me being here. Who ever it was that carved me and put me here wanted to remind people of that.

While I was out of sight, a lot of them forgot. But here I am! Basking in the sunlight and watching all manner of things come onto the beach. Horseshoe crabs and hermit crabs. Big fish and little fish. Birds by the flock! Clams and mussels and scallops get swished up by the tide and the sea gulls dive in and have a snack. Driftwood slides in looking like some sort of science fiction creation. Sometimes it slides back out again on the next high tide. The pieces that get stuck here on the beach get an interesting life. Sometimes people will see a really great piece of it and take it home to use as a decoration. It may wind up as part of a beach fire barbeque. If it's a bigger piece the kids will treat it like a playground jungle gym. Nothing really goes to waste here. It all gets wound up in the fabric of life.

That's why I wish I was a REAL dolphin. But I do have a job to do right here. And the sun really makes me warm.

Even the winter is beautiful. Sometimes the beach is at it's prettiest when it's at it's loneliest.

I'll be here watching for you. Just blow me a kiss and I'll smile .......a little bit more.


© By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)





I Am A Giant Sequoia


I am quite old. Some call me a giant sequoia. I have been standing for many years. There is a hole in my belly, and people drive their cars through my middle. People are strange creatures. They toss trash around and then grumble about the park not being kept clean. Once in a while, someone stands on the road where the tunnel runs through me. I can't remember how many times I heard said, "Look a hole in one." People are not only strange, but rather dumb and unoriginal. I have seen fires devastate the forest. But we are hardy, we grow back. It is cold sometimes standing here in snow or rain. But life is never lonely. I do get tired of those squirrely squirrels climbing all over me and those birds pooping on my clean branches. But I am proud to be me. And I live in a most beautiful forest.


© By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)





A Wild Mustang


I'm a wild mustang!
I'm part of a bronze running herd,
We're racing across the grasses,
Manes flowing, snorting in the wind.
I'm the one in the decorative water pool
With fountains all around.
If I'm frozen in time I'd rather be
Protected from children riding me.
I'm a wild mustang!
I am free - I am free!




© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)





A Twitch In Time


There is a statue in the town of Twitch, on the Texas/Oklahoma state line. It was deliberately erected squarely on the border, so that each state could share in the honor of claiming me, Fredric Flyspeck, as its favorite son. In all humility, I accept that honor and, poised in front of the Three Book Library, I pass my days, set firmly in a well-hardened mixture of sand, concrete and petroleum. The latter element in my bonding gives a soft sheen as the sun sets in the west. While there are no pigeons in the area, buzzards tend to roost on prominent perches, such as my shoulders provide. In my case, the oily film coating my rock hard body, causes these critters to lose their purchase and fall to the ground, momentarily stunned. Thus, I am spared the degrading and disgusting droppings that are commonly seen on other statues.

Twitch, itself, is a nondescript little town, surrounded by a dusty landscape, and never having had a population to attract the interest of Census counters. The one establishment in town worth mentioning is the sanitarium on the outskirts, if a town this size can even have "outskirts", per se. Perhaps, "inshorts", would be a better word choice.

Decades ago, the institution served the needs of well-to-do people in the larger cities of the midwest. On the verge of nervous breakdowns, especially in the years of the Great Depression, the afflicted flocked to the town of Twitch for treatment in the Dunne-Trembling Sanitarium. I was a member of the staff at that fine institution. It was there that I would earn the reputation that would merit me a statue.

As a Doctor of Speculative Neurocuriosity, my duties were to evaluate patients’ progress, while receiving treatment at D-T. In the course of my days, I came up with several innovative approaches to bringing peace of mind to patients in the throes of agitation. In fact, the most successful treatment that I discovered was, ironically, closely allied with the statue erected in my honor. It was simply this. When you get the urge to move, don’t. Don't! It was astounding how well this worked. As soon as a patient felt a bout of nervous energy descending on them, he or she would freeze, standing perfectly still until the agitation passed. Once calm was restored to their metabolic process, they could resume what they were doing. Eventually, because of the success of this treatment, the patients and I came to realize that not everyone could stiffen in place with ease. For some poor trembling souls, it was nigh impossible. This led to my next breakthrough.

I learned that by repeatedly serving a moderate dose of alcohol, whether as liquor, wine or the rubbing variety, the more resistant patients would become so stiffened that it often proved difficult to loosen them up once again. For these few patients, a separate wing was added to the institution, where a “drying out” process ensued. In house, it was called the "Twitch and Twitter Wing". It came to pass that former patients often registered in this facility without visiting the main wing of D-T at all. In fact, we proudly accepted presidents, congressmen and wives of these distinguished personages. The D-T Sanitarium gained national recognition, and I humbly acknowledge that my own contribution to that success was not a small one.

Today, although the sanitarium is no longer a viable institution, my statue continues to remind the twelve full-time residents of Twitch that there was a time when the town knew glory. If there is one thing that I have left undone, it is this: Because patients spent so much of their time frozen in position, I wish that I had had the time to remedy the bedsore problem. In the recesses of my mind, I was working on the problem and, at the time of my demise, was considering the benefits of sleeping on a large sack filled with water.


© By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)





I Am The Statue of Jose' Marti


I am the statue of José Marti. In the early seventies, the West New York Leones Cubanos (The West New York Cuban Lions) erected my statue in the newly renovated park on Boulevard East (John F. Kennedy Boulevard East) in West New York. I am a bronze bust on a black stone pedestal. This causes some confusion, since my plaque reads “La Patria es ara, no pedestal” (My country is an altar, not a pedestal.) The Cuban refugees, escaping Castro, flocked to many cities in this country. West New York was one such. My proud countrymen prospered here. The Lions Club refurbished this park on the Palisades overlooking the Hudson River, and New York City to the east. I face Blvd East, and the tall apartment buildings there.

I watch my people as they go about their lives. Newly married couples in their limousines stop by to have their pictures taken. (The view is spectacular.) Children walk by, on their way to school. Old men play chess in the park. I listen. In the thirty years that I have been here, the talk has changed. Once, the talk was of the new revolution, to overthrow Castro. Gradually, the talk changed. The immigrant families became citizens. Their children grew up, and moved to the suburbs or Miami. My people have become Norteamericanos. There is little talk now of the counter revolution.

New immigrants come to the shores. The talk is still in Spanish, but the accents have changed. I doubt that they recognize me. Hondurans, Salvadoreños, Peruanos, Colombianos.

Still I watch from my pedestal. La Patria es ara, no pedestal.




© By Paul (AHikingDude@aol.com)





An Indian Maiden


Outside the antique store stood a wooden Indian with cigars in hand. Next to him stood an Indian maiden without a wedding band.

She stared straight ahead during the day when all could see, But at night they say she looked at him with a faint smile on her lips, yes siree!

Now, mind you I couldn't let others know of my love for this tall and handsome brave, But for his affection my heart did crave.
One day the shop owner noticed a glimmer of gold on the Indian maiden's left ring finger. She stared in disbelief, and her eyes did linger.

It was just a faint circle of gold that she hadn't noticed in the wood before. It looked almost like a painted ring but not from a store.

That night I moved closer to my Indian brave so fair, And the next morning we had disappeared into thin air.

The shop owner thought we were stolen by a thief in the night, But she did not know that on the wings of an eagle we took our flight.

Now we are together but no longer wood and lore. We are spirits of the earth as we drift and soar.


© By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)





Watch these pages for more challenge responses.
If you would like to participate in our challenges
visit our Message Board. A link appears on the Index page.
In the meantime, click the links below for other
poems and stories by the authors at Lara's Den.


Those April Showers

A Cozy Nook

A Caress

Legend Of The Lost

Pioneer Woman

At Last, Spring!

Ahhh, Childhood Days

I Walk In Tulips


And.......for many others, click the index image.



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