Another challenge on our message board. If you would like to participate, come to the board. I post a challenge every weekend and you'll find the link
HERE. When you get there, click 'General Board' and the topics will appear.
I put a list of things, or items, that must appear in the poem. Each item must have its own stanza and the poem must have a theme. Participants must use at least 5 of the 6 words, or use all 6.
They don't see a picture until the page is published.
This is the list for this weekend (10-27-07)
"Sorry, I made a mistake."
The poems are very imaginative and quite different from each other. I thought the results were very good and if you like what you read, let the poet know. They love feedback.
The Bed & Breakfast
The weekend coming was to be an event to remember.
It was the first time we went to the mountains in December.
The Bed & Breakfast was in a scenic spot on a mountain side.
The view of the waterfall from our window was well worth the long ride.
The chenille bedspread made me think of my childhood days,
And the beautiful mountain was covered with a white misty haze.
No jet was necessary for this trip of nostalgia and rest.
An SUV was all we needed to take advantage of "the best".
Over the bed hung a portrait of someone's granny in a black dress.
It was a true antique, at least that was my guess.
As I gazed out the window I noticed a wire a long way off in the distance.
It was filled with birds, probably getting warm, hope they had electrical resistance.
I could smell breakfast wafting up the stairs from the dining room below.
All I could say to the host was, "I'm sorry I made a mistake", when I didn't show.
I just wanted to lie there in bed and take in the view.
I didn't care about eating just wanted to rest and renew.
Life in the slow lane is a good change of pace for a weary soul.
Go to the mountains when you feel like life has taken its toll.
© By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)
Atop the chenille bedspread
Sue lay with tears in her eyes,
In her heart, feelings of dread;
Yet, his leaving no surprise.
She could hear the waterfall,
In the woods behind the shack,
A sound she’d always recall,
When, on cross words, looking back.
Their portrait on the nightstand,
Posing as lovers they were,
Smiling faces, hand in hand;
And him, an adulterer.
His wife arriving by jet,
On that very afternoon,
All their plans had been upset,
Their romance ending too soon.
She’d wired from the city,
Telling him that she’d returned.
The next scene wasn’t pretty,
For, with jealousy, Sue burned.
“You told me it had ended.
Now your promises you break!.”
To her wrath, he surrendered,
“Sorry, I made a mistake.”
In her fury, she shouted,
Shoving him out through the door.
No, there’s no doubt about it,
They’d not shack up any more.
© By RickMack (firstname.lastname@example.org)
CHENILLE SAT QUIETLY WITH POSE
HOLDING IN HER HAND A RED ROSE
AND SHE SAT THAT WAY FOR A DAY
FOR ALL THIS HER HUSBAND DID PAY
A PORTRAIT ARTIST DID THE DEED
CHARGING LOTS HIS FAMILY TO FEED
THE PAINTING WAS TO BE THE BEST
BUT CHENILLE WISHED THAT SHE COULD REST
AT WATERFALL THE SCENE WAS SET
A DOG SAT THERE HER HUSBAND'S PET
SUDDENLY CHENILLE HAD TO PEE
LEAPED UP AND RAN BEHIND A TREE
THE DOG NEEDED TO DO THIS TOO
HE PEED UPON THE PAINTER'S SHOE
LETTING A JET STREAM SPRAY AWAY
"DANG DOG," SHE HEARD THE PAINTER SAY
SHE QUICKLY PULLED UP HER PANTIES
WENT TO SEE WHAT THE PROBLEM BE
TRIPPED OVER A LOOSE CABLE WIRE
SKIRT FLEW UP PAINTER FELT DESIRE
HE CAUGHT HER IN HIS ARMS IN HASTE
HOLDING HER CLOSE AROUND HER WAIST
SHE YELLED, "LET ME LOOSE DREADFUL RAKE"
"I'M SORRY, I MADE A MISTAKE"
© By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)
She neatly made up the bed.
Using her best chenille spread.
Hanging over it, on the wall
Portrait of her, by a waterfall.
He was due tonight on a jet.
She'd be there to meet it you can bet!
Her on-line lover, finally face-to-face,
She'd wear black velvet and frilly lace.
Time passed quickly, now it's down to the wire.
Her heart beat fluttered, nerves on fire.
She waited for hours but no one came.
She went back home, feeling such shame.
Opened her E-mail, there was one from him!
"Sorry. I made a mistake," signed Jim.
"Ooofff" that left her in straits that were dire.
He must have found out,,,she's a vampire.
© By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)
Her grandmother's portrait hung above the fireplace,
A serious young woman in a gown trimmed with lace.
She was nineteen years old when it was painted,
Her father and the artist were well acquainted.
While he painted, the artist lived in the home of his subject,
Insisting his work was valuable and he must protect it.
Paranoid, he would lock the door at night and secure the knob with wires;
Covered the windows from the eyes of household hires.
One night Daddy's Princess slipped downstairs to get a book.
She passed the artist's door, heard him snore, decided to have a look
At her portrait. But the wired door knob took her aback,
Ha! She grabbed her nail clippers, snipped, and the wires went slack.
She was stunned! It wasn't her portrait at all.
A woman surrounded by ferns, standing in front of a waterfall?
Her father would be livid. All this time and nothing to show,
Except a waterfall, ferns, and a distant chateau.
She woke early the next morning, grabbed her chenille robe,
Her father's voice came up the stairs, "What, Tobe?"
She hurried down, and poured herself some tea.
"Someone broke in the room last night for a look-see."
"I can tell you're angry, your face is red."
"But they didn't see what they were looking for," the artist said,
"I knew someone would break in so I hid the painting.
What they saw was an oil I'm doing for Madam Haning."
She blushed but didn't respond,
She walked to the window, gazed out at the pond,
Up high in the sky was the trail of a jet,
She sensed she hadn't heard it all from the artist yet.
"It was you who broke in the room last night," he said.
She turned and looked at him, knowing her face was red.
"Sorry, I made a mistake," she mumbled.
"It's all right. That is...if you'll agree to walk with me," he stumbled.
And so it was that the artist stayed on and on,
Through the fall, through November, till the dawn
Of their wedding day. "Will you take this woman as your lawful wedded wife?"
"I will," he said, "And will cherish her the rest of my life."
© By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)
We called it "The Thing,"
That old purple chenille,
Handed down through generations,
Not getting the wear from creation,
Was just the same as to steal.
Design was a carved-like waterfall,
Warm and comfy it was,
Like a mystery it appeared,
Like a mystery disappeared,
After Panda had his way with his claws.
He would jet through the house,
Slide on the wooden floors,
Pull tears in screen doors,
Then innocently sleep,
Through all household roars.
An old portrait shows mama
The first one to wear it,
Papa's present of a lovely robe
With depression money he crowed,
And she accidently would tear it.
It wasn't even Panda's fault,
The Thing got caught on a wire,
Mama grabbed the ring of her throat,
With a gasp she near choked.
How would she douse this new fire?
She'd put it away in a hidden place,
Sorry I made a mistake, she'd say,
I hid it from myself, dear you,
I'll find it, you know me, she cooed
She'd mend it and pull it out one day.
But she forgot, and he forgot,
And the girls grew to teen age,
One found The Thing in a back closet,
Can I have it, chenille is so "in"? and because of it?
Mama could now close the page.
Papa beamed with pride at The Thing
They'd never say that in front of him,
He knew how to value quality, fit,
Puffed up and proud he was of it,
And his three girls were proud of him.
© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)
The old chenille bedspread was so worn,
But my mom had bought it at Niagara Falls,
Back in the late twenties it was,
Only place she had been out of the state.
She talked of the waterfalls,
Especially when we went to Uncle Claude’s,
For he had one on his place,
And everyone knew where momma had been.
The portrait on the wall,
Was and old sepia colored one,
Mom and dad on that day,
Mom and dad when both were happy.
Fly on a jet, I will not,
The train is how folks like us do travel,
That she said and stood by it,
Until a strike and a jet she tried.
One night when it was late,
Received a wire, a telegram.
Poppa has passed on,
Now he rests in hell.
Poppa’s last words were,
“Sorry, I made a mistake,”
For he thought she took him for better or worse,
And he knew it could not be the worst.
“Sorry, I made a mistake,”
Were the words she said to me,
As the papers I had signed,
Gone in debt for the rest of my life.
Momma’s wire had been plain,
Simple as it could be,
“Do not marry that girl,
She will run you into the grave.”
As the jets flew overhead,
Me I worked and dug and dug.
Then one day, water I struck,
Now I wish I was a duck.
Her portrait on the mantle set,
And I heard about how she had sacrificed.
Then one day I stopped and asked,
“You surely haven’t sacrificed your mouth.”
Over the waterfall in a barrel,
Man said he would give me fifty dollars,
But when I came to,
The medics handed me the bill.
Momma and poppa lived a long time,
I and my wife went down in flames,
Wonder if it was that old chenille bedspread,
Did it really cause real love?
© By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)
Under The Witch's Hat ( 6 Authors )
Copy Cat ( 15 Authors )
Autumn Doings ( 6 Authors )
The Runaway Clock
Early Morning Fishing
October Holiday Musings
On That Night
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