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May Play: Sharing

By Matthew Kreider 20 Comments

Strawberry #2 (reworked)

Most mornings Donald stops by my high school classroom before school starts. He sits on the opposite side of my desk and we talk house music, longboards, even Steve Jobs.

As far as I know, Donald hasn’t written down any poems of his own yet, but I’ve already heard the voice of poet stir during our conversations.

Recently I surprised him with an Every Day Poems subscription. Now when he drops by, we have something new to share. We drop lines from our inbox-delivered poems, checking to see if the other recognizes them. We continue to play with the images and weave them into conversations.

It’s fun. Because we share.

Tweetspeak’s May Play

Last week, we invited our readers to play with found poems, using words or phrases from Pamela Miller’s “Marilyn Monroe at the Gates of Heaven.” A found poem happens when you choose words or phrases from a text and then stretch them out into a new poem.

Some of you posted your found poems in the comment section of last week’s post.

Linda McCrae Tame wrote,

Cuddle me up and hide me
In the secret place,
Our trysting place.
In the midst of noise
And chaos all around,
You quiet me;
My heart is open.

Louise Koutavas stopped by to play, too.

If you want sprinkles
on your head, there is always
room for one more, here.

And some of you tweeted your poems using the #mayplay hashtag. Here’s a sampling …

@vnesdoly: Lord, here I come/tired and wet/Cuddle me long/ballgown me white

@llbarkat: Cuddle me in white mink/I’ll pop out of a barrel for you, /smooth fur smiling

@HaikuHughes: I fill the bathtub./ “No tap-dancing up the stairs!”/ Sugar, she’s just four.

Creative word play is good for the soul. This month, whenever you have a spare moment, grab a word (or more) from our Monday poem and stretch it out into your own poem.

Here’s how it works …

If you haven’t already, please consider subscribing to Every Day Poems.

1. On Mondays, the Every Day Poem in your inbox becomes Play-Doh. Pinch off a word. Or more. Mix in your words and colors. Until yours.

2. Tweet your poems to us. Add a #mayplay hashtag so we can find it and maybe share it with the world.

3. Or leave your found poem here in the comment box for each week’s May Play post.

We’ll read your tweets and share some of your weekly play each week. At the end of the month, we’ll choose a winning poem and ask the playful poet to record his or her poem to be featured in one of our upcoming Top 10 Poetic Picks.

Here’s today’s Every Day Poem.

_____

BONUS: Winner Takes the Chocolate

If you have a short story about why you love Every Day Poems, leave it in the comment box here or post it to your blog and leave us the link.

We’ll enter your name in a drawing for some gourmet chocolate.

Now go play.

Photo by .craig. Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Matthew Kreider.

___________

Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In May we’re exploring the theme Roses.

Red #9

  • Author
  • Recent Posts
Matthew Kreider
Matthew Kreider
Matthew Kreider is a former English teacher who loves pencils and poetry. He lives in Canada, where he reads a poem a day.
Matthew Kreider
Latest posts by Matthew Kreider (see all)
  • Casting a Line for Surrealist Poetry - November 12, 2012
  • The History of the World in Beer - October 22, 2012
  • Journey into Poetry: Matthew Kreider - July 23, 2012

Filed Under: Every Day Poems, poetry, Themed Writing Projects

Try Every Day Poems...

About Matthew Kreider

Matthew Kreider is a former English teacher who loves pencils and poetry. He lives in Canada, where he reads a poem a day.

Comments

  1. Monica Sharman says

    May 7, 2012 at 11:23 am

    Well, if someone else’s delight is a motivator, my own delight for chocolate is a strong, strong motivator. 🙂 🙂 !! !! 🙂 🙂 🙂 !

    I notice in the #2 of the #mayplay instructions, it says “poems” (not “poem”). Which I interpret to mean… no upper limits. (I already tweeted two.)

    Reply
  2. Megan Willome says

    May 7, 2012 at 12:06 pm

    OK, you got me. It’s up on Twitter.

    Reply
  3. L. L. Barkat says

    May 7, 2012 at 11:27 am

    No upper limits. Of course! Tweet away, Monica. 🙂

    And I’m wishing *I* could win the chocolate. Maybe I’ll write incognito. Maybe our editor can give me a Skitch disguise and no one will notice.

    Reply
  4. Monica Sharman says

    May 7, 2012 at 1:04 pm

    Just say “chocolate,” and she’ll move faster than a speeding bullet. 😉 Here’s my link:
    http://monicasharman.wordpress.com/2012/05/07/every-day-poems-like-a-poem-ography/

    Reply
  5. Glynn says

    May 7, 2012 at 1:57 pm

    Oh, boy, here goes:

    Poured

    The chardonnay didn’t work;
    the Chablis and the seyval dripped
    and pooled too thin
    so I touched the reds, the merlots
    and cabernets which I almost
    didn’t buy but did anyway
    pouring at my neck, staining
    the fur, the silken lining
    of my silken coat, my silken skin.
    Soaking the white thread
    from my cuff in the last droplets,
    I pulled the thread
    through my front teeth, flossing
    in vino cavitas.
    I like the taste of cabernet.

    Reply
  6. Maureen Doallas says

    May 7, 2012 at 4:02 pm

    Before Sunday

    The needle ran
    between silken hands,

    the skin, so scarlet
    near the neck.

    I felt the thread
    hug the secret place

    between almost
    and didn’t.

    Reply
  7. Matthew Kreider says

    May 7, 2012 at 5:25 pm

    Monica: I love your enthusiasm — as well as your superhuman agility! 🙂

    Reply
  8. Matthew Kreider says

    May 7, 2012 at 5:33 pm

    Glynn and Maueen — Oh, I feel your threads turn and burn red. Thanks so much for twisting these words and playing with us!

    Reply
  9. davis nancy rosback says

    May 7, 2012 at 8:19 pm

    the magnolia is antique
    or is it ancient
    like crossing your fingers
    it doesn’t matter
    in this place
    this farm
    where the needle
    is lost in the haystack
    and the secrets
    are buried beneath the skin
    leaving hands hungry
    to touch the truth
    in the growing storm

    Reply
  10. Lorraine says

    May 8, 2012 at 12:39 am

    Sunday alone…

    holding you,
    resting my cheek upon your velvet skin…
    drawing your aroma in
    mesmerized
    I close my eyes
    and escape…
    to the hidden place,
    and wonder who
    will nurture you?
    as crimson dusk turns dark then into dawn,
    I waken to
    the morning dew…
    still holding you!

    Reply
  11. Toby McCrae says

    May 12, 2012 at 11:21 am

    Indomitable
    by: Toby McCrae

    short sharp shock
    the needle drops
    sound spins
    shiny black vinyl
    play on
    stretch it
    tar covers hairline cracks
    don’t stop don’t stop
    Oh, God
    Play on

    Reply
  12. Lisa Miller says

    May 12, 2012 at 12:55 pm

    Fingers go where eyes have gone
    Touching, nudging threads.
    Stretching threads convey the cover
    Rued within our heads.

    Reply
  13. Rosanne Osborne says

    May 15, 2012 at 1:08 pm

    Tea Time

    Some say it’s a genetic thing.

    When those patriots
    dumped that tea
    in Boston Harbor,
    they rearranged
    the nucleotides
    in our tea-making
    chromosomes.

    The American Revolution
    was only a minor consequence.

    The loss of ability to make a good cup of tea
    was forever imprinted.

    We were doomed
    to the frenetic pace
    of our pounding blood.

    Reply
  14. Rosanne Osborne says

    May 16, 2012 at 11:02 am

    Tables grey in the mind

    yellow Formica on chrome legs,
    milk splashed from soggy
    Cheerios in a green Fiesta bowl

    curling laminate, faux mahogany
    six matching chairs.
    giblet gravy staining
    red Victorian seats

    dry cracked oak, rehabbed
    from creamed enamel
    workroom to kitchen
    residual paint embedded
    in crevassed legs

    Meals and memories, whispery specters
    dine in an out of my cerebral folds
    as I sit alone toying with the corners
    of my burned cheese toast

    Reply
  15. L. L. Barkat says

    May 16, 2012 at 12:35 pm

    Rosanne, I love that tea poem! 🙂

    Reply
  16. Rosanne Osborne says

    May 17, 2012 at 11:35 am

    To Be

    Duck the egg, leave the shell
    to its nested niche,
    break out of the birthright
    that defines expectations.

    Leap beyond the liminal space
    dare the boundaries
    of heritage,
    the stagnation of thought.

    Walk the slender moon’s curve
    test the deep space of infinity
    and know
    what is beyond.

    Reply
  17. Rosanne Osborne says

    May 18, 2012 at 3:18 pm

    Deferred

    Aphids crawl through mounds
    of aubergines, searching
    for the succulent stems
    the purple globes have abandoned.

    Alien workers, they are disenfranchised
    from the crops they have tended,
    the world they have known,
    the dignity of purposeful life.

    Their insect brains barely
    process their loss, cannot see
    an alternative existence.
    Slowly, they abandon their dreams.

    Reply
  18. Rosanne Osborne says

    May 19, 2012 at 11:39 am

    Testing the Cream

    Baskets of butterflies filter my thoughts–
    Papilionoidea and Hesperioidea.
    I search family history
    father
    mother

    Where is the pattern
    that forms my wings
    the scales covering my eyes?

    Butter stolen centuries ago
    split, spread

    Lepidoptera leaving their larvae behind.

    Reply
  19. Rosanne Osborne says

    May 20, 2012 at 8:43 am

    Recherché

    The speckled notebook
    covered with dust
    rested on his abandoned desk.

    Its dappled shield
    protected the soft tissue
    of doubt within the bones
    of despair.

    His fingers closed
    over the aggie, the flecked
    projectile that named
    him champion of boys,
    their heads bent
    over a circle in the sand,
    marbles the spoils
    of the victor’s control.

    The mottled fountain pen
    his father had used to write
    prescriptions with the certainty
    of the consummate healer mocked
    his brindle indecision.

    The notebook had served
    his purpose. the aggie its time,
    but now stippled life
    defied the easy answer
    the sharp crack
    of marble on marble.

    Opacity required a certain
    black dominance,

    Reply

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