Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #18. Theme: Good for Nothing



They were good for nothing,
till she went Paleo crazy,
turning them into a brownie base,
for dark chocolate dispelled
their sinfully-funky taste.



Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #17. Theme: What I Meant to Say

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What I Meant to Say

What I meant to say
when I said I don’t like talking on the telephone
was that I don’t like getting stuck in a conversation
even Houdini couldn’t escape from.

What I meant to say
when I said I liked the color of your dress
is that I hate the rest of it.

What I meant to say
when I read your work and praised your grammar
is that your story sucked.

What I meant to say
when I said I’m allergic to something in your food
is that your cooking makes me sick.

What I meant to say
when I said I have a headache
is that I don’t feel like brushing my teeth right now
(because I might want something sweet later–
something that adds calories,
not burns them.)

This is the art of communications.


Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #16. Theme: Poem to the World


Dear World,

I believe you are older than they say you are. You’re looking rough in spots, but aging gracefully in others. I get that people can be real pimples—pimples you try to wash away through floods, exfoliate with earthquakes, or cauterize with wildfires.

Just know that even though you will outlive every last one of us, you are not eternal. You have no soul, for you show, with your volatile temper, your inability to discern the good eggs from the bad.

I tell you this: I worship your Creator, not His creation, meaning you—the earth was made for humans, not the other way around.

However, I realize we’re supposed to take care of our home, yet so many of don’t even take care of ourselves. I’m sorry that some have turned your waters into hormone baths in an attempt to reduce your population. I’m sorry that others rape your body for your organs, but isn’t that called industry? I’m sorry that still more poke at your oily pores until those fossil fuels run into your waters, but those fuels help keep that industry going—at least until we find green solutions.

Mother Earth, I can only help you by not hurting you, but to live the way I want, I must consume concrete things (i.e. resources), so that I can create abstract things (stories and the like).

You are but a glimpse of the world to come—heaven and hell coexisting. You were once so Edenic, but I know you blame us, especially those with the double X chromosomes. I wasn’t there, you know, so don’t get all huffy (or naturally disastrous) with me.

Maybe you should look at a planet like Mars and thank your lucky constellations that you aren’t just a ball of red dust. Believe me when I say that you are so beautifully diverse, so cosmically cosmopolitan, with your mountains and your valleys, your deserts and beaches and rainforests. Be thankful that you weren’t stuck with a name like Uranus, or demoted like Pluto (maybe if Pluto had people on it, it would’ve been better off). It’s your inhabitants that make you special—the fact that you can sustain life, so there! I mean, really, if we didn’t live here, would we care so much about saving you?

Sure, the other planets are left the hell alone (that’s the Libertarian way of life), but they won’t live near the life you will. You probably have all the diamonds our solar system (stars aren’t really diamonds, any more than the moon is made of cheese), which makes you quite a rich lady. And think about it like this: When we die, you keep all the spoils. So many jewelry cases (you say coffins, I say treasure chests) are buried in you. So what if they come with bones? Just think of skeletons as deconstructed jewelry trees.

My advice? Enjoy all this while you last.

Yours truly,
Sarah Richards



Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #15. Theme: Stranger (blank)


Stranger World

If we had
but one day
to know a person,
and if everyone was good,
would the world be a better place—
for does not familiarity breed contempt?

If we could give life,
then separate for life,
knowing that life was in different,
but loving hands
for 6569 days,
could we live another day
to make another life?

If there were no husbands or wives—
if there was no sleeping with the same person twice,
would we sleep around less,
or even more?
Could we fall in love for a day,
only to have to go away?

If we never slept in the same house,
but had to go from one town to one city to the next
there wouldn’t be a smell in the world
to bring us back to such a place
that not one could name.

If we could never read the same book
or watch the same movie twice,
would we pay more attention?

For in a world such as this,
there would be neither building
nor rebuilding,
no permanence of person or place,
for everyday would be a new chapter
marked by days—
not of progress,
but of making it to,
and making it through,
the next one.




Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #14. Theme: Traditional form poem (limerick)


It Melted

Here lies Gino Spumoni Supreme,
whose wifey thought he’d eaten all the ice cream.
When she peered into the freezer twice,
finding it puddled behind the Italian ice,
she went off the beam with an ice cream scream.


Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day 2017 Challenge #13. Theme: City


Conquer by Confusion

Grammarcity Park had two regions—
the rotten North Egg,
and the equally rotten South Egg—
hatched by two gangs known as
“The Pros” and “The Seven Cons”
(the latter also known as “The Fanboys”).

Though such activity was criminal
in this dark city—
overpopulated with commas,
nightly knifings with em dashes,
and unclean colons—
little was done to muck out
this den of corruption.

One night of Celtic Thunder,
the Fanboys decided the only way
to defeat the South Pros
was by appealing to the Chicago-style
and, in the name of equality,
forcing them to become
thus stripping them of their
the core of their identities.

And so, while the Pros were trying
to figure who was who
and what end was up,
“The Fanboys” band played on,
still making connections.