20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Bone Collector

She pieces together
a puzzle at a time.

A shard, a tricep,
a stretch of femur,
attempting to construct
the outline
of something fierce.

She collects broken dolls
with missing parts,
recreating what was
left to decay.

Eyes may fit better
in different sockets,
the porcelain doesn’t
always shine until
it’s cracked. She
takes her time.

Once the bones align,
the flesh can grow,
roped veins,
threaded muscles,
covering the white
of bone,
creating life,
a strength, a purpose.

With the patience
of glass, she draws
fine lips and outlines
the lashes of eyes.

Collector of dead things,
you hold the foresight
to see what could be,
once we are put

1 Comment


I watch the rain
outside large glass windows
and think of things
best left buried.

I recall childish water fights and losing at tag,
slipping through puddles and staining jeans with red mud.

A droplet balanced perfectly on eyelashes.

I imagine dancing in the drizzle,
books spotted by water,
and how the windows of my car steamed
when that boy with red hair kiss me
over and over and over.

I think of the last time I saw you
and how I didn’t cry when you left.

I watch as water drops
turn to streams and run fast
as snakes against window to bury
themselves in cracks.

I watch the rain
and remember once believing
birds couldn’t fly when wet.

I know better now.



From mountain side
it is easy to see
the turning of the earth.
The wind pushing clouds
creating shadows,
dark and light only
moments apart.
Up here the trees sway
slow dances in the wind.

I watch you,
perched on a rock
beside bubbling spring.
Completely comfortable
in your nakedness;
at peace with the way
skin stretches over bone.

I wonder if there will
ever be a time
when I, too, can let my
hair fall upon bare shoulders,
when awkwardness vanishes
in the folds of soft flesh
stretched toward blue sky,
when I can sit securely
on my own branch without fear.

The river runs thick this year,
higher and faster than I
have ever seen it.
Like you,
it no longer holds
its breath, but I
can’t remember how to exhale.

January Moon

You erupted the sky that night,
turned the black an ocean blue.
You halo your light wide,
invoking strange regressions
I thought were long forgotten.

I expected rebirth,
a quake to the foundation,
but was greeted with the memory
of the color I swam toward
when I fell from the boat.
Disoriented and desperate,
I swam deeper until I was hooked
by the waist and pulled
gasping to surface.

It was the first time
I was lost.
The first time I stretched
in the wrong direction,
only to be dragged
unwilling back to sanity.

In the morning the bedroom window
is covered with a thin layer of dew,
the cold condensed into liquid
that clouds and drips across thin panes,
blocking out the sunrise.

Message to Melissa

So, Melissa, now that we have arrived on the last day of April, are you going to ask people to submit their month-long-edited poems? It’s been an interesting exercise, and I only wish that I had begun a little of my poem at the beginning and added to it, rather than writing the whole thing and then editing for a month. That was tough, although it produced a lot of changes that I like.

Thank you for offering this challenge. I’m glad I took part, even though circumstances dictated that I had to miss a few days.

Cheers! (as someone we all know and love says!)

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a poet,

he pens

fervent reminders.

she reads

clicking ‘like’,

collecting each one.

an inner


their conversation.

pure, so

truly fragile

our whispers of love.

his poems

on a bracelet

her reminder each day.



her tranquil waters

 photo tumblr_lqwrkgnuuP1qg39ewo1_500.gif

Because it’s tomorrow she’s promised
his assured oft homeless heart,
sienna brown eyes her truth a whisper
‘Don’t worry, we can work it out.’

It’s not just another chance she offers
a sense of judgement judgement free,
alabaster smooth skin her lips dark hair
her tranquil waters he lies within.

A musician’s ear perfect pitch her voice
coos the lullaby of forgiveness,
the song our mysterious universe sings
her tranquil waters he’ll die within.

for Scout
written April 2013



Today I sit and watch the rain

When will we see the sun again?

Down comes the water – down it pours

I think I shall have to stay indoors.

Part of me wants to puddle-jump

Instead I sit and slowly slump

For the rain makes my hair curl and frizz

So indoors I stay, indoors it is!


Wendy Strohm




Just one more day to go
Yes February will soon be but a memory
We have broken so many records with our snow
I know I show you pretty pictures but trust me it has been dreary.

As the rains fall hard in our yard today
Birds are eating what I have offered them with added fury
Then I watch as they rush back to their fray
I bet when the sun comes back they too will be in their glory

February has been a lot like winters of past
The snow just kept dumping on us blast after blast
Snowfall records have even been surpassed
I am really amazed with all this snow and ice I did not end up wearing a CAST!

Thank you March for coming along hurry please
I will turn a year older wiser as well I am sure
I am actually looking forward to flowers covered with bees
I guess as I reflect upon these words if it was always spring I would be bored.


1 Comment


Glazed and into the kiln

is the way it used to be

or sunbaked,

the heroes and hunters

circled the vase.

These days, it’s ashtrays and flowerpots

painted mimosa

to give praise

to the passing days

of summer camp

Where these were shaped

to bring home

to mom and dad.


Clay, hold your tears in

or else you’ll be too

moist for the wheel.

Clay, don’t be too strong or ten digits

won’t be able to dig in

and give you purpose.

Clay, be ready, there are still things left

for you to hold onto

until the students

and pros

dig you up.


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