20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Better Ending

Better Ending

Oceans are a continuation of sky

drenched and impatient

with brine

in its teeth


On brackish waves

whispers are lost


While sacrifices                 never forgotten

* * *

Stream and rhythm

are one in

morphological past


And there are other words

from dead languages

seen only in

memories of transliterations

passed over.


No language is dead

so much as hidden.


Words like to run

and do best

when detached from

black skin of text.


Clay left with stylus pressings

are footprints

of sounds getting away.

* * *

Mist is metaphor

being carried

with a tribute to Eurydice

and Lot’s wife.


Tired of song and sermon

salt seemed

a better ending.

1 Comment

Books, by “Ardent Bowel”


Darkness gorges on lutescent light,

Deep sapphire water and sage woods encircle.

Lush sylvan vegetation coughs angelically,

Sprinkling aurulent dust upon moss and grass;

Fantasy collides and abolishes night.


Rough paper melts into bliss,

Glassy eyes wander, hopelessly, wonderfully lost;

Passionate fingers flip,

Cinnamon aroma burns nostrils,

And electrified mind lofts reality,

As eight-horned fairies lick moonlight lakes,

And vermillion hued suns burn cerulean skies.

By fellow WordPress poetry blogger  Ardent Bowel

East North Street by Pamela Wells

Perched up high upon my steep slanted roof

tiny feet wearing red playground dust

clinging to warm shingles

sparkling in mornings light

breaking through

flooding my mind

with something

like what happiness must be

like bitter lemon tamed with sugar

dripping over a soft summer day

rising fearless ruler in a peasants dress

holding a tiger by the tail


Pamela Wells




If I had married a poet
he would sing me to sleep with simile,
march into morning with metaphor,
brew the coffee, set the table,

a woven placemat for him,
a green one with lilies for me.
The white porcelain teapot, steaming

with water for my cup, two sugars, a slice of lemon,
and his strong coffee, black, no sweetness
except for the flavor of him
across the table.

We look, see much more,
speak, don’t speak.
The air is charged.

he is not a poet.
He listens to my words,
understands my simile, my metaphor.
We have combined

our differences.
He is morning. I am night,
I the moon and he the sun
who has become my poet.

drawing perfection, by Aaron Osowski

-drawing perfection


She was there,

and he,


staring at her elegant figure,

her curves,

her skin.

soft and angelic;

pure felicity.

so he drew.

a white, beautiful canvas,

made spectacular by her,

and her body.


Aaron Osowski

Click on his name to read more of Aaron’s work.  Thank you, Aaron, for sending us your wonderful poem!


On Poetry and Gratitude

I used to think that the metaphors and ideas in my head were merely ways I entertained myself.  That the imagery and games I played with words were child-like ways I had of viewing the world.

And maybe they are.  Maybe all I am doing is spinning wheels and creating horses out of thin air and so much sand.

But maybe … maybe there is another reason.  For those of us that write poetry or, for that matter, create any kind of art … Maybe we are supposed to write or create and make havoc and merry.  Maybe we are supposed to create something out of nothing.  Beauty out of pain.

Maybe through art we find our shared experience, our sense of community, a common bond.  I think of this community and I am awed by the fact that we wrap ourselves around the globe, yet so many of your offerings resonate, or teach.

Someone told me I was a poet, finally.  He’d read enough of my writing and train of thought and he looked at me and said it as if it was as plain as the nose on my face.  And once my beloved Poet told me that I was a poet, I felt something click inside.  A piece of the puzzle locked into place.  Or the world unhinged and swung open.  Or both.

I believed him.  I believed him, embraced it, take it seriously and I am all in.  I am committed to the work of becoming a better writer, a stronger writer, to write bravely when I feel afraid.  I am equally committed to lifting other writers, other artists, to give them a voice and a space to work on their craft.

I haven’t been writing lately like I should, and the reasons why are many and as varied as flavors of ice cream, or shades of blue.  But knowing you are here inspires me.  I see the magnitude of your work, this outpouring of time, effort, energy and creativity  that is rich and vast and interesting and unexpected.

This place, and each of you, make me happy.  You delight me.  You feel like family and neighbors.  I am always glad to see each and every one of you.

I hope you find nourishment here, too.

I believe in saying thank you but perhaps I do not say it often enough.

Over here in America it is the season of thankfulness, a gentle time to let the people in our lives let them know how much we appreciate them.

So thank you, contributors, followers, and readers, from the bottom of my heart.  I am thankful for you all.


Sarah’s Challenge


Writing without being present to give

life to the words and sounds to the senses,

a child writing forever, through a sieve

of adulthood. Writing, no defences,

no beginning, no end. Explanation?

Should writer need ask for reason – enough

to say driven by some aberration

of gene, Muse or some other mystic stuff.

Not author not playwright not a poet

no description encompasses this drive

to express the very nature of it –

Better part of me writing to survive

than all those thoughts be stuck inside my head

and I be sad, unfulfilled till I’m dead.



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