20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers


Echoes of Tomorrow’s Past

In your tear-filled rage
of not deserving,
time and space
collide with the moon
in your heart,
guide, seek,
draw you to the edge,
invite you
to cast your sorrows,
your excuses,
into the Unknown,
nothing more than
echoes of tomorrows past

©SpiritLed 2014

A Bit of Grandma’s Wiisdom

Once, as autumn was blowing away

on  crunchy brown leaves,

and frost had appeared, taking the last asters,

I sat on my porch, shivering,

thinking how long it was until spring.

I longed for daffodils,

and warm breezes.

I looked deep inside and realized

that I longed for my past.

When my kids were little,

before I lost my son and health.

When my marriage made me smile.

When I was young.

Then two of my grandsons ran up the street.

They hugged me so tight,

“I love you, Beebee” they smiled.

And I smiled too.

I remembered my grandma used to say,

“We should never wish time away.”

She lived to be 96 years old.

She was so brave and so wise.

I smiled and hugged my grandsons,

and tried to appreciate the biting winds

yet to come before daffodils.

Can’t Stop Time

Time marches on

But all I want

Is for it to stop,

Pause in this moment

Allow me to enjoy where

I am,

To stay safely

In a moment of comfort.

Life blurs by

As I hope desperately

For it to slow

At good times

To speed up in times

Of pain and discomfort.

Time listens to no man

Or woman for that matter.

It rules above all else,

Taking us along for the ride

Willing or not.

Fight as we might

Time – life always wins.

We all die in the end

We all live in between

According to the whims of

A moving sun.

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I Close my eyes


The flight of life, all I am or hope to be. I close my eyes.

I am a child, turning as I look for signs of growing up,

then a teen, swirling in front of a mirror,

dreaming of college, midnights out, no curfew.

Suddenly, I awake to the sound of wedding music

and then a baby cries as I shake my head.

The laundry awaits, my feet hurt.

Life, where is it going, it used to seems so slow.

Now I’m bandaging skinned knees, paying mortgages.

I see my teen swirling in front of a mirror.

I find myself looking at the obituaries in the paper.

I notice a little gray in my husbands hair.

Graduations, weddings, then accidents, surgeries,

my back hurts when I garden all day, the house needs repair.

I cry at the tombstones of my parents,

suddenly becoming aware of my own age,

Life, speeding by at the speed of light.

Computers have replaced the written word.

I feel outdated, like I don’t belong here anymore.

Struggling to keep up, I feel the desperation of loosing my edge.

Yesterday, I was young, had hope, dreams, health.

I remember whirling in the wind beneath the moon,

Oceans waves crashing behind me, the bright lights of town

glowing distantly, calling to me, “Come, live, love!”

Now it is nighttime, winter, cold and bare.

The dreams have been fulfilled or died long ago.

I try to imagine where it all went, how it got away,

A tear rolls down a weathered cheek. I close my eyes once more.


April Challenge

I have been dutifully editing my poem every day this month (except for the two days I was in the hospital)…and want to now simply go on record to say that I’m finding it more and more difficult as the days go on. This isn’t to say that I think my poem is complete. I know that extended editing can result in a really good poem. At the same time I don’t want to edit just for the sake of editing.

I am glad to be spending this kind of time on my poem. If you happen to be following my work on it, you’ll see that some days I make small changes and other days the edits are more significant.

I’m having trouble foreseeing doing this for two more weeks. But, I love a good challenge, so I’ll give it my best shot.


Counting Days

Crescendos toward December sound, like wind
a-whooshing through the fall toward winter’s blast.
All elm tree foliage has come unpinned
and ground is covered in those crisps that last

until the earth’s adorned in gowns of white.
We march to our Thanksgiving, make big plans,
then Christmas shows its colors day and night.
We gather families and our friends, our clans

to celebrate. But what of days between?
What ordinary Tuesday strikes a chord
of music, makes us polish to a sheen
our house? We are the lady and the lord

of this, our manor, and we do not wait
for special times. Each one is special, yes,
and so we dust it off and note the date.
A tree, lake, note, a word means more, not less

as time plods on. Or does time race? I hold
the precious close without apology,
for I can feel it. I am getting old.
Please keep the lights bright on my life’s marquee.

I feel nostalgic…

I feel nostalgic,

remembering those days

when everything was childish

because I was a child,

everything seemed so effortless

because I made it so.

I wonder why can’t it be so-

that everything becomes childish and

everything becomes effortless

once again, today.

I wonder why can’t it be so-

I can relive those years once again.

Trying Rispetto

Sitting within the deep waters of the sea,

I can see you degrading, getting caught in

time, understanding which ain’t my cup of tea,

I know you want to get rid of your past sin.

You wait for someone to come, pay no pity

but that being must treat you with that dignity-

respect you long for, I know you do want bliss,

Oh the mighty city of the Atlantis.



1. Poem is comprised of 8 eleven-syllable lines, usually one stanza.

2. General rhyme scheme- ababccdd

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I simply can’t write… (5-line stanzas)


comes a 

time every day

when I strive to

write but I simply can’t.


just doesn’t

seem right that

my mind goes blank

and I simply can’t write.


I know

it occurs when

I feel a sudden

revulsion towards everything in life.


also when

I am anxious

and I try to

comprehend with my numb thoughts.


still this

must be the

time when I am

able to express myself fully.


that is

not the case

with me because I

just simply can not write.

Poetic form- The Bop

The Bop is a poetic form that was developed by poet Afaa Michael Weaver.

Here are the basic rules:

  • 3 stanzas
  • Each stanza is followed by a refrain
  • First stanza is 6 lines long and presents a problem
  • Second stanza is 8 lines long and explores or expands the problem
  • Third stanza is 6 lines long and either presents a solution or documents the failed attempt to resolve the problem

Here is what I wrote-

One must do one’s chore on time

The floor hasn’t been cleaned

since a while, one can see

the specks of dirt, the fallen

spider webs here and there spread

like the dried flowers

on the old worn tomb.

One must do one’s chore on time.

A foul smell is also coming up

from somewhere on this floor

may be some rodent has died

left to be decayed on this floor

which hasn’t been cleaned since a while

and don’t forget the dark red stain

of the wine that spilled over here

but hasn’t been cleaned, even by this time.

One must do one’s chore on time.

The sick lady of the house rose

from her bed finally and saw

the floor which hasn’t been cleaned

since a while, and aims at

cleaning it up in a while but

ends up sleeping after puking some bile.

One must do one’s chore on time.


A sweet vehement desire

A sweet vehement desire

to reach the sky so high

and kiss those stars,

play with the moon-ball,

just fly care free away away and away.

I hope I was that kid again,

the desire of whom I now speak of.

How time changes, how realities become

more important than fantasies, ending

all such sweet vehement desires.

An Early Morning Dream

An early morning dream

where everything is still so dark,

the light of the day hasn’t yet arrived,

the dawn is beginning its show.

An early morning dream,

where I dream of the early morning,

the stars still shining,

the moon though can’t be seen.

An early morning dream

where I experience the early morning.


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