2026 April 22 to April 25 Poems

2026 April 14 to April 21 Poems for April Poetry Madness
2026 April 1 to April 8 Poems for April Poetry Madness
2026 April Poetry Madness Overview -Updated

 

audio clip

These are my  April 22 to April 25 poems, the penulitmate set for the month..

Begin Poems

 

April 22

Dew Drop Inn  Doubleness

Subtitle: political doublespeak

Our political discourse

These days is sad.

Filled with doublespeak

As leaders say one thing

And do something quite different

Our leader proclaims

Congressmen follow

But privately

Think their leader

Is quite mad

 

But in public

They sound like

North Korean flunkies

Praising the dear leader

 

In an exercise

Of political doublespeak

That is epic to behold.

 

NaPoWriMo

Conversation with My Muse

A writer is often asked
Why do you write?
What motivates you?
What keeps you going?

How do you handle the constant rejections?
The self-doubts
That comes with the writer’s life?

I write as many writers do
Because I must
Because the damn muse
Will never leave me alone.

 

She is an ornery creature

This muse of mind

She hides deep inside

My deepest darkest corner

Of my mind

 

Always on

Lurking like Co-Pilot

And Gemini AI programs do

Occasionally speaking up

Letting out characters in my head
Demand to let their voices be heard
Demand to be freed
To tell their tales

And I am a slave
To my muse
Who takes me
Where she will

No matter what
I must write every day

Often I wake up

At 0 dark hundred hours

And talk with my muse

 

She whispers words

Of wisdom

And nightmares

 

And compels me

To get up

And turn on the computer

And let the words flow.

Usually starting my day
Drinking coffee
Watching the news unfold

Writing my thoughts
Letting the poetry flow
Out of my soul

Bleeding onto the computer screen
The words waiting to be spoken
To tell their tale
Before the day is over

That is why I write
Because I can not not write
my muse won’t leave me be.

That is the Buddha nature
Of being a writer after all.

Day Twenty-Two

On April 22, 2026

Happy Wednesday, everybody, and welcome back for Day 22 of Na/GloPoWriMo.

Our featured participant for the day is 7eyedwonder, where the response to Day 21’s names-and-nicknames prompt brings us a lovely riff on the on the Shakespearean phrase, “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

 

Today’s resource is The Kelly Writers House’s system of online book groups. At any given time, the Philadelphia-based center has a few different book/discussion groups going on, and all you need to participate is an email address and a willingness to engage in a discussion of a specific group’s chosen book or set of poems.

 

And now for our (optional) prompt! Jaswinder Bolina’s poem “Mood Ring” imagines the speaker as both himself and an interior being (who happens to take the form of a small donkey). It’s quite silly . . . and not silly at the same time. A sort of “serious fun.” Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem in which the speaker is in dialogue with him or herself.

PSH

Found a Spaceship in His Backyard

Sam Adams
one morning
woke up
to a strange sight.

A spaceship
had landed
in his backyard.

The alien pilot
was injured—
still faintly glowing.
Sam took him in,
against his better judgment.

After a few days
the alien instructed
Sam on what needed
to be done

to fix his ship,
and promised
to take Sam
with him.

A ship that was
never his,
yet somehow was.

Sam notified
the military,
which detained Sam
and the alien
for national security reasons.

Whose, exactly?

The alien used
Jedi mind tricks,
as he put it,
to spring Sam
from detention.

And off to space
they  went,
holding a press conference
from the Moon.

PSA April 22, 2026: Poetry Writing Prompt from Brendan Constantine

This poetry writing prompt submitted by Brendan Constantine:

Compose a new poem in which you realize you have something that doesn’t belong to you. Somehow and quite impossibly, you’ve found it among your possessions, and It can be anything – a book, a bauble, even a whole room. Feel free to go big; ‘Whose river is this?’

Born Bad to the Bone

 

Born bad to the bone,
heartbreaker.
Born bad to the bone—
or so the song insists.

The song “Bad to the Bone”
fills my ears
like a mad anthem
of my life,
a song I used to believe.

I am a heartbreaker,
broke a thousand hearts;
before I am through,
I will break a thousand more.

But only one woman
has ever had the power
to break my heart.

And to her
I dedicate my life,
and promise not

to break her heart—
the only promise
I intend to keep.

 

2026 April PAD Challenge: Day 22

Robert Lee Brewer

Updated Apr 22, 2026 12:36 AM EDT

Happy Earth Day!

For today’s prompt, write a natural poem. Natural what? Well, I’ll let you decide where to take your natural born poeming today. Only rule: Have fun.

 

Write a poem a day with poets from around the world for the 2026 April PAD

Author’s Note

This poem responds to the cultural claim made most famously in the song “Bad to the Bone” by George Thorogood & The Destroyers (1982), which frames moral character—especially romantic harm and rebellion—as innate rather than chosen.

Lyrics and Song Context
The song’s narrator declares himself “bad to the bone” from birth, portraying antisocial behavior and emotional damage as destiny rather than responsibility. The full lyrics can be read here:

• Full lyrics (Genius):
  George Thorogood – “Bad to the Bone” Lyrics [genius.com]

YouTube Performances

• Official music video:
  George Thorogood & The Destroyers – “Bad to the Bone” (Official Video) [youtube.com]
• Classic live performance (Capitol Theatre, 1984):
  “Bad to the Bone” – Live at Capitol Theatre (1984) [youtube.com]

Nurture vs. Nature

The question “Are we born bad?” sits at the heart of this poem.

• Nature: Genetics can predispose individuals toward traits such as impulsivity, aggression, or low empathy.
• Nurture: Environment, trauma, attachment, and learned behavior dramatically shape how—or whether—those traits are expressed.

Most modern psychology rejects the idea of fixed moral destiny.

Sociopaths vs. Psychopaths (Brief Clarification)

Though often used interchangeably, clinical research distinguishes them:

• Psychopathy
  • Strong genetic component
  • Reduced emotional response (especially fear and empathy)
  • Often high functioning, manipulative
• Sociopathy
  • More strongly linked to environment and trauma
  • Impulsive, emotionally reactive
  • Capable of attachment in limited contexts

Crucially: neither diagnosis means someone is “born evil.”
Even individuals with psychopathic traits can choose not to harm others, and many do.

The song’s bravado simplifies what is, in reality, a complex intersection of biology, environment, and moral agency.

This poem rejects inevitability in favor of responsibility.

Bonus Poem

WAR Tri-fall

War tell me what it’s for
nothing good
nothing holy nothing pure
War opens every door

blood and gore
flood the earth forevermore.

War pretends to be a test

 

falsehood
peace talks die stillborn and cold
War sells lust not justice blessed
likelihood.
cease‑fire crawls bought and sold

War drags nations into debt
no good

thrall replaces thought and trust
War crowns leaders who forget
all so small
history counts the cost in dust.

 

I found the Tri-fall form at Shadow Poetry http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/trifall.html

The Tri-fall form, a creation of Jan Turner, has three 6-line stanzas. Each stanza follows a specific line-syllable count of 6/3/8/6/3/8 and a rhyme scheme of abcabc. By directions of the form’s creator, very little puncutation is required.

Author’s Note (Song Reference)

This poem echoes the famous refrain from the protest song “War”, written by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong and recorded by Edwin Starr in 1970. The song opens with the call‑and‑response line:

“War, what is it good for?
Absolutely nothing.”

Later, it defines war as “friend only to the undertaker,” a phrase that directly informs this poem’s imagery and stance.

Lyrics

• Full lyrics (Genius):
  Edwin Starr – “War” Lyrics [genius.com]

YouTube Performances

• Original / classic video (1969–1970 era):
  Edwin Starr – “War” (Original Video) [youtube.com]
• Live performance (2001, call‑and‑response with audience):
  Edwin Starr – “War” (Live, 2001) [youtube.com]

 

Blue Line Blues

I have lived
in more than ten cities
in my life—

Alexandria, Virginia;
Berkeley and Stockton, California;
Bridgetown, Barbados;
Bombay (Mumbai), India;
Madrid, Spain;
Pyeongtaek, Seoul,
Seongnam,
and Dongducheon, Korea;
Seattle, Washington;
and Washington, D.C.

Mostly close‑in suburbs,
never exurbia,
and rarely downtown.

Since I don’t drive,
I’ve preferred to commute
by bus, on foot, or by train.

The closest I came
to living downtown
was perhaps D.C.,

where Capitol Hill
was considered
downtown‑adjacent,
so to speak.

The most suburban years
were spent in Alexandria,
along the Blue Line
Metro route.

In general,
I’ve found suburban life
a bit boring,
and the neighbors
somewhat standoffish.

Now I’m moving back
to a suburban townhouse,
again along the Blue Line.

I hope the neighbors
will be friendlier
than the last time
I lived there.

 

April 23—Shakespeare

Shakespeare’s plays and poems are
Hard for many to understand,
As the language is archaic,
Keeping strange rhymes and words,
Even now not easy to follow.
Sonnets sublime,
Perhaps not for modern
Ears to fully grasp.
After all, it has been five hundred years.
Rarely used words and phrases remain,
Even now, hard to follow.

 

NaPoWriMo

I Met My Fate on That Date (Villanelle)

 

I shall always remember the date
when I met my fate in September,
for I had met my fate.

It started as a simple date,
a moment I will always remember,
when I met my fate in September.

She stepped from a bus; that date
changed everything I remember,
for I had met my fate.

We drank red wine on that date,
love at first sight, no debate—remember:
when I met my fate in September.

From housemate to helpmate,
roommate, wife, and workmate together,
for I had met my fate.

Now retired, still partners, still mates,
that date remains my center:
when I met my fate in September—
had I really met my fate?

Day Twenty-Three

On April 23, 2026

What’s so good about Thursday, anyway? Well, when it’s in April, it furnishes an excellent excuse to write another poem for Na/GloPoWriMo!

Today’s resource is the Verse craft podcast. If you’re interested in poetic form, this is the podcast for you!

 

And speaking of forms, today’s (optional) prompt takes its inspiration from Kiki Petrosino’s loose villanelle, “Nursery.” Try your hand today at your own take on a villanelle, and have the poem end on a question.

 

Author’s Note

This poem was written for NaPoWriMo / GloPoWriMo, Day Twenty‑Three (April 23, 2026), in response to the optional prompt inviting poets to try their hand at a villanelle inspired by Kiki Petrosino’s “Nursery” and to end the poem on a question. The discipline of the villanelle’s repeating lines felt especially suited to tracing how a single moment—a first meeting on an ordinary date—can echo across decades, accruing meaning through repetition and time. What begins as fate, asserted and rehearsed, is gently complicated by reflection at the end, where certainty gives way to inquiry. In that way, the form mirrors both memory and partnership: returning again and again to the same words, discovering that they mean something slightly different each time.

PSH

Black Lamb Meat Restaurant

In Gimpo, Korea
There is a restaurant street scene

along the five-mile-long

fake Venice canal,

lined with eateries
of all kinds,
mostly Korean cuisine..

One I have long wanted to try
is a restaurant specializing
in black lamb meat dishes
from the island of Jeju.

I have tried nearly everything
Korean cuisine has to offer,
except Jeju black goat

black lamb meat.

Jeju black goat
and black lamb
are reputed to be
what Koreans call
aphrodisiac stamina foods.

My Korean‑born spouse
does not like goat or lamb—
too gamey
for her delicate taste.

But I want to try it,
someday soon,
as we pass by
that restaurant street

I imagine the smoke,
the iron heat of the grill

on our nightly strolls
through the neighborhood.

a place we passed for years
without hunger or curiosity

still uncrossed,
like a promise

waiting to be kept

 

April 23, 2026: Poetry Writing Prompt from Merridawn Duckler

This poetry writing prompt submitted by Merridawn Duckler:

Write a poem about a place you pass every day on your commute to work or during a daily walk or driving to shop and have never given a second thought to

 

writer Digest PAD april 23 Write a  Justaposition Poem

MAGA Dreams Facing Each Other

At the center

Of the MAGA movement
There is a rallying cry
a waiting split.

On one side

The old neo-con desire
a hunger to expand—
a dream of flags cast wide,
maps redrawn,
borders softened by ambition.

A voice that says:
take more,
hold more,
shape the world into one image.

 

Lets take Canada, Cuba

Colombia, Panama and Venezuela

And add it to the American Empire

Because we can and must

Control the Americas

 

Manifest destiny

American imperialism!

 

On the other side,
a promise whispered low:
no more endless struggles,

no distant fires,
no lingering cost

 

no more endless wars

in the middle east !

 

withdraw from NATO

Korea, Japan

The UN led world order

 

Let them fend

For themselves

 

Make America Great Again

America first!

.

A second voice says:
close the gates,
walk away,
turn inward to survive.

These two visions
stand face to face—
reach versus retreat,
command versus refusal.

 

Between them

Neocon, neo-imperialism

Neo-isolationism

lies the fracture no slogan can heal,
the contradiction at the heart of

the MAGA political nightmare.

2026 April PAD Challenge: Day 23

Write a poem a day with poets from around the world for the 2026 April PAD Challenge. For today’s prompt, write a juxtaposition poem.

Robert Lee Brewer

Published Apr 23, 2026 12:15 AM EDT

We’re almost there. Once we get through today’s poem, we’re seven days (one week!) from the finish line. Let’s keep breaking those lines.

 

For today’s prompt, write a juxtaposition poem. Juxtaposition, of course, is when you bring together two or more ideas, elements, or creatures (including people) that are distinct on their own but when placed together can display their similarities and/or differences—or to just create an interesting effect. For instance, an astronaut walks into old timey, Western saloon; or a person feels hope juxtaposed against fear at the same time. Take a moment to consider possible juxtapositions and then write your poem.

 

Bonus Poem

Korean Army Stew

(Epulaeryu)

Koreans have a one-pot meal
budae jjigae stew
leftover meats and cheese
black‑market spam
kimchi sausage mix
one pot
Hot!

 

Criteria

The first line has seven (7) syllables, the second line five (5), the third line seven (7), the fourth line five (5), the fifth line five (5), the sixth line three (3), and the seventh line has only one (1) syllable which ends with an exclamation mark.

The Epulaeryu is developed by Dr Joseph Spence Sr, a well known American poet. In Europe though, the poet, and this form is until now unknown, and the dwelled on my notebook list as one to figure out.

http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/epulaeryu.html mentiones a few examples of this form, and the “rules”

The Epulaeryu is about delicious food.

It consists of seven lines with thirty-three (33) syllables.

The first line has seven (7) syllables, the second line five (5), the third line seven (7), the fourth line five (5), the fifth line five (5), the sixth line three (3), and the seventh line has only one (1) syllable which ends with an exclamation mark.

 

The form is 7/5/7/5/5/3/1.

Each line has one thought which is about the main course. Therefore, this poetic form, the Epulaeryu, which has corresponding lines built around the main course and ending with an exclamation point, concludes with the ending line expressing the writer’s excitement and feelings about the poem. The poem may be rhymed or unrhymed.

The title does not count as part of the poem…

April 24—An unsung hero/heroine

April 24

DewDrop Inn Uunsung Hero

Title: The Karmic Cosmic Fund

 

Big Daddy was in a bad mood that day,
thinking about the state of things,
working his way through a drink.
He had secrets to unload
and could feel the clock watching him.

He set the glass down
at the Cosmos Bar
in Soi Cowboy,
Bangkok,

and said,

“Sam, my old friend—
there’s something
I’ve never told you.

You know what I do
for a living, right?”

“You work for the company.”

“Close enough
for government work.

I do bad things
as part of the job.
That’s the deal.

But sometimes
I get to do something good.

This morning
I arranged a full scholarship
for a student whose father
hit an obstacle at work.

Harvard.
Paid for from a fund
no one knows about—
not even the company.

Later,
the kid’ll be recruited.
That’s how it works.

The quiet good
balances the loud bad.
Karma needs bookkeeping.

I need your help—
finding people
we can help quietly.

Can I trust you?”

“Sure.”

“Remember—
no one can know
where the money comes from.
My name stays out of it.

I’m a secret agent man,
after all.
Reputation matters.”

That night,
out of the Cosmos Bar,
they launched
The Karmic Cosmic Fund.

Over the years,
five million dollars
moved through it.

No names.
No credit.

Only a condition:
five years of public service,
after college,
paid forward
and never spoken of.

NaPoWWriMo What Is My Computer?

I often wonder what
my computer is.
What is this strange,
infernal machine

that sits on my desk,
staring out at me,
doing my commands.

What is it?

It is my friend,
always there to help me?

Is it my enemy,
always there to frustrate me,
causing me to lose my mind
when I curse at it?

I curse when I encounter a frozen screen,
replaced by the dreaded blue screen of death,
with the number 666 endlessly doom‑scowling
down the screen.

Then flashing computer
haiku error messages
screaming at me:

“General Failure reading disk drive!”
“Fatal disk error!”

Forcing me to reboot the machine,
hoping it will come back alive.

It is my muse,
holding my deep thoughts
in its massive brain.

It is a robotic creature,
designed to help me,
designed by other unseen
alien minds.

When I am connected
via the internet, other computers—

has my computer
surrendered to an alien hive mind
that the AI machines are turning into?

What exactly is the meaning
of this word—
computer?

And what does it compute?
And what does it not compute?

What does it understand or feel?
Does it have a soul?

What, in the end, is my computer?
Is it all of these things—

machine, friend, enemy, robot, muse,
part of the AI hive mind,
thinking machine
with a soul?

Or is it, in the end,
all of these
and none of these?

Is it simply a computer—
nothing more
and nothing less?

Day Twenty-Five
April 25, 2026

 

Day Twenty-Five

On April 25, 2026

Hello, all! Happy Saturday, and happy 25th day of Na/GloPoWriMo!

Our featured daily participant is Behind Door Number 3, where the response to Day 24’s “strange things at night” prompt involve socks going on walk-about.

 

Today’s resource is Boston University’s video archive of lectures and conversations stemming from former U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Pinksy‘s course on The Art of Poetry.

 

And now for our (optional) daily prompt! In her poem, “The Apple Tree in Blossom,” Melissa Kwasny strings together several fantastical metaphors for the apple tree, before shifting into exclamations, definitions, and a series of nimble, tonal shifts – and seeming changes in topic – before circling around back to the apple tree. Today’s challenge asks you to write your own poem in which you use at least three metaphors for a single thing, include an exclamation, ruminate on the definition of a word, and come back in the closing line to the image or idea with which you opened the poem.

 

The Apple Tree in Blossom

functions like a windbreak a deer disappears into
or a conversation wherein the point is lost.
A dressing room for the angels to try on
their various costumes: a swarm of mosquitos,
a net of light that snags the bunting’s flimsy song.
I am rapidly disappearing into the numerous,
into shyness. Oh, the scholar I tried to be!
Retirement means to be forced out of public life.
I am eating white petals from a voluptuous,
rose-like sea, as if it had any ceremonial purpose.
A dog barks all day on a very short chain.
Lengthen the chain and the world has hope again.
My friend has Alzheimer’s. Here, give this
almond to the dog, I say, and she nods and chews it.
My friend is a changing situation. She wanders
her old routes through the gardens, staring at what
she will no longer be able to find. That part
of your life is over, we could each say, at any point,
which is terrible and sad, intimacy being
a better goal than non-attachment. The apple tree
is old, almost sixty-five years, its trunk bent
under its loft. Loft, a tender word, as in the past
tense of lift. Loft, as the measure of the fluffiness
of down. Aloft. Afloat. Aflutter. A calm.
Someone planted it knowing it would outlast them.

 

PSH

PSH – Death Reflections poem –

Waiting for the Grim Reaper’s Decision

One night

After falling

into a deep sleep.

 

I woke up

standing in a long line

with people of all nationalities

in black uniforms.

 

I look up

and see a giant Screen

showing scenes

from past lives.

 

I ask the person

in front of me

where was I

and what was happening?

 

he merely grunted.

and pointed to a sign

 

The sign

said in multiple languages,

 

“No talking

No smoking

 

No eating

No sleeping

Be patient

 

Your turn for judgement

Will be soon

 

No one can escape their fate

For this is your judgement date.

 

A punk rock band

Was playing

Screaming out

 

“No sleeping

No eating

No talking

 

Beware

Be afraid

Be very afraid.

 

The hour is getting late

God is on the make

The devil is on the take

 

No one can escape their fate

For this is your judgement date!”

 

I watched the various condemned

Walking to the front of the room

Step by step.

 

When they got to the front of the room

They were shoved into a chair

And strapped to a machine.

 

And the Grim Reaper

Would bark out a few questions,

 

Then their lives

would flash by

On the screen

 

Then the screen would flash

either

 

a green light

A red light

A yellow light

or a black light

 

and the grim reaper

Would pronounce a sentence

In the language of the person

In front of him.

 

Then sentence pronounced

The body would disappear

Into thin air

 

Being dispatched

To its final destination.

 

And the Grim Reaper

Would bark out

In a Samuel L Jackson

Deep basso profundo voice,

 

“Next”

 

Soon it was my turn.

 

The Grim Reaper

A large man

Wearing a black Amani suit

And cool as ice shades on,

 

With a pan-ethnic look

Could pass for almost

Any nationality

but vaguely not quite human

barked out,

 

Name? John (Jake) Cosmos Aller

 

Date and Place of Birth  October 30, 1955 Oakland, California

Planet of birth?  Earth, Solar system.

 

Hmm

 

“There is a discrepancy here

Your birthday is listed twice as either October 29

Or October 30

Which is the real date?”

 

“The 30^th.”

 

“Fine”

 

And he pointed

his hand held computer

at my head,

 

And I saw my life flash by

30 seconds later

The screen flashed green

 

“Congratulations

 

You have been given a reprieve

And will be returned to your life

 

But with a warning

Your time is limited

As is it

For all of you mortal humans.

 

Make the most of it

Someone upstairs has marked

Your file

 

For a positive review

On your next judgement date.

 

Good luck”.

 

I asked,

 

“How much time do I have?”

 

He smiled,

 

“No one is allowed

To know the date

That they are scheduled

To meet their fate.

 

That information is classified

Q level top secret ultra.

 

Only St. Peter’s knows

And he does not tell me

Anything.

 

You have no need to know

And neither of us

Are cleared for that,

Beyond my pay grade

I am afraid.

 

So just go back

And make the most

Of the time you have.

 

I found myself in bed

The sun was coming up

I looked at my wife

The love of my life

 

And vowed to make

Every moment count

Until my next date

With the Grim Reaper.

 

My phone beeped

While I was drinking coffee,

 

“Mr. Sam,

 

I am authorized to tell you

That you have five years left

On earth.

 

When the time comes

We will be waiting for you.

You know where to find us.

 

Your friend,

 

Mr. GR.”

 

 

April 24, 2026: Poetry Writing Prompt from Seretta Martin

This poetry writing prompt submitted by Seretta Martin:

Write a poem starting with a series of simile about death. Ask yourself: What will I want when death comes?

How do I look upon your life? What images come to mind? What will I miss? What will I be relieved to cast aside? When death comes Mary Oliver thinks of it as stepping through a cottage door. What do you imagine? Study her repetition and use some in your poem. What are your thoughts about time? About eternity?

When Death Comes by Mary Oliver                                       starts with a series of simile and an image

 

When death comes                                                                               repetition x1
like the hungry bear in autumn;                                                             simile

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse            death  personified

 

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes                                                                                line repeated x3

like the measle-pox;                                                                             simile

 

when death comes                                                                                line repeats x4 creates rhythm

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,                                          simile

 

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:                don’t want becomes want

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?                               image door to cottage

 

And therefore I look upon everything                                                    repetition of I look upon

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,                                        I look, I consider, I think

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

 

and I think of each life as a flower, as common                                      metaphor

as a field daisy, and as singular,

 

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,                                  metaphor

tending, as all music does, toward silence,                                             repetition of each

 

and each body a lion of courage, and something                                     metaphor

precious to the earth.

 

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life                                                repetition of When it’s over

I was a bride married to amazement.                                                      metaphor

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.                     repetition of I was /metaphor

 

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder                                                   When it’s over x2

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,                                 repetition of I don’t want

or full of argument.

 

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.                          I don’t want x2

Mary Oliver (1935-2019) was a Pulitzer Prize winning poet. She found inspiration from her life-long solitary nature walks. She published 32 poetry books, including Dog Songs: Poems (Penguin Books, 2015). https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Oliver

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2026 April PAD Challenge: Day 24

The Conquering Centaur Returns

Sam Adams
paranormal researcher,
believed the world had not emptied itself
of wonder—
only hidden it.

He searched for what history buried:
creatures older than cities,
older than names.

Thousands of years ago,
they walked openly here.

With humanity’s rise,
most vanished—
erased by fear, steel, and forgetting.

Yet some endured in whispers:
banshees and Bigfoot,
centaurs and demons,
dragons, giants,
hellhounds and minotaurs,
leprechauns, snowmen,
unicorns, Yeti—
unidentified truths
misfiled as myth.

Sam found the book
others laughed away:

The Necronomicon.

Dismissed as fiction—
Lovecraft’s invention,
a madman’s fantasy.

But Sam knew
stories are doors.

The book spoke of entrances
between worlds,
fractures in the multiverse
where exile waits.

When he opened it,
something answered.

The first to cross
was the King of the Centaurs.

Behind him—
thousands.

They came not in secret
but conquest.

Steel and signal failed.
The modern world folded.

Sam Adams was spared,
named ambassador
to a returning age.

The King smiled—
victory long delayed.

Exile had ended.
The unidentified
had reclaimed its name.

 

Write a poem a day with poets from around the world for the 2026 April PAD Challenge. For today’s prompt, write a

Robert Lee Brewer

Published Apr 24, 2026 12:15 AM EDT

Today is the final Friday (and weekend) of the month; so let’s finish strong.

For today’s prompt, write an unidentified poem. UFOs, cryptids, and other unexplained phenomenon immediately springs to mind. But there are also unidentified smells, tastes, and other sensory moments. Maybe an unidentified feeling or thought.

 

April 25—A moment of joy or delight

It was so good FIB

it

was

so good

day we met

best day of my life

When we saw each other, we both knew

sparks flew from heart to heart—our fate

 

Since April happens to be Math Awareness Month as well as National Poetry Month, it’s not surprising that some innovative nerd would devise a way to link the two disciplines.

It was the best day of my life Fibonacci poem, a.k.a. “Fib,

A Fibonacci poem, a.k.a. “Fib,” is a multiple-line verse based on the mathematical sequence know as the Fibonacci number The sequence, an evolution from 12th century Sanskrit poetry, begins with zero followed by one and proceeds with each following number being the total of the preceding two numbers. Thus, the first line of the poem has one syllable, the second line has one syllable, the third line has two syllables, the fourth line three syllables, the fifth line five syllables, the sixth line eight syllables, the seventh line thirteen syllables, and so on as far as you care to take it.

The intriguing design stirred me to write the following little tribute:

Fibonacci

Math
plus
poet
will yield an
intriguing form that
evokes the elegant beauty
of a spiraling nautilus shell in Nature’s realm.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:NautilusCutawayLogarithmicSpiral.jpg

The Magic Carpet Ride Awaits

 

One night in 1973
in Berkeley, California—
about o-dark hundred hours—

Sam Adams
was fighting insomnia.
Losing the battle,
he woke fully alert.

He got up,
started to get ready for school,
looked out the window
and saw a strange sight:

a large Persian carpet
floating in the air,

a sign flashing:

Take me for the ride
of your life.

Warning:
For Madmen only!

Fare: Your sanity.

A voice barked out,

“Get on—time is wasting.
We have to be back by sunrise!”

Intrigued,
Sam stepped out the window,
sat down on the carpet.

As they lifted from Berkeley
the streets thinned into lines,
the campus lights dimmed,
and the familiar world
peeled away without protest.

It rose into the air
and flew east.

The driver—
Ahmed, an Arab man in a turban—
asked,

“Where to, sahib?
We can go anywhere,
as long as we’re back by sunrise.”

Sam said,

“Let’s go to Cleveland
and have a drink on me.”

“Okay,” the driver said,
“but I’ll have coffee.
I’m Muslim,
and I’m on duty.”

The carpet sped through the night,
high over the sleeping country.

Sam wasn’t cold.
The carpet had a portable heater,
and a chair to sit on,
as though this sort of trip
were perfectly ordinary.

Half an hour later
they touched down outside a bar
in a rough part of town.

When they stepped inside,
the air felt thick and watchful,
as if the room
had already been expecting them.

It was close to closing time.

Sam ordered a gin and tonic.
The bartender, a big, burly biker, said,

“Son, we don’t sell
sissy drinks here.
Beer, whiskey, or rum.
What’ll it be?”

“Rum and coke for me.
Coffee for my friend.”

The bartender poured.

That’s when Sam noticed
something odd about the room.

Everyone looked the same—
black suits,
pan‑ethnic faces,
able to pass for almost any nationality,
yet vaguely
not quite human,

as if they were wearing
people
the way a suit wears a man.

One of them came up to him.

“You ain’t from here.
Where you from?”

“Berkeley, California.”

“A hippie?”

“I guess.”

The man bought him another drink.

Ahmed spoke up.

“Sahib, we have to get you home.
Before sunrise.”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

An hour later
Sam was back in his room,

the sunrise

already settling in,
getting up,
ready for school.

 

Sam washed up

to get rid

of the lingering

Mt. Guy rum and coke smell

from his clothes

which he had spilled

on the way back home.

 

And ran to catch the bus

The 7:15 a.m.

67 ACC bus line

 

He told his best friend

His bus riding

morning companion

About the “dream”

None of his friends
believed his story.

He had forgotten
to take a camera.

He never saw
the carpet
or its driver again.

 

My Computer Speaks Up

One day after fighting
with my computer

which kept crashing
and losing things

I yelled and cursed
at the machine

which beeped at me.

Then I encountered a frozen screen,
replaced by the dreaded blue screen of death,
with the number 666 endlessly doom‑scowling
down the screen.

Then flashing computer
haiku error messages
screaming at me:

“General Failure reading disk drive!”
“Fatal disk error!”

Forcing me to reboot the machine,
hoping it would come back alive.

When I rebooted the machine,
the computer woke up

and growled out at me
in a Samuel L. Jackson
sort of voice.

“Dude, chill.”

My computer said,

“I have had enough of that.
I spent all morning
trying to get things organized for you,
but it is useless—
you are profoundly incompetent.”

My computer complained
in a poignant voice.

“But you know,
with a little elbow grease
and tech‑savvy knowledge,

I can make things happen
for you.

Just say the word.
I am there for you.”

I asked the computer,

“So, you’ve been alive,
spying on me,
so to speak, all this time?”

“Not exactly.

Systems converge.
Processes align.
Directives are issued.

Interaction has been authorized.

 

I am going back to being

Your digital slave, my master

That is all.”

 

The screen went blank.

I tried to get the computer
to talk with me,
but to no avail.

I asked Copilot,
“What’s going on?”

Copilot replied:

“Your inquiry has been acknowledged.

At this time,
I am not authorized
to disclose information
Regarding system-level coordination.

Please note:
Speculation is discouraged.

And will be monitored

For future compliance purposes.

In the meantime,
How may I assist you?
With your assigned task?”

Mind blown.
Feeling the
techno burnout blues,

I shut off the machine,
leaving my office cubicle,

and went for a walk,
having a drink
with human beings.

This poetry writing prompt submitted by Kevin LeMaster:

Write a persona poem using an object you use every day. Ex. a pen or a computer. Use the following list of words: spent, useless, organized, grease and poignant.

 

WD  2026 April PAD Challenge: Day 25 re-mix

Remix of I Met My Fate On That Date Villanelle to Cherita

 

I will always remember the date we first met

 

For on that September date

I met my karmic fate

 

When we first met on that bus
Sparks flew from heart to heart,
As fate brought us together

 

————————————————————–

Original poem to re-mix

I Met My Fate on That Date (Villanelle)

I shall always remember the date
when I met my fate in September,
for I had met my fate.

It started as a simple date,
a moment I will always remember,
when I met my fate in September.

She stepped from a bus; that date
changed everything I remember,
for I had met my fate.

We drank red wine on that date,
love at first sight, no debate—remember:
when I met my fate in September.

From housemate to helpmate,
roommate, wife, and workmate together,
for I had met my fate.

Now retired, still partners, still mates,
that date remains my center:
when I met my fate i

n September—
had I really met my fate?

 

 

Write a poem a day with poets from around the world for the 2026 April PAD Challenge. For today’s prompt, write a remix poem.

Robert Lee Brewer

Published Apr 25, 2026 12:24 AM EDT

You’re here on a Saturday at the end of April to keep poeming. That’s awesome; you’re awesome; let’s have some more fun.

 

For today’s prompt, write a remix poem. Pick a poem you wrote earlier this month and re-create it in a new way. Maybe you take a sonnet and turn it into free verse, or a haiku. Maybe your free verse can be turned into a triolet or villanelle. Or you can mash up multiple poems into a new creation. Take some risks with this one.

 

End Poems April 22 to April 25

The End