Lisa over at Wild recommended Poetry Thursday. I checked it out and Yes! this is a good place to hang, read, and, get kick-started.

Copied from Poetry Thursday:

"Have you had a moment in your life when there were words on the tip of your tongue, yet you chose not to say them? Have you thought about a past conversation and wished you would have known what you know now to say things differently? Are there conversations you have had in your head but have never said aloud? Maybe there are artifacts in your life waiting to tell you where they have been and what they know."

This week's prompt is: Unfinished conversations.

Here's my effort:

The Key

While cleaning out the junk drawer
I find a key I do not recognize.

Something forgotten like a Tinkerbelle cake
ordered for a little girl’s birthday;

the directions back from a store
on vacation; a memory

as significant as a storage shed filled
with boxes of family photos and Christmas

decorations; a bicycle locked to a pole
abandoned like a husband repairing

a pipe in a basement or the door
to a home where I once belonged. I taste it.

The metal on my tongue reminds me
of something I have no right to describe.

Write a PROSE POEM. Desert Moon Review's Weekly Challenge
I'm the judge. (((smile)))

Oh! Now, this could be fun. If you could place a message in a bottle and send it out to sea, what would it be? Oceangram (Sometimes it takes a bit for a bottle to show up.)

I'd love to know what you put in your bottle.

Thanks to Arlene's nagging I suppose I have to contribute to this blog thing.
M, over at Wild Poetry Forum always has a good challenge going each week. Arlene, if you're listening, one of the challenges produced that poem you chose for the nasty issue of Poems Niederngasse. (grin) This week, M demanded we write her a poem that smells, and harder yet, it must smell like Anger. Of course she added limit and form just to piss us off.

Here's my effort:

This Anger Smells Like


Carpet the color of beer old torn
barstool barstool barstool
post-it notes tickets permits
this picture of a faded bitch

who watches this Chanel №5
pretender this one
red ethyl butyl nail held
together by a latex

band-aid that smells
like tequila and lime taste
like a pissy toilet under a chin
the ripe kiwi

from a trash bin sappy
nicotine on her hair his belt
buckle’s cold metallic click
starch bristled skin

dead crickets on a damp floor lavender
soap and this woman
who cheats on my husband
watching me smell her hand.