Whew! We’ve done it once more. Another April poetry challenge in the books. Hopefully, some of these poem drafts possibly find their way into one! You’ve all done an incredible job and have written some outstanding poems! But, today we begin again. We start over. We resume where we’ve left off.

There is no better way to confirm that fact then by writing a “Resume” poem. Get started to get re-started and write the next best thing outside of the confines of April!


Resumé of a Ten-Year-Old Who Wants to Volunteer at a School for Refugee Women and Children

She spent the entire afternoon asking me relevant, insightful questions about the school’s students, staff, and mission. How do you teach babies and preschoolers a second language? What countries do they come from?  What languages are spoken? Which is the most common?  (She made note of Arabic, and couldn’t wait to ask her mom if she can begin studying it via Rosetta Stone or Duolingo).  Would I please contact the volunteer coordinator to see if it is acceptable for a ten-year-old to volunteer to help the adults care for the children? Are masks required? Is there a dress code?  Is there a form her parents could complete and sign, giving her permission to volunteer there?  Even if they can’t let her volunteer yet, can she take a tour of the school, and meet the staff?  Oh, and would I please tell them she is mature for her age?

Eager native sprout
seeks to share energy to
root and bloom transplants

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



Starting from here;
going on from now.
A fresh start is at the heart
of all that is to come.
A brand new month
came to call, and all
that transpires grows
from the seeds planted
in those twelve months prior.
That fire in your belly
spurs you on, a prodding
giving the nod to better things.
A fresh start is at the heart
of perfecting your art.
It all up to you
to begin anew

© Walter J. Wojtanik - 2021


  1. This is not exactly a resume poem, but I woke up at 4 Am and this came to mind so I wrote down became when I woke up I would forget it…

    The Skin I Wear

    When I was five
    I loved to don my lacy slip,
    And twirl and dance
    Until I tumbled laughing.
    My brothers would fuss,
    “Ma, she is wearing her underwear.”
    She would tell them
    To let me be…
    I was a child dancing.

    Just before I went off to college,
    I came from my room
    Wearing a tiny bikini,
    For I was off to go swimming
    As I walked out the door,
    I heard my father say,
    “Louise, is that okay
    What she is wearing?”
    Ma said back, “Joe let her be
    She is a young woman”
    I smiled as I hopped on my bike
    To go to the neighbors’ pool.”

    After a hard day of work,
    I would dress in my dance garb,
    And let down my long hair
    As I grabbed a glass of tea
    And went to room
    Where I danced,
    Where I twirled and gyrated
    To the music I heard
    Wanting to sweat out
    The stink of the day.
    When I came back,
    Ma would say,
    “Do you feel better?”
    I would nod my head,
    And ask what was for supper.

    Tonight, as I let
    My nightgown caress,
    This skin I have long been wearing,
    I whispered to it,
    “It is the dancing I miss,
    And riding my bike.
    Maybe one day
    I will do those again.”
    My tears rose in my eyes,
    Who was I fooling?
    I whispered,
    To my skin
    “My life is a dance,
    And I will be dancing.”

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    May 2, 2021

  2. To Resume

    Do you ever feel stuck?
    One project is waiting
    on another which
    Is waiting on another
    then another.

    Life can be a tangled
    skein of yarn
    and we’re left looking
    for the ends
    to untangle it.


    The sacred call to arms
    has never lost its fervency, yet only the fiercest knight
    will return to his longsword.

    The bejeweled crossguard, pommel, hilt,
    a symbol of sacrifice; crave the glorious revival
    of the hands of a warrior.

    The power of his hands strengthen
    his resolve, and fortify the double-edged
    weapon of steel.

    But the source of its power, the fury of his will,
    can only be derived from the heart of a faithful man;
    a man of the most noble birth,
    and of a nobler cause.

    He vows to never take up the sword
    without conviction, without slaying first
    his own indecision, uncertainty and pride.

    Then he will ride—
    on the wings of perseverance,
    mount the true warhorse of due diligence.

    He is the foremost victim of any battle,
    his own heart the firstfruits of any war,
    for he is always the first to taste his own sword.

    He guards his heart with all vigilance,
    with the antiquated wisdom of the wisest men.

    This is his greatest and most
    valuable weapon—the sword
    of his heart.

    It is heavily guarded—
    by the breastplate of the finest steel,
    forged and known—only to the knight.

    The way of the warrior
    resides in the splendor of magnificence,
    in the perpetuity of the knighthood.

    He delights feasting
    on the blood of fowl and kings,
    and sups mightily in the fear of his enemy.

    He dines on the valor of their strength,
    making an open shame of their defeat.

    He favors the distinct red wine of their weaknesses—
    down to the very last dregs.

    Fearlessly mocking their great armies,
    he calmly makes his bed in victory,
    and within the order of the righteous.

    The path of the slain lying behind him
    are a testament to his allegiance,
    an outstanding monument of his oath.

    The call to arms continues to beckon,
    but few will give heed to recommence their service;
    and only the fiercest of knights—
    return to the sword.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Spring brings
    some pleasant things
    upon which the heart feeds,
    but also weeds and grass that needs

  5. Walt, your fresh start bade me to try some internal rhyming, at which you are a master. I feel music in that piece too. Wonderful.

  6. May Day

    The month seems to 
    have had wings,
    writing and reading,
    fortunate to be living,
    here in America’s Finest City,
    where the locals are old, 
    the snowbirds are grateful, 
    and the poets have all
    been in good form.
    A month of satisfying results
    of gratitude and generosity,
    of many old friends, a new few. 
    We lived mostly for each new morning,
    knowing the poetry gods would laugh 
    at plans beyond lunch.
    Summer’s not yet here, 
    a few weeks away.
    That’s our breath we still see 
    in front of us some mornings,
    leading the way to the coffee,
    with the company of our cat, Max.
    It’s a grand day to be alive.

    The legume
    And peas the diet,

    Quite awhile
    I really should try it,

    Add dressing,
    Toss that around,

    My way there,
    If it grows in the ground.

    The apple and orange,
    Taste that good fruit,

    Out the honey,
    Give the tea bag the boot,

    Bowl me over,
    The number worth having,

    A salt
    to my taste,
    A margarita, please bring,

    A toast,
    To you and everything fine,
    Throw in that nearby bottle of wine,

    Me up,
    And you’ll easily be mine,

    Pretty thin,
    That bright red tomato,

    Me on?
    Then avocado go!!

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021


    Resuming my life without you,
    Like starting an empty garden,
    Without much dirt,
    Beginning again,
    Sounds frightening,
    Yet necessary,
    Maybe it is easier,
    To assume you are still here,
    Or soon, returning,
    Standing still is an option,
    Although not realistic,
    I do see you on Zoom,
    Twice a week,
    I do not have to cry,
    Every time,
    We end our call,
    Maybe I can imagine,
    You are just in a distant land,
    On business,
    Telling me exotic tales,
    Describing the unique animals,
    You see out your window,
    Masking some other glorious life,
    Instead of the computer screen,
    Where I see you,
    In truth,
    We are both living apart,
    You are in Memory Care,
    Not ever coming home,
    Resuming the life,
    We used to have,
    The love
    We used to have,
    The great connection,
    We used to have,
    Even though I can see you,
    Aspects of you are becoming distant,
    I am grateful for Zoom,
    Not happy about resuming life,
    Without you,
    I will still visit,
    I will still see you twice a week,
    I will always love you,
    And I will carry on,
    Resuming life
    And the love of you,
    In my heart,
    Every day.

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021

    • My heart breaks for you….There is two kinds of grief here… there is one of a person going, and it hurts as deeply as when a person goes finally…. you are in the first o ne and I hope you find a way, and I know the tough choices that sometimes have to made… but no one teaches you how to pick up your life… you just have to find your way… (Social worker in me coming out) prayers…and advice take little steps… teeny little steps…


    we are, yet again.
    To resume, yet again—
    the blessed charge of the wordsmith.

    We must relinquish—
    at once, all acquiescence,
    and shod our feet—
    at once,
    with the way of the word,
    the inviolable manner of muse.

    Make no mistake,
    we must dismantle—
    purify the mind;

    And put on
    the raiment of thought,
    bedecked in the precious
    jewels of creative gemstone.

    So let us
    take up the gauntlet
    of spirited word,
    unsheathe sharpened wit,
    and draw pen from scabbards

    Then let us resume—
    yet again.

    Benjamin Thomas

  10. Another Verse

    After a week of dry it’s time
    for the rains to resume
    already clouds gathering
    layering in deeper over
    waning day until now gray
    hovers and humidity soars
    winter wheat and first corn
    waiting for another drink

    soon we’ll resume our listening
    to rolling thunder the crackling
    of lightning’s strike deep in the timber
    find the split trunk its seared heartwood
    bearing blackened scar stench of sulphur
    after the storm clears and just perhaps

    as sun heats woods tomorrow
    more morels before the season’s gone
    may apples bulbing and iris outlining
    scattered rocks of old foundations
    calves staggering to wobbly legs
    and foals tasting first grass

    as we resume our own roles in it all
    watching checking battening down
    and opening up ourselves as much
    as the soil as we transplant seedlings
    trek to the high gardens to pull
    spring onions and new lettuce

    we’ll return to such routines
    without too much consideration
    beyond their being part of
    a larger cycle as if another verse
    was added to an old round
    and we’ve just resumed singing.


    Picking up
    where I had left off,
    my screen filled
    with words…words
    that felt familiar, yet new.
    Poetry resumes.

  12. Evening Again

    the last peachy glow of the sun
    is hugging the horizon, trying
    to make the day last a minute
    longer, while the faithful mourning
    dove resumes heralding the coming night

  13. Again, the Song
    Poetry restarters
    are re-hearters—
    a bird heart beating for a cause,
    rapid pulses in a feathered form,
    breathing in the morning air for a clause
    that fits the line,
    grasping in the wind to find
    a word, that for a singing bird,
    makes her perch, her branch of thought,
    waver with her joy
    She writes the song,
    then freely gives it to the breeze,
    where it belongs to all the world
    to hear, or hum, or nod, or sing,
    or whistle it again like any
    good gray mockingbird would do,
    because free poems are
    anybody’s rights
    once given
    to the breeze.

  14. On the Yellow Brick Road

    Light tied together into gold
    calls, beckons you to go farther
    along The Yellow Brick Road
    to find your way back home.
    This Wicked Witch is dead,
    and The Good Witch loves you.
    She smiles and says
    she’ll see you along the way.
    Flowers of reds and gold
    dance as the sun shines
    on a carpet of fields on rolling hills
    as you hop and skip along the path.
    A song plays in your head
    of ferries and nymphs
    the perpetual refrain of spring.
    Riches you seek from the voice
    of a man in a tall castle
    at the end of the road-
    he’ll answer your dreams.
    Yet when the curtain is pulled
    you see that he’s human after all.
    In a soft voice he proclaims
    your way home lies
    in the visions you keep.


    Reluctant sun.
    citrus rays.
    peels away
    along horizon
    egg yolk


    every eye
    in high
    on high.

    Benjamin Thomas

  16. This Gardener’s Struggle

    The weather is grey
    And rain clouds are threatening.
    I’ll stay inside to write.

    The seeds need planting.
    But I will surely get wet,
    But the seeds will grow.

    There is much to do
    Inside my house this morning.
    The clouds grow darker.

    What a perfect time
    To plant the seeds that will grow,
    But I will get wet.

    Did I hear the sky
    Speak loud- a rumble, tumble
    Thunder voice warning?

    After the rain falls
    The wet earth will bless the seeds.
    I will not get wet.
    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    May 3, 2021

    • I never get these poems to stagger… Basically it is two poems dealing with the same subject in a conflict.. with odd verses being one poem and and the even ones another… But I never get them to stagger back and forth like a debate… I was going out in the rain to plant things until it started thundering…

      • thanks… the one I did on the dogwoods and my mother is my favorite one…

      • thanks and it actually happened this morning as I was writing it…
        thanks and it can be a struggle internally but both individual poems have to have a common theme… I call it either dueling poems or debating poems… the lines can vary and I have one that I did that rhymed but it is not in my computer…

      • Benjamin this is a more complex one…it is about my work so warning… the first poem deals with the facts of this case, and the other one deals more with my struggle inside… I worked this case off and on from 1978 until 1986…

        The Stain Glass Maker
        Born to a mother too young,
        Deadbeat dad who never bother to see you,
        You were born like all babies- lovely, and
        You grew a darling dark eyed girl.
        That Mother too young had to have a man,
        And married a bastard
        Who cracked your window to the world.

        I came to be a Stain glass maker
        To take the ugliness and create beauty.
        I was young naïve-
        Thought I could change the world,
        Thought all it took was someone like me
        To make all the pieces fit.
        I was handed your window to the world;
        It was shattered and crushed.
        How could I fix that window
        For the light of Peace to get to your heart.

        The Bastard beat your young mother,
        Made her old and broken.
        Your five-year-old self stood still crying silently
        As the chair slammed into her head.
        Brain matter landed on you.
        The Bastard shattered your window,
        And you knew as they buried the young mother
        The dark side of Domestic War.

        I met you in a darken room of your home,
        Walked into danger not knowing, and
        Brought back your stuff from school
        Stabbing someone was an expellable event.
        I felt the cold blade of the knife
        Held by the teenage boy who came up behind me.
        Your eyes had a cold set on doing me harm.
        “Do you believe he will cut you?”
        I said, “yes,” and
        The beginning of trust was born.
        I took the black piece of your anger
        And fit it against a piece of yellow glass of trust.

        The Bastard’s family took you for their own.
        No one came from the young mother’s family to claim you.
        They beat you, called you names, told you no one wanted you, and
        Looked the other way when the Bastard raped you again and again.
        Defiant strong you fought back,
        Attacking any who tried to help-
        All you felt was anger smashing your Heart
        To fill it with hate and war.

        There you sat in front of me.
        I had begun to learn that it was not easy
        Repairing a broken window that might break me.
        Our paths had crossed again,
        This time your baby was the reason.
        You remembered the trust.
        I saw your anger that you were here.
        So I added a red piece to the window.
        One day I heard you laugh;
        I added the color green for joy.

        The Bastard busted your lip,
        And the rope burns would leave a scar on your wrist.
        Your eyes begged for this to stop;
        You were tired of it all.
        You refused all offers, saying,
        “You can’t help. You know he will kill me.”
        I heard the glass of the window
        Being crushed with your tears-
        The hopelessness of domestic war.

        I got the calls at three in the morning
        Your tears had sought me out.
        I listened to your despair, and
        Gave you a glimpse of a better day.
        I had faith in you. You listened, and
        Began to know also.
        I picked up the purple glass of faith,
        And added it to the window to your soul.

        The nightmare came- your baby girl died.
        No one believed it was an accident.
        You had another baby girl- she needed you,
        But those that were supposed to love you,
        Only pointed fingers and said you were bad.
        They ground what was left of the window to your heart.

        I had to ask the hard questions.
        I also cried over the loss,
        Of a little girl we both loved-
        I added the color of blue to your window
        In many shades from the light blue of love
        To the dark blue of grief.

        The struggle was always there.
        The fast anger- the hate
        Never really died…
        And the marks of the Bastard
        Of beatings and assaults
        From the domestic war
        Always kept from mending the broken window.

        Each year on your birth day
        To remind you of that time
        When you were a perfect babe,
        And your young mother loved you,
        I gave you a small gift a token of that love.
        I just wanted you to heal,
        Wanted the stain glass window
        To bring you beautiful light,
        And I added the crystal light of hope
        Just in case this year was the year.

        The news was bad.
        You were dead-
        Beaten like your young mother.
        The bastard had won.
        Everyone believed it,
        But no one could prove it, and
        He moved on to build a domestic war somewhere else.

        I stood at your funeral
        Cried my heart out
        For all I could not mend.
        I had failed as a stain glass maker,
        But it is hard to build a window
        When the pieces were
        Cracked, shattered,
        Smashed and ground into dust.
        I put the last piece into the window that day.
        The white glass of peace-
        Too late for you to see, but
        Not too late for you to feel.

        Mary Elizabeth Todd
        April 8, 2014

    (Three-part Bokettos)

    Arriving like summer rain,
    Just a bit unexpected,
    Yet refreshing all the same,
    The lightning strikes,
    Born from that moment,

    A fresh new spark arises,
    Sweet kindling for passion,
    Unseen flame,

    Once fire is detected,
    The heat spreads on its own path,
    Burning towards its focal point,
    The hidden goal,
    Passion ignited,

    Resuming, consuming it,
    Because it can’t be contained,
    Flame expands.

    Pure passion re-ignited
    Resuming where it left off,
    Awakens new hope in life,
    A strike can come,
    When least expected,

    Simply a new creation,
    Found just where it needs to be,
    Right on time

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021

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    spring steel
    overlooked riverbanks
    that flowed with
    pure melted gallium

    Sunbeams of heavy brass
    rays reflected off its

    Illuminating red
    metallic peonies
    that held a glint
    of refulgence

    Several elegant arrays
    of burnished bronze
    tulips aligned both
    sides of the river

    Their bright collective
    the allure of a metallic

    Their armored bean-green
    stalks were vibrant
    and flourishing

    Savvy candy red
    iron-roses flanked
    the spring steel
    magnolias underneath

    The dazzling aura
    of their effulgence
    struck the countryside
    with a deep intelligent hue

    Until the rain resumed…

    The heavy metal sound
    steadily clinking—
    as they stood drinking
    the silver shard raindrops
    poured from above

    Benjamin Thomas

  20. Time Off From Life

    I do not want to resume
    my life by reading all
    my work–oh, the strife–
    created in April. My mind
    is in a bind at this
    time. Meditate to free
    it from a sudden slowdown.
    I frown. Now all the monkey
    chatter will begin again.
    How will I start easing
    myself, preparing myself
    to resume that life I had?


    Every day.
    Begins. Resumes.
    Whether we like it—
    Or not.

    Every. Day.
    Begins. Resumes.

    Our permission.
    or not.

    Here. It. Comes.


    Upon us like a bad

    Picking up steam

    Bowling over things.

    It stops.

    Then resumes

    Benjamin Thomas


    It’s time
    to take up the pen

    Allow it to form—
    like an architect
    Master builder
    leaving impressions
    great effect
    the city

    It’s time
    to take up the pen
    this ancient

    grand vehicle
    Be-mused of human
    for centuries

    It is
    publicum officium
    serviceable duty
    to the

    Let us
    pen to paper
    like those who have
    before us

    Let us
    pen to paper
    gathered thought
    what matters
    to us

    Benjamin Thomas


    It needs
    to be said.

    Will our love resume?
    take its toll
    upon these lips?

    Shall we—
    let them chat

    Speaking and speaking
    oh so

    Benjamin Thomas

  24. in 2008 and 2009 I lost twelve very important people to my life, and I was devastated…

    Starting over…

    Everything I knew-
    Everything that anchored me-
    Had been bulldozed by death.
    The earth was raw around me-
    Exposed clay and loam and sand
    Nothing alive growing,
    And because it was hard, cold,
    And still frozen
    Nothing would grow.

    I was frozen on a tundra-
    And taking that first step
    Took a decade,
    But no one noticed-
    No one heard my silent screams-
    For I had learned to mimic life.
    They thought I was doing so well.
    They were wrong.
    I was wrong to keep-
    My screams silent.

    I thawed, and began to wander…
    Through land and landscapes
    I did not know.
    I was searching for something-
    Or someone I had lost.
    Despite my lost feelings,
    I was guided by an unseen guide.

    The rocky paths made me stumble-
    They made me bleed-
    But they made me strong.
    The tasks before me were daunting-
    The tasks before me made me breathe-
    And I began to dream.

    One day on this strange journey
    From loss to beginning again…
    I saw before me my life-
    Not the barren soil
    On a frozen tundra…
    But a mountain of faith,
    Glittering in the light of hope…
    It was like the Grand Tetons,
    Rising up from the prairie
    Beautiful and whole.

    In that one moment I knew-
    In that one moment I saw-
    My life was not behind me-
    But before me
    And I began living-
    My life again.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    May 4, 2021

      • thanks and it is how my life was since all those deaths…I lost my mother, my last sibling Joe, my Uncle Sam(my last uncle) SYBIL and Mike Worland (two of my best friends) two cousins, Carl and Jean, a lady I taught in Sunday school Evelyn, and my last three aunts Aunt Lorene, AUnt Myrtle, and Aunt Martha and my dear friend’s daughter….

  25. I found this poem I had written for pictures of my forest on face book a year ago…

    I live in the cathedral of trees
    In the sanctuary of peace
    Blessed in the hope of life
    and seasons that change
    which reminds me that this season
    Is only for a time…
    I was taught this
    by the wisdom of trees
    who have lived longer than I have or will.
    Mary Elizabeth Todd May 4, 2020

  26. Hello, friends,
    It has been a while since I tried to get in here and join the garden party. I hope this posts this time.


    There is a waiting
    in the heart
    for blossomings
    of every kind
    in every part
    and gentle stretching
    of the mind.

    But we in longing
    bind ourselves–
    Where can we start?
    What do we dare?
    Until we wake
    as from a dream
    to find we’re there…
    or almost there.


    Resuming is how we cope
    With life’s interruptions
    We rekindle the hope for a better tomorrow
    We lay our hands on the present opportunity
    And ride that bull into the sunset

    Benjamin Thomas


    When the time is right
    We pick up the baton
    That was handed down to us
    Scrape the dirt from our knees
    Slowly unburden ourselves
    Abandon our weighted ego
    Breaking the iron shackles of pride
    That so easily encumbered us
    Standing against the evil tide of doubt
    Embarking on a new path of discovery
    Placing one foot in front of the other
    Against the gravity of uncertainty
    Maintaining our balance along uneven ground
    Gradually picking up steam
    Building up a sense of momentum
    Until we’re sprinting with the wind
    Our knees pumping like pistons again
    Clearing one hurdle after the next
    Until we’ve finally finished the course
    And we’ve reached the finish line
    Seeing those words that say the end
    And have come to suddenly realize
    That looking back with tears
    Our only opponent
    Was ourselves

    Benjamin Thomas


    R eclaiming our right to
    E njoy life’s poetry
    S avoring each moment
    U nderstanding the cause for the
    M use’s
    E laborate plans

    Benjamin Thomas

  30. Every Six Months

    Today after the second shot
    I think maybe this time,
    I won’t need in six months,
    A shot once a week
    For three weeks
    Just to get back to normal.

    This is my fresh start
    Until my knee
    Doesn’t like to bend,
    And creaks and cringes
    When it does.
    I groan at the thought,
    Of going back again,
    But after the second shot
    I am wondering,
    Why each time
    I put it off.

    One shot left to go,
    And then I can dance,
    And walk as far as I want.
    I would say,
    I would jump for joy,
    But I really don’t want to risk it.

    The autumn is a long way off,
    And my knee is like new,
    I will celebrate
    By gardening.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    May 7, 2021


    Tulips yearn to return
    to its former glory

    longing to rebrand itself
    amongst the other
    flowers of the garden

    seeking to be redeemed
    from the loss of its bloom
    and the shameful covering of death

    Benjamin Thomas

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