November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 14: The hum

Day 14: write a ‘temporary’ poem (see link)
 
The hum
 
If you say everything is temporary
is doing anything worthwhile?
 
Is it enough just to experience it,
feel it, be in it, take the deep dive?
 
Is it worth loving & being loved if it will stagnate?
Is it worth building a company that might go bust?
 
Is it worth making a friendship you might lose?
Is it worth following a dream that just might burst?
 
Yes.
 
A famous poet wrote about the feel of not to feel it,
so should we wander through our life numb?
 
Should we ignore every opportunity out of fear
or the hunch that we won’t pass ‘Go’?
 
Is it worth starting if everything will finish?
You might as well ask if it’s really worth living.
 
Losing is part of the process
& everything on the planet has a shelf life,
 
just like a chunk of Cheddar cheese
or any wine once you open the bottle.
 
To feel it is enough. It makes us human.
To not feel anything at all is the scariest thing of all.
 
Step outside & you’ll hear the birds, traffic rumble,
feel the buzz, the vibration of the city. The hum.
 
It doesn’t matter which direction you walk in.
It will take you somewhere
 
& whichever path you take you’ll sometimes hit
a crossroad, a fork in the road.
 
Sometimes it’s easier to flow then choose
or leave the choice to somebody else,
 
but that surrenders your steering wheel
when you’re not supporting actress or wing man.
 
If it’s all temporary, surely the need to feel every single part
of life becomes richer, the experience more real.
 
If everything is indeed lost it’s just winter shedding leaves
so spring can rush in something new.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 14, 2026

November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 13: Black cat morning

 
Day 13: write a ‘luck’ poem
 
Black cat morning
 
Morning is a black cat crossing your path,
a little hiss, brush of legs. You tickle that fluffy belly.
He follows you a little until you run away.
 
Elevenses is a painter’s ladder you swerve to avoid,
stagger into the gutter, soak your Nikes
and narrowly miss being splattered by a 47 bus.
 
Lunchtime is a four-leaved clover you pluck
lying on the grass devouring a croque monsieur,
dreaming of a lottery win to a hippie paradise.
 
2pm has you plucking the petals of a daisy,
mumbling ‘she loves me, she loves me not’,
knowing you’ve overspent your lunch hour. Rebel.
 
Tea-time and you’re squinting to read the leaves,
see the future in a soppy mush of what resembles shit,
giving in to the knowledge that you’re crap at it.
 
Leaving time, you fight the rain all the way home,
close your heroic umbrella inside the hallway,
kick off your shoes, stub your toe on the cabinet.
 
8pm you spill salt, pinch and flick over one shoulder,
stir your coffee anti-clockwise, switch the light on,
spark a blackout during a penalty shoot-out.
 
10pm and it’s a close shave as you trip on a rug,
crash into the hall mirror but find it ain’t broke!
You touch wood, cross fingers, hug your lucky penny.
 
Midnight spies you gazing up at the night sky,
laughing at the crazy day it’s been,
wishing on a lonesome passing star. Thunder claps.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 14, 2026
 

November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 12: Tricking the fog

 
Day 12: write a ‘strange’ poem (see link)
 
Tricking the fog
 
December’s fog hangs heavy-dusted,
slinks over every wall, under every stone
along the winding concrete bank,
a dog run wild off its leash,
lit by yolk-faced streetlamps,
iron limbs striding in formation
beside this swirling black of sea.
 
Icy breath caresses the body,
chills the dip between shoulder bones,
makes us shiver the entire length
of our spindly, goose-bumped arms.
 
Sea salt blasts my face, elicits tears,
my mouth breathing warmth into my scarf
growing damp. I worship my woolly hat,
hug my coat tight, feet unsnug.
And we pine for heat.
 
There is no birdsong to guide us.
Even the marauding gulls took cover.
We walk and walk and walk.
There’s nothing else to do.
It’s too cold to stand still.
 
We have no roof to hide under,
no letterboxed door to enter,
no worn-in sofa to sink into,
no TV channels to argue over,
no bed to rest our bones in.
 
We wrap ourselves up tight
against the temperature drop of night,
presents waiting to be opened
beneath the Christmas tree,
but there is no one to receive us,
no postage will cover our cost.
 
The lamps weave in and out, marking
territory, stalking any stranger who enters.
The fog caresses our solitariness,
this cold air our deep freeze,
the sea reticent to welcome us
each time we stop to peer in,
trying to fathom the depth below,
this swirling current, eerie stink,
a portal shimmering only for us.
 
But we are linked to the stars above,
glitter of the overhanging moon,
its spindled arc taking us back
to the beginning of time,
the dawn of the world we tread.
It holds stricken clouds like a boa
in a narcissistic dance across the sky,
jausts the fog for silent submission,
but even the moon loses.
 
I draw my dreams in the night sky,
spin alien crafts around constellations,
time travelling life’s surreal suppositions.
Uninvited, the fog steals my hand,
tugs me into a tight embrace
until I am staring into the abyss,
and all I can see is a dark mirror
reflecting every soul I’ve ever met,
every chosen path, every signpost,
every crossroad I stood at in confusion.
 
I always fight the fog’s greasy grasp,
wriggle, dive and weave until it folds.
The steely lamps dip and wink every time,
squeaking as they bend to look at me
in gratitude that I choose to walk among them,
this tiny human with such small, gloved hands
waving to them so they might see.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 12, 2026

November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 11: Rothko

 
Day 11: write a ‘portrait’ poem (see link)
 
Rothko
 
A doorway suspended,
ripped out of speckled light,
becomes a skinny frame of blood,
a portal of curious apparitions
gazing out, to be stepped inside,
a misshapen city shrouded
in haze inviting lost souls
to wander, explore spellbound,
be swallowed whole by
red on maroon.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 11, 2026
 

November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 10: Waka/Waka-less

 
Day 10: write a ‘poetic form’ poem, and/or write an ‘anti-form’ poem (see link)
 
The waka is a Japanese 5-line poem (or stanza) with a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable per line structure.
The first 2 lines should make up one piece, the next 2 lines should make the next,
and the final line can stand on its own or as part of the second group.

 
Waka
 
What is form but formless,
without foundation of choice inflex reflex auto,
smash-and-grab of ideas,
bereft of blueprint, line, fleshed-out arc.
Moving pictures walking inside out of themselves.

 
Waka-less

Moon flit, cut felt,
cherry blossoms blow-out rhyme
falling, a slide out of flux,
rewind, rewound, unwind, unfound,
sunken states of passing light. 

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 10, 2026

November PAD Chapbook Challenge – Day 9: The answer

Day 9: write a ‘help’ poem (see link)

 
The Answer
 
The Answer spoke from the bubbles in a pint glass,
in a tea-leaf face ground into a porcelain cup,
scratched jazz bouncing beneath a dusty needle,
interpretative dancers aglitter under a disco ball,
a sodden lottery ticket grasped in a warm pocket,
strangers sharing jokes at an iced-up bus stop,
a message and smiley sat waiting on a dating app,
the purr of a cat as it noses you awake.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 9, 2026

November PAD Chapbook Challenge Day 6 – Pick up

Day 6: write a power poem (see link)
 
Pick up
 
I pick up my shield ablaze,
velvet-mounted blade
and magic helmet,
slide on a pair of steel gloves,
a stream of chain mail,
dead-spiked boots,
summon a ride
on the last unicorn.
 
Just in case
you don’t want me to leave,
but only want to interrogate:
where I’ve been,
who I’ve met,
where I’m going next
without you.
Not wanting me to be
anywhere without you.
 
It’s a power game
I usually lose.
So today I’m prepared.
I’m suited up.
And the world is waiting
without you.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 8, 2026

November PAD Chapbook Challenge Day 5 – Autumn spirals

Day 5: write a tree poem (see link)
 
 
Autumn spirals
 
Trace a braille line
broken deep
with your fingertip
 
to read a history
written in rings,
rotating days into years.
 
Sap bleeds out
where a bough breaks,
bark peeling like skin.
 
In the dew light
leaves take flight,
red-green haloes.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 8, 2026

November PAD Chapbook Challenge Day 4 – Blink

Day 4: write a short poem (see link)
 
Blink
 
To rule a ruler
be unmeasurable.

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 8, 2026
 
 
 
 

November PAD Chapbook Challenge Day 3 – One for sorrow, two for joy

 
Day 3: write a disappointment or celebration poem (see link)
 
One for sorrow, two for joy
 
‘We are gathered here today’
can go either way –
a wedding or a funeral.
 
Flip a coin on happy or sad,
where two walk out or one lies in,
both a crossroads in the life path.
 
Different are the costumes,
the hang of shoulders,
hues and scents of cut flowers.
 
Anyone can borrow
or wear a blue expression,
bring new, reminisce on old.
 
If told, a story can go full circle
or reach a dead end
without explanation, conclusion.
 
We all seek closure in the end,
companions for the ride.
A horse and cart stand showy or lonely.
 
Flip a coin to decide the occasion.
 
For only one can you name the day,
throw confetti, share the first dance.
For the other, one magpie sounds sorrow.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 8, 2026