Day 3 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2024

When I first started doing NaPoWriMo consistently in 2012, I used to do little essays on the date to begin the blog post (maybe it was the second year). Here's one on Day 3 in 2013. Third day. 1 + 2 or 2 + 1 (commutative property). As a "word problem" (remember those from grade school — or grammar school, as some of us called it): one plus one plus one. Trinity. Triumvirate. Triumfeminate. Triumgynate. Triumpersonate. Triumwhateverate. Semper ubi sub ubi, yo! ;-) For folks who didn't study Latin in high school: that last sentence semper ubi sub ubi is schoolboy humor for "always where under where." Okay, on to today's prompts. Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “For today's prompt, pick a musical act or artist and either make that the title of your poem or incorporate into the title of your poem; then, write your poem.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “[w]rite a surreal prose poem. For inspiration, check out Franz Kafka’s collection of short parables (my favorite is “The Green Dragon”).” Carlos Santana and the Snake I heard someone say, “You need to go on on right now or you won’t get on at all.” My heart stopped. I’d dropped some mescaline Jerry Garcia gave me, just two hours before. We thought we had hours to go before getting on stage. The Woodstock people were so disorganized. We weren’t supposed to go on for another ten hours or something. We all headed for the stage. Dave reached for his Fender bass and I grabbed for my Gibson SG. The headstock morphed into a rattlesnake head and tried to bite my hand! Frets and dots on the neck of the guitar changed into a rainbow of blue and gold snakeskin scales. I got hold of the axe and said a prayer as the snake twisted and torqued. “Just help me stay in tune and on time, God.” I said it over and over. On stage, the crowd was a mass of crazy colors, oozing like lava. The sky was a pinwheel of red and white rays emanating from the sun. Angels were floating all over. The guitar snake was still trying to bite me and I wrestled with it as we began to play. All of a sudden, the snake looked me right in the eye and said, “No, pendejo, A minor, A minor!” Me and the snake were surfers . . . no, the snake was the surfboard and I was trying to stay balanced. We were both surfing the music — “Soul Sacrifice” was the amoeba world, galactic and universal. I laughed as Mike started the last fill on the drums. I had stayed in tune and on time, despite and because of my friend, the snake. I hit my last chord. Yes, A minor. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Brandt Cotherman, "Carlos Santana Electric Snakes" I found this art piece on my topic by Brandt Cotherman on his website. This poem is a bit ekphrastic because I borrowed some imagery from his art. I also borrowed some language from a 2019 interview with Carlos Santana about Woodstock in the New York Times, "How Santana Hallucinated Through One of Woodstock’s Best Sets (His Own)." What I wanted to fit into the poem but couldn't was something Carlos said about Woodstock: "That was a beautiful thing that I’ll hold true till the day I leave this planet. I witnessed, with my own eyes and my heart, that people can get along, with unity and harmony. No fights. Share granola or a blanket or whatever. I got to see that humans are capable to coexist with benevolence. That’s why we’re still talking about Woodstock, man." Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2024 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day 26 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “write a portrait poem that focuses on or plays with the meaning of the subject’s name. This could be a self-portrait, a portrait of a family member or close friend, or even a portrait of a famous or historical person.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a response poem. The poem could respond to one of your poems from earlier this month (or ever). Or it could respond to a poem by another poet, whether it's Emily Dickinson or Ocean Vuong.” Today's curtal sonnet arises from both prompts. For Thorson's name/portrait assignment, I'm going with Emily Dickinson again, partly because Brewer mentioned her today. To fulfill Brewer's response assignment, I am responding to Dickinson's poem "How many times these low feet staggered" (238). Emily at Work             a response to Dickinson’s “How many             times these low feet staggered” (238) Emily Dickinson’s given name means rival, laborious, eager. Would these be the qualities you connect with her? She: “Indolent Housewife — in Daisies — lain.” Emily labored hard on poems, no ease there, “Vesuvius at home.” Calm fervor. She did not do housework. “[A]damantine fingers / Never a thimble — more — shall wear.” And “the cobweb swings from the ceiling.” Swish a broom? Not she. Poets do not need a clean                                           house. Just words on fire. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I am grateful to the article "Domestic Labor in the Dickinson Family Households" from the Emily Dickinson Museum for information about Dickinson and housework, especially with regard to her poem "How many times these low feet staggered" (238). Also, the phrase "Vesuvius at home" comes from Dickinson's poem "Volcanoes be in Sicily" (1691). Alan's contribution today is a prose poem. He told me, "Pat Cronin was a member of the East Tennessee State University faculty until recently. During the early days of the pandemic, I encountered him and his wife at a local supermarket, at a time before anyone of us common folks had any real idea of how we should conduct ourselves in public, how often we needed to clean everything, and, sometimes, how to be cheerful. So this poem is based on that experience." A Kroger in Johnson City What thoughts I have of you tonight, Pat Cronin, for I walked over the sidewalks under dogwoods and black oaks, listening to the mockingbirds on campus,             Exhausted from another long day now three years into the pandemic now termed an endemic yet forcing additional cautions nonetheless,             Relieved to be among the company of others nevertheless, although sometimes feeling jarred by the renewed acquaintances in their new appearances. Some of my younger friends have grayed, others have lost their youthful step, some have mourned to creases.             I saw you early in the pandemic, Pat, at a Kroger, and we recognized each other despite our masks, my hair gray and woolier than it had ever been, since I kept it trimmed up until the pandemic forced me home after I stopped patronizing the barber who grew more racist as the Trump administration continued and I decided I owed it to someone to let it grow,             And there you were, bright-eyed and cheered to be among folks although we still in our ignorance of the coronavirus kept our arms-length distance from each other, reluctant to touch even the packaging on the ground meat for what its surface might harbor.             Entering the supermarket, I had heard your voice pitched to reach even the SRO members of the audience, ringing from the meat case to the produce on one side of the supermarket, the dairy case on the other, lifting above the shelves of breakfast foods and canned vegetables.             Would we have hugged were we not afraid that doing so might lead the other to a premature death? I believe so.             Where were we standing, Pat Cronin? Your spouse ducked away as we talked, maybe to purchase ordinary items. What did we talk about?             (I wonder if she calls you “Patrick” sometimes, because I just can’t.)             I know we spared ourselves the talk of work for a bit, you being so close to retirement, and I being underwater with the sudden demands that all classes shift to online delivery in spite of the unequal access to the internet because the GOP congressmen during the Obama administration struck down the proposal to make the internet a utility like water and electricity.             I know we talked about health and our eagerness for a vaccine to be discovered and for the hasty end of the Trump administration.             I remember, you old iconoclast, that like me you sometimes express affection in reverse by condemning those who punch down, and so many punch down and enlist too many of our thoughtless neighbors in their ranks, and I will never have your stage presence or your film credits or your ability to draw an audience, but I can tell folks that while many people radiate their personal hell around them, you sop yours up like an unlucky spill, as I hope to do, too. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2023 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day 11 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, we have our second two-for-Tuesday prompt, which means you get two prompts, and they are:   1) Write a form poem, and/or . . .   2) Write an anti-form poem.  By form, I'm thinking of the various poetic forms, but it's completely fine if you've thought of another interpretation of form.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo suggestion: “This prompt challenges you to play around with the idea of overheard language. First, take a look at Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “One Boy Told Me.” It’s delightfully quirky, and reads as a list, more or less, of things that she’s heard the boy of the title – her son, perhaps? – say. Now, write a poem that takes as its starting point something overheard that made you laugh, or something someone told you once that struck you as funny.” Amanda “I love you upside down in the sky like flowers,” she said, looking up at wispy cirrus clouds. She must have been three at that time, and Mary Ann and I looked at each other, laughing a little bit at how precocious our little genius was, a poet in the making. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Working with all three prompts again this Tuesday — two from Brewer and one from Thorson. Brewer's notion of form enters here with a 5-7-5 haiku tied to a small paragraph, three lines but not haiku. A bit like a haibun, I suppose, but really just trying to encompass the "form/anti-form" aspects of the Brewer prompt. Well, not "anti-form" so much as rather just "non-form"? Or maybe "non-poetic-form"? Though of course prose is also a poetic form, so tough two-for-Tuesday opposition this time. Today, Alan told me about his poem, "The two prompts call for something overheard and a form poem. I managed both. "Last night, I had the opportunity to hear Pulitzer Prize finalist Maurice Manning read at a Knoxville, Tennessee, event, and that reminded me that he created a poetic form he refers to as the 'honky tanka,' a form he describes in his chapter of The Rag-Picker’s Guide to Poetry: Poems, Poets, Process, thirty words, six lines, five words per line, and some rhyming if you can manage it. "The 'overheard' part of the prompt comes from a direct quote I happened to catch on the news. Fortunately, it’s still on the internet, so I could confirm what I heard." A Republican Tennessee District Representative Who Voted to Expel Three Democratic Representatives Concedes the Two Expelled Black Representatives May Be Reappointed and Manages Not to Say “Uppity” “I hope and pray . . . when they come back, that they can work hard, have a good direction, and show honesty and integrity, and they will definitely get respect from me.” —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2023 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day 11 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2020

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a control poem. That is, write about having control, losing control, or sharing control with others. Of course, I expect at least one person to mention the control key on keyboards. And well, y’all always surprise me, because I can’t control which direction everyone is going to go with this prompt.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt today focuses on the language of flowers or floriography, for example, how “yellow roses stand for friendship, white roses for innocence, and red roses for love.” She continues, “there are as many potential meanings for flowers as there are flowers. The Victorians were particularly ga-ga for giving each other bouquets that were essentially decoder-rings of meaning. For today, I challenge you to write a poem in which one or more flowers take on specific meanings.” I started looking for pictures of interesting flowers. Here's a beautiful one: the White Egret Orchid. Here's another one, beautiful in its own way but also evidently sickening, the Corpse Flower. Aptly named because it smells like death. According to the Cincinnati Zoo its odor is "a combination of Limburger cheese, garlic, rotting flesh and smelly feet."           Photo by Jacquelyn Martin, AP My prose poem today inverts the Thorson prompt; rather than flowers taking on different meanings, characters — the aswang couple in my novella-in-poems — are given flower associations by their neighbors. Also, the idea of control (in the Brewer prompt) is only hinted at. (For more on my aswang novella, see my blog posts for April 8 and April 9.) Neighbors at the Back Fence Hey, Gladys, how are you? Wonderful day, isn’t it? It sure is, Ethel. Lovely day. I just got back from a walk. Do you know that Filipino couple down the block? I ran into them out for a walk, pushing a pram with their little baby. She’s a pretty little gal, isn't she? Her name is Clara, right? I always think she looks like a little bird. She smells like those orchids we saw at the greenhouse in Golden Gate Park last week. Oh, that’s funny, Ethel. ’Cause those orchids look like birds! Weren’t they called White Egret flowers? That’s right. Now him, he’s a strange fellow. What’s his name? Santiago. He is, at that. Speaking of smell, he has a funny scent about him, a little stinky. I’ve noticed that too, Gladys, faint but definitely there. What is that smell? Oh! I know what it is, speaking of the greenhouse. It's that six-foot-tall one, the Corpse Flower! Gladys, you've got it! Yes, that's the smell. I guess we can't always control things like that. He's clean and all, you can smell the soap on him, but definitely a smell of death about the man. A shame. Well, see you later, Ethel. I need to make dinner. Me too. Ta-ta! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] The greenhouse in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park was one of my favorite places growing up in that magical city. Its official name is The Conservatory of Flowers.             Incidentally, the Conservatory currently has a Corpse Flower, which bloomed in 2019. They only bloom once every ten years or so. And the bloom only lasts a couple of days. I'd love to see — and smell — that some day. Gotta visit my home town! And here's Alan's poem on both prompts! How to Court a Tuscaloosa Co-Ed in the 1980s through Self-Control I had a buddy named Jim, more a scientist than I imagined I would ever be, and neither of us gave a damn about Greek Life, confirmed GDIs all the way, and Jim had the good sense to make friends with women instead of pursuing the kinds of relationships common in that part of west Alabama when Reagan was president, Bryant was dead, and Boy George was what meant New Wave to the Tri-Delts and Sigmas who still lived by Animal House rules for years after Belushi died. So, weeks into dating this one girlfriend steady, Jim started to bring her a rose every weekend, beginning with white. After weeks, as their feelings grew loving, he started to bring her the palest pink roses he could, building up over weeks to the deeper and richer pinks. I don’t know how he could manage the money and patience of one or two florists to build up his romantic palette, but all turn out well when a knock on his door showed her there with a dozen red roses for him. Who could turn down a proposal like that? —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Yes, who could turn that down? I love a good happy ending. Thanks, Alan! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word “comments” in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2020 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day Two ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015

Day Two dawns! Well, about five hours ago. (I'm writing this paragraph at 10:17 in the morning.) We're freshly scrubbed here in Cedar Falls, Iowa. Thunderstorm in the wee hours downshifting our temps from yesterday's 80s (!) to today's forecasted 60s and tomorrow's projected 30s (!) at this same time. Thank goodness it's not snow, sleet, or wintry mix today. Knock on wood. Tomorrow, who knows. Okay, back to poems and April. Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt today: "I challenge you to take your gaze upward, and write a poem about the stars. You may find inspiration in this [Dome of the Sky] website that lists constellations, while also providing information on the myths associated with each one." Here's Robert Lee Brewer's PAD suggestion: "For today’s prompt, write a secret poem. The poem itself could be a secret, or it could be about keeping secrets or, I suppose, not keeping them. Or maybe it’s about a top secret project, or the poem is a riddle with some sort of secret meaning." As I usually try to do, I'm merging the prompts today. Here goes. Guitar Nebula In the constellation of Cepheus in Northern sky A cloud of radiant gas and star-stuff quivers, Fiery arrow, gigantic guitar in the heavens, Thrumming the ghostly music of the spheres. But little do we know that tilting our heads To the left, counter-clockwise, a mere ninety Degrees, swings into secret, sacred alignment Mighty All-Father Odin's Flaming Eye. Like Jimi or Carlos or Eric or Eddie Van, Odin creator of magical songs shreds— Fingers like pillars of red giant stars clench Through interstellar dust, whipping chords Of a zillion neutrinos shrieking through vast space. Celestial peace sweeping Odin's galactic face. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Guitar Nebula, Arecibo Observatory, Cornell University Alan also combined the "star poem" and "secret poem" prompts today. His poem captures well a childlike point of view, the sense of hope and unfettered possibility that only children can have. P O E M   R E M O V E D while being submitted for publication.   Please come back later. The poem may return at some time in the future. Thank you!       I'm very glad to share with you today's NaPoWriPo poem by my friend Caroline Klocksiem, who is in a writing group with me and Alan. Caroline is a graduate of the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and Arizona State University’s MFA program; she teaches English at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. Check out her website at carolineklocksiem.com. Ideas for a project beyond survival A friend says my picture looks like I have ideas. I don’t have any ideas for a project beyond survival. This is from a project I am calling Survival. What am I currently working on? I am currently working on not getting sick/fired/overdrafted/divorced. I am currently working on forms and checks, not forgetting fucking milk. I am currently fixing the broken chain-link fence out back. I stand up in front of an audience and confess that I am working on fixing a broken fence. I confess that I tether one link to another with bread ties and zip ties, their angles just like two metal jaw bones joined together. The storm last night transformed the fence into a web which has captured all the stray news with the force of the wind pushed up against it, the tension like breathing in and out of a plastic shopping bag. Each space its own display of fragments. Why am I fixing the fence of a house that is not mine? Against this decoration I feel so plain. Why am I fixing anything? Am I fixing anything? I don’t know. My name is on it. The other day, a capitalist asked me do you only write poetry? —Draft by Caroline Klocksiem    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by Jessica Hoadley Tuggle Friends, won't you comment, please? Alan, Caroline, and I would love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

NAPOWRIMO / PAD 2015 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day 27 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2013

Day 27. Love this number. 27 = 33 = 3 x 3 x 3. 3 3's multiplied together. 3 3's = magical. 27 is an interesting coincidental in rock 'n' roll: "Many talented and famous rock/blues musicians died at age 27. These include Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Ron McKernan, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse. The musicians who died at this age are often referred to as the 27 Club" (Wikipedia). I knew about Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain being 27 at their deaths but didn't know about the others' 27-ness, especially Ron McKernan, "Pigpen" of the Grateful Dead, the person who first suggested putting together that band. Of the musicians in the 27 Club, Pigpen is the only one I've seen in person. As a kid growing up in San Francisco, I used to see Pigpen now and then in my neighborhood, i.e., the Haight-Ashbury district. It just occurred to me that I lied, albeit inadvertently. I didn't know about Janis Joplin's 27-ness, though I might have at some point. What I was incorrect about was that Pigpen wasn't the only person I've laid eyes on. I used to see Janis on the streets of the Haight also, perhaps more often even because she was so see-able, so visually striking. And I used to see both of them frequently on stage, on flatbed trucks in Golden Gate Park or The Panhandle. Okay, on to today's prompts. On the Poetic Asides stage, DJ Robert Lee Brewer says, "write a mechanical poem. Either you’re mechanically-inclined, or you’re like me and hit things to make them work after they break (which, by the way, rarely works)." At the NaPoWriMo turntables, DJ Maureen Thorson says, "Think of a common proverb or phrase — something like 'All that glitters is not gold,' or 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.' Then plug the first three words of the phrase into a search engine. Skim through the first few pages of results, collecting (rather like a poetic magpie) words and phrases that interest you. Then use those words and phrases as the inspirations (and some of the source material) for a new poem." The phrase I worked with was "take for granted" and I learned a lot from googling that: what (or whom) we take for granted, how we do it, why . . . as well as why and how we are taken for granted. Fascinating. So here's my prose poem á là Maureen, with a little dash of Robert in there, one mechanics-oriented section. P O E M   R E M O V E D while being submitted for publication. Please come back later. The poem may return at some time in the future. Thank you! Okay, just three more NaPoWriMo/PAD days left after midnight. Thanks for hanging in there with me. Won't you comment, please? Look for a blue link below that says "Post a comment"; if you don't see that, look in the red line that says "Posted by" and click on the word "comments." Ingat, everyone.   ;-) POEM-A-DAY 2013 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day Six ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day

Hello, everyone! Today, Robert Lee Brewer's prompt is "a hiding poem." NaPoWriMo.net guru Maureen Thorson suggests "a poem about an animal." In my poem for Day Six, I try to satisfy both "assignments" at the same time. My Wife Mary Ann Tells Her Good Friend Emily About Hidden Treasure — a true story So today the washer-dryer repairman found this walnut inside the dryer. And also pulled out this squirrel-cage fan with chunks out of the vanes, ripped out by the walnut, he thought. Well, Emily, I told him I didn't think so. Look at the fan, right there. See the edges of the gaps? Aren't those little bite marks? Funny it's called a squirrel cage, isn't it. You'll never believe what I found in the vent later between the dryer and the outside. Right here, three big ball jars full of black walnuts! I clamped an old swimming pool hose to the Shop-Vac hose and made it over eight feet long. Then I fed it inside the vent until whoop! it snagged a walnut and then I would pull it back out and do it again. Over and over for two or three hours. Chip and Dale must've been stealing into that vent and smuggling in nuts for winter. I'll bet they were tickled to find such a great tree . . . our house! Ha ha. You remember how we were live-trapping the chipmunks last summer and relocating them because there were so many and they were digging holes right next to the foundation? Maybe the vent filled with walnuts was their revenge. You know, Emily, one time we were at my mom and dad's and when we were about to come home and had the kids packed into the van it wouldn't start. We had it towed into town and when we picked it up the mechanic asked me, you live at Glen Flora's old place, don't you? And I said, yeah, my parents do. And he said, we used to see this in Glen's cars all the time. What? I asked. Well, the squirrels have eaten the insulation right off the wires in your van. That used to happen to Glen's Chryslers and your Caravan is a Chrysler. Those squirrels must eat only Chrysler insulation! Another time, back here in Iowa, we heard strange knocking noises when we would turn on the heater. Come to find out it was full of walnuts. Next time the van was in the shop for something else, I rented a car and told the guys at Enterprise about the walnuts and they laughed and said that was crazy. Until I returned the car and they also found walnuts in that heater. Who's crazy now, I thought. Well, these chipmunks are like pirates, I guess. They're burying their gold in our house and our vehicles. No telling what kind of amazing whatever God buries in animals, you know . . . in all of us, really. Just incredible, don't you think, Emily? Just beautiful. —Draft by Vince Gotera     [do not copy or quote ... thanks] And here's Catherine's poem for Day Six. Similarly incredible what beauty we all find hidden in our kids, in ourselves. What Is In A Name In two palms you held your lifeline, covered in birth’s down, Mother’s blood. You saw into the crystal brown of my just-opened eyes a future. Gave me a name to come up to, called me after queens and saints, baptized me pure — Catherine. You taught me how to form each character, “Nothing worth having ever came easy,” you said, as I penciled the longest name in first grade. When some Bobby or Jill took my seat, shouted “Doesn’t have your name on it,” I monogrammed drab green plastic With a shiny black crayon. Lost recess, but gained my place. —Draft by Catherine Pritchard Childress     [do not copy or quote ... thanks] Okay, so that's Day Six, people. Can't believe we're close to finishing a week. Friends, won't you write a comment below? Catherine and I will be watching for them and we'll answer you right away. Take good care. Ingat. POEM-A-DAY 2012 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30