Author: Lisa Hase-Jackson

  • Into the Land of Mother Goose by Luanne Castle

    Into the Land of Mother Goose by Luanne Castle


    Pouring the carton of milk down the sink
    I reflected how I need to change my habits
    to save a cow or two from anguish and despair.
    Which led me to land upon the border
    between fantasy and history and the work
    of my ancestors—in Goes, pronounced Hoose—
    my 5th great-grandmother, Adriana Goose
    the mother of 3 living children, hence,
    Mother Goose, worked as a milkmaid,
    the spitting image of Vermeer’s painting,
    even more the crone in spectacles and cap
    riding the goose as if she delivered imagination
    when in reality, Adriana delivered milk and cheese
    to her customers and kept the cows content.
    My 3rd great-grandfather, Adriaan Zuijdweg,
    was a tailor who sat on his table, hunched
    over the cloth, sewing pants for the townspeople.
    My 2nd great-grandfather, Pieter Mulder, learned
    the shoemaking trade before he immigrated
    to Grand Rapids where he learned cabinet-
    making, until he was promoted to the level
    just below the members of the owning family.
    Gone was the need for shoemaking and for elves,
    but the burgeoning middle class demanded
    well-crafted bureaus and chairs and armoires.
    Going was the need for tailoring except
    for wedding alterations and hemming.
    Gone was the need for milkmaids when
    the cows went into the factories that recreated
    them as objects to be sacrificed to change.

    "Into the Land of Mother Goose" was inspired by the "whispers of work" prompt and by the work my ancestors did in their country of origin, The Netherlands, as well as after immigration to the United States. I am especially intrigued by having a milkmaid ancestor named Goose.

    Luanne Castle has published four award-winning poetry collections and has been awarded nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. It has been published in Copper Nickel, Verse Daily, Saranac Review, American Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Thimble, The Mackinaw, One Art, Lothlorien, and many other journals and anthologies. 

  • Call for Submissions

    Call for Submissions

    Submissions for poems written in response to prompts posted here are open until July 1, 2026.

    Submit poems to zingarapoet(at)gmail.com (replace “at” with @)

    REMEMBER to include the NAME OF THE PROMPT in the subject line of your email.

    Paste your poem submission(s) into THE BODY OF YOUR EMAIL.

    Include a few sentences about your writing process (how you got from prompt to final draft) in your email.

    It’s not necessary to explain what your poem is about, rather why you made the choices that you made.

    For instance:

    • What about the prompt compelled you to write?
    • Why did you chose the form you chose?
    • How did you come to include musicality into your poem?
    • How did you discover the imagery or metaphors used in your poem?
    • How many revisions did you make?

    There are a number of great example of poets writing about process like this one on Marsh Hawk Press in which Ellen Bass explicates some of her work.

    Yours does not have to be anywhere as involved or detailed as this example, but Bass’ essay does exemplify a beautiful approach.

    Poems may be overtly related to the prompt of choice or have only a thread of connection.

    If you wrote a poem in response to a prompt and threw out all but one line during revision, that counts.

    Surprising is preferred to the predictable.

    Be sure to also mention if you happened to also use any of the revision prompts posted during May or June in the process.

    Please include a brief professional biography of 50 words or fewer, also in the body of your email.

    Simultaneous submissions are fine, but please let ZPR know immediately if submitted work is accepted elsewhere.

    All poetry prompts from the 2025 challenge can be found under that tab 2025 POETRY PROMPTS or by clicking here: 2025 Poem-a-Day Challenge

    Feel free to email or comment with questions. I look forward to reading your work!

  • A Visit to the Palm Springs Palace by Judy Fitzpatrick

    Everyone has lost weight here
    at the palace in Palm Springs.
    Where orchids, roses, lilies flourish
    but people do not.

    A helper hefts her client from bed
    to wheelchair, to table.
    First a thorough clean up.
    Then they eat, but not much.

    The helper’s husband is in Sri Lanka.
    He hopes to join his wife
    who is also hopeful.
    “God never gives you anything
    you can’t handle,” she says.
    I see my sister-in-law drop
    a green grape into her lap, crippled hands
    that can’t close completely
    and think God’s plan isn’t working.

    A loving son pays the rent.
    He is cheerful.
    Sleeps late.
    Happy to weigh 30# less.

    Mornings I sip coffee.
    Pick at glazed buns bought for me.
    Ask the helper to put me on her prayer list.
    My sister-in-law chews and swallows THC and CBD.
    It helps her tolerate the pain.

    This morning my sister-in-law stabs
    a piece of egg, the yolk burnt orange.
    “Got it!” She exclaims.
    I lean in to her, fill the space inside her shirt collar.
    No longer a sister-in-law.
    Instead a sister after more than sixty years.

    A mallard nests at the palace.
    Eggs laid poolside among the petunias.
    Upon my return home I receive a photo of
    nine ducklings paddling alongside their mother.
    The next day I’m told they’re gone.
    “She was squawking at 7 a.m.” the helper says.

    Blame it on the hawks who soar overhead.
    It’s as good an explanation as any.
    We have photos to prove what we saw,
    how we suddenly felt hopeful.
    Then we didn’t.


    I spent part of April in Palm Springs with my sister-in-law at a house her son had rented. It was “a palace” but my sister-in-law has had a stroke and it was painful to see her unable to totally enjoy this gorgeous place. My nephew left a copy of Rosemary Wahtola Trommer’s book ALL THE HONEY by my bed and I was reading her poems. You were sending poetry prompts. I was journal writing a poem I couldn’t share with anyone.

    Here is what came of the experience: A Visit to the Palm Springs Palace. My process was to make observations and put them into a form I could manage mentally. I was feeling pretty down. It helped to concentrate on getting the poem right.



    Judy Fitzpatrick, aka Blaze Defiant, hosts BEYOND WORDS, a radio show, on KUPR LPFM in Placitas, New Mexico. 


    Her program streams internationally and you can listen to recent shows by going to KUPR. org and clicking on Archives.
    BEYOND WORDS airs every Saturday at 1 o’clock pm Mountain Time. 

  • True Friends

    A long time ago in China there were two friends, one who played the harp skillfully and one who listened skillfully.

    When the one played or sang about a mountain, the other would say: “I can see the mountain before us.”

    When the one played about water, the listener would exclaim: “Here is the running stream!”

    But the listener fell sick and died. The first friend cut the strings of his harp and never played again. Since that time the cutting of harp strings have always been a sign of intimate friendship.

    From Zen Flesh Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki

  • The Up and The Down by Christina M. Rau

    The Whispers of Work prompt jumped out at me because one of my favorite poems is Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays” and one of my favorite poetry collections, to which I frequently return, is Jennifer Fitzgerald’s The Art of Work, and it so happens that my grandfather was an elevator operator. When I saw elevator operator on the list of extinct professions, I realized this was a poem for me.

    I did some research about elevators in the 1940s–which is a change for me since I consider myself a lazy poet and rarely look things up. I was fascinated. I created stanzas following grammar and geography, and then I went back and added elevator-language to create authenticity. 

    Christina M. Rau, The Yoga Poet, leads Meditate, Move, & Create workshops for various organizations worldwide. Her collections include How We Make Amends and the Elgin Award-winning Liberating The Astronauts. She moderates the Women’s Poetry Listserv and has served as Poet in Residence for Oceanside Library (NY) since 2020.During her downtime, she watches the Game Show Network.  
    http://www.christinamrau.com

  • After Frank Frame by Kitty Jospé,

    I love “corresponding” with poets, borrowing lines, or trying erasure technique on other  poems, as if I were in the same room, having a silent conversation.  Just the idea of another human being looking over my shoulder as if to ask, “so, where are you going to go with that line?” changes the writing from scribbled thoughts to something to which I add extra polish.  

    The April 3 prompt was to read three different poems from different sites.  It seemed there was an option to start with a line…then remove it and find an original title, OR, title the poem after XYZ, using the poet’s name.

    I tried both.  I “borrowed” different lines from Frank Frame (his poem here: 

    Come In, Houston, or Everything I Know I Learned from the Guitar Solo in Tori Amos’ “Doughnut Song” (Live in Frankfurt, Germany )

    Two-and-a-half months later, I am submitting a new attempt, using his last two lines as epigram and keeping his first line.  

    I’m using a word game technique, where words made out of the letters that spell transformation are in italics.

    I liked the idea of penning 14 lines about a 14 letter word, having two lines in a row filled with 14 words made from transformation, scattering another 14 (one of which is an invented verb). 

    After Frank Frame
    Remember, you and I began as stardust. Whatever
    we turn into, let us live up to that brilliance.

    Lately, I’ve been into transformation, 
    sifting the words formed from its 14 letters:
    formation, format, form, fit (the) fan —
    ration, rim, ram, rant of rat, tit for tat;
    what norm means in this nation,
    what storm roars, how fit is fat,
    how a trot ran to rot.  Your turn 
    to find words to describe the rifts
    in this country, the senseless
    hatred, violence, distrust when
    it could be so easily otherwise,
    each one of us an instrument
    of peace.  I want  transformate, ion 
    by ion, to roll in l – v-e, full circle. 

    Kitty Jospé, retired French Teacher, art docent, moderates weekly poetry appreciation sessions since 2008 after receiving her MFA.  Known for her teaching enthusiasm, joyful presentations, demonstrating the uplifting power of art and word, her work delights the ear with the sound of sense.  Her poems appear in numerous journals, books.  

  • Snorkeling Off Keawakapu Beach by Carolyn Martin

    Snorkeling Off Keawakapu Beach by Carolyn Martin

    Your April 2 Protection prompt inspired this poem based on one of my favorite vacation spots and activities: snorkeling with turtles on Maui. 

    Over the years, I’ve come to recognize where these lovely creatures hang out and watch with awe as they rise for air or swim from beach to beach. The last time I was there, I witnessed turtle-rescue volunteers lug a big critter out of the surf and cut away fishing line that had entangled her. What a dedication!

    Images such as the reef, boats, fish lines, the slashed shell, as well as parasites, shivers of sharks, and divers create the specific world the narrator and turtle share––and which I have witnessed. 

    The turn in the second stanza adds a current-events theme. “Headline news” motivates the narrator to plan to emigrate from earth above to the sea below. Here mutual protection will be celebrated with local fish: angels, tangs, butterflies. 

    I chose to use shorter lines to lend fluidity to the poem, and the lineation breaks make, I hope, make for easy reading. Finally, the ending rhymes––harmonize, butterflies, rise––provide the sense of an upbeat resolution for the narrator and her companion.

    Snorkeling Off Keawakapu Beach

    where I don’t have to speak to anyone
    except the turtle I hang out with
    on the third reef to the south.
    Ours, a fluid camaraderie:
    she ear-witnesses my splashing kicks
    and bemoans my headline news.
    I commiserate about boats, fish lines,
    fear, and grief and ask about the slash
    on her shell. “A hard year,” she replies
    in turtle-speak and lets me pat her fin.

    “As above, so below,” we almost agree.
    But, from what I know of betrayal and loss,
    lies and regret, earthlings are drowning
    in themselves and I am done with them.

    I’ll find a shelf on her reef so I can listen
    for fishermen and scrub parasites
    off her back. She’ll steer me away
    from shivers of sharks and divers with spears.
    And, if we plan it right, we’ll harmonize
    with choirs of angels, tangs, and butterflies
    singing down the sun, singing up its rise.

    Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired—and resting–– in Clackamas, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications around the world. For more: www.carolynmartinpoet.com.

  • Stop Monkeying Around

    Q: What happened when the monkey scored the winning goal?

    A: The crowd went bananas.

    Q: How did the monkey start a flea circus?

    A: From scratch.

  • Nothing Exists

    Yamaoka Tesshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after another. He called upon Dokuon of Shokoku.

    Desiring to show his attainments, he said: “The mind, Buddha, and sentient beings, after all, do not exist. The true natured of phenomena is emptiness. The is no realization, no delusion, no sage, no mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to be received.”

    Dokuon, who was smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe. This made the youth quite angry.

    “If nothing exists,” inquired Dokuon, “where did this anger come from?”

    From Zen Flesh Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki

  • Spring Dreams by Michelle Holland

    Journal Mining Prompt

    I mined my journal,  chock full of my relationship with nature, in nature. I wanted to distill the quality and the relationship lyrically, with a song – a sonnet – lyric and inviting, to capture an ongoing leitmotif of the recurring experience, in dream and by streams, of feeling a part of the natural world. I’d like to be a stream, a rock in a stream, the ongoing and the static of existence.

    After gleaning phrases from my journal and responding to the photo, the sonnet began to form. I have since worked with rhythm and meter to capture more of a classic sonnet, without a set a rhyme scheme.

    Spring Dreams

    I am the dawn child of clear mountain streams
    one with the smooth sheen of rocks and pebbles,
    rings of waves eddy around curved boulders,
    a kaleidoscopic light in snow fed

    shallow flowing water, no color but
    what is borrowed from the sky. New green leaves
    create a mottled shade, sanctuary
    for rainbow trout. I will not drown, spread out,

    span the width from dirt bank to cool elbow
    of sand for my bare toes on a hot day.
    Can I be both, river and child, my heart
    alive under growing clouds, threat of rain?

    I hear the Rio Santa Barbara call,
    years flow past, water cold on my bare calves.

    Michelle Holland lives in Chimayó, New Mexico. Her poetry publications include “Event Horizon,” The Sound a Raven Makes, New Mexico Book Award for Poetry, Tres Chicas Press, and Chaos Theory, Sin Fronteras Press. Her books Circe at the Laundromat is forthcoming from Casa Urraca Press. Michelle is treasurer of New Mexico Literary Arts, and poet-in-residence at the Santa Fe Girls School.

  • The Monkey and the Jellyfish

    Children must often have wondered why jelly-fishes have no shells, like so many of the creatures that are washed up every day on the beach. In old times this was not so; the jelly-fish had as hard a shell as any of them, but he lost it through his own fault, as may be seen in this story.

    The sea-queen Otohime, whom you read of in the story of Uraschimatoro, grew suddenly very ill. The swiftest messengers were sent hurrying to fetch the best doctors from every country under the sea, but it was all of no use; the queen grew rapidly worse instead of better. Everyone had almost given up hope, when one day a doctor arrived who was cleverer than the rest, and said that the only thing that would cure her was the liver of an ape. Now apes do not dwell under the sea, so a council of the wisest heads in the nation was called to consider the question how a liver could be obtained. At length it was decided that the turtle, whose prudence was well known, should swim to land and contrive to catch a living ape and bring him safely to the ocean kingdom.

    It was easy enough for the council to entrust this mission to the turtle, but not at all so easy for him to fulfill it. However he swam to a part of the coast that was covered with tall trees, where he thought the apes were likely to be; for he was old, and had seen many things. It was some time before he caught sight of any monkeys, and he often grew tired with watching for them, so that one hot day he fell fast asleep, in spite of all his efforts to keep awake. By-and-by some apes, who had been peeping at him from the tops of the trees, where they had been carefully hidden from the turtle’s eyes, stole noiselessly down, and stood round staring at him, for they had never seen a turtle before, and did not know what to make of it. At last one young monkey, bolder than the rest, stooped down and stroked the shining shell that the strange new creature wore on its back. The movement, gentle though it was, woke the turtle. With one sweep he seized the monkey’s hand in his mouth, and held it tight, in spite of every effort to pull it away. The other apes, seeing that the turtle was not to be trifled with, ran off, leaving their young brother to his fate.

    Then the turtle said to the monkey, ‘If you will be quiet, and do what I tell you, I won’t hurt you. But you must get on my back and come with me.’

    The monkey, seeing there was no help for it, did as he was bid; indeed he could not have resisted, as his hand was still in the turtle’s mouth.

    Delighted at having secured his prize, the turtle hastened back to the shore and plunged quickly into the water. He swam faster than he had ever done before, and soon reached the royal palace. Shouts of joy broke forth from the attendants when he was seen approaching, and some of them ran to tell the queen that the monkey was there, and that before long she would be as well as ever she was. In fact, so great was their relief that they gave the monkey such a kind welcome, and were so anxious to make him happy and comfortable, that he soon forgot all the fears that had beset him as to his fate, and was generally quite at his ease, though every now and then a fit of home-sickness would come over him, and he would hide himself in some dark corner till it had passed away.

    It was during one of these attacks of sadness that a jelly-fish happened to swim by. At that time jelly-fishes had shells. At the sight of the gay and lively monkey crouching under a tall rock, with his eyes closed and his head bent, the jelly-fish was filled with pity, and stopped, saying, ‘Ah, poor fellow, no wonder you weep; a few days more, and they will come and kill you and give your liver to the queen to eat.’

    The monkey shrank back horrified at these words and asked the jelly-fish what crime he had committed that deserved death.

    ‘Oh, none at all,’ replied the jelly-fish, ‘but your liver is the only thing that will cure our queen, and how can we get at it without killing you? You had better submit to your fate, and make no noise about it, for though I pity you from my heart there is no way of helping you.’ Then he went away, leaving the ape cold with horror.

    At first he felt as if his liver was already being taken from his body, but soon he began to wonder if there was no means of escaping this terrible death, and at length he invented a plan which he thought would do. For a few days he pretended to be gay and happy as before, but when the sun went in, and rain fell in torrents, he wept and howled from dawn to dark, till the turtle, who was his head keeper, heard him, and came to see what was the matter. Then the monkey told him that before he left home he had hung his liver out on a bush to dry, and if it was always going to rain like this it would become quite useless. And the rogue made such a fuss and moaning that he would have melted a heart of stone, and nothing would content him but that somebody should carry him back to land and let him fetch his liver again.

    The queen’s councilors were not the wisest of people, and they decided between them that the turtle should take the monkey back to his native land and allow him to get his liver off the bush, but desired the turtle not to lose sight of his charge for a single moment. The monkey knew this, but trusted to his power of beguiling the turtle when the time came, and mounted on his back with feelings of joy, which he was, however, careful to conceal. They set out, and in a few hours were wandering about the forest where the ape had first been caught, and when the monkey saw his family peering out from the tree tops, he swung himself up by the nearest branch, just managing to save his hind leg from being seized by the turtle. He told them all the dreadful things that had happened to him, and gave a war cry which brought the rest of the tribe from the neighbouring hills. At a word from him they rushed in a body to the unfortunate turtle, threw him on his back, and tore off the shield that covered his body. Then with mocking words they hunted him to the shore, and into the sea, which he was only too thankful to reach alive. Faint and exhausted he entered the queen’s palace for the cold of the water struck upon his naked body, and made him feel ill and miserable. But wretched though he was, he had to appear before the queen’s advisers and tell them all that had befallen him, and how he had suffered the monkey to escape But, as sometimes happens, the turtle was allowed to go scot-free, and had his shell given back to him, and all the punishment fell on the poor jelly-fish, who was condemned by the queen to go shield-less for ever after.

    From The Violet Fairy Book edited by Andrew Lange

  • Oh Cat-mas Tree!

    Oh Cat-mas Tree!

    According to the details for this photo, this was taken during 2020, the year of the Pandemic.

    Clearly we are doing our best to make Christmas merry and bright.

    I’d say, thanks to our oldest cat, it worked.

  • Caught

    Late one night a man is driving down the road, speeding. A police officer pulls him over and says to the man, “Are you aware of how fast you were going?”

    The man replies “yes, I am. I’m trying to escape a robbery I got involved in.”

    The cop gives him a skeptical look and asks “you were robbed?”

    The man casually replies, “No, I committed the robbery.”

    The cop, shocked, says “So, you’re telling me you were speeding, and you committed a robbery?”

    “Yes,” the man says calmly. “I have the loot in the trunk.”

    The officer responds, “Sir, place your hands on the dashboard. I need your license and registration” and reaches into the car window.

    “Don’t do that!” the man yells fearfully. “You’ll find the gun in my glove compartment!”

    The cop withdraws his hand. “Wait here,” he says.

    The cop calls for backup. Soon, police cars and helicopters flood the area. The man is cuffed quickly and taken to a police car. Before he gets in a cop walks up to him and says, while gesturing to the cop that pulled the man over, “Sire, this officer informed us that you had committed a robbery, had stolen loot in the trunk of your car, and had a loaded gun in your glove box. However, we found none of these things in your car.”

    The man replies, “Yeah, and I bet that liar said I was speeding, too.”

  • Sonnet XLII

    Elizabeth Barrett Browning

    "My future will not copy fair my past"--
    I wrote that once; and thinking at my side
    My ministering life-angel justified
    The word by his appealing look upcast
    To the white throne of God, I turned at last,
    And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied
    To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried
    By natural ills, received the comfort fast,
    While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff
    Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
    I seek no copy now of life's first half:
    Leave here the pages with long musing curled,
    And write me new my future's epigraph,
    New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!
  • How Pun-ny

    I strung all my wrist watches together to make a belt. It was a waist of time.

    Thanks for explaining the word “copious” to me. It means a lot.

    I’d tell you a chemistry joke, but I don’t know if I’ll get a reaction.