Each day for the month of April, the Cedar Bark Poets are writing a poem a day in celebration of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing month.
Want to participate? You are welcome to submit a poem in any format and on any topic, but the NaPoWriMo website offers daily prompts for those of you looking for a challenge! Send poems to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Poems are posted here on the morning following each daily prompt. Visit the NaPoWriMo website to see the daily prompt that inspired each of the poems below.
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something that happens again and again (kind of like NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo). It could be the setting of the sun, or your Aunt Georgia telling the same story at Thanksgiving every single year. It could be the swallows returning to Capistrano or how, without fail, you will lock your keys in the car whenever you go to the beach.
I fall into sadness
Past all reasons
Sad sad sad
Crumple to knees
Beg for release
Some broken wiring
Brain that stops firing
So very sad
Mixed with mad
Past is long gone
Old old song
Sirens still call
Build such walls
Once more I fall
Once more to crawl
Knees and hands
No ability to plan
All is sorrow
Even I can’t understand
What and why
I even try
Steeped in blood
All that violence
Burrowed inside so deep
No defense to keep
One life reeling
Wish to die
Sadness leaks tears
Faced so many fears
Alone amongst the ruins
Past the wars
Bleak curtain lifts
Feel a shift
Small ray of hope
That upward slope
Once more I rise
I will try
Setting a Record
The needle slips
the needle skips
the same notes again blips
round and round, the same ol ground pounds against my hips
soon a new needle ships
to play through the warping dips
rather than back across as this one rips
it really is the pits!
as they again sound to be playing in fits
The needle slips
the needle skips
all this come back around again at 78 RMP in bits!
the needle skips
Today, I’d like to challenge you to take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem
yielding to undulations
weaving through landscapes
disappearing into distance
turning, turning back
corners and straights
surviving punishingly hot Summer
disappearing into the cool colours of Autumn
Bi-laminar flowing traffic slows, speeds, recedes
potholed, cracked, faded lines and bent signs
yields, shoulder falls off, slowly changing
accelerates, brakes, turns towards destination
Underutilize, over utilized, at capacity
changes through the season and the day,
glistening wet, matt dry,
flooded over in heat distortion, radiating
Ribbons and pockets seem to interrupt
Roundabout, RingRoads, go straight to the point
leading to highways, byways and side roads, that curve elsewhere
found by way-finding signage to be distant,
traffic lights, stop signs create pauses
single file thoughts causes
flanking sidewalks, medians in parallel
inside corner banking nests, lane markers inside rest
turn lane between sits
Travel, cutting through, a black, off black ribbon
Encapsulated granulation, traveled
dusted with gravel covering next to a curb
escape, planer, traveling perspective
demarcated, segregated, marked
Iced over, sunbaked hot, Greasy, soiled
require control and attention
a lack leads to misdirection towards accidents
finally Man-made dead end forces choice
Left or right
Changes, consequences, of day or night
Forking, Branching, Diverges
Intersection Splits Divided Separates…
in a yellow wood.
7 billions souls
Is all lost?
What is the cost
Like ants striving
Spirit over matter
The only true shield
These days that tatter
Goal post seems
More to live?
For those tomorrow
What shall we give?
(Maya Angelou- Alone)
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem using Skeltonic verse. Skeltonic verse gets its name from John Skelton, a fifteenth-century English poet who pioneered the use of short stanzas with irregular meter, but two strong stresses per line (otherwise know as “dipodic” or “two-footed” verse). The lines rhyme, but there’s not a rhyme scheme per se. The poet simply rhymes against one word until he or she gets bored and moves on to another.
Forecasts are not fun
Today is sun
tomorrow rain spun
Or sun across to run
Tomorrow maybe rain
yet more rain to strain
this is the refrain
of endless pain
without any gain
and tomorrow again
rain, or other
reports start to both cover
again, oh brother!
which will smother
endless parade of maps
stats across a screen wraps
a promised highs caps
its all looking like…cats …
perhaps dogs, or bats
a low front together, mats
what kind of weather! Rats!
Though a low accuracy bats
as irrelevant topics chats
I unwisely peer out from slats
umbrella or not to need
for an answer I plead
an answer to seed
To fulfill my need
tell me of natures creed
what will it do indeed
from doubt I have need
to be uncertainly freed
do tell trusty stead
where will the weather lead
That perhaps it was agreed
I should have checked channel five!
to figure out this jive
as at least they do it live.
Into it to dive
of where the weather will drive
I do not thrive
on reports contrived
as reported lows dived
from uncertainty derived
Rain, or sun implied
tomorrow, retroactively decried
but still, tentatively reports plied
hoping good news will be spied.
Vegetables on demand
Wire worms killed
Bees a buzz
Free food is love
Helps the people feel
Pot luck every Sunday
To join in one day!
Newton is the place to be
With Friends of The Grove
Life so good
For you and me.
The ripples ripple
I can see!
Many poems explore the sight or sound or feel of things, and Proust famously wrote about the memories evoked by smell, but today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores your sense of taste! This could be a poem about food, or wine, or even the oddly metallic sensation of a snowflake on your tongue.
Sea salt in nose
So slowly chewn
On my tongue.
All the flavours
From when I was young.
The expectations of a tongue when young
Salty, silty, but more over you wondered what silly might taste like
did Slurping change the taste, or if faster over the tongue it might different taste
Bitter but better try again just to make sure
sweet, sour or succulent, sometimes all three came together to meet, if, that is you manages to find just the right treat
an extendable gesture device, a pallet for other colours when by just the right foods tried it would find it’s self similarly dyed, so many uses inside, but tasting really was the tongues best thing to it to be tied
Helping push out a watermelon seed, while simultaneously the red taste and texture back a report feed
Freezing of ice-cream, heat of a soup, but it always managed all the flavour details up to scoop
Everything but broccoli, for no one ever could work out that one, not even a tongue.
So many new flavours and foods to test when you are young, and always best to lead with a sticky finger or a tongue
Exploring so many new culinary explosions on the run, you hope never, ever to be done
But you might just get a bit carried away with all your fun, before one day into bland adulthood to be spun. A summer of cotton candy in the fairground sun, and a setting sun of winter of ice-cream taste buds to stun.
You and your rebellious tongue always won.
But in finality you didn’t stop to think what the frozen flagpole might taste of, and it now won’t come off and all you can taste is a tugging glove!
Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist?
Old historofacts & refascinations facets
In the old calendar year 0.1983.00, or about theres
at the National Sporting Goods Association trade show they say there were ‘Rotating stairs’
in 0.1986.00 it was said to be refined to have two peddles stairs rather then rotating
A thing that was apparently called a ‘Master, Stair’
A series of new and better models followed
with each model, there more bells and whistles to swallow
(Though why one would ingest either a Bell of a whistle is simply beyond the scope of this paper.)
But why would anyone not just use real stairs?
what point would there be there in a master, stair’?
perhaps the people of the times just refused to share?
Why else then would one take an elevator to the fourth floor, just to use a gym’s stair machine, and then take the elevator back down again?
Some Master stairs, such as this unit for study, were branded ’Stair Master’, though it is said the trademark of the time did well fare
Stair ‘Master’ how did these things help you obtain mastery over stairs, what in fact IS mastery over a stair?
people of the time seemed to have a need to need to control things, a deep seated requirement to gain a degree of superiority over the evolving technology of the time that was fast developing into a threat to peoples lives.
Even a simple things like a devolving stair apparently needed to be managed.
There are some footnotes of the time that suggest that ’TV Dinners’ had also led to the need of a master stair, but as to why a Television would need a dinner we can not yet speculate and even less so to go into details of why a well fed TV would require people of the time to try and enslave or ensnare a stair.
How did the stair in the first place even get officially invented?
There is no confirmed idea of when the first one was made, vs just being a natural phenomena used that can be confirmed by the records, perhaps they had just been too resented.
These and more interesting fact of the time should be uncovered if we can figure out how to get into the archival vault from the times, but a set of small rectangular rises seems to be impassible to traverse, each attempt just gets worse. The last researcher is still trying to recover with the nurse. They are at present trying to put in an ant-grav gradiant ramp at the scene of the crime, to assist with the perilous climb.
Just off the worm ship
Into air we can breath
Uncovering new Planets
What is it We see?
Sewn on faces
Not 1 skeleton
Of original species
Of which metal adorns
‘Aliens’ seem to have landed
Where are the humans?
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.
Inside my Head…
Is a International
Like a babbling brook
While we presume
So many lonely
Build the chain
So many excluded
Ask of your neighbors
Listen to the hard stories
Listen to the joys!
The only answer
I can find.
Time and space, on a finer scale
Turning, dropping, chained
Pho pine cones, bellows
All these things I came to understand in time
A trim fraught with frets, in tiny scale, fine crosshatches that caught the light. Fine lines of a carved door,
The hands tell a tale, but only twice a day truthfully, if you forgot the key.
The workings spellbinding, compact.
Only by spring and gravity powered once unlatched
The smallest of houses as housing, yet room for two birds
Each its own room, sprung door.
Peaked roof, yet no rain seen, yet under it, back and fourth geared wheels saw
Turnkey, keep birds motionless inside, until time to release
On the hour doors flop open, birds come out, cuckoo
Bow, chirp, upright, retreat, repeat, till the count of the hours completes
To peek in to a tiny scaled world, functional, ornate and complete, watch over time expand tiny springs curled, as dropping the length of chain through small sprockets unfurls
Brass frame and parts interlace and twirl, as yet another gear around swirls
Prongs, detents, leavers, gears, synchronizers, springs, into unified motion it all sings
The sound bounces resonates inside, deep and soulful out from pipes to ride
Placed up high, to not touch, do not touch, though never to chide, but what curiosity about that inside, did through ones mind ride
But what a strange tiny place inside, such wonders to hide
all while a maple leaf under, swings side to side
Enough to drive one cuckoo on the hour, every hour by two small birds plied
but don’t forget the key, and to make sure to get wound up with whats inside.
Today, I challenge you to write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art. But I’d also like to challenge you to base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Here you’ll find some characteristic images of rabbits hunting wolves, people sitting on nests of eggs, dogs studiously reading books, and birds wearing snail shells. What can I say? It must have gotten quite boring copying out manuscripts all day, so the monks made their own fun. Hopefully, the detritus of their daydreams will inspire you as well!
A Picture is Worth..
Smiling mischievous monkeys
Ass backward donkeys
Death skulls grinning
Medieval knights swimming
Arrows into bums
Trolls and fairies chums
Birds and bees
High up in trees
Lady’s in waiting
Popes chalices weighting
Bread of the Christ
Mills of the grist
All body parts showing
Poor scribes farting and grunting
Ink to parchment, calf skin
Drawing out one last
‘Something’ to put in
Not sure what all I saw
But illuminated manuscripts
Just left me in awe..!!
I ink on, waiting through the night of dark ink to dry
The blank book is thick, the hour late, but I must press on, as I have another look to make sure any smudges abate
the progress is slow, but I am on the hook for a deadline I should never have took.
By flickering candle light, the lines I fight, each off I have to put back on somehow
But as into the margins the spilled ink ploughed, I now have to add an illustration, to distract away from the fact, I make an otter that bowed. Yes, totally crazy, and to the topic unrelated, but it’s the only real way out of attention to a mistake to make, to seem to make seem to faded
I ink on, waiting for the dawn,
Hunched over by raising dawn, as at first light robins searched for worms on the lawn, and I, I just illustrate on, inking letters with tails twisty and long, interspersed with birds that just go on and on, some perhaps playing cards with a hand ever so strong.
I ink on, waiting for the glaring mid day sunlight to be gone
Squirrels dance across the chapter burying nuts in corners of a page, as I work towards my dinner wondering what performance tonight I was missing on the stage
I ink on, waiting for the switch from days move of white to nights black pawn
the lateness of the hour, causes strange creatures on my pages to cower. Maybe a Dragon-Fox coming into flower, budding red with a flaming power
I ink on, waiting for the morning dew on the lawn
I draw wide eyed creatures to try to keep me awake, I must finish, there is too much at stake, I draw another lightening bolt bold across the page to rake, if only for balance to keep the symmetrical in balance for balance’s sake
But Symmetrical imbalance in drifts, my lack of sleep spills out lopsidedly in rifts. as towards sleep my brain drifts, into daydreams and nightmares nod, that flow sleepily through my pen and onto the manuscript page shifts.
Our prompt for Day Twenty-Three challenges us to write a double elevenie. What’s that? Well, an elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is.
A double elevenie would have two stanzas of five lines each, and twenty-two words in all. It might be fun to try to write your double elevenie based on two nouns that are opposites, like sun and moon, or mountain and sea
among other stones
sharp angles, quartz glimmering,
flowing, rippling, expanding
soft nature, ever changing
Resides in everything
Mycoplasma gallicepticum to galaxy MACS0647-JD
In honor of Earth Day, I’d like to challenge you to write a georgic. The original georgic poem was written by Virgil, and while it was ostensibly a practical and instructional guide regarding agricultural concerns, it also offers political commentary on the use of land in the wake of war. Your Georgic could be a simple set of instructions on how to grow or care for something, but it could also incorporate larger themes as to how land should be used (or not used), or for what purposes.
In the midst of a busy city or town,
buildings of importance, down to trivial shops
there are always small spots to be found,
little oasis of nooks and crannies buried in places between stops
Bright shiny glass and chrome gleam in the bright sunlight of the day,
The streetscape refined
but there are small places you can get away,
Places your own thoughts you can mind
tucked away, shaded by trees and shrubs
enclosing almost cave like grottos that surround
these brilliantly act as little hubs.
They close one off from the surrounding town and sound
A quiet hole in the busy fabric of the cityscape
Place of refuge to escape
In the middle of a day there is need to reset
Nature needs to be retained.
Of lives with days of problems beset
Busy natures need to be retrained
In places that in, stress, do not let
Never more than two blocks away
By foot to walk
Should a grotto like place lay
Where no nine to five deadlines stalk.
A water feature and art never go astray
Timed only by natures clock
A grotto with ones lunch, one should till done stay.
On entering a feeling of being held within,
Threshold, the contrast to pronounce
a grotto entry should seem to close around like a second skin
The outside world intently to renounce
On stepping to, the whole thing should feel to open through
With each step a calm befalls
A world anew
Simplistic detail that enthrals
in a corner, a nook with room only for two
As even the breeze only just through crawls
Maybe just another and you.
By its very nature lulls
And when you leave, back to a city view
The grotto whispers, back calls.
Simple bench, patterned floor
Proportion and scale
It’s the green that matters more.
Roaming tree branches that flail
A central point at the core
Tightly framed blue sky overhead sails
Through a grotto like space, a cave like feeling can lace
Right out in the open cityscape
With its calming, and a reduction in pace
Even right at a skyscrapers nape
They retain a certain calming grace
In the middle of crowded civic design they still seem to gape
Green space is one of the few counters to the persistent density of the rat race
And indeed towards improvements environment ReShape
Everywhere should have a sweet grotto like space
Ever builder, Planer and person should aim to vine them around like grapes.
Roads we walk
Grey laid pavement
Layer of cement
Is this not ‘war’?
Against the planet
Like a scab so sore
Let’s begin and plan it
Rise up for removing
Concrete smasher grooving
Build art with the remains
Let through the rain
Gardens and flowers
Beauty past pain
Let the earth
Show her powers
So she can
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates overheard speech. It could be something you’ve heard on the radio, or a phrase you remember from your childhood, even something you overheard a coworker say in the break room! Use the overheard speech as a springboard from which to launch your poem. Your poem could comment directly on the overheard phrase or simply use it as illustration or tone-setting material.
Sure was smoky
City never said
$40,000 k worth of mess
Dana says we will
Do our best to pay !
We are due this time to play
Local reactions all a glower
From those living in
West End high towers
All the sky turned smoky grey
Haze hovered hard all day
Chants were heard
“Ho ho hey hey’
4.20 is here to stay!
At Sunset Beach
But can we learn
Will the lessons teach?
Park site closed
Next 30 days
Maybe we can find yet
Good news was:
Police said more hugs then tickets
Field used for soccer and cricket
Torn up ground
Many tents and feet did pound
Protested their own ways!
Bless them all
Yay or Nay!!
Overheard Overcast Downcast
high winds and a low of six
This is not the news
That you want to overhear
Not when you are out
But it did out it boom
from a car stopped at red light,
it’s message of gloom
of a nice night in hindsight
Should have taken coat,
Or other layer
In hindsight an idea
Now I’ll freeze tonight
Forecast will be wrong
Clear skies with a bright full moon
High fifteen degrees
For Weather forecasts
work best as simple haiku,
at least I believe
Oh How I did not,
want to know of bad weather,
Or forget my coat
– W. B.
Today, I challenge you to write a poem that incorporates the vocabulary and imagery of a specific sport or game. Your poem could invoke chess or baseball, hopscotch or canasta, Monopoly or jai alai. The choice is yours!
Used all 7
Have the lead now
Now I have a ‘nongo’
Excises and no place!!
Looking for a new hot spot
To continue our slow race
Dang it I find it..
That would cause quite a ripple
Another ‘double double’
On a triple!
We have closed the board
Would you like a tea
Don’t be upset
It’s in the book
Watch your play
Or you’ll get ‘ hooked’
To balance my rack
Xi, aa, ai
My new attack
Absurd for sure
I wasn’t ‘brailing’
I cannot help
If your points
Are trailing !!
Ahh last move
Found our groove
Time for re-match
New plans to hatch
Seems like psycho babble
In our game of Scrabble.!!
My Friend brought me alarming news the other day, That Aliens had come to stay, he was very adamant that they were here, he had even seen them there, out in the field at play
They had very strange ways, Purposely moving about the turf rather then one spot stay, to just to there relaxed and laze
Dressed in strange white garb that didn’t fit in at all, the wandered about looking too tall. And they were talking excitedly as they moved about, talking of being ‘caught out’ or ‘run out’ of a popping crease. though Stumped at the talk of being grounded delivery stride
He had only noticed them at first because they were Obstructing The Field, he estimated there numbers at 22, though it was hard to count accurately from afar, perhaps it was 26 or 24 or so in the mix, in roughly a circular arrangement ajar, with a sub set standing just off the centre, but not far.
The two of them seemed to have an implement, working as a pair, another a device of some kind he could not make out as hard as he did stare
He could however hear, and it did seem to incite his fear, as they talked about a leg glance, hooks, pull on Drive and cut, square cuts and late cuts. He didn’t know what any of it meant but from the attitudes they seemed on victory bent!
One of them seemed to dissent and was off to the side immediately by ‘Dismissals’ by another sent. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.
He was also almost sure he heard something about putting something wicked into the earth, though it might have only been instead something of wicker, or a wicket he finally reassured.
On of them was referred to as ‘Biffer’ talked about crossing a line, though he said
it may have said Across the line. He was sure though that they said that there would be ‘no appeal’ but at least after the Attacking shot there weren’t going to be any ashes to have deal with when they were done…!
‘They’ they said would be on the Back foot, and that the beamer was used they would simply bang in or use a belter or bend of the back to bite to brace
I could see as he told me all this his pulse start to race! Then of more things in him mind of the things he had seen in kind that he had finally been able to place, But it was making no sense to me as I looked closely into his face, the tale before me he laced, trying to weave together the picture for me, but it was just gibberish so far as I could see.
Donkey drop, Dibbly dobbly, Caught behind a Centurion whom Chop on a Corridor of uncertainty. Then Fritz the Golden duck, Yorker, Zoota and the Yips turned on the Pie Chucker, who apparently had the Hoodoo
He wrote it all down in his little notebook lined, but what ever these aliens were up to seem to have already cost my friend his mind!
So concerned, I called the authorities right away, and after being on hold for half the day, they finally responded, only for me to find myself in total dismay. Right after, embarrassed, I hung up before anything more they might say.
And called my friend back to comment on what he had uncovered that day
CRICKET! they had been playing Cricket in the field! They had not been aliens, but new immigrants teaching the game to the local kids, something to give back to them appealed.
Snickometer, Rib tickler, Red cherry, Outswing, and Nibble were just more Cricket slang. All it was was two bats and a ball! that was all, no alien invasion or fights, just Mullygrubber, Marillier shot, Gozza and Hoick. Not an alien language but just so many odd cricket terms over heard that sounded like alien words
Besides I think we’d probably know more about the aliens that the game of Cricket! I mean I did know it was something to do with a batter, pitcher and a wicket.
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a creation myth. It doesn’t have to be an existing creation myth, or even recount how all of creation came to be.
Golden spark, the light of life flew,
Floating through the etherial void
Battered and flitted to finally arrive un-shattered
portal precise found, it having been waiting in silent sound
Noble cycle completed, encapsulated of illustrious armour, a dungeon one day to un-fleetly destroy completely
Onward before though the task of its entire destiny too diminutive towards its core
Scribe before in tandem, Spiralling inwards as if in Jest, ever more
bountiful Larder divided, of further needs before hence new provisioning came forth from gracious gold provided
peeled off yonder conical, forth to ones own to be in heeled
Embodied and Inspired to raise forth, to not tire in spurt
outward expansive, tendrils oft to off transit territories adjacent
the Nub, to enlivenment long last to un-stub
Yonder expansion, transformative to new narrative above dispirit ground
less loathed of doffed name, if deposed of surname slighted from perpetual mess
Maybe paradoxically of gardens raised to ruin, rune of rueing ruining reasonless rutting, ruin unstably
yet Itinerarated, this was in truth just how a fanciful ‘Plant’ was imbued
It started with pollen
Flown on the wings of air
Buffeted and swirled to get to just there
Into a flower waiting, against a blue sky to stare
Germinated, surrounded from a seed pod it would one day through tear
But first somehow it’s whole history needed to get pare
Written across a pair, twisted to fit as if on a dare
Then reserves with it shared, saved to feed itself later until it’s seed leaves unfurled under a sun that glared
Drifted off from a cone, to a place of its own
Fuelled into full growth it flared
Spreading, as the roots moved outward into bedding
The bud, into colour would soon flood
Before exploding into a flower over the mud
By another name it might not be hated, if only another family it had been related.
Some say this is how their garden was destroyed, destruction by the invading invaders inevitably fated
But Itinerarated, this was in fact just how a lovely ‘weed’ was created
– W. B.
Tumbled and rolled
Across the bedroom floor
Glint in eyes, gold?
Can I see a heart beat?
Sure, sure it’s opaque
My knees still shake
I move a little closer
Yes, bigger now I can see!
Is that, is it, is is
I believe it’s coming..
Towards me !
Teeth, no way !!
Tiny little hands !
Run for your life
I’ll catch it if I can !!
Pass me the fly swatter
Whack, miss, whack
Need try a little harder
Feed it bits from the larder?
Tiptoe towards it
Yiii, it moves at a great clip
Dancing away like a boxer
I try to be quick, out fox it!
Get me a glass cup, honey
I’ll cover up and snatch it
Phew… trapped !!
Has my mind snapped?
Haha, oh, not alive at all
A vacuum is all we need
For this swarm of
You won’t believe it sonny!
We were just attacked by
Now clean your room !!
Today, I challenge you to write a poem that incorporates neologisms. What’s that? Well, it’s a made-up word! Your neologisms could be portmanteaus (basically, a word made from combining two existing words, like “motel” coming from “motor” and “hotel”) or they could be words invented entirely for their sound.
Umpthoring across the meadow
With gerdinbecks flying near
Sun was setting goldenly
All was good and dear
We had spent our lava pellorts
On murjet and flice
Wiggling our snozzes merrily
We wandered into night
The line was divisible
Our muntel was now in sight
Mamurdice waited in the door
Smiling to see us cumberth forte
Soon tucked under willowslic
Dreaming of tomoroz
Ah, Tomoroz !
We will ride out once again.
I find it best to be Front-able
for Frontable is the best way of issues to be counter-trunkable
and unlike Frontable, to be Trunkable is almost unthunkable
but even more unthunkable are things unklunkable
things like backfallisums and mid-minischisms
ohh, it’s all the minischisms that lead to all the mini isums
NO, Frountable is the only way to go, at least if you want to be boldistic
and I have to say boldistic is terrific, so go out and lecturify
for to lecturify will electrify you inside, and all of your tendencies to bring out enthusiasmisticaly
Note : This paper got me a ‘D’. Totally unthunkable, I think my teacher must have had a few Isums that day, I would have to agree!
So far as I can see, there was a need, more frontable to me you needed to ‘B’?
But certainly not a D!, for to D or not to D, I still Frontably want a ‘B’!
It’s still not too late of you to reconsiderate and regradinate my paper as of late? it still could ‘B’ ‘A’ ’B!’!
Todays challenge – Write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Your nocturne should aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form!
The hour draws late
light wisps away
a deafening quiet little snap
a reverberating nothing
Yet more light leaches away
SOMETHING! Swoops down from the night
flashes past, then gone!
into shadows… .. . vanishes
night draws on
the mechanics of night
talk of subconsciousness
constructing dim worlds of nightmares
tender resonance of a piano reaches out
to pick at strings sadly
notes step through darkness, seep … into surroundings unseen
the cold flow of air
empty haunted memories in despair
along unseen paths,… in need of repair
the notes drift
The notes drift
the night stays
The hour draws later still
form of formlessness
the Staccato of stars
The last deep note beats
…. .. .
the Nocturne …
The darkest of night
Lurking against blurred edges
Through the walls
Down the corridor
Drip of leaky faucet
Coyote calls out
Feral, mourning, hungry?
Beneath my warm covers
World sleeps, quiet
In this hemisphere
My heart knows
Of the sun’s rise, though
Soon to be
Soon to be
Will you wait out
Today I challenge you to take your inspiration from the act of letter-writing. Your poem can be in the form of a letter to a person, place, or thing, or in the form of a back-and-forth correspondence.
I have written you five hundred letters to date, well five hundred and fifteen… um.. Sixteen …. lets just wait and see how this one goes first, say Five hundred and fifteen and a third
Each one till now balled up and hurled, tossed into a fire and up into sparks whirled
running on and on they just got too long as the endless lines into sidelines swirled
until the frustration took over and angrily our of frustration into balls they curled
The long and the short, of it I sought to court, as through all of my words I’d endlessly sort
occasionally so badly, out of contempt I’d irritatedly snort, tossing it to the fire, starting another page lacking any existing ire, and of new words to the page try and port
I don’t know why, but I can’t put write down the right words to describe my plight and they all end up taking flight. I have thought long and hard on it and no real reasonings are coming to light
Simple words or complex onto the page I laid, yet no connections were made and I began to become vexed, the sheer illogic of it leaving me perplexed
Dear me, I can not write a letter to dear you, not even a start of one, never mind seeing it through.
But the room is warm somehow, if the paper all but near gone now
I have a greater Idea of what I don’t want to say, but by now I was hoping some of the ideas would start with me to stay
I just sit here writing the day away, trying with someway to make the right words lay to play, I may well still be sitting here writing well into May
My hands cramped up from endless writing now feeling like vitrify clay, Squeezing, crushing, trying now to make a problematic pen pay, the other across a resistant slipping page to hold, splay
It’s not the pen, nor the page, But I blame both in my rage. Nor is it even you, but somehow in all this you still somehow take centre stage. Have I twisted and turned the facts on you like some irrational mage
For with time I come to realize that this letter isn’t a letter, it’s a misdirected rage with a header. And in no way will it make either of us any better.
So I take a breath and set out again to write something without emotional angst or fetter
For I shall to write myself instead you see
You are very very angry, filled of upset and turning like a foaming sea
Only to inevitably have it come crashing down, felled, crushing like a sizeable tree
Over a cliff, onto a beach, onto me.
What ever it is, what ever it was, there is just no simple reason simply because
No mater the pull of the moon, or what ever made me so angrily croon, eventually you will just have to move on, just don’t do it too soon
If you stay calm and just slowly work your way on, You can think your way out, as it’s your anger that will lead to our ruin
I shall send it through, postage due, in a week or two. Time to give myself time to forget so that in reading I can objectively think it all through.
Sidewalk Field Notes
Hey there Stranger,
I noticed you
Sitting there alone
Potentially in danger ?
Back pack seems a new home
I passed by slowly
Happily on my way to a
Local morning coffee cafe
Then I stopped
Turned simply to say
‘How’s it going?’
Sadness creased your face
The cold left you unknowing
Less then able to face
Lifted your head so brave,
The smallest warmth
All you craved
In this cold world.
I saw your eyes muster
To give a nonchalant showing
Hope crept in,jeweled luster
Just a tiny light glowing
But your lips quivered
And your back shivered.
‘Come with me’
I offered you then
My name is Katheren
I am not going far
I could use some company
For a hot tea
A date cereal bar
I am who you are
Nuts from the same
Part of this
Standing slowly, you said ‘Yes’
Started to walk beside me
‘Just up this way’
Not far you’ll see
I ask where you are from
With compassion, a Aunties welcome
To start your day
Tell me your tale
If you’d like to
Maybe I know some resource
To help you
At least share some humanity
On this grey Tuesday
Hot chocolate for two please !
Bagels with cream cheese
A simple hour of release
Precious time shared
Easy when one cares
Thank You !!
My heart just grew
For in trusting me
You gift me too!!
Because we’re halfway through NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that reflects on the nature of being in the middle of something. The poem could be about being on a journey and stopping for a break, or the gap between something half-done and all-done.
Adult kids not cooperating
Sometimes, so frustrating!
Who is always in between
Parents.. or so it seems
Why can’t they just get along?
Communicate, get their groove on
Think they would understand
Each other’s moods and needs
That would answer Mama’s dreams
We are all works in progress
Think I’ll go out for a tea
Leave them to figure out
Their own mess.!!
When people ask how far things have coming along
Ha! my voice out rings. People think that I laugh, stuck comically at the start of the thing
but I have already struck middle, but they just assume I have tittle
A conversation only seven and a half years into an indiction, but they take it as a finality with conviction
but if they should just let me finish the second half, what I would bring in would be the ‘LF’
For I have not even managed to finish that one simple word
for only half of it manages to get heard
everyone these days is so rushed, that not even the whole word can I get out before I am aside brushed
cut in half, but before the whole word is calved. I am cut off before it is passed ..Ha…
still stuck on my lips, they take the half as a whole and move on down the unfinished path with a incorrect pull with an arrogant swagger in their hips
Thinking that I have laughed off the absurdity of the thing, rather then a progress update I tried to out sing
Ha, Largely Frustrating half points only to bring, all you can do is laugh as they move off thinkings it’s a whole, that I was joking about the goal, but only half a thing, as onto the second half I just start to swing,
You think you have made it to the conversations end, and that I am still at the project beginning still my friend
But I am solidly in the centre working on, while you off erroneously have thought yourself of out conversation finished and gone
I can tell you I’d be a lot further along, if I didn’t have to keep stopping to give you this dance, and sing you this song! to counter your assertions when you get it all wrong
but Ha, in spite of it, I have made it half way to the goal, and you only a false superiority away stole
I sink down into the projects watery depths while you muddle around at the shoal
for over me you did bowl, as I tried to tell you.. the second half of Half.. LF
Now I shall get back to try to finish my word, and finish my work after wasting all this time with you over this quirk.
But I seem to spend all my time in the middle, trying to get back to finish from that irritating middle, in frustration my lips a spittle, … of conversations that seem to mean diddle.
Because it’s Friday, let’s keep it light and silly today, with a clerihew. This is a four line poem biographical poem that satirizes a famous person.
Her Majesty, The Queen
Her Majesty, The Queen
Is now a ‘has been ‘
But, still on Gov’t documents
Dotted line says pay her Royal cents!
It’s not like you were on the moon long
But still managed via garbled transmission a world to captivate
But was it a man or for man, a typo of contention for constant debate
– W. B.
Today the ghazal. A ghazal is formed of couplets, each of which is its own complete statement. Both lined of the first couplet end with the same phrase or end-word, and that end-word is also repeated at the end of each couplet. If you’re really feeling inspired, you can also attempt to incorporate internal rhymes and a reference to your own name in the final couplet.
When I found a paint colour I really like I choose the next one
As I look closer at it in the light it shifts, I choose the next one
At dinner I find a perfect menu item is always third from one of reading that does appal
This pattern insures that I alway order the best meal or deal if I choose the next one
When going Down stairs I take them one at a time so as not to fall
However when going upwards I skip one and I choose the next one
If there are two parking spaces in the parking lot I alway go around again at the mall
just to make sure I have not missed any potential spots before I choose the next one
my whole life I find that things would have worked better if I had made other choices to call
so now I live for the moment and when I have decisions to make I choose the next one
I have to say I believe in procrastination as the ultimate means of fine tuning the stall
I could take the next choice available but maybe I’d be happier if I choose the next one
When only one option is left at all
I still wait till I choose the next one
I bounce through my choices like a cheap little rubber ball
ricocheting until after much agonizing I choose the next one
If ever I were to go to get married I fear to hear that faithful truth before me to haul
of how to be total crestfallen to hear to the emotion to veer ’ I choose the next one’
But I wait for other options to appear and out wait the lull
before I inevitably come to say that I choose the next one
It seems that the more options through opines I have to cull
the longer it takes me to default and I choose the next one
When I come finally, confidently to settle onto the next one and I stand up straight and tall
So certain and happy,.. that I insanely instantly change my mine and I choose the next one
Oh for the fits of Will, options Good, Better and Bester to pester before tentatively forward I slowly went to crawl
I still have to just sit there and stall until with almost no time left at all, I can say merely that I choose the next one
Fifty Cents of Ill
Started so young , tender, at school
Age 11 lungs drawing in chemicals, oh fool
Puff, puff thro my teens, self never seen
Magazines swore I was ‘special’, oh fool
Twenties came and went in a cloudy haze
500 Chemicals between fingers, oh fool
Was so cheap to begin, like a sin
Dirty thirties price started to rise, oh fool
Turned forty, hair, clothes stinking
No change in bad habits or thinking, oh fool
Soon turn fifty five, been eaten alive
Constant to the grave, oh fool
50 cents I could have bought candy, chips
I wonder if I’ll ever jump ship, oh fool
Today, I’d like you to write a poem that explicitly incorporates alliteration (the use of repeated consonant sounds) and assonance (the use of repeated vowel sounds). This doesn’t mean necessarily limiting yourself to a few consonants or vowels, although it could. Even relatively restrained alliteration and assonance can help tighten a poem, with the sounds reinforcing the sense.
Dang damp dripping Drops
Dormant draped clouds dig deeply down
around elation altering emotions to be found
Dashing dishevelled dots dive dorment-ly distraughtly digging
I outwardly acknowledge every use imaginable around me of rain
Disturbing drought, cleverly distributing desperately desired things by big boats
But I still can not get on board.
Aloof as all can be, I Indeed do not understand utterly insane resonance reasoned responses to rain
indeed indebted allegiances rarely remain relevant to rain as it ran in rolling rivers across again.
Dormant, devoid, dry days dismiss dissent of being dispelled during dissertations of desiccation dispersed daily of drought.
Ornery outwardly over ornate Oort or oblong clouds climbing clear ordinary ordained occasions of outburst outright
A euphoric isolation of untold unfounded unrounded drops un-mounded
an eek, and a shriek as out the window one peeked, to find that, shined, no more the sun. Overcome upward insight abandoned, to know now a reign had ended and a rain had come.
Dripping from clouds dipping across a grey sky embossed, the sun had been lost
Refrain remains ruminating rampant roaming rain returns yet again.
Drops .. Dripping .. damply … .. . Dang
You Cook – I’ll clean
Water and bubbles every
where, sliding over the mottled
Stainless steel, overflowing onto fake
Ceramic counter tile.
Squish, slurp, chirp, bang
Like contents alive, partying
Companionship between loud fuchsia,
Flower patterns, off white pyrex seems to
Smile, lasciviously, slipping
Away from my chipped, hang nailed
10 fingered grasp.
Greasy, Grunge styled cacophony
making music I don’t understand, alive
in a multi verse of their own comprehension.
Paper looks decidedly safer and less
mysterious, definitely more approachable some
Days then these seemingly karmically imbued
hand me downs that will simply not
Prompt for the day: the Bop. – In the basic Bop poem, a six-line stanza introduces the problem, and is followed by a one-line refrain. The next, eight-line stanza discusses and develops the problem, and is again followed by the one-line refrain. Then, another six-line stanza resolves or concludes the problem, and is again followed by the refrain.
Just to stand up
Some days is hard
Blankets over head
I am bent by life
Gravity presses flesh down
Struggle since birth
Duck to miss the gunfire
Walked over glass
Searching, ever searching
Purpose, meaning, truth
Life is a journey
The cloth I wear
To stay alive
Tracks, the sky across, counterpoint to the dark sky, it moves slowly
The Orb, it keeps me up through the night with its redirected light
I can not get to sleep when it’s outside it’s far too bright, Luna in flight
ever moving, crack in curtains are found, inward light rays bound
Daringly it opposes even the sun, Why must it across my window run
Of great might it is out shone by none, even the streetlight, is not outdone
Luminous Luna Please leave me lay to sleep
Why must you be so unjust, to keep me from my zzz’s
You have the whole sky, may you please leave me be
But my eyes open and what do I see, peering in at me
Beaming mockingly through that smallest gap in the trees
Lumens of Luna laughing from afar, at I, trapped in a jar
woken, kept from sleep by light seemingly slow, yet fleet
oh Luna, dear Luna, why can you never just shine at my feet
I can do nothing about it, you even shine right though the sheet
Luminous Luna Please leave me lay to sleep
I moved to find sleep in the living room but you glint off the lake,
I tried to flee, cramped in utility room but by furnace shake I still wake
I can’t stay in the kitchen, as I can’t stop myself by moon light eating cake
Luna haunts my night, full on quite the sight, but I succumb to my sleepless fate
for full, and complete, one night only not to repeat, But must I stay up on my seat
all night to watch Luna beam, But how, How shall I sleep, and my dreams meet!
Luminous Luna Please leave me lay to sleep
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were.
No Longer Alone
She, she was everything to me
Saw past all atrocities
Stood by side
Held me close
Helped me breath
Let me be
She was grace personified
She never lied
Looked deep inside
From her there was nothing
I wanted to hide.
I’d never had a friend like her
Took my hand
I felt secure
In this big world
She was sanity
In a life absurd
She lifted me when
I felt low
I miss her so.
Smart, so smart she
Traveled testing IQ’s
Thousands of people
Like me and you
All over the USA
For 30 years,
Head Start Founder
Compassion and care
Ruled all her days.
Her name was Patricia
She sang with the
Raging Granny Militia
Trying to inform
Save the world
In clashing colours
A bunch of old women!
Seemed so funny
But they surely razed!!
She passed away 15 years ago
I think of her often
It’s still such a blow
My best friend ever
She knew, I know
I miss her so,
I can only hope to be
A striving version
Of her wonderful humanity
She was my teacher
My adopted Grandmother,
I will love her dearly
Until my own end.
Tall, No one does full body shots anymore it seems
Boots black, scene off, backlit by an unknown means
straight fingers outstretched, after before straightening immaculately, buttons and seams
The stature speaks of timelessness around
Time projects in by the clothing and background
as a faded old plaid shirt, that a few old holes were to be found
the wall of photos, different, but all the same
some clear in colour, others of old back and white grain
all tell a similar story, Many sharing a name
The places, people and times change across
but prideful emotions, strength, compassion, in them all is not lost
be it Blue eyes, or a pair of rounded glasses refection glossed
The photo focus tightens with time, only the face left, skin tightened like rind
but even young new families now, framed tightened in kind
if probably up against a green screen now lined.
there is motion in still photos, it comes from memories
they come to life behind the eyes
A walk, a talk, the things that into photographic composition do not block
But blocking though frames the memories one has, and the inner traits that brings sighs
but nowadays too much is cropped out in that, that before lies
We don’t do history the same anymore
technology seems to close a door
no longer a real world wall, photos across history to fall, memories to pour
Nor an edged sandy beach in sharp focus in an old photo blurred at its core
Photos are too easy, unstated, and historically to emotion too unrelated
the quick snap, seems of landmark details deflated
Portraits used to tell a long story of a period of time, now photos are just a quick cross section of a moment of a single line
Blurred in kind, and little meaning in them looking back, that I can find
But of old, I see the details, in shadows dark or in washed sunlight that pales
For tallness is not a mater of height, and a love brings its own light
The things captured in Portraits are traits, A detail in an image pantographed that recreates
Rossy cheeks, in a harsh worn face through peeks
a prized thing worn or in the background grounds, and brings new emotions around.
The stories under the surface that get passed down, insider history that must crown
the overlooked details of a fence, old barn, a car lent. behind sat
Standing up for history, to most probably an unnoticed mystery
Row on row, they show what they stood for when ever by you go.
I always have to remember to make a moment as I go by, to go by slow
and recall the rest of the unframed scene, be it something so simple as recalling a kite that just before the shutter shuddered did by blow
What and who we are, and will ever be, or have been
sometimes a Portrait is in.
Caught in the details, framed within
Little tell tale things that reflect the larger image of the scenes of life of the time, to the wall we hang precariously on a pin
Because today is the ninth day of NaPoWriMo, I’d like to challenge you to write a nine-line poem. you can always eschew such conventions entirely, and opt to be a free-verse nine-line poet.
All One (al/one)
The lifting of each other
The only work I now see
All children of one mother.
The cleansing of our Earth
So much help she needs
Global, sustainable, rebirth
The end of violence and war
We have proven we all bleed
Peace to open all doors.
Nine times I have turned around now
Yet still travel towards
still headed before it somehow,
follow promised rewards
Follow me on, come to the end
find out what waits around the bend
Follow me on
Follow me on
Nine signs that I can’t break the trend
Nine times I have turned around now
sinking, flee to life rafts
to seek the stern, yet end at Bow
away from rescue crafts
Trapped, the sea raged around me whole
battered, the waves took quite a toll
Trapped, the sea raged
Trapped, the sea raged
Nine times out to lash at the soul
Nine times I have turned around now
seeking means of escape
not knowing the right means to vow
feeling it in my nape
The space between closed in on tight
held at a threshold with a might
The space between
The space between
Nine blinding snares that bind with light
Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that relies on repetition. It can be repetition of a phrase, or just a word.
Loud so loud
Loud so loud
Slammed and whammed
Lean forward to hear
Look at crowd
I am not alone
Napkins and cell phones
On a bus
While at home
Words lovingly placed
Or carefully spaced
Literary rules followed
True to a T
Never a mistake
All in between
Reading from pages
Or well rehearsed
I do it daily
Do you write too
Expressions in verse
To be free
Words given life
I snap a photo
I snap a photo of the things around me
I snap a photo Blurry and out of focus, it suits my mood
I snap a photo, again and again
Snap snap snap
I snap a photo at the drop of a hat
I snap a photo as we chat
I snap a photo
I snap another photo
I snap a photo, sharp and crisp of a blue sky and barely a cloud, just a wisp
I stand behind my camera sometimes as a shield
when I don’t want my emotional state revealed
I snap a photo, to expose, the outer layer back pealed
I snap a photo of rain, around the overhang my head must crane
I will snap a photo later of the same, when it’s dry again
I snap a photo, to remind myself of the changes that came
I snap a photo to remind myself to look as more will change again
I snap a photo, it becomes my refrain
I snap a photo, sometimes to deal with the pain
I snap a photo, to help imprint it on my brain
I snap a photo, to appreciate the gain
I snap a photo, before I forget again
I snap a photo, incase tonight it disappears forever from the lane
I snap a photo
and forget why I sometimes do, I depress the shudder before I think it all the way through
I snap a photo, to capture the transcendent crescendo of the music
and another to get the motion blur of a baton
I snap a photo, before the crowd moves on
another of the empty scene afterwards once they have all gone
I snap a photo
My photos travel, the motion telling the story part by part
a frame at a time capturing the heart
I snap a photo, around with me all the tall tales captured I cart
I snap a photo of the setting sun
a whole series in fact of the run
one last, of the dark sky
before I put the camera down and ponder why
I snap photos
capturing life raw and bare
I snap a photo
The photograph captures me
at lest how though the lens I see
I snap a photo, before to pause
I snap a photo, just because
I snap a photo
… Click …
My Mind is a camera
My emotions sometimes hold me hostage in a dark room.
The developing images can ransom my senses as the image starts to before me loom
I snap a photo
… My mind is a camera,… but the filling system is archaic
In keeping with the fact that it’s the seventh day of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo, Elizabeth and I challenge you to write a poem about luck and fortuitousness.
Need something more? Perhaps these instructions from Elizabeth will get you going!
Create the following lists:
1. List 1 – 3 random objects. (Smaller tends to be better.)
2. List 2 – 3 random but specific locations. (Think in the cookie jar, or under my seat…)
3. List 3 – 2 objects you’ve lost and a few notes on their back-story.
4. List 4- 2 objects you’ve found and few notes on their back-story.
Now, choosing an object from List 1, a location from List 2, and connect them in a poem with ideas from Lists 3 & 4 and Voilà! A fortuitous poem!
Library, Candlestick, Butler..
Ducks in a row along shelf
Dusty bedroom cast in long shadow
Quacking silently no longer traveling
Is that gold chains they wear?
Things found on busses
Never to find the owner again
Queenly adorned with brass tiara
Under the oak table
Foreign doll with tousled hair
Still crisp pages dated 1876
Books in German
But oh what pictures
Read to plastic Princesses
Double walled stainless steel mug
Inside the glassed-in cabinet
Hot coffee, tea awaits
But time is lost
Like my Medicine Bag
Tossed carelessly aside
But never forgotten
Care of valuables
Hard earned lessons
Light a candle
Let’s look together!
I have to say today has been a most fortuitous day!
For while searching the Corner of my desk
I Misplaced myself most throughly during the task looking through the whole mess. I expanded my search, not yet under any distress, though possibly it would come later, or maybe something else due to duress.
Finding I had buried my screwdriver somewhere that I could not recall I instead decided for some reason to use the Decorative ‘V’ shaped Fruit and vegetable cutter for a task it was not at all suited for! Indeed the only more ludicrous thing I could have possibly used would have been a fine tipped paint brush. But I dropped it on the way back, so I had to search without it and look for it later unless oddly it were to be eaten in the interim by an Alligator.
Things back there had stuck together like clay, I realized that I would be searching for things for the rest of the day.
I had no need for a Bicycle tire pump, yet I found that straight away! also spending the next few hours indoors I’d have little use for the Red handled Pruning Secateurs I came across, though I may in fact be needing them to cut my way out as I was feeling into these piles now a little embossed, though it might not matter now if I got free as I was already a little bit lost. But over that fact I glossed, and found and followed a power cord though the pile flossed, leading me to A stainless steel stained tan copper colour tea kettle, which with I did not right at the moment now have the time to meddle, so back into the pile I let it softly settle.
In a chipped bread box, it had come with the Knife set, was the Ice cream scoop, slightly bent. But I searched ever onward failing to relent. But my search style as I went I kind of had to reinvent.
A Chefs Knife I got, but only if you bought the whole set, a postcard I received from someone I’d never met. A poker chip I had never bothered to bet, and a dogs collar, even though I’d never had a pet. All this great stuff and more I had not yet had a chance to before vet.
Further out my search pealed, In a field, Behind the water heater, Down the street, Under the crawl space, but nothing was revealed, How could I have not found it, having been keeping my eyes pealed! Was it somewhere here in a tomb sealed.
In the garden perhaps, why was it’s location to be so fickle. As I made sure to send it to safety, after all I had just found a prized old nickel, while being very very careful of the rusty ole sickle, trying to make sure the situation did not devolve into a pickle.
Alas, all this really was all a mess, I did have to confess
So why on earth would I say, that this had been a most fortuitous day
Well I could explain all that facts that I had in quite an impressive array, but would no doubt from it into irrelevancies stray.
I may just for a moment let it in my head play, before I can say, just to make sure it sounds somewhat ok…
OK… But look at all the cool stuff I have with to play! Why would I ever have even thought about throwing any of it away!
Now if only I could remember what it was, way back at the start of the day, that I started to look for anyways!!!
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that looks at the same thing from various points of view. The most famous poem of this type is probably Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”. You don’t need to have thirteen ways of looking at something – just a few will do!
Backyard beaming Light of the Sun
The shaft of light spills through the back gap in the fence boards
Knife edge sharp line between the shiplap, falling between where shadows are floored
The highlighted front and brightly lit fence, a raised wood grain, highlighted by sun
All the defects shown to remain, and where the stains from nails run
Windblown shadows of grass moving, Growing day by day
Mid day grooving, as photosynthesis has its way
Thin tree trunk shadow breaks light, into sundial like sweep
Slowly travels left to right, denoting passage of a sunny noon that will not keep
Shimmering reflection off water, Bounces on the wall
A cool contrast as the mid day gets hotter, shifting and undulating through it all
Turning shadows of spokes, of a bicycle going by, heading home for lunch
Passed walking folks, passing brightly lit flowers in a bunch
Dimming from intervening cloud, drifting through
Before shedding its shroud, and brightening again on cue
Refracting though a lingering mist from passed rain
Impacting the sky in colours that shines out in an arc again
Glint off metallic pole, reflects harshly blinding
Curved refraction like a bowl, your gaze of should be minding
Rhapsody, glowing of sphere
Not to look directly at you are knowing here
A highlighted out of place moon floats, hangs overhead
Across blue sky moats, waiting for night it was said,
the low swinging sun
It’s last across the mid day to mow, creating effects rivalled by none
Is saying YES
Then working hard to
Make it so
Planting healthy seeds to grow
From which all can flow
Is giving power away
Sharing with everyone
So all are engaged
Each in their own way
Torch passing, everyday
Is quietly supporting
Behind the scenes
With ethics and honour
Invisible sewer of seams
To help build the dreams
Is sometimes, standing alone
Buffeted by winds
Chilled to your bones
Making the call
Win, lose or fall
Being ‘part of’
Matters to me
To stand up with dignity
Give tirelessly for tomorrow
Generations upcoming follow
How shall we lead?
You and me..
I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is based in the natural world: it could be about a particular plant, animal, or a particular landscape. But it should be about a slice of the natural world that you have personally experienced and optimally, one that you have experienced often. Try to incorporate specific details while also stating why you find the chosen place or plant/animal meaningful.
Between, Waterfalls, Oxbow and Moss
Paved path, black,
here to there
Path through back side of forest
Of People going
or busy, hurry, somewhere else to be
A like, Gravel path too, on the other side
Between runs a stream
Cross footpaths in brush worn into a mud trough
where few go, that few know
At the end of that worn earthen trough there is a curving stream running
the bubbling flow runs into the roots of a shrub holding
it turns at the obstacle, slowing
There is peace there, a small log just across, only enough to support small animals without bowing
Small water bugs populate the nooks and crannies of salmon berries plants along the shore, their roots torn at by the streams flow
Round smooth rocks, magnified by the eddying ebb of flowing waters
reflections of trees, sky and clouds overhead
there is there a peace to know
The stream in flows, slows, pause
Slow churns reflects
Nature reexamines its surroundings in this way, a slow kaleidoscope
Pulls apart things to re-magnify what is important
Seated there, the rest of the outside world disappears, two paths of people coming and going in oblivion, into, and out of,
Pulls together this microcosm we forget, day to day, is there
You can sit, balance on the roots and look down into the water that swirls below
lose yourself in the proceedings ongoing
The outgoing shimmering shifting sifting silt flowing with gravel about
as you sit there losing track of time around
Tiny waterfalls, an oxbow and moss your mind pervades
and the stream they flank or cross, everyone else unknowing of
In the middle of nowhere, seemingly unremarkable
I hope everyone else can find there way to get away
to their own place of affinity
And, between lines, small patched of nature, often stands as its gates.
Winds through Duncan, BC
My birth place
Splashed there joyfully
Many, many days
Sunshine on my face
From child to adult
There I swam and played
Surrounded by fertile lands
Used to be
Plenty of Water People
All year round
Considered so sacred
Majestic and grand
Farmed fish now
All wild catch banned
I once saw an Bald Eagle
Swoop down so fast
Caught a Sturgeon
In it’s sharp taloned grasp
Broad wings powerfully up-cast
A million memories
Forever to last
The name has a few meanings
A Indigenous community
That time has forgot
Also in old days
A ‘Hunters meeting spot’
Dark name too..
I won’t hide
Some say it is named for
Final name it’s been tagged
‘A place of snags’
Fresh clear water
Source of life
Through 27 miles
That h20 does race
The Cowichan People
Kept the river safe
Clean water always
I pray is it’s fate!
Today I’d like you to take some inspiration from Elgar and write a poem with a secret – in other words, a poem with a word or idea or line that it isn’t expressing directly.
Over the Edge
I dream of flying
Like a ..
Oh what fun
I would be lying
To say I didn’t want to
Leap off mountain outcrops
Scales warmed by the sun
Wide open blue skies
Swoop down through tree tops
Breath out fire.!
Bellow from the diaphragm
Simply because I can.
Seek the ends of the Earth
Mapping out peak & plain
Thermals to ride, Baby!
Again and again and again
Purples, iridescent yellows and blue
Green flashing eyes
Through and out into
The highest sky
Fast as a blink
I’d give you a wink
Did you see?
I’d have already gone by
Up, up so proudly
Find the softest mossy glade
Picnic with friends
I’ve gathered greens for all
Fruits you’ve never seen!
Hear my call !
Laugh for a while
Such a good time
For one and all
Do it again
The left path, I believe to be the one
the right if done would be wholly incorrect I feel
So I set to set off, but fear I will travel too far
ending under moon and twinkling stars and not before the setting of sun
in a far away place spun that I didn’t intend to go.
I started this trip too soon, so I now I find myself late and unclear
Uncertain and griped by a fear of what lies before
The start was rushed, now uncertainty in store at the outcome
I stand, waiting from where I had come from, waiting to go
but not wanting to face uncertainty I wouldn’t know how to confront
My moments here starting to feel like a coming bunt as I waited for the pitch
Still afraid of how it would switch up when it came
Was my journey was almost framed… there was a point of light ahead, distantly there, behind could I still make out the door in the distance…
I held in uncertainty and resistance, After the blinding white light of morning, but looking before, into the fear of coming darkness
Would I walk next to the water, what would I find in time there, an expanse of desolate sand or be pushed up against the rocks and shoreline densely treed
Should I walk next to water, where would the tide lead, how would the moon twist my path
how would it change as I walked past when I got there at last,
Stay to the trees, away from water that might come up to my knees, what was it to do, going in, or would it blast out from where I was
But I would have to go through, there was no other option ‘just because’, the end lay beyond
I had committed to going through once I had from the start gone, and too far on to turn back
Of doubts I had no lack, of going, my drive was slack. But I had high ground to reach
From down by the lowly beach I must of passage beseech, what hills and paths would there before me be
once I turned my back from the sea, and the cold crisp morning air
what hot heat of high noon later would I find there, it made no difference as now there was nothing more I could do to prepare. I blankly looked forward toward.
As on the apprehension poured, still to find myself there moored. A counterpoint to motion
standing before the mountain to climb, lacking resolve or devotion, standing slumped with my back to the ocean.
And now for our prompt! Today I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem that mourns or honors someone dead or something gone by. And I’d like to ask you to center the elegy on an unusual fact about the person or thing being mourned. These types of details paradoxically breathe life into an elegy, making the mourned person real for the reader.
A lament for a Cent
Not any longer even a Penny for my thoughts
but let me take a moment anyways to outline the dilemma I find myself caught
While I talk about the penny passed, a designated ‘lowly’ coin they decided to do away with alas
The fact of the matter is to spare a thought for the unusual thing out caught
A little terracotta pink pot
The poor piggy bank, poor little piggy, poor piggy
For not a penny anymore, minted, mint or otherwise
Shinny copper coins caught, tumbled, fumbled through fingers, slotted into slot
massed, shaken, guesstimated, to be roughly weighted
Until for something needed, needed, the allowance of their use pleaded
poured though bung, the crashing sound of cascading cash out rung
Rolled into paper tubes, counted fifty at a time in line
Counting them, one by one, the jutted facets around the edge,
For we will miss the penny indeed, saddened to see it into history recede
Heads or tails, no more a penny through the air to sail
Its proud Maple leaves stamped in bold lines in kind
But at least we can be reassured, as all the pennies have places to go, in a big old armoured trucks back to the mint they will roll, if a bit slow
But alas the piggy back, already in a digital world starting to be sank
Now losses another formidable ally from its flank
As much as I will miss the Cent, I can not keep my feelings pent, for I feel worse for the poor poor forgotten piggy bank,
The best of friends, penny and piggy bank have to of all time rank
But no longer the staple penny to tank
nor the excitement of a rarity, or unusual found penny treat
Nor even the odd foreign one at, now and again to peek
The scintillating scentless cent, excitement to a child sent,
a pennies journey to become a priceless prized prize to young eyes meant
We shall all recall of our childhood, that special penny found, the intense search, eyes down, in walking of others to be found
There was an inexplicable joy to the penny bound.
Even in growing up, finally invited to the adults card game, to bid pennies the board around.
Inseparable triad, penny, child, piggy bank, did no one stop to think to link things as they planned to pull the penny, no, there seemed to be over it no stink, did no one think of their child’s bedside shelf to link
Not at all like the ruinous cash cow ruminants of the bill clip, the humble piggy bank was to squeal of joy unabashed
and it’s best friend the penny, I just wished it could have to all of time last
One hundredth of a dollar, but few after it holler at all
Counted, pinched, tossed, drowned for a wish in a well, or fatally tossed in a pond with goldfish
But best when clutched by a child, put into safety in a pink bank, With young eyes going wild.
Eventually they line up by kilometres, or If your piggy is metric-ly challenged .62 Mile
I lament for the Cent, and all to us all growing up it has meant.
I know my piggy bank will miss them, black arm band on, head bent
Thank you for all the tales of heads and tales, we shall miss you, your coppery shining leaves on a fall day, as the season sets.
My final two cents, presents with hesitation
As the Penny drops, one last toss, be it heads or tails as it hits the trails, Thanks for the memories.
Patricia cursed life
All contained within it
So jaded, full of strife
She had become
I am not sure she was ever happy
Perhaps when very young?
Hatred seeped from every pore
Violent, mouth turned down,grim
Eyes black and flashing
Words hurtful and slashing
Slammed shut every door
Sent everyone who was ever kind
On their way
‘Get out ! No more !’
‘Leave, now !’
Her constant refrain
Anger from disillusionment, pain
No one was allowed to stay
Been hurt too much
No longer to trust
Any small faith
Long dashed to dust
Crumbled and blown away
She had been loved once
By her children three
Nothing offered to them
But constant abuse, misery
Decades passed by
She lived alone
Her small isolated
Low income home
For small money to make
Passed her days
Baking cookies, cakes
Dry as bones
Beading on looms
Bleeding in gloom
Pricked by the spindle
When she died
No one knew or tried
To find her
Struck her down
To the kitchen floor
She lay there
A wall of boxes, stacked
She had not unpacked
I worry that she suffered
I hope her last dying pains
Were mercifully buffered
I wonder if she knew
I loved her still.
Obituary in local paper
There was no one to take her
She was apparently
An elder orphans wake to be held
If anyone cared
If anyone dared.
In the world
A few members
Of HER family
To her side
To collect the
Burnt cremated remains
They were warmer to hold
Then she had
Today, I’d like you to write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe! It can be a recipe for something real, like your grandmother’s lemon chiffon cake, or for something imaginary, like a love potion or a spell.
Cha cha cha
Drum beat of ancients
Plus some current hurrah!
A dash of wonder
Some integrity too
Love, hope, happiness
Cook it all through
Tossed gently together
Stirred up well
Baked under sunshine
In a natural spell
Bubbling up beauty
Taking little time
If we all worked together
This world could be fine
That come from the heart
A recipe for our future!
Let’s make it !
Nothing in a recipe
How to make nothing
A pinch of Entropy
1 part empty empathy
1 part callousness
2 parts 50% disinterest
Half an empty glass
Top Half of a glass half full
Directions to nothing
Embrace entropy, do nothing more, feel the nothing start at the core.
If nothing occurs make sure that, if at all, it is stirred lightly, not shaken
For nothing ever gets shaken up, you must keep it dormant in its complacency
It takes little work to make nothing, it also takes little work to make something.
It’s an odd little quirk, with an amazing little perk.
But if nothing you must have, then be prepared to make sure to put in no effort at all, even if everyone around you responds with displeasure at your total gall, at least you won’t have far in failure to fall
Remember, nothing to garnish, not to garnish nothing, as it must remain in its primal empty state, in fact you should never even proceed it to plate.
Do not whisk, whip, stir or flip, it’s not a part of the nothing trip.
Nothing begets nothing, so the prep time is free. But it is unsatisfying on the pallet and will leave you wanting, that’s key.
Nothing is as simple to make as can be, but if your going to the trouble to find a recipe, why not make something better, be a go getter, rather than follow this recipe for nothing to the letter.
—- —- —- —-
To Double the recipe -Do nothing
Recipe data for Nothing
Companion dish- nothing
Pairs with no wines, beers, nothing!
No nutritional value
Prep time -0
Recommend by none
Reviews- no one could be bothered
Rating 0 out of five stars
Keywords – nothing, nothing, nothing, NOTHING, pointless.
– W. B.
In honor of today’s interviewee, I’d like to challenge you to write a Kay-Ryan-esque poem: short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.
It was lost, perhaps
early in the 1920’s
Certainly, before this current
Hello. Marked, masked
trudging silently. One could
not know if the foot steps
went forward or back
sand of beaches.
Reasons and meaning long
lifelines cracked into
of their hands.
Within the Trees
blows, it waves
of the trees.
when it blows
truth for you
like a bird who
sings a song.
They sing with
the trees; not
for an audience,
they have a
Remember the pains
Remember the pains,
portrayed dark pasts.
waiting for the noises to
reminded by amazing memories;
outnumbered by horrifying ones.
The wolf stays strong
never loses faith
as dismay gets
A river rock in water
surfing or scuttling,
with might again,
to knock against stream bottom,
a feeling to be ashore pushed,…
not of flight.
A monkey, of throwing,
trouble-full plight lead acts
by nights mischievous,
but little of streaming water,
less of light gleaming out…
Glass houses that stand
with light glowing around
having been knowing always
to be weary of mowing of
rocks, in going, out throwing.
Two of the three are
to thee indeed.
But three together
for ye, brings trouble
ya see from the clever.
by some unknown
risks not overblown.
I led by example well aimed
of good behaviour,
they to sample,
is the plan,
watching pained, the monkeys
dance around a round river stone
from my wind blown glass house,
– W. B.
The haibun is a combination of prose poem and haiku. It was originally developed as a sort of travelogue or character sketch , in which the writer would first describe a place in prose, and then pen a haiku appropriate to the place or scene.
The tall stand of trees, puddles at their roots on an overcast morning as around them people go about their day, coming and going, weaving through the trails around the waterlogged or water filled low points. The grey gravel contrasting against the undulating damp darkened chipped mulch. The tall trunks frame in the spaces of the irregular rooms of the forested grove, they seem to feel as home, even on a grey miserable day there is a feeling of warmth here.
Damp overcast day
steady trunked trees never sway
Contrasting warmth stays