Since I’m starting out on my driving journey northwards to the U.S. today, I won’t have time to write my daily post, so I’m republishing my April 20 post from 2013.  I think the vast majority of my followers were not followers then, so hopefully not many of you will have seen this before.  It was my post to the NaPoWriMo prompt.

Prompt: Today we were challenged to write a poem that uses at least five of the following words. In my own rodomontadian fashion, I decided to use all of them. I italicized the words as they were used in the poem so you can check up on me! Word List: owl generator abscond upwind squander clove miraculous dunderhead cyclops willowy mercurial seaweed gutter non-pareil artillery salt curl ego rodomontade elusive twice ghost cheese cowbird truffle svelte quahog bilious

Circadian Verse Non-pareil

Enough, I say! It’s bad enough when poetry stoops to puns or limericks, but now we’re asked to write of guns???? NaPoWriMo! Just say, “No!” I, myself, would journey over dale and hillery to avoid the usage of artillery! There is enough of it in every news report with vivid details: magnum, caliber or loudness of report.

It am so sick of it!!! Guns don’t fit in poetry and that is why I choose to write about fine dining under a cowbird sky on truffles svelte and mercurial with just a ghost of cheese upon my plate—a dish that’s sure to please. No salt, no clove, no quahog purloined from its oceanic lair should be added to this perfect dish. What dunderhead would dare?

Overhead, an owl drops like a comet to abscond with some small creature scooped up from the pond. He flies away, upwind, then curls his flight to fly back over and in one miraculous swoop, his talons comb the clover in search of prey that is elusive and wisely, seconds later, is reclusive.

Twice more, we see our willowy feathered friend descend while our teeth keep chewing and our elbows bend to stuff yet one more morsel into bodies slightly bilious, turning a deaf ear to talk now supercilious. Our whole gluttonous, cyclopean brood (one eye on the owl, the other on our food) is loath one morsel of this groaning board to squander on predator now circling over us, then over yonder. His wings held straight—no bend or flutter, he soars down low and eyes the gutter.

The seaweed now he surveys—that generator of frogs and tadpoles and perhaps a gator. But, finding nothing this hungry day, he dips one wing and flies away.

And so must I desert my task circadian, Lest ego turns me rodomontadian.

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