Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo 2019

Rain on Mosaic: NaPoWriMo 2019 Minimalist Poem, Apr 30

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Rain on Mosaic

Drop.
Flat.

Rain
is
sad.

Dropping
straight.
Falling
sure.

Into
a
world
of
blue
mosaics.

Glide on smooth.
Slide off easy.
Straight.
Sure.
Rain
is
sad.

Our assignment today was to write a minimalist poem. Last day of NaPoWriMo!!!!

After Seventy: NaPoWriMo 2019, Apr 29

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After Seventy

Is it gain or loss to feel contentment—
no wild surges of emotion,
no bodily electricity,
no need for thrill or wild abandon?
Is this not the time for settling, for thrusting all
those wild venturings back to a safe place
on a back self of memory?

The universe is built on repetition 
and change. This last stage, a sinking back into.
Communion with birds and dogs. 
A return to the careful watching of childhood.

Of  discussions with self as though you were
two people—one listening
as that inner person does all the talking.
Wisdom melding into sleep in the afternoon
in hammocks or on sofas.

Trying to distill wisdom from the flight of birds
or the observed quizzical reasoning of a small dog.
Old age, with one stiff arm I hold you at a distance.
I am studying up for you by reading books and by observation.
By reading myself for long otherwise empty afternoons.

Pinned in a backyard hammock by a small dog and by lethargy,
one foot on the ground, I steer us side to side—
A pendulum sweeping my life away, into corners,
fueled by the hovering of hummingbirds,
the quick flutter of butterflies
from throat to throat of the tabachine.

That seesaw of mind between the inner and the outer
as though practicing for that time when the one will claim me
and I will spiral forward or backward
with that wise knowing, perhaps, at last,
that they are precisely the same thing.

The NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a poem that was a meditation.

Poet Pie: NaPoWriMo 2019, Apr 28

The NaPoWriMo prompt today was to write a poem about poetry. I wrote this poem two years ago for NaPoWriMo, but it is perfect for this prompt, so I’m reblogging it. I also wrote another fresh poem today which you can find HERE.

lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

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Poet Pie

Pick an armful of fresh words from the poet tree.
Trim off dry leaves. Dispose of the ordinary or over-ripe.
Choose words that flower when juxtaposed.
Choose tiny clinging bees that sting.
Choose pollen dusted blossoms that make you sneeze.
Choose fragile leaves that swing when you breathe on them,
staunch stalks that do not budge.
Throw them in a vase so that they go where they want to go,
then rearrange to suit your fancy.

Admire your arrangement
as you bring a stock to boil.
This stock consists of honey and vinegar,
water to float the theme,
lightly peppered with adjectives
and salted with strong verbs.

When the water boils, break nouns from your bouquet.
Tender stalks may be sliced to syllables, but leave the flowers whole.
Do not cook too long lest they be too weak to chew upon.

Scoop with a wire ladle and lay…

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Dinner Party Snafu–a Sonnet for NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 27

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Dinner Party Snafu

That tiny jar of olives on the shelf
called out to me to add them to my list
carefully planned by no one but myself
and yet, it’s true that I could not resist.

To add to salad, plotted from the first
to blend so perfectly into the meal
to whet the appetite and prompt the thirst
for my perfect wine-soaked succulent veal.

Who knew that bottle would be so well sealed
that it would remain steadfast to my grip?
meanwhile, the veal course cooled and congealed
as I used armpit, hand and tooth and lip

to try to budge those olives from their jar,
to spill them onto salad quickly wilting.
My guests called out for dinner from afar,
their hunger-weakened voices softly lilting.

Thus do dinner plans oft turn out Hellish
due to starter courses we can’t relish!


http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-seven-5/

Tidelines

Tidelines

The water laps from shore to shore,
From India to Ecuador,
bringing precious things and more—
dried starfish and an apple core,
a never-ending seashell store.

The water laps up ever higher.
The ocean wave will not expire. 
Tide on tide, it does not tire,
topples chair, douses campfire,
to the wind’s insistent choir,

The water laps around my feet
in the day’s insistent heat,
always destined to repeat,
to the moon’s consistent beat,
this constant rising from its seat.

The water laps against the dock.
Listen to its constant knock,
testing the seawall, block on block,
undiminished by the tock

of nature’s ever-ticking clock.

The water laps by halves and thirds
against the sides of ships and birds.
All its shores it scours, then girds,
undetained by  poets’ words.
To stop the sea? it is absurd!

 

For NaPoWriMo’s “repetition poem” prompt.

 

Rainy Season: NaPoWriMo 2019, Apr 25

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Rainy Season

When you walk into my photograph
in your new yellow raincoat,
a stalk of grain is in your hand
and you are plucking at it, shredding it.

I have set the tripod,
pinned the curtain back,
and I am waiting for the turn of light.

Chaff blows in the rain behind your shoulders.
In the wet street I can see you twice.
Steam from the straw pile down the street,
yellow blossoms of the spirea bush—

and still
I do not close the shutter,
for I am waiting for the turn of light.

You woke earlier than usual today,
craving fresh yogurt.
A waxed street that your footsteps
and the wheels of bicycles had marked

did not prompt me
to close the shutter,
for I was waiting for the turn of light.

When you return three hours  later,
your pockets  filled with fresh strawberries,
as though this is the reason
for which you left,

your shadow passes
across my photograph
as I stand waiting for the turn of light.

 


For the NaPoWriMo poem we are to write a poem that:

     Is specific to a season
Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
Includes a rhetorical question, (like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”)

The Gawkey and Flaybottomist, NaPoWriMo 2019, Apr 24

“The Gawkey and Flaybottomist—Who Should Have Stopped When First They Kissed”

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I guess when I chose to use the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue  from my own bookshelf, I should have realized that at least 1/2 of the terms would involve sexual innuendo. Nonetheless, I decided to proceed. I must warn you that the following poem is a bit risqué, so please avoid reading it if rude language offends thee!

The 16 terms I used and their definitions are given after the poem. If you wish, you might want to read them before the poem, or you can try to follow context clues to discover their meaning on your own:

 

“The Gawkey and Flaybottomist—Who Should Have Stopped When First They Kissed”

I predict the cross patch and the flaybottomist
are the sort of women least likely to be kissed.
The first’s so busy grumbling that the kiss never connected,
while the second merely thinks of how the kiss may be corrected.

Now, there was an awkward village boy excessively unworldly,
that on one occasion had acted most absurdly
by planting a fast buss upon his teacher’s nearby cheek
then since he was both young and shy, he beat a fast retreat.

The following week when mellow, he thought he’d try again—
His amorous nature brought out by much congress with his gin.
He desired a bit of relish, and the gin made him a fool
So he took his gaying instrument up to the village school.

I fear he was a gawkey–the worst that you might meet,
and he tripped over his crab shells as he stumbled up the street.
The roaring boys pursued him, thinking they would later cackle
leaking all the secrets of where gawkey stowed his tackle.

Upon his knock, the school teacher opened up the door,
attired in her negligee–and I fear nothing more.
She greeted him with Friday-face, but he took little note,
for he was practicing the lines that he had learned by rote.

The teacher was a dumplin and her suitor tall and thin,
yet when she heard his practiced plea, I fear she let him in.
But what he didn’t know then, as he quenched his carnal thirst
was that on that night of visitors, he was not the first.

The reason our flaybottomist had greeted him ungowned,
clad only in her negligee and with her hair unwound,
was because the French instructor had been there to give instruction—
a fact that I fear later led to misery and destruction.

For her tutor left her Frenchified, which she passed to the gawkey,
who took his French leave quickly, feeling a good deal less cocky.
The moral of this little tale—at least the one you’ll get?
Things are apt to get sticky when you’re the teacher’s pet!

 

Words from the 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue used in this poem:

*crab shells:  Irish, shoes
*gawkey: a tall, thin, awkward man or woman
*gaying instrument: the penis
*cross patch: a peevish boy or girl, an unsocial or ill-tempered man or woman
*relish: carnal connection with a woman
*cackle or leaky: to blab or reveal secrets
*roaring boy: a noisy, riotous fellow
*flaybottomist: a schoolteacher
*mellow: almost drunk
*dumplin: a short thick man or woman
*tackle:  a man’s genitals
*Friday-face:  a dismal countenance (Friday being a day of abstinence.)
*French leave: to go off without taking leave of the company
*Frenchified: infected with venereal disease.
*Negligee: a woman’s undressed gown,
*buss: a kiss “kissing and bussing differ both in this, We busse our wantons,
but our wives we kisse! (Robert Herrick, “Hesperides,” 1648) from buss, 1570.

The NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem influenced by a reference book. This poem was actually written for a similar NaPoWriMo prompt three years ago and I know the point is to write a poem a day, but since I always write another poem a day anyway making use of four prompts, and will do so today, I reckon this isn’t cheating.

Pelicans, NaPoWriMo 2019, Apr 23, 2019

Pelicans

They float upon the gentle swells
with chins tucked in politely.
Of all the birds, most dignified,
their movements never sprightly.

They look like grumpy butlers
named Oliver or Jeeves
in morning coats of softest brown
with wings tucked in their sleeves.

They may be only scouting
the source of their next meal,
for now they take off to the air
with energy and zeal.

Soon they’re diving down again,
straight like an arrow shot
into the water’s surface
to see what can be caught.

Bobbing once again,
they lift their bills and then let slide
all that’s in their pouches
to another place inside.

I wonder if the fishes flop
all the long way down,
and this is why the pelicans
then fold their wings and frown?

The NaPoWriMo prompt today is to write a poem about an animal.

Kid Again: NaPoWriMo 2019, Apr 22, 2019

There are more forms of art in the world than most people can list. Cooking may be an art in the right hands, or riding a horse or setting a table. Or flying a kite.

Kid Again.

From the still air near the beach,
it seems a miracle
that above us there are currents
strong enough to sail a kite.

The long-handled spool spins
between your loose-curled palms,
yet the kite curls lower
until you remember how
to reel it in a bit
and run, and let it go.

As you in the heat,

under Leon Redbone hat,
learn the tricks again
you haven’t needed since you were a kid,
you recognize, through some
adult amnesia,
the tug of the string
against your hands––that tactile memory––
and steer the beautiful sperm-shaped kite
with the longest tail
higher.

Yours unique above the two blue others.
Yours lotus-patterned with a spiraled tail
of purple, orange and yellow.

All afternoon, the seagulls and the pigeons
curve between the obstacles
of string and tail
as you rock your hand
to teach this drifter
how to execute a figure eight,
until a cooler wind,
blowing your shirt-back dry,
calls your attention
to the sunset,
and you start to reel your new toy in.

Still fighting that compulsion 
to let it go again
to the end of the string,
you dance the kite
on ever-shorter tether
as you take it for a walk
along the footpath
to the car,
remembering
by some association,
watermelon.

 

After Forgottenman read this poem, he told me a charming story about the last time he flew a kite. For the first time in history, when I said he should write a blog post on it, he actually did!!  You can find it HERE.

The NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem about another art form.

Dakota Rattlesnake Charm: NaPoWriMo 2019

Dakota Rattlesnake Charm

Wheat fields sough
like the evening skirt
of a city lady
with her train in the dirt.
The old side-winder
with diamond back
and his tail half out
and  his head in the stack.
The summer sun
glints off the gun
of the farmer
who slicked and hacked
to put the rattles
in his sack.
and tie them in his daughter’s hair
to  tell them fancymen  “beware,”
—the hack-a-sack man
who sold those nighties
turned small town girls
into aphrodites.
Drove their souls
to the city nights,
to men and music,
words and lights.
’til they pull her down,
uncoil her hair,
a sudden rattle,
and she’s not there!

 

 

For NaPoWriMo 2019 Day 20