I do not normally (not that I am normal) combine one piece or poem to meet more than one prompt. But I’m still on track to write sixty poems this month.

When I read the NaPoWriMo assignment and then the two Round Rock Writers Guild ideas, I decided to write one poem that might leap the bar of each suggestion. None of the proposals suggested a serious poem.

The challenge from the napowrimo.net page was to “write a poem in which you talk about disliking (hate) something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.” The two goads for odes from the Round Rock guild were “Ode to a Comma” and “Ode to the Double Space.”

An ode is normally a formal, ceremonious lyric poem that praises or celebrates something. Yet, an ode in poetry can be sarcastic or hateful, particularly in modern or contemporary literature, where it might be used to express intense emotion. Writers often use “anti-odes” to ironically and bitingly criticize, mock, or express hatred towards a subject. (AI guidance)

Space Comma Commando

Highschool memories in black and white,
my mean ol’ gray haired typing teacher and her cane,
“Stop looking at the unmarked keys! You oaf.
Two spaces, you fool, after a complete sentence period.
Don’t dare ask why. Just do it!” Grade F.

Now some wit-wads refuse to spacebar one-time,
like some kind of grammarly crime. And like a religion of punctuation,
a belief they cannot renounce, they proudly pronounce and declare
allegiance to wasting time one needless space at a time, tap, tap.
And like a dance of purity, they bow, stage left.
(Don’t get me started on poets who space after enjambed lines.)

And I turn the page to English class taught by
the wife of the Merchant of Venice for whom
I tried so hard to please, Portia. She was not hot.
But I wanted to try (ms word removed a comma)
to please her. I made sacrifices. I wrote papers—did homework.
But my commas displeased her majesty. The in-ones needed
cast out, while others from the infinite comma supply closet
of the Universe were to ride in and by God I tried!

Look, Lady.   Three spaces and I did not look at my keys.
and then, a, comer, comma, and semi;colon, buthole bitch.
Fifty years hence with hatred in my heart, reading your obit,
I felt sad that I never could please you.

I hate two spaces after my periods and who,
needs or neglects commas anyway.
No question, Mark! Grade F.

Look both ways because many excellent writers hated English class. And many English majors and teachers broke the rules of grammar in best sellers or Pulitzer winners. Mind the gaps and spaces for reason and logic.

Day 4 prompt: Write a poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspects of the season. Use rhyme and keep lines roughly even length.

Hush

In snow I sense a calm gentleness,
a serenity of muffled stillness
that surrounds me in a blanket of peace
and isolated absorption of sound
takes me far back to my childhood,
to excitement and entertainment
that grows to surreal serenity.

Snow, my own silent white metaphor
of human sensuality — I smell,
see to perceive, my friend I can feel
by grasp, my childhood toy, to taste
by flake or bonded ball, feelings
of tactile emotion. Snow creates
in atmospheric stillness, rest.
My rare phenomenon of pleasures
within the draw of her cold touch.

That pluvial side of me, snow’s sensed
sensuousness stirs chionophilic
desire to celebrate those rare
meteorological conditions
dependent upon the presence
of all climatological gods
who understand the beck and call
of my old childhood soul of snow.

Look both ways to the pleasures and memories of life, one day at a time.
Mind the gaps and the hidden myths of covered traps.

 

Day 3 Prompt: Write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is.

 

femme de lettres

Try as she might,
her search for truth required proof.
But she fought the good fight
to tell the world her story as truth.

The byline, the fame and
popular wealth was
the name of the game,
but she stood for a better cause.

Her life, not only to write.
But to make the world a better place.
She obsessed both day and night
to better all souls in the humanity race.

Then one day she just walked away,
but she never shed what was in her head.
To keep still and quiet and see that world
through the eyes of a journalist turned poet.

Look both ways and look closely.
Mind the gaps for a story behind the story of relative truth.

In the Long Run

I’ve Loved.
Lots!

People, places, things;
Not everybody,
Not everything,
Not always forever, either.

Reality awakens.
Only matter is forever.

Look both ways before you love.
Mind the gaps for lost love.

Day 2 prompt: write a poem that recounts a childhood memory.

 

First Fight or Flight

In a stretch I am maybe five-seven, down from eight.
Father was maybe five-two or so. I could say a lot.
Standing near the dining room table the hair on my head
then came up no more than his belt
and I looked up, into his angry gray eyes.

I felt fear and shook from the glare and stare of hate
like I had never before seen from my dad, a mean drunk
who felt no good toward me, and I immediately knew it
in my confused and flustered child mind.
I just wanted to go. To run. To get away. To be safe.

Look both ways at bad memories.
The teachers, fear and pain, reach over the gap of time.

Day one prompt was to write a tanka poem.

 

Medical Tanka

Oh, Doctor, Doctor
what is this that’s wrong with me
Am I gunna die?
Oh, Pain management you say
Okay. Two of these you say?

Click the graphic to go to the NaPo site.

What happens when belief slowly fades—and life goes on anyway?

In No God, No Masters, Bill Reynolds reflects on a lifelong journey through faith, doubt, and the search for meaning.

Raised Roman Catholic and educated by nuns, Reynolds spent decades exploring religion, spirituality, and philosophy. For years he immersed himself deeply in church life—teaching religious education, studying theology, and even preparing for possible ordination. But the more seriously he examined belief, the harder it became to reconcile faith with what he understood about the world.

Through a series of thoughtful essays and poems, Reynolds explores how belief shapes our lives and what happens when it no longer makes sense. Along the way he considers prayer, miracles, morality, forgiveness, and the complicated relationship between religion and human experience.

No God, No Masters is not an argument against religion or an attempt to change anyone’s beliefs. Instead, it is a personal and reflective account of how one man’s thinking evolved over time—and how letting go of faith ultimately led to a deeper appreciation of curiosity, honesty, and the wonder of life itself.

Find it here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GSSP3J37

 

 

Thorns are in gardens,
And colors from pretty flowers,
Rose pedal jellies are sweet.

This world of sounds,
Voices heard, long before birth—
Mother, father, sister, brother.

Sounds of nature,
So sweet and quiet,
Some warn of danger,
Others safe passage,
Voices of friends,
A love,
Some grumpy old men.

In time,
Life’s pleasures wane and wither,
Music comes not as before,
Beautiful sounds are
Nothing to waste.

Disallow atrophy
Of lust
For a wondrous life.
Be alert.
Sounds. Enjoy them.
Be aroused
By smiles and touches
Of troubadour drums.

Surround yourself with pleasures.
Hear every note
With silences between.
Waste nothing.
Mind our gifts.

Take care,
my love.
Some things shall not
Always be there.

Look both ways with eyes and ears.
Mind the gaps between notes and words.

If I say to my wife,
“Lady Bird,”
she responds,
“Plant a tree, a bush, or a shrub,”
in a deep, accented, drawl.

Texas Spring roadsides respond
with flowers galore: bluebonnets,
Indian blankets and paintbrushes.
Lady Bird Johnson
made this world a better place.