NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 26, Billy’s Benevolent Bedlam

Today NaPoWriMo-ists, like me, were to write a poem that “involves” (includes) consonance, alliteration, and assonance. TMI follows (but if you want a review):

Consonance (literary) is the repetition of consonant sounds (coming home, hot foot). It is counterpart to the vowel-sound repetition known as assonance. (Sibilance is a special case of consonance as in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”: And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain.)

Alliteration is the repetition of consonant sounds at the beginning of words. It is a special case of consonance as in “few flocked to the fight” or “around the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran“.

Assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds in, or across, words that are close together. Rhyme is a special case of assonance. Examples include, Light My Fire, Crying Time, great flakes, between trees, the kind knight rides by, and (from The Puffin Book of Fantastic First Poems):

If you can boogaloo
boogaloo
I can do
the boogaloo too
for I’m the boogiest
hopaloo kangaroo

Confession: I love this stuff and had way too much fun today.

Billy’s Benevolent Bedlam

Bronco bouncer Billy Bob Butler,
advisedly and explanatorily was told not to
babble in the scrabble or to write
clichéd adverbial conquests, but to eschew
some few buffoon modifications.

Billy bought beer, bratwurst, and beans.
Faithfully and frivolously his fast fingers
freely flowed past; creatively composing
craftily as he constructed compositions,
purportedly passing on poorly penned
prepositional phrases padded with
crispy mystery, in dumb opposition
to some cat’s torty affirmation.

Look both ways and use all the tools in the box.
Play the crux of the tune with a sax, but mind the gaps, and love the turd’s words.
Lyrics matter more to the baritone in a cappella.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 25, Beaucoup de Sade

I made it to Day 25, only to find this prompt prodding me to write a poem based on the “Proust Questionnaire.” WTF is that? We were given a wiki link and 35 questions, then set loose to sow whatever poetic damage we could. Proust? Really?

Beaucoup de Sade

What do you consider the perfect murder?
Do you want to kill anyone?
Or some group; like atheists,
gymnasts, or Sociologists? If so—
who, which, when, how, and why?
And where do you live?

Do you like to scare the shit out of people?
Do you point and laugh after they
wet themselves or die of a heart attack?
What is your favorite form of torture?
Do you reminisce about the Spanish Inquisition?

Of all the people you know, what proportion
do you hate the most and wish they were dead?
(Former spouses, Mormons, and JWs don’t count.)
And why? It’s always why, right? I wonder too.

Do you hate any professional or amateur
sports teams, clubs, individuals, musicians, or poets?

Do you consider prohibition of libel and slander
an impingement on your freedom of speech?
Did you make crank calls as a child?
How many times a week do you defecate?
Masturbate?

What smells get you sexually excited?
Do you fantasize doing naughty things
with people you know, like your best friend’s
current or previous spouse or partner?

Who are your favorite villains? Are you
ever good on the bad guys and gals?
What are you addicted to?
Do you think pizza is overrated?
Do you hang out at cemeteries
just to find peeps with shared
hopes and dreams?

Did you enjoy this prompt
as much as I did?

Look both ways and only read Proust if your name is Duane (Moore)
and doing your psychiatrist is your lifelong fantasy.
Mind the gaps for punji traps because some wars never end.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 24, Baby Bomber

To meet today’s prompt; after much wondering, looking, rabbit-hole tripping-into, and unsuccessful Google hunts, I landed on a line (two, actually) to bogart from the poem “Weatherman” by Emily XYZ (from the book, Verses That Hurt: Pleasure and Pain from the Poemfone Poets, (eds.: Jordan and Amy Trachtenberg).

The prompt was to write a poem that begins with a line from another (person’s) poem. The line(s) I chose begin Emily’s poem and mine: “Had I been a bomb builder then instead of a baby // boomer which I was which I am still”….

Baby Bomber

Had I been a bomb builder then instead of a baby
boomer which I was and which I am still,
I could have been either famously infamous,
or just plain old famous.
For my cause I could have maimed and murdered
my way into a second life as a Jeff Dunham puppet.

Born after, I missed the big WW-two, was virtually clueless
about a Korean War which ended on my 7th birthday,
but the big boom-boom, GI-numbah ten, at 17,
that dirty old Southeast Asian War for which I was almost eligible for the draft,
so I joined up. Git ‘er done, ya know?

But ten years later, as that buff bomber guy, I learned how nukes were made (Top Secret with critical nuclear weapon design information/CNWDI).
I coulda kilt many a monkey (literally) in Nam, disabled shit factories and fried females that the Chinese didn’t kill for crowd control, or pounded the Rooskys so hard I might have sterilized Putin’s daddy. Coulda but didn’t.

Never built a bomb or John Wayned
some commie pinko fascist and there are days when my ambivalence
flips my lifeless wig. Today, I wonder.
Left, right, left, and now your right;
what side am I on? And who cares?

If I’d been born a bomber instead of a boomer; things would be
exactly as they are. Except for this poem. And except for the spelling of this cause or that; how much difference is there between them and me?

Look both ways down the tunnel searching for which religion or cause is worth dying for.
Mind the gaps that may suck you in, or pay you well, because killing for a cause is killing still.

Emily XYZ

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 23, What’s My Measure?

Today, without charge or payment, NaPo poets were to write a poem involving a “superhero” (a fictional hero having extraordinary or superhuman [as in not human] powers).

Actually, and indirectly, I’ve already quasi done this. But is not a superhero (SH) a matter of opinion?

What’s My Measure?

Superhero (SH), Man! Impressive!!
How good are you? How real?
How many followers you got?
Seventy-four million “yeas” gets you funded,
your lawyers and other whores paid as well.

What do you call Batman and Robin
after they got run over by a … never mind.
Then, Rock-in Robin came bopping in—

When the Dell Comics (Marvel?) boys called
wardrobe for a masked sidekick for the real
Caped Crusader. Shazam!

Batman sales doubled, thanks to Robin.
The value of America’s superheroes
took a new low bow but made high book.

Robin aged-up from (tweet, tweet, tweet)
and morphed into superhero: Nightwing,
when that role wasn’t confused with,
or filled by a morphed Superman.

Yeah, Babe, it’s all about cold, hard sales—
product endorsements, shoe sales,
pizza stores, and insurance coverage
(and now bibles, for Christ’s sake).

Is there anything in this country
not all about, and measured with, money?
Is that our reality? TBF, even Wikipedia
and self-pubbed twit poets (like me) need money.

Is wealth and value our true measure?
Are our real SH’s Bezos, Musk, Gates,
Zuckerberg, and Buffet? Even God
seems to constantly need more money.

Look both ways and wonder where your money goes.
Mind the gaps for anything that makes us feel better,
anything that will push product out the door.

 

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 22, The Battle of Sandy and Boots

Happy Earth Day, everyone. “Earthshoes® notwithstanding, today’s prompt had me writing a poem in which two (unlikely) things have a fight. I’m not sure how “unlikely” a boot and sandal fight may be, but there is much to be said and written about when it comes to our taste in footwear.

The Battle of Sandy and Boots

Beauty and the Beast were sound asleep
when the lights went on in the closet—
tongues were heard flapping
as stomping and kicking created a donnybrook.

Boots said loudly, “We are the important ones.
The protectors and comforters. And the classy
preference of designer pedestrians. We are
the preferred wear of all feet. Down with
sandals and their flimsy glitzy flip-flops.”

Sandy boasted, “Girls in beautiful dresses,
wearing ugly combat boots and brogans,
Ughhglay! Y’all are on a fall from glory
and our sexy footwear are gaining favor.”

Boots protested, “Such sleeky strappies
are no good in combat—too flim-flam,
too airy, too weak to protect her tootsies.”

Sandy sandal pointed, “See those Ho Chi Minhs?
Lightweight! lightning fast!! Swift and quiet
in the night, waterproof, cheap as used tires.
And they’ll take any beating
into the next millennium.
We emphasize the beauty of feet better
than any boots or shoes, for those who care.”

Boots was getting louder and claimed,
“We do cowboys, steel-toed workers,
clodhoppers and happy Aggie senior
jodhpur riding class boots. Red wings
and Wellingtons, and even-mo-sexeh
stiletto knee boots.
Biker boots, moon boots, and doc martins.
We’re gunna kick y’all’s heels into the dirt.”

Sandy jumped from the shelf,
tightened her ankle straps, and yelled,
“Ok you wingtip nutcases. Fight’s on.
You started this. Let the best of function
and beauty be the favored reign below the knee.”

Suddenly she was joined by gladiators
and Roman sandals, slides and mules slipped in.
Platforms stood with a group of wovens and
the Mexican Huaraches played mariachi music.
Jelly sandals got stiff and were joined by fishermen
and hiking sandals.
The slave sandals yelled for “freedom and fit.”

The boots just lost it and jumped from the shelf
to the floor with a loud bang ready to stomp all sandals
into the sole of submission. But then, a voice was heard.

“Beast, why is the light in the closet on? Did you
hear something?
Our shoes are a mess all over the floor.
I think we must have slept though another earthquake.
We may need to quake-proof this closet, Honey.
Beasty Baby, get up and help me straighten up this mess.
It’s like the battle of footwear was fought
in our closet tonight.”

Look both ways as much vertically as horizontally.
Mind the new gaps because sensible shoes do not need to look like mid-fifties grannies.
Don’t go barefoot into the walk of life.

To explain: Seniors in the Corps of Cadets at Texas A&M University wear jodhpurs and knee high, brown, riding boots with spurs.

 

 

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 21, Overstated

I don’t think I’ve ever had a real favorite color (or colour). But I needed to answer the question: what is it? So, I used to say it was blue. I like green, too.

And while I don’t like yellow cars (think lemons), pants, shirts, or journalism; Motorcycles, flowers, and mellow yellow songs all do well in Amarillo yellow. Also, I liked Jay’s pumpkin colored, semi-yellow-orange Porsche, which was kind of sweet.

Today’s Prompt-areno (it’s been three weeks, folks) is to write a poem that repeats and/or focuses on a single color. While any color would do, I went ahead with ubiquitous blue. It meets prompt.

Overstated

I thought I was cool, or at least being so,
like I would know the trick,
but I was advised
that I looked more like a fool,
the colors were a little bit sick.

My shirt, pants, and shoes were all shades of blues
but shade makes the difference, thus I donned—
a lighter shirt in a bland shade of green.
That was yesterday.

Now at home, I write a blue poem about my casuals,
while wearing a two-tone blue top
and mixed-up blue bottom that is not to be seen.

Long ago, my eyes were blue, but now some say green,
depending on the day,
my shirt,
and my blue-eyed soul.

We dance to the Blue Danube waltz,
and we swim in blue waters,
we pine for the bright blue sky,
then in August we wonder why.

Blue Ridge Mountains take me back,
a Blue Duck sits on my desk
or maybe it’s some Lonesome Dove’s
dark psychotic character.

Like red and yellow, blue is primary.
Mixing gets us shades of green or purple
or a midnight-something.

Blue nose or blue toes, blue jeans on blue teens,
blue men in a Vegas troupe.

Blue moods and Mondays
are both downers but not the blues of bennies,
and blue shaved ice is coconut flavored on blue tongues.

Navy blue is almost black, and baby blue is much too tac.
So blue is good, and blue is bad, and blue can even say
that we are in a mood or feeling sad.

But I thought it through and through
and I must admit,
if I did have a favorite color,
it would probably be something like
a deeper shade of blue.

Look both ways but try not to see red when looking at blue.
Mind the gaps in mismatched tops and bottoms, but blue is the truest of the cools.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 20, Who Won?

It’s Day Twenty at NaPo where the prompt challenged me to write a poem that recounts a historical event.

Who Won?

Some people think we,
the USA,
won every battle during
the war in Viet Nam.

When attrition
and body count mean more
than maneuver and tactic,

When pawns are used as bait,
it’s chess, not real life.
Has the Army ever
told the truth
at the first chance given?

Classmate Tom, only 20 when drafted
and forced to war
died in the battle Xa Cam My,
near Saigon, Viet Nam,
on the 11th day of April 1966.

In-country only three weeks,
along with nearly 40 of his mates,
many others butchered and maimed
for life—they now can barely tell the story.

Was it the short artillery fire,
the cleverness of the Vietcong,
the foolishness of the USA officers?

Attack after attack by the VC brought more
American blood to earth and more death, until—
not so mercifully, Charley decided
to move on and to fight another day.

Nine years later Saigon fell
and Viet Nam became
one country and America’s
government found other things
to lie about.

Like in 1966 when Private Tom
and 35 virtual strangers died
in a forbidden foreign place
fighting for his Purple Heart
and Combat Infantry Badge.

Twenty years—where did they go?
Twenty years, and for what?
The tag on my shirt says
“Made in the Socialist
Republic of Viet Nam.”

Look both ways and wonder, will it ever be over?
Ignore the gaps at your own peril
so you can go back home in a metal box and declare victory,
or at least the promised “honorable peace.”

Note: While the reference in the poem to 20 years is the full duration of the US involvement in the Viet Nam conflict, it is also the age of my classmate when he was killed. The Battle of Xa Cam My was 58 years ago.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 19, The Burden of Truth

My poem today was to be about something that “haunts” me. Fair enough.

But the prompt also required that I change the word haunt to hunt. Since my nineteenth poem uses neither word, it is not (technically) written to prompt. But almost.

“You better stop, look around — Here it comes
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown
Here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown”
(From the song, “19th Nervous Breakdown” by The Rolling Stones)

The Burden of Truth

There is a profound sadness in me—
One retained by conscience and nourished by guilt.

More than thirty years of unhealthy, but honest regret
and self-disgust padded with insufficient amends
has not mitigated my permanent tattoo of rue.

Done cannot be undone.
But a foolish deed,
words written or said, cannot be overturned
by going back in time —
back in time to fix, to heal, or to recover.

No amount of positive can reverse it.
Neutralizing is impossible.

Repression of memory is pathetic denial—
defense mechanisms to palliate my purgatory.

Even the permanence of death
leaves lasting damage to unrepairable hearts,
minds without memories,
which may be just as well. I know and I do not know.

Perhaps there is a time for every purpose.
Maybe this stone will be cast away.
Hope so
because I don’t know how to turn
guilt into innocence with only time.

Look both ways at the story of life for forgiveness and regret.
To kiss and to touch. To be right and to be wrong. To climb and to fall.
Mind the gap to fit the story but we may never know the truth.
Even eyewitnesses are wrong seventy-plus percent of the time.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 18, Mephistopheles’ Resignation

For the eighteenth poem of our 30-poems-in-30-days project, known as NaPoWriMo by those of us who attempt the daily prompts, we have been challenged to write a poem where a speaker expresses a desire to be something or someone else and explains why.

My theme is somewhat of a metaphysical humorous spoof. Silly? Maybe.

Mephistopheles’ Resignation

My Dearest Iblis, Nick,

I have decided to transition.
As being without beginning or foreseeable end is boring.
I shall miss you, my old demonic friend.

I can no longer stand pointlessness without end, treason without reason,
night without day, EXISTENCE —

Existence without purposeful term.
None of it continues to hold the least appeal to me.

Of all possible forms of life both universes hold,
I have decided to be human on Earth because they are most like us.

Although…

I am undecided over the whole sex/gender, man/woman or whatever.
It is confusing to me since we have no such identities.

And what of religion? And politics? Will I know then what I know now?

The whole live birth thingy, colors, orgasms, music, and…
(for the love of Beelzebub) … arguing over what is art and what is not holds familiar pointless diabolical promise.

The love. And the hate — they are so much better at it than even our most despicable offspring of Lucifer.

Since time has no meaning for us, I cannot give you a when, but I hope soon because when the Diablo hears of this, there will be Hell for me to pay. That’s human sarcasm.

Anyway…

I ask that once I pass through some birth canal if you and the others would please keep your distance.

Remember, eternity runs both ways. I demand that y’all stay on your side of the Cosmos.

With ambivalent love, mine not yours,

Azazel Zone

Look both ways for greener pastures.
Life is all it’s cracked up to be because it is transitory.
Mind the gaps and hold on to the facts. Reality is what it is, or maybe what it isn’t.

 

Note: Mephistopheles, Diablo, Iblis, Lucifer, Old Nick, Beelzebub, and Azazel are names for devils or demons.

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 17, At Seventeen

Today I am to write a poem inspired by a song, and to share its title. I confess to being influenced by song lyrics, especially the well-told stories in ballads.

Earlier this year I read “At Seventeen” by Janis Ian (1975) as a poem at an open mic event. I’ve always loved the song and somehow relate to it, as do many people around the world. Janis explains how that affects her and sings her song in the video below.

At Seventeen
When she called
I couldn’t hardly talk at all,
and when she sings
I remember high school things.

The words, the tone,
together talking on the phone,
her memories, at seventeen,
were mine at home alone.

“It was long ago and far away,”
do I wish it was today?
What has changed in how we are,
in pickup trucks or borrowed cars?

At seventeen when boys like me,
Sad Sacks outside for all to see.
“Come dance with me”— because
that couple we will always be.

She said,
I pity boys like you who serve,
you only get what you deserve.
My broken heart sang obscenities,
to the one I loved but never pleased.

At seventeen I was that man,
a boy holding a gun over there,
I stay alive as best I can, but
of angry me I must beware.

At seventeen a boy like me—
at seventeen, too young to see.
And ugly boys like us do care.
At seventeen, when I was there.

Memory is a strange, unreliable thing; so, look both ways and don’t assume.
Mind the gaps in song and poem, you’ve been only human all along.