NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 19)

Click the graphic for the prompt page and more poems by other participants.

Today’s challenge is to write a poem that starts with a command.

I wrote my poem as a more respectful, loving plea rather than a command, but the words suit the prompt’s intent well, as far as I’m concerned. My inspiration was the Peter, Paul, and Mary song, Day Is Done.

Our Day Undone

Tell me why you are sad, my son.
Let me hold your hand and listen
as you speak of woe. Call me
to your side as we talk, and we walk.
Stay near me. Tell me your regrets,
intone unknowns we both fear.

Is it wise for us to ask why, sadness
so deep we must cry? Tell me,
my son. I’ll be right here
until my last day is done. Burden my
purpose of commitment. I ask no easement,
but for your silence to clear.

Allow me to share this distress and bother
just as I’ve carried you before. I rejoiced
in your life, now let me suffer with you
the worst of your troubles. Let us be
like some small support
as we lean upon each other
and lift this load
until the healing is done
and sadness has passed.

Look both ways mindful of love’s burden.
Let compassion fill the gaps,
allow time and love to ease the pain until the day is done.

If you’re not familiar with the tune:

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 18)

Click this pic for the prompt page and move poems.

Today, I’ve been NaPo-dared, challenged, and prompted to write a poem that provides five answers to the same question – without identifying the question.

Who Wants to Know?

Uno.
You may want to sit down for this
because it depends on how
we approach such a sensitive subject.

Dos.
Well, everyone is different.
So, on the average, statistically speaking,
somewhere in the middle with you.

Tres.
Good question. But if I tell you,
I’ll have to kill you,
and I love you. Now you go.

Cuatro.
Do you mean, like literally?
Compared to what? Like,
right now? Well, metaphorically, shazam!

Cinco.
Locked and loaded,
so let me think it over and I promise,
I’ll get back to you on that. Maybe tomorrow.

Look both ways and consider all options before answering the man’s question.
Mind the silence of the gaps and remember to call your lawyer.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 16)

Click the graphic to find the prompt page and more poems.

Today, I was to write a curtal sonnet. That is a variation of a (real) 14-line sonnet. Both are fixed verse forms with rhyming according to a prescribed scheme. I hope you’re not holding your breath.

A curtal sonnet is a curtailed or contracted sonnet. It has 11 lines with two optional rhyming schemes. I see it as a mathematical variation of a six and five (or four and a half) line reduced sonnet form. I consider any sonnet brief, so a curtal sonnet is a reduction of a reduced form. This may be the only one I ever write. Nothing said it had to be good.

By Reason of Conclusion

My search for some gods needs logical proof,
To arrive at most honest conclusions
From science I seek logical answers
To discover reality and truth.

Turn scripture from some reasoned confusion
Thumb through pages, bemusing all chances
None of this explains your absence of love
If my mind can manage not being so
Show me now please, your better solution.

Given you by a deity above
Now you know, I am a pro.

Look both ways because at the end of the day,
a poor poem beats nothing at all.
Mind the gaps.

Sammi’s Weekender #255 (lexicon)

Click on lexicon for Sammi page and more takes on the prompt.

Poets’ Lexicon.

One must have lexicon to poem.
Language to arrange words right.
Poet’s lingo contains abundant terms
shared with the world of writing
like style, voice, or tone. Words,
as Mary Oliver said, “If words were only words…”

We need to learn vernacular and forms;
The Rules of the Dance, poetry handbooks to
comprehend values of meter: monometer,
pentameter, and octameter.

Toeless feet with iamb, trochee, and dactyl.
How often does one see a spondee running free?
Books by Packard, Turco, Oliver,
and more for poetics.

Look both ways as you dip you pen into the poet’s ink.
Mind the gaps as there is so much to learn about the plethora of poetry terms.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 15)

Click he graphic for a link to the prompt page and more poems.

My interpretation on the mid-month NaPo prompt was to write a poem about something I dislike or find absurd. I concluded this because the assignment was, while seemingly counterintuitive, to write about something I have absolutely no interest in; but not like indifferent to (apathetic). I was also invited to investigate why I don’t give a damn. Here’s my take.

Superstition

I’m curious about few woo-woo,
but astrology ain’t in my playbill.
Are there 12 or 13 signs?
There’s yer sign.
Who TF cares, Ophiuchus?

People read that shit?
Believe? Live by?
Superstition sings
not by constellations,
not by birthdays.
Connect the dots,
but not that crazy way.

Fun, interesting, or amusing?
Blame the Babylonians. I couldn’t care less
if they left one hanging dingleberry.
You do the math. Is one two?

If I’m interested enough to care
I will ask, not your Zodiac sign,
but what kind of beer do you drink?

Look both ways when you stare into the night sky.
Identify stars, planets, and constellations.
That’s astronomy. That’s science.
Mind the gaps for the wonder of galaxies.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 14)

Click to open the prompt page and find links to other poems for this prompt.

Today’s NaPoWriMo assignment completed the first two weeks of writing a poem each day during April. Also called the “optional” daily prompt, it was (“a fun one”) to write a poem in the form of the opening scene of the movie about my life.

I contemplated possibilities and searched for ideas when I came upon the opening scene for the movie, My Life Without Me. It inspired me to shed self-awareness and identity with confused limited personal pronouns, to message with metaphor and simile, and to use immature grammar while maintaining context.

Cinematically, the movie would open with fuzzy, abstract, calm, overlapping, multiple images of a young child standing in the rain, eyes closed, oblivious to life and environment (but not in the poem). A faint heartbeat would be heard as the narrator recites the poem. The ellipses indicate that the poem does not start or finish (neither begins nor ends).

Page One Opens

…we are standing alone
in the wet warm rain,
an unashamed adam and eve;
my bare feet floating in sultry green grass
feels the soft spongy muggy earth;
your small, young hearts hear; your body
without clothing is not naked;
i am shielded by water;
they are you,
i am they without knowing or caring
for anything but the feel, sound, and
taste of innocent rain; i am new taste;
comforting sounds; our blind eyes closed;
neither night nor day; just warm
moist comfort and muffled senses
in neutral emotionless rain…

Look both ways and mind the gaps later. For now, just be.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 Day 13

Click the graphic for the NaPo prompt page and more poems.

Today, in honor of the “potential luckiness of the number 13”, I was to write a poem that joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.” If I couldn’t find the enthusiasm to write myself a riotous pep-talk, I was to muse on good things coming down the track. This world offers us the persistent possibility of surprise. Right. Reminds me of people who say “happy memorial day.”

I grudgingly wrote to this prompt today with a contrarian pall over my heart. When I feel something is wrong, but no one will tell me what, fear of the unknown weighs heavy.

Nope. It Ain’t.

I don’t mean nothin’, Man.
We jus’ gotta get out of this place.

Look up at the stars, forget the mud
and reality. Live the dream, Baby.

It ain’t easy being green, or stupid,
or a timid runt. But love conquers all,

What lives it don’t flat out ruin.
Up against the wall. The man gotcha.

It’s a meaningless number, three
little birds just told me, freedom,

It’s just another word. We can check out
anytime we like, but we can never leave.

Every little thing gunna be all right,
if it’s the last thing we ever do.

Look both ways at the pluses and minuses.
Mind the gaps for ways to escape.

Friday Fictioneers for April 15th 2022

Once again, the lovely Rochelle, Maven of artistic fact and fiction, and Dale, ingenious photographer to the ethereal and adroit crafter of masterful tales, have conspired to extract mid-April narratives from the noggins and minds of Friday Fictioneer followers.

My song-related reportage maxed out at the 100-word limit and follows Dale’s visual. Click on the chair to write your story if you dare.

Click on the photo to ride on over to Rochelle’s page to read all about it.

Genre: Senior Gonzo Fiction
Title: Concealed Carry
Word Count: 100

***

We limped in. Kris needed his cane. The music sucked, but our old table was available. We sat and waited.

A young man approached.

He said, “You need to leave. We don’t want your kind in here. Now get out.”

I glared at him for a minute. “Two waters, coffee with cream, and menus, please.” His anger was visible as he moved closer. Kris placed his pistol on the table.

“Listen motherfucker, I’m Bobby McGee. We’ve nothing left to lose. You do. Repeat the order, fetch it with a smile or say ‘goodbye.’ We ain’t leaving alive. We’ll await Janis.”

Look both ways but remember the seventies if you can.
Mind the gaps for Glocks and dead grumpy waiters.

Give a Glock Click HERE to find more great stories. And for your happy entertainment, four of the finest good ol’ boys.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 12)

Today I opened the napowrimo.net prompt page and read about poetry online journals (something Maureen is doing this year), the two poems from yesterday’s prompt she selected to highlight, and the day twelve prompt, which said to write a poem about something small.

I Wear the Ring

Aunt Lorry (we called Delores, Mom’s sister, that) loved me
more than I realized. When I was very young,
she’d send envelopes addressed to me,
from Washington D.C. with Dennis the Menace
cartoons cut from her newspaper.

I didn’t see the connection then. But I do now. It was the only mail
I received from an adult when not my birthday or Christmas.

When I graduated from Texas A&M University Lorry insisted
on paying for my class ring. Aggie rings are a big deal
to alumni (called former students). I still wear the ring—
more than fifty years later. I remember Lorry every time.

She never married, was old fashioned, traditional, and a staunch
Catholic. She wasn’t difficult (usually) but criticized
what she thought was wrongdoing.
Yet she was hopeful to the edge of naiveite.

Had she been any different, I suppose I’d still have my ring,
but I would not have had a famous cartoon character
as my childhood alter ego.

Lorry died about ten years after I graduated and whenever
I wear the ring I’m reminded of her.
I will be until the day I die. Such a small thing but a big
reminder of my old maid aunt, my childhood, love, and
how ironic it is when things turn out differently than expected.

Look both ways and remember familial days.
Mind gaps that may bring surprising results.

NaPoWriMo April 2022 (Day 11)

Click the graphic to see the prompt, other poetry information, and links to more poems.

Today my Monday NaPo challenge was to “write a poem about a very large thing:” a mountain, whale, skyscraper, planet, or … an airplane.

B-52 BUFF

I was in uniform when I first watched, from a safe distance,
100-yards away from the air base runway, standing out
among the brown shin oak, scrub-brush prairie of west Texas,
by then the second largest US state in size, while
dozens of B-52s took-off separated by mere seconds.

Wider and longer than half a football field,
each lumbering silver giant powered by eight jet engines
seemed to groan as it gradually lifted
its 450-thousand-pound gross payload airborne,
mocking gravity while ostentatious clouds of black smoke billowed,
a roaring thunder shattered my ears as earth trembling
vibrations shook my entire eighteen-year-old body.

My friend scoffed when I said I would. But later,
as a less young crew dog at the heart of the beast,
I flew the Big Ugly Fat Fucker, affectionately BUFF.
The B-52 bomber set at my fingertips unnatural
science-fiction levels of destructive power
unknown in all the wars throughout human history.

The BUFF leaked fluids, stank of puke and piss,
was cramped and uncomfortable, dangerous
even to us, who both loved and hated her. She was old,
ugly, unglamorous, and deadly. However, together
with us, the whole was greater than the sum of parts.

Eventually hundreds became few. Only bones
and a few isolated squadrons remain today,
approaching 60 years hence.
The missions were long, tough, and thankless,
and occasionally as scary as hell itself.
So, why are my memories framed with such palatable pride?

Look both ways and all around for enigmatic things great and small.
Mind the gaps but ignore the flaws.
Anybody can do the easy.
Embrace the suck.

B-52s launching at minimum intervals of 12 seconds. The black smoke is created by water being injected into the engines and stops after a few minutes.