Family

NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 21

NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 21 prompt: Write a poem in which you muse on your name and nicknames you’ve been given.

I never met maternal grandfather, William,
nor do I know any nicknames he had.
Mom named me after her father,
a Welsh Presbyterian, born there.

If my sex was female, likely given
mother’s family history, I was to be
Wilhemina — a moniker mom and sisters
liked to (teasing) call me growing up.
I never cared though.

Billy worked throughout high school,
classmates still use it,
but was later made Bill. I don’t know
for why or by whom. A few friends used
Scratch (as in pool), but it didn’t stick.
That’s a nickname for the devil, Old Scratch,
it could have made a good story.

Nicknames given in military (my career) are often
uncomplimentary and teasing. Obi-Wan
was pinned on me when I was a B-52
crewmember during the Star Wars
craze (1977), the Alec Guinness role,
not Ewan McGregor.

Such names do not often transition
outside the military. I was the oldest member
of my crew (as is Ben in the movie), but some
thought me “lucky” and that “the force”
must have been with me. Maybe so.
I’d rather be lucky than good any day.

Nicknames like Maverick, Iceman, Goose,
Rooster, Phoenix, and Hangman* are assigned by peers
from personalities, mistakes, or play on last names.
“Buffalo” liked to call me “RJ,” my last name is Reynolds.

Look both ways at the names we’re called.
Mind the gaps and don’t let the humor hide the respect hidden under the **mayonnaise.

  • Nicknames from the movie, Top Gun.

**From the movie, An Officer and a Gentleman (1982).

NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 20

NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 20 prompt: Write a poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.

The Lone Wolf

I’m not antisocial, I like others.
Not quite Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel,
I don’t “want to be alone,” I just like it.

My family is my tribe, my pack.
We do everything important together.
It’s seven of us this year but a few
older pups will be moving on soon.

Like what humans call introverts,
I find strength and focus from
being alone. It stays with me
and is there when I need it.
But being independent is pleasure too.
It’s not either or, it’s both.

I need others. Hunting alone
requires much more effort for
not much in return. And it is
more dangerous. Humans
seem to want to kill us all.

Alone is when I explore.
I learn things without the fuss
and worry about others.
I am a lone wolf — not a loner.

Humans have lone wolves, too.
It’s interesting when we encounter each other.
It’s like we just know. We can’t communicate.
We each say “howdy” in our own wary way.
But we know and we both just move on
and go down our separate paths.

Look both ways because the leader of the pack may be howling at the moon.
Mind the gaps for hidden snacks.

NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 15

NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 15 prompt: write a poem that muses on love but isn’t a traditional love poem in the sense of expressing love between romantic partners.

So many songs about love of so many flavors,
sames and differences, in this sense or that,
in a dish topped with cost, risk, and crushed regret.
Songs, “I’ll do anything for love” (but I won’t do that),”
Unrequited love Creeps up on Jessie’s Girl,
and Layla has him on his knees. Have we sung and said
everything that can be professed about love?
Where does it come from? Where does it go?
Or does it?
The love of parents, children, art, animals, food, moments
(because of something else), God, self, when a man
loves a woman, a woman loves a man, a fan
loves a celebrity, and the love partners. And what of passion?

I am not sure that love is voluntary or epiphanic.
Will you still love me in the morning?
Is the inevitable pain worth the pleasure?
Do parents love their difficult teens in the same way
if they were wonderful creatures blessed of talent and wisdom?

Can I love everyone and is that a good idea? Certainly,
I can show concern, but I honestly have never wanted to
have sex with everyone. Not even close.

Love is a kaleidoscope of interweaving verbs and nouns,
of feelings and actions, of objects and persons. And every hero
has a few worthy enemies who cannot be loved
if they are to remain enemies.

Look both ways before diving into the deep end of any love pool. But let’s face it.
We cannot always help ourselves as with pleasure, addiction holds the helm.
Mind the gaps for impermanence of emotion.

RRWG & NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 12

Three prompts to which I matched tree short poems.

RRWG Day 12 prompt #1. Uses for Smart Underwear

Seriously. Seriously?

Jungle warfare combatants removed underwear
for sanitation and health reasons before
going commando became a fashion statement
(panty lines notwithstanding).

People have been wearing undies for more
than six thousand years. Moses and Pharaoh
both probably wore tighty-whitie precursor garments.
Some religions have special undies. Dunno why.

Enter fart counting and odor analyzing tech-wear.
Thirty-six times a day without vibrations or penetrations
smart underwear collects gut info gastro docs want to know.
Other uses? Maybe, but I’m disinclined to write poems about it.

 

Prompt #2 (expanded): “Some people are born without hope (a theological state of spiritual separation from God). Others are born without doubt (an innate state of confidence, certainty, or purity, signifying a lack of hesitation or fear, often in the context of spiritual faith, potential, or personal conviction). Neither of those kinds of people matter a farthing, because their lives are already writ in stone.”

This is where the cheese gets binding,
when push comes to shove, when he told me
his father turned commie after a SOC course.

This is when the questions are more important
than the answers. Genes matter. Triggers count.
When it’s good to hope, it is also wise to doubt.
To live lives that discover answers and approach truth.
When we understand that to someone
even a farthing had value in their world.

NaPoWriMo Day 12 prompt: Write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative and something they did that still echoes through your thoughts today.

Aunt Lori

We called her Lori, but mom’s older sister was Delores.
Lori had a restrained sense of humor and was a devout Catholic
until Vatican II ruled restoration of unity through a Sign of Peace.
Lori, shockingly, stopped going to Mass. English was bad enough.
But shaking hands with strangers? She took a permanent pass.

Lori was strict in a good way. She wore a blue turban, glasses,
was curious, and lived her life exactly that way. She never married.
Of course, Lori was a bit quirky. She lived in Washington, D.C.
where she was a life-long typist for the Federal Government.

She, like my half-siblings, was a 2nd degree relative
and a big part of my life, despite only seeing her on visits
via bus rides from DC to our town.

I will never forget, and it’s been over 70 years since, Lori sent me
letters with enclosures cut from DC newspapers: puzzles, articles,
and cartoons (sense of humor), her favorite to me
was Dennis the Menace who I must have reminded her of,
or vice versa.

Look both ways at people in your life, past and present.
Mind the gaps when mining for perfection.
It’s love that counts. Memories keep them alive.

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 2

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.

The Aggie Band – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Eight

Today I was to author a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event.

Moved

The big deal yells when yesterday ends and today begins—
at midnight.
Some folks think it’s a myth,
but for most Texas Aggies, when the band plays
at a football game halftime, at the game or on TV,
it is a major emotional experience.
An impressive spectacle. Feelings
well up inside, a spirit rises and is felt for miles.
That lasts a lifetime,
not just for students and former students,
but for friends and family, as well.

While the music matters and memories play;
the sights, the marching, the yelling fans
participating with the school and the band.
It is magical. The drum majors.
Game scores are briefly forgotten
when the uniformed cadets rush out onto the north end,
and for ten to twenty minutes the crowd participates
with yells and singing to the marching musical repertoire.

Many fine schools have great bands
providing entertainment, excellent music,
and a unique perspective important to those schools.
But there is exactly one Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band.

Look both ways, especially into the past.
It is possible to feel those emotions again.
To be part of something not you, bigger than self,
but also part of who and what you are.
Mind the gaps and let the yell leaders lead. Stand up and yell!

Happy Birthday to a big Texas Aggie Band fan, Yolonda.

A Toast to the Town – NaPo 2025 Day Twenty-Two

Today I was to write a poem about something I’ve done, presumably as a child or adolescent, that gives me a kind of satisfaction. I think it is supposed to be something for which I am grateful. I had to dig for this one.

Grateful for the Grog

It wasn’t cocaine but some think it’s the same
when the forbidden froth of the fifties,
long before there were Swifties,
beer became the name of the game.

First taste was a sip, likely bogarted from
mother or father, or perhaps from my drunk-ass brother,
to wash down that salty Wise potato chip?
Hometown suds, favored by local buds
and still tastes like bad-beer today.

It was gunna happen anyway.
I learned to like it and how it made me feel.
I would have tasted beer someday,
then acquisition became part of the deal.

Tom T Hall’s song set somewhere aside,
beer became my pleasure and my problem.
I’m shocked that to some
the pleasure is none
and beer is forever denied.

“I like beer, it makes me a jolly good fellow
I like beer, it helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow
(makes him feel mellow) … (He likes beer)”

So let me explain
in this little refrain

how grateful I am
to the woman or the man who drew me my first mug
from a spout, a bottle, or a sealed tin can I can chug.

Look both ways for the imperfect pleasures of life.
Mind the gaps and watch the taps, as the kegger is still a rite of passage.

Dream On – NaPo 2025 Day Seventeen

Today I was challenged to write a poem themed around friendship, with imagery or other ideas taken from two paintings (my choice from many). One by Leonora Carrington, and another by Remedios Varo, two surrealistic artists and friends. A surrealistically inspired, friendly poem?

The irony of this day is this prompt juxtaposed with the definition of surrealism: “the principles, ideals, or practice of producing fantastic or incongruous imagery or effects in art, literature (poetry), film, or theater by means of unnatural or irrational juxtapositions and combinations.” (Webster, on line) Where does one draw the line?

“One good friendship will outlive forty average loves.”

Faces

On purpose.
Told no one. Told everyone and nobody.
Formless as seen on tv ritual
ceremoniously entwined
with green crabapple branches.
Cuts. Touch. Mix blood brothers.
That smell. You! What? Stink-love.

Feel that? Smell. Yell. Scream.
Lie. Beatings from bullies.
Shinny-up. Run. Escape. Drown. Cross.
Crimeless criminality.

Friends first. Not. But.
Family was a lie.
Roy Rogers was naked.
All naked. Sing. Pray. Sting like a bee.

Share hair. Cardboard shoe soles
over shew holes and altar boys.
Smoke sticks. Tangents. Guilt.

Together every day. Share loot.
Flat nose. Black eye. Blood everywhere.
Swing. Fall. Break things.
Climb. Cry. Evil father.
Saintly mother. Naked sister.

Uncle Joe. G. I. what da ya know?
Cold is not coal, or pea.
Melds wrapped in love and shame.
Masturbating demons defiled hosts.
Do it. Now dare to do-do, pee higher.
Lie to be loved. Play all day.

Ugly beauty deep forever.
Melting madness of happiness.
Wanting what color of love?
Damn.
Help.
Hurry.
Hide.
It’ll never die.

Then it died.
Then you died.
Then I cried.

Back.
Then.
When.
Me.
We.

Look both ways or every way at the same time
because art is in what part of a dream when nothing is real and there is no god?
Imagine. Mind the gaps and slaps in genital naps.
If it makes sense, it cannot be art.

Poem to a person – NaPo 2025 day two

NaPo 2025’s second day challenging prompt invited us to write a poem that directly addresses someone, has a made-up word, includes an odd or unusual simile, makes a statement of “fact,” and that includes something that seems out of place in time.

More Than Love

My dearest philologloth,
Are there worse places?
Is your prison like a happy place?

Your soul is good.
Unlike the dark life fiction
of your self-inflicted addiction.

Like a blade runner
missing for thirty years,
a gauntlet falls upon deaf earth.

Hearts grind to needless halts
when minds forget to remember
when my me died that September.

Come, my son
rise above it all
but not the love.

That tote we carry
full of all the good
and all the bad losses we’ve both had.

Love you, Dad.

Look both ways to discover the dark side of pleasure.
Mind the gaps for forgiveness and step carefully into whatever future you have left.

Sammi’s Weekender #367 – Party

What Matters?

I envied parties.
Younger me wanted something,
or was it concern about missing out?

My last party,
a high school graduation overdone deal
for a grandson, with whom,

I exchanged five words.
People I didn’t know,
went mostly unnoticed by me.

Many lacking in the social graces
except for some like me
so many names with unfamiliar faces.

I talked to his other grandfather,
and to my twin step-granddaughters
who seemed to like me better,
after thousands of words, I felt likewise.

Small intimates are for me now.

Look both ways because the life of the party is not who it once was.
Mind the gaps when you soberly tell me about your life and what really matters.