Happy Birthday to you know who.
NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 28 prompt: Write a poem that follows the beats of Victoria Chang’s poem, “The Lovers”: three sentences, six lines: statement, question, conclusion.
It’s coming around again
to the deep feeling for her music.
Has it been so many years
since her young voice made me love?
Enter my mind again with pleasure
lasting a lifetime.
NaPoWriMo 2026, Day 22 prompt: Write a poem in which you are in dialogue with yourself.
Let it Be
You always pulled it off.
In some strange and lucky way
you were slicker than they thought.
You’d turn and away you would walk.
I was just playing the game like everyone else.
I placed my bet and took my share.
You should know,
you were there.
You never cared about right or wrong,
only if you might get caught.
The trick you said was to never stay too long.
Every love you had you would forsake.
I am not the same and you know that.
That part of me has gone away
and now I wonder who I was.
The guilt and shame, I’m not the same.
It will catch up with you someday
And I’ll be standing in your way.
We will have to take the stand,
You’ll have to choose who’s in your band.
Maybe. But some things will never change.
My life I’ve worked to rearrange.
And now is the time to end it all.
And you’re too late to make that call.
For the final day of April and to close out the 2025 version of how I do National Poetry Month, I was to pen a poem that describes various times in my life when I have heard the same band or music.
Congrats to all participants. This may have been my best NaPoWriMo year because the prompts seemed to be in my poetry writing lane. One a day for 30 days, on prompt.
Thanks to Maureen for another fantastic April.
Composed
Melody and lyrics done separately
twenty years before my birth
in a language I did not speak
never intended for my ears
for the Threepenny I’ve never been
Thirteen-ish me,
a maligned Catholic school kid
discovering hormones;
Friday night dances (nun-chaperoned),
and un-churchly music we loved;
songs like The Battle of New Orleans,
Mack the Knife, Personality, Venus,
Lonely Boy, and a hundred more.
The year another paper boy
and fellow music lover, Don M. said
was when the music died.
But it had not. Not yet. Not ever.
My music may die with me. But not today.
Not until Bobby Darin — did Mack the Knife
find me with five up-key modulations
bring marvelous darkness to musical light
to make us feel a special song
in a special time. Then and since.
Wonderful covers, pre and post, but
back then I didn’t know about
someone and something I liked so much,
music that would change with me,
year after year, never the same old song.
Look both ways
“Now on the sidewalk…lies a body just oozing life, eek!”
Mind the gaps cuz,
“someone’s sneakin’ ‘round the corner—could that someone be Mack the Knife?”
Interested in more? Check THIS out—especially the video of Bobby Darin’s version, if you’re not familiar with the song.
EXTRA – EXTRA – EXTRA —- A friend and classmate of mine just let me know about this new, hot, Broadway production honoring Bobbie Daren.
Today I was to compose a poem mused by the life of a musician, poet, or other artist.
Then Sing It
What is it like? I will always wonder,
to know at age fifteen or sixteen
what you will do for the rest of your life.
And five or more decades later,
to not only have made it,
but to be at the top,
to still be doing it—still creating.
And to be
a star, a celeb, a household name.
Can you count the awards?
To have your picture
from the covers of several of your many albums
on Mr. Bill’s wall,
to have fifty-thousand plus strangers pay
to hear you sing, to play, what do you say?
To sing it while making your day and theirs.
For a lover of your talent to think of you immediately
when prompted to write a poem about
an artist, a singer, songwriter, both,
and you knew it before I knew who I was.
How does it feel?
Sure, life was not always wonderful,
not as charmed, perhaps awful at times. I know.
I care. But for me there were days
when your music was everything.
Often, it was all that mattered to me.
Maybe it saved me.
Look both ways. Some of us are still trying to figure out life
and who we are and were we are going.
Mind the gaps, the majors, the minors,
and thank someone who doesn’t know who you are.
I did not use a name in this poem because there are so many.
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.
For Saturday’s prompt, I was to write a sonnet with the format of a song. So, not a proper sonnet. I used Edgar Allan Poe’s “Sonnet – Silence” as an inspirational guide or bridge to mine. My problem was that “The Sound of Silence” song by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, and the more recent version by the band, Disturbed, would not stop playing in my head.
I used a ten-syllable line structure and the ABBA, CDDC, EFFE, GG rhyme structure that Poe used, and likewise, I did not break out separate stanzas.
Let the Beat Go On
It is at a sound where a life begins
a sound there is but it we do not see.
In death, that silence there can only be.
It is in still silence where all life ends.
We awake to songs that we all can hear,
the smells, the tastes, and the good sights of life,
and thunder unheard marks the life of strife.
Then, this silence must have its place, my dear.
We live in life, until we bow to death.
The sound of silence that no one’s disturbed
the sounds of silence one has never heard,
with one last sound, upon our dying breath.
You hear the clap of echoes in my heart
it is alone we play our final part.
Look both ways because hearing loss in one ear confuses directions.
Mind the gaps and take care of all your senses.
With five days remaining, today I was to write a poem about my experience hearing live music, such as in a professional or amateur concert, and to tell how it moved me.
Unforgettables
Growing up, there was often live music at the bars frequented by my family. I recall some talks I had with musicians when I was too young, but I never learned to play. Not even garages only. Concerts were free at college, and we went. Cool late sixties vibes.
Might have been at the Cash crash when drunk Johnny may have shown or not. Me too.
Mom visited us in Cowtown, downtown, to see Mom’s fav, Marty Robbins, open for Merle (Robbins called him Murial) Haggard, who my wife preferred, I think. Don’t recall if we saw Elvis there before or after, but we did.
Good lawdy, Stella, all these folks ‘er dead. But not Willie. 91. Don’t recall seein’ Willie live, but that don’t mean I didn’t. We been to Abbott. Carl’s Corner, too. We looked. Where’s Willie? I remember. Hell yeah! I was there because it won’t ever happen again.
Willie was in a suit with short hair, performing at The Louisiana Hayride in the late 60s, now that I wear my 55+ memory beanie. It was his pre-outlaw time.
I’m so damn old that all the concerts I wanna go to will be in the cemetery. Ghost concerts? Kinda goth, but what a hoot?
Look both ways and if you can afford five hundred for an old fart’s live concert,
good on ya. Mind the gaps because live music has a time limit.
This is long, but it’s an interesting story when you have the time.
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.
My Easter egg fortune was to write a poem “informed by musical phrasing or melody.” I was to employ sound play (i.e., rhyme, meter, assonance, alliteration).
I wrote a parody with new lyrics (my poem) assigned to the Alman Brothers song “Midnight Rider.” I used different words and a silly topic that fit the original song’s rhythm and phrasing, as suggested with the prompt.
Late-night Walker
Shit, I gotta go, run to keep from peein’
And I’m told to keep them from seein’
Yeah, I’ve got to trot out one more
Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let ya see the midnight walker
And I don’t know where the hell I’m goin’
And the flow goes on forever
And I’ll run around one more time to go
Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let ya see the midnight walker
And I’ll not wet the pants I’m wearing
This old fart will not be sharing
Yeah, I’ve got to trot out one more night
Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let them catch the midnight walker
Yet I ain’t gunna let ya see me, no
Not gunna let them catch the midnight walker
Yet you ain’t gunna see me go, oh, no
Not gunna let them catch the midnight walker
Look both ways when the humor just won’t let go.
Mind the gaps that push the prompt. Make Weird Al proud.
Today I was to write a poem that tells a story in the style of a blues song or ballad.
Green Eyed Blues
Loved you as they taught me to do.
Loved it all, as they taught me to do.
Duty, honor, country; I was there — to die for you.
Then, on that day came the blues, as it all withered and died.
One day what I loved just rolled over and dammed-well died.
Shit! Face down in my pillow I lay there and I cried.
I was the fool whose faith and flag I saw with pride.
I was the fool whose heart broke with a deathblow to pride.
No, I am no longer in love with you, such loss I cannot abide.
Good morning, America, how are you?
I’m true to the blue, mornin’ Murica, how are you?
Ima eating my shit sandwich with a hateful red-piss stew.
I’ve lost my world to white-hot green-eyed blues.
Nothing to die or to live for, I got me some green-eyed blues.
Sing me a song of freedom; I can’t eat, sleep, or find love in the news.
Look both ways to face the hopeless world we live in.
Mind the gaps but face the reality of nightmares on the day democracy died.
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