Name

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).

Sammi’s Weekender #211 (nomenclature)

Click to go to Sammi’s blog

Handle With Care

Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge,
in the 10th of Poemcrazy said,
“in practical shoes, holding forth
with firm opinions”
were too many Sues.

Birthed and baptized, lacking
middle saintly nomenclature,
seeking to assert rightful independence,
Confirmation granted my pick,
Saint Bartholomew, a sub
for unsainted Bartley.

Mom had a fit. We fought.
She wanted Richard. I did not.
Constant embarrassment,
my lifelong reminder,
my middle moniker: John.
I wish I agreed to Richard,
at least a better memory.

Look both ways for better self-names. How often would we change?
I’m Dad, Opa, Mister Bill to some, cantankerous (and other adjectives)
Bill or Billy to the few.
Mind the gaps where we may only name things, pets, and kids.

Poetry: Mello Bill (NaPoWriMo day 14)

The NaPo prompt for today was to write a poem that “delves into the meaning” of my first or last name. For me, that’s about family history.

Mom couldn’t remember her mother,
but her father lived much longer. I,
while given his name, never met him
or any grandparent.

Mom’s family propensity
for female progeny meant that I
could have been baptized Wilhelmina.
But the presence of a penis undermined
her best planned pronouncements. I was William,
after my maternal grandfather, yet Mom and Sis
often teased by directing that female alias at me.

For my name, more meaning
requires German or Norman research,
the discovery of which
has nothing to do with me.

Neighbors often called me Danny
after my Dad or older half-brother, but
I told them, “I’m Billy.”
They often seemed confused.
Mom said I was demonstrative (whatever that meant).
Wilhelmina probably would have been histrionic.
Today it’s curmudgeonly snarkastic, but they love me.

I don’t know if so-called meanings of my name
have squat-all to do with who I am, or this William.
It’s Bill that I prefer to go by although our first born
is also named William and goes by Billy
(or Bill when I’m not around).

As for that “strong-willed warrior,
protector, or helmet” stuff from the dictionaries,
regarding the meanings of my first name,
none of it has anything to do with me,
or who I am.

Yet, some who know would call me stubborn.
And there were all those years in uniform
for which people insist on thanking me,
as if I’d been an underpaid volunteer.
Maybe so, maybe not. I guess we’ll never know.

Look both ways and inward.
Does your name define who you are, or is it the other way around?
Mind the gaps in family history, you might not be who you think you are.