Poetry: Sijo for Two (NaPoWriMo day 20)

The NaPo prompt for day 20 was to write a poem in a traditional Korean poetic form called sijo, in English of course. Sijo is a specific form with a little flexibility unless one wished to exercise poetic license to color outside the lines. Since these are only three lines of 14 to 16 syllables each, I wrote two for Tuesday.


Marvelous Melancholy

I forgot about something important. What being bored feels like.
Oh, how I long for the days when I could do what I wanted.
Now I can’t just up and do, up and go. I mustn’t fall on my ass.

***

A Taste of Tint

Like yellow, it has never been one of my favorite colors.
Did I ever favor any one color over another?
I’m starting to like orange. Never saw a color I didn’t like.


Look both ways. Then smile. Sing a song, “I’m Alive!”
Mind the gaps for forgotten sorrow or the taste of color.

Poetry: Rant (NaPoWriMo day 19)

Today is day 19. I was challenged by NaPoWriMo to write a humorous rant. In this poem, I was licensed to excoriate (I prefer bitch) to my heart’s content. I ranted about ranting.


Let Me Explain

I’ve been okayed to rant.
I should be good at this
cuz lots of practice,
but I need a subject;
like in a poem, something
specific to rant about.

I prefer small audiences
or choirs to preach to,
preferably from my own tribe.
I need to know what I’m
talking about, no random topics
that just piss me off for now;
politics, religion, or both might work.

I should stand. My face will redden.
I need not be near breakables,
like nick-nacks or small animals. I can
frighten cats, small dogs may cower
into a corner, and I need a timer.

Like I’m Italian talking normal,
I need to waive my arms and make
gestures about the size of fish I caught,
or the size of my antagonist’s penis.

If Yolonda is there, she will tell me
to sit on my hands and keep my mouth shut.
I’ll claim NaPo permissive prompt status
or poet’s privilege, but she won’t care.
She’s heard it all before.
I’ll call him “needle dick the bug fucker,”
for laughs, then I can sit down and let it all go.


Look both ways, be it a declaration of war,
burying the hatchet, smoking a peace pipe, or opening kimonos.
Mind the gaps because that’s where the trouble starts.

Poetry: Fear of Poetry (NaPoWriMo day 18)

The eighteenth day NaPo challenge was to write a poem based on the title of a chapter, as a prompt, in Susan G. Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words. After reading the “look inside” on Amazon, I bought the book at 4 AM. Then I selected Chapter 51, “Fear of Poetry.”


Fear of Poetry

They say, poems find us.
They say, we cannot teach how to poem
words, to think one, or to write one.
They say, we are not all the same,
but we are all equal, or should be,
simply different I suppose. King
thinks writers (poets) are born.

I fear no rainforest, not electricity,
nor my own subconsciousness;
yet ocean depths, being too high,
or the worst of my fears, being a fool
can imprison me: body, mind, and spirit.

Unlike others, poems came to me ever since
I was forced to memorize “O Captain! My Captain!”
at age 13, long before I understood much of anything.
But I hid my love of it for fear of what
poetry might mean to me. Like repressed memories
or unrequited love, I hid from, ignored what I loved.

Now behind that mental dam of fear is stored
years of unexpressed ME (or is it I?) – poetry.
Only in demonstrative anger
or stoically hidden sorrow did I feel safe.
Since owning that,
since calling myself poet,
then writing and thinking,
I let them out. One poem at a time.


Look both ways to see where it began and where it might end.
Mind the gaps because it’s never to late to be completely you.

Poetry: Dark Moon Rising (NaPoWriMo day 17)

For better or worse, the moon seems to exert a powerful hold on poets. Today, I was challenged to stop fighting the moon. I didn’t know I was, but I was to lean in and accept the moon. I was to know that the moon wants what’s best for me. I was to write a poem that is about, or that involves, the moon.


Dark Moon Rising

Today it is waxing crescent,
can be called the drinking moon,
because it wouldn’t spill a drop.

The full moon rising
this month and year,
should be April twenty-sixth,
it’s Spring’s Pink Super-moon,
not pink in color, but calls to a flower.

Tonight, the moon’s brightness
at twenty-four percent,
flying four point eight-two days
of its twenty-nine point five-three
days to orbit the earth
and to do its thing.

Writers love our moon
it anchors our latest story,
choosing when the moon is full
or when it’s gone
and making moon anew.

For the moon of the night
it’s not the sun’s reflection
that makes our moon so bright,
it’s the honest truth of darkness,
the darkness of the night.


Find your way in the darkness, use the moon for light.
But mind the gaps for there are dangers in the night.

Poetry: Sammi’s Weekender #205 (uncanny)

Click image for Sammi’s Blog

Magic Music

Music finds my mood,
picks at my soul
it finds my feelings,
uncannily,
making music mine.
Is our love for sound and music
the saving grace of life?
Or is it our destiny
not to think about it twice?


Listen to the music but look to see it both ways.
The gaps between the notes, a place where angels play.

Poetry: Nature Knows (NaPoWriMo day 16)

The NaPo prompt for Friday, April 16th, was to write a poem using a form called Skeltonic, or tumbling, verse. Skeltonic poems have short lines of three to six words, two or three stressed syllables, and are simple verses. There is no specific length. Lines must rhyme and new rhymes may be introduced. There is no alternating rhyme scheme.


Nature can be dastardly
Random in her apathy
Extending thru the galaxy
Giving freely of catastrophe
With all her immortality
With no kind of partiality
Uncaring of our flattery
In her lavish asexuality
At the center of gravity
Lacking godly spirituality
Devoid of all sentimentality
Guilty of total impartiality
What can I possibly say?
What will save us this day?
As to tragedy we give way
Maybe we should pray
To express our dismay
Of her uncaring touché.


Look both ways, in the blues and thru the grays.
Mind the gaps as there may be traps making all of us saps.

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.

Poetry: News Tomorrow (NaPoWriMo day 13)

Today’s NaPo prompt is simply to write a poem in the form of a news article I wish would come out tomorrow.


Note: the following activity has been CDC approved.

According National and Local Weather Services,
today’s weather begins with morning mizzle
just before sunrise which will be hidden
by thin but pleasant cloud cover, shading away
ultraviolet rays throughout the day. The FBI reports
increased pluviophile online activity, anticipating
large crowds dancing in the streets. A blue-gray morning
fog is expected to precede any precipitation, which is
expected to last throughout the day. According to
biologists, environmentalists, and other health officials,
a noticeable petrichor will be olfactory possible early,
driving pollen counts to zero, extinguishing all house and forest fires,
and forcing plants and flowing shrubs into view
with leaves decorated by translucent pearly droplets.
A low temp of 74 will be followed a balmy 79 degrees.
Naked or lightly clothed people will likely be seen,
dancing on all roads and streets, like under a harvest moon.
According to law enforcement officials, no one will be
cited or arrested for lingering or loitering in the rain,
and wet citizens will be expected to dawdle in public.
As dusk approaches and all nearby deluge ceases,
the soft comforting rumble of distant thunder will be heard,
with the occasional lighting sightings to count until
telling, non-threatening bumps are heard. Local
businesses, libraries, and vendors will be moving outside
to serve refreshments while local bands are expected to play.
After midnight, as residents begin to sleep, the sounds
of distant thunder will turn to gentle lullabies
for a peaceful, uninterrupted night of rhythmic rains.


Look both ways for the finest of days.
Mind the gaps between drops and dance in the rain.

Poetry: Stupid People (NaPoWriMo day 12)

Today’s NaPo prompt is to write a poem using at least one word, concept, or idea from each of two specific dictionaries: Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary and the Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction.

The online classical dictionary was too difficult to use, so I used one of my own. The sci-fi one was easier, but I couldn’t find “galactically stupid.” I got “fugginheadness” from it and piled on “gormless and vacuous” for the poem. I reached out to youtube for some help from George Carlin and a scene from the movie, A Few Good Men.


Like Average, Man!

If someone lacks intelligence, it’s not their fault.
No one arrives at birth, or from another planet
(the ones we used to call space cadets), and decides
they will join the fugginheaded, gormlessly English gang.

We couldn’t take it if seemingly vacuous souls made
such choices, like ordering an IQ from a menu.
But there are some out there in the world, whose
behavior is ordered right out of willful ignorance.

And I’m not sure that every Mensa member is sane.
I try to understand. I really do. But please tell me.
What is with those who join the fan club of the
Galactically Stupid? Super-stupid on purpose?


Look both ways from dead center under the bell curve.
Mind the gaps and disregard outliers.

Epistolary Poetry: Some Writer’s Thoughts (NaPoWriMo day 11)

Today’s NaPo’s challenge was to write a two-part poem as an exchange of letters. The first stanza, part, or poem was to be the letter-poem that I wrote to someone. The second part, the letter I received in response. The length, form, and subject matter were to be of my choosing.

I wrote one letter to two men, George Carlin, and Johnny Cash. Each answered separately. Cash used a poem he wrote 18 years ago.


Dear Messrs. Carlin and Cash,

I am sometimes compared to George,
but seldom to Johnny Cash.
I love music and humor, especially
the more cerebral, sarcastic jokes
of George’s accompanied by adult language.
Every day, I listen to Mr. Cash recite the poem,
The Cremation of Sam McGee
as part of my playlist. All three of us spent
time in the Air Force, although the length of time
and conditions of departure differ. I like
to write. I know that both of you considered
yourselves writers. But you were better known
in other professions, which was how I found you.
If this letter gets to you (I’m told you died),
please give me advice about my writing.
You can see it on my blog.

Regards (I miss you both), Bill

***

Dear Bill,

I asked around about you. I learned that, like me, you were raised in the Catholic faith and attended parochial school, but now you’re out of all that. A synonym for parochial is narrow- or closed-minded. Never forget that. You’ll never get over it. You are not like me. So, don’t worry. We have no wifi or computers or cell phones here, but no matter. If you want to write just do it. Fuck what anyone else thinks. Remember, both the man in black and I had our stage personas and our real acts. Recall also that I loved the live performances. I can’t speak for Johnny, but I bet he did too. Holy shit, he did concerts for prisons. Oh, you have a lot goin’ on. Enjoy it all man, for as long as you can.

Best of Luck, Old Man.
George

***

Hey Mister Bill,

Don’t cha just love writing poetry? I did for sure.
Songs too, but it’s all about the same stuff.
I’m gonna give you my answer as a poem
I wrote back in 2003, Called “Forever.”

“You tell me that I must perish
Like the flowers that I cherish
Nothing remaining of my name
Nothing remembered of my fame
But the trees that I planted
Still are young
The songs I sang
Will still be sung”*

Good luck to ya, Sir. And
God bless….Johnny

*Poem “Forever” by Johnny Cash from Forever Words: The Unknown Poems.


Look both ways and try to accept what help you can get.
Mind the gaps and truth behind the masks.