Category Archives: daily prompt

Improv Screams

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Day 5 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is a bit complicated to explain.

… inspired by musical notation, and particularly those little italicized –and often Italian – instructions you’ll find over the staves in sheet music, like con allegro or andante.

We are presented with three columns of words, and instructed to

First, pick a notation from the first column below. Then, pick a musical genre from the second column. Finally, pick at least one word from the third column. Now write a poem that takes inspiration from your musical genre and notation, and uses the word or words you picked from the third column.

I won’t reproduce the full columns, but the notations include gems like, “play like you are about to start crying,” “tempo di murder” and “with a hint of frenzy.” Musical genres include, “yacht rock,” “jazz fantasia” and “breakup anthem,” among others.

My selections were: genre “power ballad;” notation “improvisatory screaming;” and the word vampire.

Thus, my poem:

Screaming Meemies

A ballad not for faint of heart
this story I’m about to [scream]
a tale so foul [a shuddered moan]
derived from Satan’s basest dreams.

The clock tolled noon one fateful day.
A lightning strike; earth split a seam
and from the depths of hell arose 
a fiend astride a golden gleam.

This incubus [a prolonged shriek]
this vampire spewing blood and greed
loosed upon our hallowed grounds
to feast upon our direst needs.

A knight in armor tarnished gray,
and yet a hundred score and five,
fell at his feet [cue gnashing teeth]
to save careers (and ruin lives).

Such devastation [Banshee’s screech],
depriving souls their tended dreams,
all done to fatten Satan’s purse
and trample those of lesser means.

This [haunting howl] yet to resolve,
to hell consigned or fait accompli?
No hero comes to save the day.
It rests on you, it rests on me.

Conjoined

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Day 4 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:

In her poem, “Living with a Painting,” Denise Levertov describes just that. … Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem about living with a piece of art.

Thus:

Conjoined 

Every time I touch you, 
I track a different story.

Of Nature's wisdom and resilience;
how two branches melded into one,
fibers joining to heal a friction wound.

Of what happenstance compelled such intimacy;
sheer gravity, crowding overgrowth, maybe
competition for life-giving light. 

Of the artistic bent of chaos,
that rendered a random bonding into
perfectly balanced asymmetry.

A masterpiece of your own right;
vying with any art created by humankind.
I am humbled to have found you 
discarded in a brush pile.

They wonder why I keep tree branches
about the house. 
I wonder why they don’t see the art.

Why I’m Not a Poet

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Day 3 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:

… American poet Frank O’Hara [s]… poems feature a breezy, funny, conversational style. His poem “Why I Am Not a Painter” is pretty characteristic, with actual dialogue and a playfully offhand tone. Following O’Hara, … write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist – or, if you think of yourself as more of a musician or painter (or school bus driver or scuba diver or expert on medieval Maltese banking) – explain why you are that and not something else!

Hence:

Why I’m Not a Poet

Well, dang, this is embarrassing. 
Here I am, caught in the act;
attempting to commit poesy,
and I’m not even a poet.

I think too concretely to be a poet. 
Poets use stepping stones as metaphor.
I use concrete as stepping stones. 

Poet Frost says “good fences make good neighbors.”
I say good fences guard my veggies from hungry rabbits.

Gertrude Stein: “A rose is a rose is a rose.”
Me: That damned rose I’ve dug up three times now
is growing back yet again! Where’s the shovel? 

You wax poetic,
I wax the teeth on my dovetail saw. 

Alas, if not a poet, then what am I? 
A mason, a gardener, a landscaper, a woodworker?
A stepper of stones, a guardian of gardens,
a shaper of shrubbery, a worker of wood?

I dunno. How’s that for a poetic closing line?

The Protestant

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Day 2 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:

we challenge you to write a poem that directly addresses someone, and that includes a made-up word, an odd/unusual simile, a statement of “fact,” and something that seems out of place in time…

Herewith:

The Protestant

Are you going to the protest? I am.
Heard that before? That’s because I’ve said it before.
I mean it this time.
I’ll be the queen of protestation!
Thou thinkest I protesteth too mucheth?  Ha! 
And, no, when I said protestation I didn’t
mean prostration. 

But really. I’ve got it all figured out.
I’m making a sign, at my kitchen table
with the curtains drawn so the neighbors won’t see.
I’m sharing my opinions in big block letters,
though I’d rather just print them on an index card.
Maybe file them away in my mother’s old recipe box.
In the back with the newspaper clippings of obituaries
and the torn off corners of Christmas card envelopes
bearing old friends’ new addresses. 

I figure I’ll take the sign out to my car 
disguised in a trench coat like
an under cover bedbug.
Signs don’t wear trench coats? 
A dead giveaway, then.
Okay, I’ll just spirit it out of the house
under the cover of darkness,
like an insomniacal bedbug.

Of course I worry.
What if I get there and I don’t see anyone I know? 
What if I get there and someone I know sees me? 
You say my excuses are infinityesimal?
Tiny and of little consequence, but
they can go on forever.
[eye roll] Very funny.

I mean it this time.
I’m going to the protest.
Are you?

Art Unappreciation

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Sticky Note on Poplar, five minutes ago, artist wishes to remain anonymous

Day 1 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: Today, we challenge you to take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word. 

I found the term Suprematism which the Museum of Modern Art describes as:

A term coined by Russian artist Kazimir Malevich in 1915 to describe a new mode of abstract painting that abandoned all reference to the outside world. His new style claimed “the supremacy of pure feeling or perception in the pictorial arts” and rejected the deliberate illusions of representational painting. Using the basic components of painting’s language—color, line, and brushwork—he constructed a visual vocabulary of colored geometric shapes floating against white backgrounds, which he felt mapped the boundless space of the ideal.

https://www.moma.org/collection/terms/suprematism

And so my poem:

The Emperor has no Art

I’m no artist, but I can see
and that?
if that’s art, then I’m

no artist
splotches on canvas, forms that go nowhere
interesting

on a white background, a solid colored rectangle 
or two
for the price of one
you want to tell me that’s art?

suprematism, it’s called
supremacy of pure feeling 
  abandon all references
    reject deliberate illusions
      construct a visual vocabulary
        map the boundless space of the ideal

huh.

I’m no artist, but perhaps 
I just can’t see

Portrait

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It’s that time! National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) begins tomorrow, with daily prompts from the NaPoWriMo blog. As in the past, we have been given an early bird prompt. Today’s prompt is to write a portrait poem. I hope I’ve done it justice. 

Portrait

I want to draw.
I want to draw you.
I want to draw you in.
I want to draw you into my life.

I want to paint.
I want to paint you.
I want to paint you in sunlight.
I want to paint you in sunlight and gouache.

I want to write.
I want to write you.
I want to write you a poem.
I want to write you a poem of love and concision.

I want to show you your true beauty.
I want to show you true beauty.
I want to show beauty
in my portrait

of you.

Guard Up

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I saw your magnificent blooms
sprawling as only magnolias can do,
soaking in the sun’s warmth under a balmy blue sky.

Caught by a sudden springtime squall,
your drooping petals skittered to the ground,
blown away like loose debris across a windy beach.

Growing up on the Pacific northwest coastline,
I was taught to never turn my back on the ocean,
lest I be caught off guard by a fast-moving sneaker wave.

My dear magnolia, it appears you would benefit
from a similar vigilance. Never, never turn your back 
on April.

NaPoWriMo, Day Five

Just Silly

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Day Three of NaPoWriMo! Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

write a surreal prose poem. For inspiration, check out Franz Kafka’s collection of short parables (my favorite is “The Green Dragon”).

Here’s my attempt:

Just Silly

When the zebra’s spots turn paisley, you know it’s time for lunch. You may cook oatmeal, but don’t expect it to pop up from the toaster when it’s done. It will, instead, crawl from the slot like a drunken Tuesday, and wrap itself into a Celtic knot in the center of your plate. Not to worry; there will be room on the side for marbles and mood rings.

Soup goes well with oatmeal, but do not put the soup in the toaster. That’s just silly. And besides, zebras prefer their soup strung on skewers and roasted over hot pink. 

A Cut Above

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Day Two of NaPoWriMo! Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

write a platonic love poem. In other words, a poem not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love – your love for your sister, or a friend, or even your love for a really good Chicago deep dish pizza. The poem should be written directly to the object of your affections (like a letter is written to “you”), and should describe at least three memories of you engaging with that person/thing.

Herewith, A Cut Above; 

We’ve been through things, you and I.
Some good, some not so.
I can be dismissive, careless.
You can be cutting, unforgiving.

I take advantage of you. Use you.
I planned to paint my bathroom, and somehow
it turned into a near-total remodel.
I called on you, and you were right there
helping me, seeing it through to it’s 
(not quite) glorious end. 

We have traveled cross country, sharing long drives 
through snow or heat or rain.
Getting lost together when Siri suggests an alternate route.
You never complain, and I never feel the need to apologize. 

We’ve sat on the back deck together, whittling wood on
warm summer afternoons.
Sometimes in conversation; sometimes in silence.
I feel comfortable with you.

I feel safe with you.

I am artistic; you are utilitarian.
I guess that’s why I am the artisan, and you
are the utility knife.

Whodunnit

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Day One of NaPoWriMo.

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.

Unfortunately, I can’t remember the book’s title*, but here’s my go at it:

WhoDunnit

When first we met on that bright, crisp page, 
you seemed to have your life together.
The edges just a tad bit frayed, 
but that’s -- of course -- how humans weather.

A dark and stormy night [cliche]. 
He warned you not to drive that road.
But in your rush, you went that way. 
What followed is what was forebode.

What did you see through rain-streaked glass?
You’d ponder that for many days.
Should you have stopped? [We second guess.]
Debate, deny, deflect, delay.

A murder! Could you have intervened? 
The fear, the guilt, the blame, the shame.
What is is never what it seems.
The killer saw you! (And knows your name.) 

Stalked and taunted, played a fool.
You wonder, have you gone insane?
Your spouse, best friend, they ridicule.
You call the cops; it’s all in vain. 

I start to think you’re sad and weak. 
Fearful, whining to no avail.
Is it just attention that you seek?
My trust in you begins to fail. 

I’ll save the rest, won’t spoil the plot;
the twists, the turns, the dead end trails. 
The ending does not disappoint. 
And – as it should – the good prevails.

* Edited to add: I found the book! The Break Down by B. A. Paris.