dragon’s breath sunset
bare tree limbs in silhouette
ashes drift like snow
NaPoWriMo Day Four. Prompt: “write a poem based on an image from a dream.”
Burnt Sky
4
Category Archives: daily prompt
New Reality
Day Three of NaPoWriMo.*
My offering:
New Reality
I despise the vile duplicity,
the partisan stupidity,
the rank and file idiocy that
purports to be our polity.
I’m aching for tranquility,
serenity, simplicity,
stability, integrity,
sincerity, morality.
I’ll cease my lame profanities,
I’ll work to restore sanity,
take every opportunity
to dignify humanity.
I’ll learn to live sustainably;
this planet my new deity.
I’ll protect its viability
from human greed and vanity.
I do not know my destiny.
Will I go down in infamy
or die in anonymity?
It matters not one whit to me.
I’ll fight the fight tenaciously
with love and light and empathy.
The world will right inequity,
our fate lies in our probity.
*National Poetry Writing Month, Day Three
I didn’t stay completely true to today’s prompt, except for the part that said, “try to play as much with sound as possible, repeating sounds and echoing back to others using… rhyming and similar words.”
Happy Hour
Day Two of NaPoWriMo.*
Today’s prompt:
“write a poem about a specific place — a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details…”
My submission:
Happy Hour
Almost six p.m. Happy hour.
Parking lot is nearly full;
it’ll be jumping inside.
Sure enough, the long, narrow, windowless room is packed.
Folks old and young. Well, not too young.
Drinking age. Mostly.
Most every seat is taken.
I shoehorn in anyway, and
sit near a bleary-eyed fellow,
drink sloshing in trembling hands.
Next to him, a woman, talkative.
Soft, brandy-colored eyes.
Voice smooth as well-aged whiskey.
Men bellied up to the long table,
retelling the day’s events.
Conquests, struggles,
anecdotes about their work mates.
Fellow at the far end checks his watch.
Pats his beer belly. Clears his throat.
Shoves his coffee out of the way.
Picks up a big blue book.
“All right, time to start the meeting.”
The room goes suddenly quiet.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Brian, and I’m an alcoholic.”
A full-throated, “Hi, Brian,” reverberates around the room.
And thus begins the AA meeting
at the Grace Episcopal Church on Second and Main.
Dodge Ball
It’s Day One of NaPoWriMo!*
Today’s prompt: “write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances.
My offering:
Dodge Ball
An odd game, dodge ball.
I learned to play as a child,
in a windowless, cramped gymnasium
that smelled inexplicably like old wet dogs and
burnt rubber.
Unless I missed the finer nuances,
the gist of the game is hit or be hit.
Two teams at opposite ends of the court race to the center line
to acquire as many weapons — er, bouncy balls – as they can,
return to their respective territories.
then lob their missiles indiscriminately at one another.
You try to get out of the way or, if you can,
catch a missile and shoot it back at the enemy team.
Once hit by a ball, you’re “out”
and spend the remainder of the game
on the sidelines.
When all of one team’s players are “out,”
the other team wins.
I have learned, over time, that
the real way to win at dodge ball is to choose
not to play anymore.
Remember
Day 30, the final day of the month, and the final day of NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month). After today, the goal will be to keep the creativity flowing. We’ll see how that goes.
Today’s prompt:
I’d like you to try your hand at a minimalist poem, … a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion.
So, here goes. Don’t blink! (Hey, that could be a minimalist poem right there!)
Remember
Remember that day when…
Yes, that one.
Meditation on Dispassion
Day 29 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt, edited for succinctness:
For poet William Wordsworth, a poem was the calm after the storm – an opportunity to remember and summon up emotion, but at a time and place that allowed the poet to calmly review, direct and control those feelings. A somewhat similar concept is expressed through the tradition of philosophically-inclined poems explicitly labeled as “meditations,” …
Today, I’d like to challenge you to blend these concepts into your own work, by producing a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully.
Not completely on prompt, but this is what I came up with:
Meditation on Dispassion
When finding oneself in the disposition of
being where one does not belong, or perhaps of
not belonging where one finds oneself,
it might be of consequence for one to ponder
how that circumstance came to be.
If, for example, one is where one does not belong
due to a displacement of some nature, one might enquire as to
what compulsion or energy caused such an event,
and whether it is a permanent condition, or whether
one might best prepare for subsequent supplantations.
Alternatively, if one does not belong where
one finds oneself, one may have merely been misplaced,
and may therefore be inclined to wonder
what careless entity committed such a dismissive act,
and whether one might perchance some day
in some manner attain one’s proper placement.
It is imperative, however, that one never allow
one’s emotions to surface and escape their
carefully fabricated confines,
lest one come to realize that the
feeling of not belonging where one finds oneself
is – in fact — excruciatingly painful.
Words and Paint
The prompt today deals with:
“the concept of meta-poems – which are poems about poems! In this video, the poets Al Fireis, Lily Applebaum, Dave Poplar, and Camara Brown discuss Emily Dickinson’s ‘We learned the Whole of Love.’ …
And now for our daily (optional) prompt. As you may have guessed, today I’d like to challenge you to try your hand at a meta-poem of your own.
So this is maybe not a proper meta-poem, but after watching about half of the video provided as a resource, this is the impression I was left with:
Words and Paint
Large canvas yawns on studio floor
Cigarette ash lengthens with neglect
Eye sizes up canvas and looks for inspiration
Brushes, paints, splatters, spills
Colors, contrasts, movement, perspective
Figure steps back, surveys result
Artist, art? Crafts-person, handiwork?
Custodian, drop cloth?
♦ ♦ ♦
Blank page of crisp, white paper
Pen taps desk, ink smears
Hand looms over paper and waits for direction
Verbs, nouns, phrases, thoughts
Colors, contrasts, movement, perspective
Figure lifts page, reads and reworks
Poet, poetry? Wordsmith, story?
Shopper, grocery list?
♦ ♦ ♦
Canvas is framed, hung on wall in gallery
Viewers study the painting
Discuss what the artist intended
with each brush stroke or nuanced hue.
Writing is published in journal
Readers study the piece
Discuss word choice and tenor
Delve into the poet’s mindset and meaning.
♦ ♦ ♦
Custodian goes in search of missing drop cloth.
Shopper wonders where they misplaced their list.
Only a Dream
NaPoWriMo, Day 26. The prompt:
Write a poem that uses repetition.
Only a Dream
I dreamt last night,
but I can’t recall
what happened in the dream.
I dreamt last night
and when I awoke,
I felt lesser than.
I dreamt last night.
Whatever happened in the dream,
I let myself down somehow.
I dreamt last night,
You were in the dream.
And someone else.
I dreamt last night.
You found out what I did,
but I chose to lie about it.
I dreamt last night.
It didn’t really happen.
I did not let myself down,
nor you.
Spring Awakes
Day 25 of NaPoWriMo.
Today’s Prompt:
Taking a cue from John Keats’ poem, “To Autumn,” write a poem that (a.) is specific to a season; (b.) uses imagery that relates to all five senses; (c.) includes a rhetorical question, like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”
I’m so enjoying the warmer weather of late, and all the greenery, I couldn’t imagine writing about any season other than Spring.
Spring Awakes
In increments imperceptible to most,
light of day expands, hours of dark recede,
and life erupts from warming soil;
sprung from damp earth, a geyser of green,
gushing through garden and bramble and lawn,
flowing up trees, pushing sap as it surges,
splitting through soft bark of branches and twigs,
spewing leaves and blooms when at last it emerges.
While Steller’s jays gather moss for their nests,
the smaller scrub jay and a petulant crow
vie for clear title to raspiest call; and
collared doves hide in tall trees, and echo:
who Whoo who, who Whoo who.
Who planted the bulbs shooting up through the duff?
sacheted hyacinth, tulip and dainty blue bell,
bouquets laced with pungent rosemary sprigs,
and laid atop carpets of soft lemon basil;
as dandelions and dead nettle wait to serve tea.
Seasons in Glass
NaPoWriMo, Day 22. The prompt:
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.
While I did struggle with French horn in high school, stained glass is much more fun. And so I give you:
Seasons in Glass
I.
It is Summer.
The trees are full of leaf chips:
green and yellow with black stringer twigs.
I haven’t done glass work in ages.
I will do straight lines.
Lots of straight lines. And lead,
not copper foil. Foil is harder to do.
Birds come to mind.
I don’t really know why.
I spread my wings and begin cutting glass.
II.
It is Autumn.
The leaf chips have turned gold and burnt orange,
and a deeper shade of yellow.
They are falling.
The birds chatter amongst themselves.
Is it time to head south?
It’s getting colder. They hold their wings close in
to their weightless bodies.
I turn the heater on in my studio.
III.
It is Winter.
White snow, blue ice.
This pattern is no longer in production;
the birds need to be larger.
Two fat cardinals land on bare branches and
consult with a larger bird, whose tail feathers
splay a bit to accommodate
smaller pieces of background.
I love the dark red of the cardinals;
a smooth rolled glass that cuts like butter.
IV.
It is Spring.
Leaves are returning.
Delicate lavender flowers
buzz with the breeze of bee wings.
It is time for building nests,
laying eggs,
feeding hatchlings.
How does one differentiate
a worm from a slender tree branch?
I will allow curves this time.
After three seasons,
I think I’m ready.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 