The poetry challenge today on the dVerse site is to write a “found” poem using the words on book spines.
Bjorn asks us to:
Go through your collection on books, and note the titles.
Sort them so the titles form a poem.
Take a photo of the books.
Write down the poem.
And so, my found poem — a haiku of sorts — with its found title:
wherever you go
roads of destiny — options —
some answered questions
Bella went to heaven today.
Now her worry wrinkles will unfold.
She will take well-earned peaceful naps
and wake the angels with her snoring.
She will bow down and wiggle her butt
in the universal “let’s play” gesture,
And other dog angels will tussle with her
in fields of sweet grass and flowers.
She will live forever in our hearts,
her soulful gaze will touch our thoughts.
Her memory will always bless us,
just as she did in life.
Rest in peace, Miss Bella.
Whose house this is, I think I know.
Their village is the woods, and so
they will not mind my stepping in,
I’ll eat their porridge, then I’ll go.
Their furniture both sparse and spare,
I tried to sit in every chair.
One too hard and one too soft,
one broke beneath my derriere.
I tasted porridge, hot and cold,
and one just right. I drained the bowl.
Then up the stairs to take a nap.
I’m as ill-mannered as I am bold.
I fell asleep, but woke to stares
of three sizes of disgruntled bears,
I’ve miles to run ’til I escape
three hungry beasts with broken chairs.
Day 12 of National Poetry Writing Month. I’m off-prompt today. I woke up thinking of Robert Frost for some reason, so I went with it.
Happy Easter! Be safe!
Day Eleven of NaPoWriMo.*
Today’s prompt:
“write a poem in which one or more flowers take on specific meanings. “
And so:
You push through winter-hardened earth;
herald of spring, though
late winter snow lingers.
A peek of green, soon a finger,
then – when next I think to look –
the golden trumpet atop a slender stem.
Whipped by feisty winds,
assailed by torrent rains,
flattened by a boisterous spring, and I
speculate that you lost your gamble
in being first to show. But
you rise again, regal as ever…
defiant, daring daffodil!
NaPoWriMo Day Ten.*
“Today’s prompt is to write a hay(na)ku). Created by the poet Eileen Tabios and named by Vince Gotera , the hay(na)ku is a variant on the haiku. A hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words, and the third line has three words.”
Short and sweet. Don’t blink:
flower
bed spring
pokes through surface
Day Nine of NaPoWriMo. *
Today’s prompt:
” write a “concrete” poem – a poem in which the lines and words are organized to take a shape that reflects in some way the theme of the poem. “
As my bathroom remodel drags on, I have spent some sleepless nights worrying about things like p traps and wax ring seals and waterproof caulk. So today’s poem is a reflection of that. Herewith,
Day Eight of NaPoWriMo.*
“Today’s poetry resource is a series of twitter accounts that tweet phrases from different poets’ work… Our prompt for the day (optional as always) asks you to peruse the work of one or more of these twitter bots, and use a line or two, or a phrase or even a word that stands out to you, as the seed for your own poem.”
I chose a line I found on @carsonbot.
“Sometimes a journey makes itself necessary,”
writes poet Anne Carson.
I’ve taken many a journey in my life.
As to which were necessary and
which were not, I do not know.
It took all of them to get me here, though.
Had I not been lured down dark pathways,
tempted into loud, gaudy marketplaces,
gotten lost in the tangles of a petulant brain,
where would I be now?
Would I be necessary?
I won’t bother asking why I’m here, and why now,,.
for what grand purpose am I intended?
That no longer concerns me.
The sun rose this morning.
I am here, now, in this place,
and my journeys continue,
by happenstance, by choice and – yes –
by necessity.
Day Seven of NaPoWriMo.*
Today’s prompt: a poem based on a news article.
Hot off the press:
Day Six of NaPoWriMo.*
Today’s prompt asks us to
“write a poem from the point of view of one person/animal/thing from Hieronymous Bosch’s famous (and famously bizarre) triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights.”
I used a different painting, Franz Marc’s “The Fox” for my poem, but with the same concept of using the subject’s point of view.
Here goes:
As cities crumbled in disrepair,
we watched from forest shadows,
not understanding what forces cause
a species to implode.
As flora died in poisoned air,
we retreated into denser woods,
left to fathom such machinations
that place greed above survival.
With no place left to seek reprieve,
we huddled amidst brambles,
hiding from blind ignorance
that sought to take our lives.
And then the whole world shattered
into a million pieces.
We raised our heads to face our death,
and instead were met with
blue skies free from factory smoke,
waters clear as young fawns’ eyes,
fish emerging from the depths.
plants burgeoning in replenished soil.
We snuggled in comforted embrace
as nature reassembled,
as order rose from chaos
under Gaia’s healing eyes.
Wow! So it’s Day Five of NaPoWriMo,* and today’s prompt is a doozy.
“It’s called the ‘Twenty Little Poetry Projects,’ and was originally developed by Jim Simmerman. The challenge is to use/do all of the following in the same poem. Of course, if you can’t fit all twenty projects into your poem, or a few of them get your poem going, that is just fine too!”
Confused? You’re not alone.
I’m not going to list the 20 projects; that would make the prompt longer than the poem. But for those who want to attempt making sense of the poem, you can find the list here.
And so to the poem:
You are the sugar in my cookies,
you’re the sizzle to my pop.
Were I to measure you for distance,
I wouldn’t spill a single drop.
Your cheeky smile, your limp embrace,
your heaven-scent and tactless taste;
like a songbird in Chicago,
a voice as cool as mint toothpaste.
A humdinger of a human,
every Charlie would agree;
unless of course he were a horse;
they’re so senseless, mon ami.
He’d not cramp your style on purpose,
though he’ll cramp your leg at night.
but if he did – and I digress —
it would only be for spite.
The short life of every meaning
is like the holly in a wreath;
when pigs know a storm is brewing,
they run with sticks between their teeth.
If you read this you will wonder,
will the cookie find romance?
Will the craven crumbs careen through time?
Heed my warning in advance!
Charlie horses, cookies,
songs in the key of mint toothpaste,
holly rings around the wreath,
as Chicago lays to waste.
