Forgettable

NaPoWriMo Day Three. Today’s prompt:

“This one is a bit complex, so I saved it for a Sunday. It’s a Spanish form called a “glosa” – literally a poem that glosses, or explains, or in some way responds to another poem. The idea is to take a quatrain from a poem that you like, and then write a four-stanza poem that explains or responds to each line of the quatrain, with each of the quatrain’s four lines in turn forming the last line of each stanza. Traditionally, each stanza has ten lines, but don’t feel obligated to hold yourself to that! Here’s a nice summary of the glosa form to help you get started.”

Here goes:


If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

from If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

If no memorial service is held for me

upon my timely (or otherwise) demise,

that is fine.

My preference is to be

memorable — hopefully in a good way–

rather than memorialized.

If I’m forgotten altogether, that is fine, too.

I’ll have forgotten you, if slowly as my mind dims, or

in the event of an unfortunate outcome,

if suddenly.


But why speak of death?

There are so many other ways

to be forgotten.

I am not ashamed to admit:

I forget most people, places, and

happenstances that come my way,

so it is only fair–

if fairness is a thing–

that once our paths diverge,

you forget me.


Thinking out loud now,

though you’re not here to hear me,

perhaps it’s best to be forgotten.

Life is not about me, after all.

Instead, please remember

all things living, plant and animal,

whose demise we can stay,

or at least delay.

Look for these opportunities.

Do not look for me.


So many of us have forgotten our way,

or even our why.

We have forgotten our humanity, our decency.

These things I will try to remember,

and perhaps by remembering them

and practicing humility and kindness,

I will indeed become memorable.

Regardless, when I’m gone, please

allow me to slip from your mind,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

Bird Talk

Day Two NaPoWriMo prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words. 

I used the tweet pictured below, which gave the words for the sounds certain birds make.


Herewith, my poem:

Oh, Dr. Seuss, you silly goose,

you loved to glacitate.

You wrote that owls go hoo hoo hoo.

In truth, they cucubate.

Your nonsense rhymes, those made-up words,

a lazy way to write.

So many real words just as fun,

and downright erudite.

A rooster doesn’t “cock-a-doodle do”

when he cucuriates.

And the hen’s response might well be “cluck,”

but — to rhyme — she glocidates.

Toward “wockets in pockets” I hold no grudge,

but to my ear, it grates;

like the striddly stry of a peacock’s cry

when it so poopity pupillates.

Plus One

NaPoWriMo day one prompt: “The prompt is based on Robert Hass’s remarkable prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.”

Six weeks, it had been. Six weeks of “boot camp” at a CrossFit gym. The final day, a repeat of the first day’s timed workout. Only this time, preceded by a one-mile jog. My legs were spent. “Want me to go first?” my workout partner asked. I could use the recovery time, but she’d be tired, too. “No, I’ll go.” She’d track sets, count reps, cheer me on. I’d try to complete the workout before time ran out. Last time, I’d fallen short by nine burpees.

Sit ups, squats, I can’t recall what else. And those last ten burpees. It wasn’t pretty. Fling my body to the floor, a wobbly push-up, drag myself upright, jump and clap my hands above my head. Repeat. I was last of the whole class. Time running out. Everyone stood around me, cheering. “Keep going! You’ve got this!” Struggling to stand upright. Coach called “time.” One burpee short.

My workout partner moved close. Quietly, tentatively. “I think that was ten,” she offered. Our eyes locked. “I counted nine.” She nodded appreciatively and wrote down my final time. Plus one for the uncompleted burpee.

Six weeks. Nine burpees. I’ll take it.

Forevermore (or less)


Love lasts forever.

Come to find out, forever

isn’t all that long.


Early bird post for April’s National / Global Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo).

The prompt: Write a poem based on, or responding to, a line of Emily Dickenson’s poetry. The line I chose was “Forever might be short.”

I hope to participate in the NaPoWriMo daily prompts for April again this year, but we’ll see how that goes. I’m one for one so far, and the month hasn’t even yet begun!