Tag Archives: poetry challenge

Mirror rorriM

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mirror3

Warning:
objects in mirror may be
closer than they appear

Do not get too close.
If you get too close, it will hurt,
most likely.

Beware of imagining you are
closer than you are.
Closeness could just be an appearance
perpetrated by the object in the mirror.

Do not look too closely at the
object in the mirror.
You may not like what appears.

Do not objectify what you see in the mirror.
Others – even some who appear close to you –
will gladly do that for you.

Do not mirror others
just to keep up appearances.

Look beyond appearances
and you may find yourself
getting closer.

And finally:
Reflect less on what’s behind you and
focus more on what’s ahead.
You won’t want to miss out on any
promising new vistas.

NOTE: Please refer to Operator’s Manual
for additional warnings in the section titled
Potential Hazards of Roadside Attractions &
One Night Stands.

NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 25: “write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself!” 

Elegy for All

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If you die tomorrow,
I will write you this elegy,
because you are loved
and you will be missed.

And if you sense no love
and no connection
and feel as though no one will even notice
when you are gone,
you may read this elegy and know that
you are loved more than you know, and —
in ways you may not even perceive —
you matter very, very much.

If I die tomorrow,
I will know I am loved
and that I had connections
of soul and heart and mind
with those whose paths touched mine.

I will be missed
by those I love and those who love me, and
even by some who don’t know me at all,
because perhaps — in ways I may not even perceive —
I mattered to them.

For today, though,
before this elegy applies,
let’s notice and celebrate –
if we are able —
our blessings of love
and connection, and of mattering.

Let’s make a difference
for those who do not feel so blessed.

Let’s open our souls and hearts and minds
to one another so we needn’t wait until
tomorrow to read this elegy and
discover just how very, very much
we all, indeed, matter.

elegy

NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 24: “write an elegy – a poem typically written in honor or memory of someone dead. But we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy that has a hopefulness to it.”

Preacher

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“Will you deliver the sermon?” he asks me.

One Sunday a year, the pastor teaches Sunday School
and asks parishioners to lead the worship service
in his stead.

Ha! Me? Preach a sermon?
I preach to my kids all the time,
mostly in the form of
“Do as I say, not as I do.”

A potential theme for a Sunday message, for sure,
but would it play well to the gray-haired majority of
this small congregation?

I think not.
It doesn’t even play well with my kids.

I hate public speaking!
And I’m none too endowed in the reverence department, either.
No way! I say to myself.
“Sure!” I say to the pastor.

On the given day, I rise to the podium.
(“It’s called a pulpit, dear” an angel whispers encouragingly.
“Shows just how qualified you are to stand behind it,”
scoffs the dude with the pointed tail.)
I look out over the sea of blue perms, bald pates, a few mullets…
and I gulp.

A voice I don’t recognize delivers anecdotes
mixed with pious postulations;
a splash of bible verse, a dash of poignant quotes
and a twist of lame joke.

Stirred, not shaken.

At one point, I tell a story about my young daughter
and I use the word “mom” a couple of times in succession.
From the rear of the sanctuary, a toddler responds.
“Mom?”
People laugh.
“From the mouths of babes,” I say.

Soon enough (or not soon enough, some may think)
the service ends.

Polite parishioners approach and tell me how well I did.
Truth be told, I thought it went pretty well myself.

A diminutive elderly woman tugs on my sleeve.
I bow slightly so I can hear her comment.
“You gave a very nice sermon,” she says, patting my arm.
“Thank you!” I beam.
“Of course, I couldn’t hear a word of it.”
She turns and slowly totters away
toward the cookie-laden tables in the fellowship hall.

At first I’m dismayed that she would complement
without having heard my sterling performance.
(“Performance?” the angel arches an eyebrow.)
But then, I think, maybe she’s on to something.

Without being put upon by someone else’s message,
she is free to rest in a pew on a Sunday morning,
surrounded by congenial peers
(“… and some noisy rugrats,” the horned heckler interjects),

and worship in her own choice of words.

Amen to that, I say.
Amen, says the angel.
Whatever, says the sulphurous cynic.

“Can we go home now?” asks my daughter.
“Let’s.”

Thus endeth my preaching career.

sg 11th partial

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 23: write a poem based on sound. 

De-Composing

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NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 19 (still catching up): An erasure poem as described by poet Dan Brady.

“First, write a paragraph of prose about anything you want. Next scan through the text and try to erase it down to a single sentence or phrase. The erased text becomes your first page and the full prose paragraph becomes your last page. Now see if you can add bit by bit to create a sequence that builds across several pages/iterations between the initial phrase to the complete text.”

erasure poem

rosemary3

All in the Timing

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You don’t think we can, do you?

I know it can’t be done…

I’ll prove I’m right, I’ll prove you wrong.

… by you or anyone.

 

Right down that row, that’s where we’ll go.

In here, it’s called a lane.

Set up the pins, we’ll knock ‘em down.

 You’re really quite insane.

 

You pull Grandpa by the head

and mind his face, I know.

I’ll grab his legs and give a push.

Just take it nice and slow.

 

Steer clear the gutters ‘til the end.

That’s what my daddy said.

Dead center for a hole-in-one.

A “strike.” But yes, Dad’s dead.

 

They all fell down, we’ve won the round.

And Grandpa’s in the pit.

One problem, though, that’s only ten.

Well, just you wait a bit.

 

Pins swept away, news ones in play…

The gears are grinding slow.

And Grandpa clock is smashed to bits.

It’s really quite a show!

 

His casing’s cracked, his springs have sprung!

His hands are in the air.

He’s hit three pins in the lane next door.

I think he bowled a spare!

 

And there it is, just like I said!

It couldn’t be foreseen.

Grandfather clock will strike no more…

… but he did once strike thirteen.

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 22: Take [a] statement of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens. “The clock can’t strike thirteen.” 

Unpremeditated

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shoe lace

I’m trying to catch up in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge. Here’s NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 20: “Write a poem that involves rebellion in some way.” One suggested approach was to write the poem in a way that rebels against your usual writing style. I tend to want my poems to make sense, to convey a message. Even if it’s a silly poem, I want there to be a point to it. With today’s poem, I wrote with a stream-of-consciousness pace, without concerning myself with whether it was sensical.  Unedited, except for typos. 

As an experiment, it was interesting. As a poem… meh. 

cold as flame.
you said it didn’t matter, and yet
it did.

I can’t thank you enough for
the freedom you gave me.
Or at least loaned me.
Haha.

A hollow laugh. Why do we do that?
If you come for me, I won’t go.
I may follow, but
would you even lead?

These are the rules:
Always make sense.
Always second guess.
Always review and rework until perfection is attained.

Even though there is no such thing.
Even though by massaging everything,
you probably make it worse.

Overworked.
That’s what I am.
Are you?

Does this make sense?
Does anything?
Make sense, that is.

And of course, that perennial question:
does everything – or anything –
need to make sense?

Senseless.
That’s what I am.
Always wanting to be in control.
Or not. I just wish for once
I knew the rules,
so I could
break them.

Narcissus

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jonquil

“I never did like Narcissus,” he says,
though I hadn’t asked for his opinion.

“Narcissus? Why not?” I ask.

“It is such a presumptuous flower,
So simple – banal really –
yet it pops up first thing in the spring
as though the world has been awaiting it
all winter.”

“All winter? Perhaps so,” I say.
“It is so beautiful and colorful
and a refreshing change from the ugly winter snow.”

“You know what I think?” he asks.
I don’t know, and I don’t ask.
He tells me anyway.

“I think these narcissus flowers bloom early
just so they can admire their reflections in the melting snow.”

“The melting snow,” I say. “I don’t care. I love them.”
I reach down to pick one of the flowers,
but it won’t come loose of the plant.
I pull harder. It still refuses to budge.

“See that?” he says.
“Narcissus won’t even let go of a bloom.
He wants to keep all the beauty for himself.”

“For himself…” I muse.
I begin to feel faint.
I feel as though I am disappearing.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“Going somewhere. Yes… somewhere… somewhere…”

“Say, I didn’t catch your name,” he calls after me.

“Name? Echo. Echo. Echo.”

“Nice talking with you, Echo.
My name is Nemesis.”

Nemesis. Nemesis. Nemesis.

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 21: Write a poem that plays with the myth of Narcissus in some way. 

Mishmash

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balance 4

Eat not, you’ll never want for less.
The next worst thing could be the best.
Heed not and you will find the hidden.
Spare the rod, the child has bidden.

Break some rules to mend the rest.
Let the sun rise from the west.
Speak not, others will pause to listen.
Smash the boat, champagne to christen.

If lies be told, pay heed to rumor.
I found my mind and sensed some humor.
The dead of night awoke the living,
so these sage words I’m thymely giving.

NaPoWriMo, Day 13: Write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended. 

To be, or never was…

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I don’t get it, I say aloud
though no one’s in the room save the dog.
He tilts his head and gives me
that quizzical look that could mean so many things.
Or nothing at all.

Today I am impatient and so his sweet face doesn’t work its magic.

Go chase the cat, I tell the dog.
His ears perk up. Although he understands but a few commands —
and of those known obeys even fewer —
he jumps to his feet and scampers off, ostensibly in search of the cat.

I feel sorry for the cat and a bit mean for having made the suggestion,
but who really thought the dog would follow through?

I still don’t get it, I say aloud,
and this time there’s no one in the room at all,
unless…

the cat’s tail flicks out from behind the drapes.

Green eyes peer around a fold of cloth and lock me in a stare.
I heard what you just did, the cat seems to say.
I’m sorry, I mouth silently so as not to give his presence away.

I hear the dog sigh as he squeezes beneath my bed in the back room.
His favorite napping place. He has given up the game.
Cat is safe for now, but by his look I can tell I am far from forgiven.

I continue my soliloquy.
You know what I don’t get? This!
I point in the general direction of the glowing laptop screen.
Lines of text — some
short,
some longer — parade down the edge of the screen.

Sometimes a line or two

skips toward the center screen
as though it were the end dancer of a cancan line and missed a turn.

No rhyme nor reason.
Well, sometimes a rhyme. After all, it’s poetry, right?

Or so it self-proclaims. This is what I don’t get.
I don’t understand poetry. What makes something a poem,
and not just some random words stitched together
in seeming sincerity?

I’m too shallow, I tell the cat. He has come out of hiding
and jumps on the couch in hopes of securing a warm spot near the laptop.
Poetry in motion, that’s what they say about cats. Sometimes.

The cat meows in response and I press my finger to his lips to shush him.
Too late. The dog scrambles from beneath the bed and pads out to be with us.
No poetry in this dog’s gangly moves. Maybe he’s just a limerick.

Am I too shallow? I ask the dog and cat. They fail to reach a consensus.
Never mind, I say.

I return my attention to the keyboard.
I’ve gotta hurry up and bang out this poem
before I go to bed.

poet

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day Ten: write a poem of simultaneity – in which multiple things are happening at once.

Cycles: Winter

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winter a

to flaunt it’s might and callous heart
winter coils its heavy hand
with whetted shards of tempered ice
impales autumnal sleeping land

in shocked surprise sap runs to ground
bare limbs must hide in rooted place
blending with gray-tinted skies
to weather winter’s raging pace

rough-edged façade belies the life
ensconced beneath the frozen ice
rogue insects wait to till the earth
once released from winter’s vice

at slightest breeze of warming air
winter cedes its thawing ground
blustering in feigned protest
as nature cycles spring around

NaPoWriMo challenge day nine: write a poem in which something big and something small come together. “Big” weather meets “small” life forms.