PAD Day 30: Closing Time, or Napoleon Attacked by Rabbits

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "closing time" poem, and (2) write a poem based on, or engaging with some weird fact or bit of trivia.

I didn't combine the prompts today. I wrote my valedictory poem for Poetic Asides early in the day, a sort of haiku:

At the Poet's Bar

last call

time to finish up

your final draft

For NaPoWriMo, I looked up a link they provided of weird history facts, and I couldn't get one of them out of my mind for the amusing and surreal images it conjured: an actual incident where the emperor Napoleon was attacked by a horde of rabbits. I got a little more background on it and wrote this rhyming couplet light verse:

Napoleon Attacked by Rabbits

There are still some, I think, who revere Bonaparte,

a man whom they think transformed conquest to art.

And yet, unstoppable as he might have been,

there was at least one battle that he couldn't win.

In 1807 a treaty was signed

which put some troubles with Russia behind.

To celebrate, the emperor proposed a stunt,

a huge après-déjeuner wild rabbit hunt.

His aide Berthier organized the event

and with dozens of cages dutifully went

to gather up bunnies to release right on cue,

so hunters could look forward to some rabbit stew.

But after lunch, when set free, instead of retreating,

the long-eared critters were hell-bent on meeting

Napoleon on their own field of battle,

and their onslaught was more than enough to rattle

the grand homme as they hopped right up his pants

and nipped at his heels, which caused him to dance

and shoo them away, a mad hordes of hares,

hundreds, nay, thousands, not as deadly as bears,

but still quite disarming, which caused him to flee

to his carriage, defeated, and still the sortie

would continue -  some even jumped at his wheels

and forced the great emperor to turn on his heels.

They say that Mssr. Berthier's fatal error

which caused Bonaparte and his guests so much terror,

was rounding up not a flock of hares from the wild,

but domestic farm bunnies, who are normally mild,

unless starved in their cages, then released in a bunch -

they saw Bonaparte as the man with their lunch!

I imagine that scene that embarrassed the crown

was not so much Waterloo, as Watership Down.

So that's it for April! Thanks once again for Robert Lee Brewer of Poetic Asides and Maureen Thorson of NaPoWriMo for providing thirty days of inspiration once again. I'll wrap it up tomorrow or so with a summary of my month of writing.

PAD Day 29: The End is Near!

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "response" poem, and coincidentally, (2) write a poem that responds to, or engages with, a poem by Sylvia Plath. NaPoWriMo provided a link to a website called The Plath Poetry Project, an intriguing site that has Sylvia Plath's poetry organized in a sort of calendar, inviting readers to use the daily poem as a prompt, and "publishing" some of the best submissions. I chose "Elm", the poem for April 19, 1962 (the date it was written). One of the editors suggests picking an iamb, repeating it three times (like the last line in the Plath poem) and writing to that for your poem. (See the above link under "April Mini-retrospective" to read the poem.)

PAD Day 28: A Post Card to St. Thomas

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a poem with the title "______ Wave", and (2) write a "post card" poem.  I've done the latter prompt several times, as part of The Winter Getaway Writing Conference run by Peter Murphy every year.  One of the poems I wrote, "Postcard to the Ex", was published in U.S. 1 Worksheets and nominated by them for a Pushcart Prize. 

I keep thinking about my wonderful vacation last February in St. Thomas, and all the terrible damage they suffered as the result of two hurricanes last fall - they were hit nearly as hard as Puerto Rico, and their economy is floundering as a result. I sent a donation for relief, but wish I could do more to give back for their hospitality and the beauty of their island. So here's my post card to them:

Long-distance Wave

Dear St. Thomas,

I still remember our time together,

all white sand and crystal blue waters,

palms swaying in the trade winds,

a week of getting away from my troubles.

Now you have troubles of your own,

after the horrible storms,

your houses a sea of blue tarps

where roofs used to be,

hospitals, schools and lives damaged.

I've sent what I can afford,

and I'll be back some day,

because I know how much

you depend on a traveler like me.

Wish I was there.

For now, all I can offer is a wave

of love from my part of the ocean,

which I hope will ripple down

and lap on your beautiful shores.

PAD Day 27: Meeting The Hanging Man, and a Happy (Prime) Birthday

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "story" poem, and (2) write a poem inspired by a tarot card. I know very little about tarot cards, but for me, the most intriguing one has always been "The Hanging Man". So I imagined what it would be like to actually meet this character, and made it into a "story" of sorts in a prose poem.  I'm not sure where I'm going with this, and it doesn't feel quite finished - I think I'm just trying to inject a little humor and humanization into a mystical character.

The Hanging Man

I met a man on the road, hanging upside down by his right ankle from a tree.

"You remind me of a tarot card," I said.

"Really?" he replied. "I am not familiar with that."

"Are you a martyr or a traitor?" I asked.

"That depends on who you ask."

"Who did this to you?"

"Oh, I did this on my own free will.

I might have had a little help."

I noticed his free foot was folded

behind his bound one,

and his arms were folded behind him.

"You look triangular," I said. "Or a cross folded over, like a swastika."

"Oh no," he protested. "A fylfot cross. It had a long history in heraldry,

before those Nazis got hold of it."

"You look like a crucifixion, yet you don't seem to be suffering."

"On the contrary, I've had much time for reflection.

It's as though I'm hanging between the material and spiritual worlds."

"Wow," I said. "Have you come up with any Great Truths?"

"I'm still working those out. One thing I know is I won't die here."

Suddenly I noticed something else unusual about him.

"Did you know that you have a halo?"

"No, I didn't. That might just be from all the blood rushing to my head.

Sometimes I get a doozy of a migraine.

Hey, you don't happen to have an extra sandwich

in that backpack, do you?"

And here's a bonus poem: My birthday is today (April 27), and since I'm always wrapping up a month of daily poems on my birthday, I always try to write a birthday poem to myself. Here is this year's installment. (It's also a bit of a riddle - see if you can figure out how old I am.)

Prime of My Life

This year I am a prime number.

If you counted birthdays in this way,

I would be only nineteen.

I'll have six more in my first century,

three in the next decade alone,

and I hope to make it to them all.

There is a certain security in knowing

that this year I can only be divided

by one or by myself.

I've added two lines to this poem

to make it prime as well.

PAD Day 26: Love in Bloom

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "relationship" poem, and (2) write a poem that uses all five senses.  That latter one is pretty familiar, but it always tends to produce good results. Today I wrote a "haiku sonnet" - its origins are unclear, though my poet friend Vince Gotera claims to have invented it. (It's very likely as he is the inventive type. He's doing daily poems too - check out his blog here.). It's basically just a 14-line poem like a sonnet, though there the similarity mostly ends. The poem is written with four tercets, each with the standard 5-7-5 syllable count of a haiku, and the last two lines are seven syllables each, as a tanka would have. I used a love theme, like a sonnet, and a nature theme, like a haiku. As far as a "relationship" poem goes, the speaker has a relationship of sorts with... well, you'll see.

Nectar

stars are fading in

with dusk, pink light in the west

birds in evensong

you've returned again -

your scent sweetens the darkness

I follow my nose

you have dressed for spring -

a silky, petaled gown that

I stroke with my thumb

plucking a blossom

from your stem, I bite the tip

suck out the nectar

honeysuckle, you're my love

and I am your butterfly

PAD Day 25 Bonus: On Big Words

Here's another poem in response to the Poetic Asides prompt to use an intriguing or unusual word as the title of a poem:

Quotidian

Here I reside, 39 degrees North,

at the 75th West meridian,

where daily a poem is issuing forth -

my output is very quotidian.

But "quotidian" also means "everyday",

"ordinary", "routine", even "humdrum",

so regularly finding some new things to say

can get to be quite a conundrum.

I'll try to inject more poetical words

like "gossamer", "yore" and "obsidian",

but flowery language is just for the birds,

and so, I should think, is "quotidian".

There's no need to make all the language buffs squirm;

your logic need not be Euclidian,

to know "everyday" is an everyday term

used much more each day than "quotidian".

PAD Day 25: A Warning for My Poetry

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) take an intriguing or seldom-used word and make it the title of a poem, and (2) write a poem that is a "warning label... for yourself!"
So I was thinking of those pharmaceutical commercials that contain about two minutes worth of warnings and disclaimers, and used them as my model for this rather self-deprecating but silly prose poem. I also used (once again) this week's Sunday Whirl word bank, just to help me go in some unexpected directions.

Contraindications

Bruceax has been shown to be effective in the treatment

of poetry deficiency and literate boredom.

Do not use Bruceax  if you are allergic to rhyme or meter,

have Type A diabetes, or have eaten recently.

Do not intermingle Bruceax with other, more accomplished poetry.

If you get Bruceax on your hair, simply lather, rinse and repeat.  

Do not use Bruceax to filter cigarettes, startle horses,

charm snakes, or treat vampire bites.

Excessive use of Bruceax may lead to depression and utter despair.

Side effects include metaphor overdose, iambic pentameteritis,

a question-mark-shaped rash, and paralysis of the limbs.

If you experience any or all of these symptoms,

call your poetry professor immediately. 

See our rebate offer in the current issue of Writer's Digest. 

If you can't afford Bruceax,

The Norton Anthology of Pharmaceuticals may be able to help.

[Jingle:  "When you want a poem and need to relax... Try-y-y-y Bruceax!"]

PAD Day 24: Remembering Gregg Allman

Today's Dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "roundelay", and (2) write an elegy, particularly, one that has a positive aspect to it. The roundelay is a French form of repeated lines in four six-line stanzas (usually iambic tetrameter, I believe), using the following pattern:

a

b

A1

B1

A2

B2

A1

B1

A3

A3

A2

B2

A3

B3

A4

B4

A2

B2

A4

B4

a

b

A2

B2

The capitalized and numbered lines are the ones repeated, and the a and b lines in the first and last stanza are the only ones not repeated.  I wrote a pretty good one called "Category 5" last fall that ended up winning the Poetic Asides Form Challenge contest, and it will be featured in Robert Lee Brewer's column in the May/June issue of Writer's Digest. But here's a new one - since I couldn't focus on any recent personal loss for the inspiration for an elegy, I picked a favorite famous musician, who passed away almost a year ago.

Midnight Rider

Oh Gregg, you've left the worldly band,

and joined your brother's early lead.

With Southern Rock at your command,

your voice and keyboard sowed the seed.

With bluesy riffs you took a stand,

impassioned jams that filled our need.

With Southern Rock at your command,

your voice and keyboard sowed the seed.

Admittedly, the flames were fanned

with talent, and with booze and weed.

With bluesy riffs you took a stand,

Impassioned jams that filled our need.

Admittedly, the flames were fanned

with talent, and with booze and weed.

From "Whipping Post" to "Ramblin' Man",

"In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,"

with bluesy riffs you took a stand,

impassioned jams that filled our need.

From "Whipping Post" to "Ramblin' Man",

"In Memory of Elizabeth Reed",

you Midnight Rider in that land

where Duane will welcome you indeed.

With bluesy riffs you took a stand,

impassioned jams that filled our need.

    

PAD Day 23: A Little Bird Watching

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write an "action" poem (describing just about any action), and (2) write "a poem based in sound". Maureen's examples for the latter all have to do with human voice and language, but I took it in a broader sense and focused on some nature sounds. As far as "action" goes... well, the action could be either the bird's or my watching the bird. Maybe both. Oh yeah: I also used this week's word bank from The Sunday Whirl blog - always helpful when I get stuck for something to say. This week's words were filter, rinse, call, startle, charm, try, on, limbs, bite, offer, mark, mingle. There are some pretty good action words in there.

Morning Flicker

The sound filters through my open window

as I rinse the breakfast dishes. The flicker's call

almost startles me, a sort of laughing warble

that heralds its arrival to a dying tree. 

There's a certain charm to it, and if you know it

you know what will follow - a sharp rat-a-tat-tat

on dry, hollow wood.  I try to triangulate

and pinpoint its location - a tall oak across the street,

still alive with leaves, but with several dead limbs

on one side. The drumming continues,

and I sight the bird - black polka-dotted wings,

a swatch of red on the back of his neck. His beak

will take a bite out of dry-rotted wood,

which will offer up hidden bugs and grubs.  

After a while he will move on, leaving his mark

behind, as he and other denizens of the trees

mingle into the other morning noises.

PAD Day 22: I Spend Earth Day Weeding

Yes, I did, and today's poem was inspired by that. Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo; (1) write a poem about a plant and make it the title of the poem, and 
(2) (once again, in Maureen Thorson's words):

...take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens:

The sun can’t rise in the west.
A circle can’t have corners.
Pigs can’t fly.
The clock can’t strike thirteen.
The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
A mouse can’t eat an elephant.

Before the Poetic Asides prompt went up for today, I tried to write just to the NaPoWriMo prompt, but got something strange and depressing that I decided not to post, at least not today. Instead, I took both prompts and wrote another one, a lighter, rather silly verse about a certain plant, and incorporated Maureen's "impossible" images as a series of "what-ifs", so to speak, as in "if pigs could fly", etc. So here we go:

Dandelions

No matter how many times I'm mowing,

the dandelions just keep on growing.

No matter how many times I weed,

dandelions find a way to re-seed.

If the sun one morning rose in the west,

dandelions would greet it, each sun-faced pest.

If the stars decided to shuffle the night,

dandelions would still stand upright.

If an elephant were eaten by a mouse,

dandelions would still surround my house.

If the clocks one day all struck thirteen,

dandelions would still keep their green.

If all the circles were suddenly square,

dandelions wouldn't seem to care.

If pigs all decided that they could fly,

dandelions would look up and wave "hi".

With all my raking, pulling, hoeing,

dandelions - damn them! - keep on growing.

If the apocalypse came and destruction swirled,

roaches and dandelions would rule the world.

PAD Day 21: A Modern Narcissus

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "danger" poem, and (2) write a poem based on the myth of Narcissus. Well, those two prompts put together practically scream out a suggestion, don't they? But first, here's a poem, coincidentally about Narcissus, that I wrote during the April 2012 PAD challenge:

Narcissus

I chased the frightened deer into my net,
while Echo, longing, watched me from the glade.
When she professed her love, I laughed: “Forget
this foolish crush – your girlish looks will fade
while mine will burn as bright Apollo’s wheel!”
I broke her heart, she wasted to a shade;
her voice is all that’s left, a plaintive peal.
When Nemesis caught wind of this, she made
me find my own reflection in a pool.
I thought, “My, what perfection!” and I fell
in love with this young man – oh, what a fool –
and frozen there, I’d waste away as well.
Cruel judgment? Well, perhaps, but here’s the thing:
my name means yellow flowers every spring.

And here is today's poem:

Narcissus 2018

The road behind you is littered

with broken hearts,

because you could never love anyone

as much as yourself.

The valley echoes, too,

with the sobs of forlorn lovers

and the curses of those you scorned.

They will ring in your ears,

no matter how much you paid

to silence them.

You are the epitome, in your own head -

nobody is better, richer, smarter,

and there are too many who agree.

Instead of a reflecting pool,

you admire yourself on TV.

You think you are building a golden castle,

but you're only tearing down a white house.

We hope you don't look too far up the road,

or you may see the trap your nemeses

have set for you - a beauty contest

in a hall of mirrors.

PAD Day 20: Rebel, Rebel

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "rebel" poem, and (2) take a line from one of your poems (preferably one you have written this month) and begin a new poem with it.

I took Robert's prompt a step further: I compiled the last lines from all 22 poems I've written so far this month, and used as many of them as I could, with a few editorial changes. I promised myself to create a poem entirely of these last lines, except for the very last line which would be new.  Here is my list of last lines, in no particular order (although I did tinker with their order a bit to get ideas on how they would fit together):

Look, the Old Fart Has a Hobby

he has just destroyed below

the loom still running

after they plow your stump under

who just had nothing left in the tank

will soon be bare in the end

on my no-fly list of vegetables

I love your flavor

who want to interpret your dreams

and jumping out of it when they do

drifts over the middle stripe in the road

into whatever utopia you've imagined

but know some words just sound like babble

over the telephone

they looked like tears

please save your laments

I'm not done climbing yet

I should have taken better care of myself

and maybe I feel guilty, but I'm smiling too

the saying would be, "The early worm gets the bird."

Just you wait - I’ll Make the Empire Great Again!

...and here is the poem that came out of them. I actually used seventeen last lines (again, with some minor changes), and the title uses parts of two other lines. I guess it's a "rebel" poem in the same sense as Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night".

The Old Fart Flips the Bird

You may be destroyed below

while the loom is still running.

After they plow your stump under,

you, who have nothing left in the tank,

will soon be bare in the end.

You should have taken better care of yourself,

and maybe you feel guilty, but you're smiling too.

If they want to interpret your dreams,

jump out of them when they do.

Drift over the middle stripe in the road

into whatever utopia you've imagined,

but know some words just sound like babble

over the telephone.

Tell them, please save your laments-

I'm not done climbing yet.

They may look like tears

but you love their flavor

and the last laugh is the ultimate joke.

PAD Day 19: Construction and Deconstruction

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a poem with the title 
"_______ Thread", and 
(2) again, I'll let Maureen from NaPoWriMo explain this:

Today we challenge you to write a paragraph that briefly recounts a story, describes the scene outside your window, or even gives directions from your house to the grocery store. Now try erasing words from this paragraph to create a poem or, alternatively, use the words of your paragraph to build a new poem.

Okay, so I'm going to walk you through my process. I added a prompt by taking this week's word bank from the Sunday Whirl blog (which I use fairly frequently) and wrote a paragraph about something I experienced today, trying to work in all twelve words from the word bank. Then I did the erasure process, coming up with a rather minimalist poem which I hope conveys the same general message.  Here's how it worked:

[Word bank from The Sunday Whirl:]

Inject

Treat

Confess

Tale

Sect

Dress

Channel

Check

Align

Sand

Torrid

Traverse

[My paragraph:]

We step in the weaver shop at the colonial village, and the woman in a dustcap who is sewing a dress treats us to tales of the olden days, and a crash course in the use of a loom. I learn that the vertical threads are the warp, and the horizontal ones we weave across are the weft. She invites me to try it, so I inject a shuttle card with a cotton thread through a channel opened by the bars in the loom, then push down the beater bar to align the thread into the weave, then open the warp again to traverse cloth with shuttle the other way. I do this several times and check my work - I confess it’s not very good. But this cloth in process is just another piece, no matter how imperfect, that would have been added to the fabric of our founding. So much sand through the glass, so many movements and sects and parties and characters that passed through, so many torrid, passionate stories of war and freedom and rights, that might have torn another nation apart, rent its garment of identity. Yet we’re still here, and the loom is still running.

[My erasures:] 

We step in the weaver shop at the colonial village, and the woman in a dustcap who is sewing a dress treats us to tales of the olden days, and a crash course in the use of a loom. I learn that the vertical threads are the warp, and the horizontal ones we weave across are the weft. She invites me to try it, so I inject a shuttle card with a cotton thread through a channel opened by the bars in the loom, then push down the beater bar to align the thread into the weave, then open the warp again to traverse cloth with shuttle the other way. I do this several times and check my work - I confess it’s not very good. But this cloth in process is just another piece, no matter how imperfect, that would have been added to the fabric of our founding. So much sand through the glass, so many movements and sects and parties and characters that passed through, so many torrid, passionate stories of war and freedom and rights, that might have torn another nation apart, rent its garment of identity. Yet we’re still here, and the loom is still running. 

[My poem:]

Thread

the weaver treats a crash

in the loom

the warp and the weft

align

to traverse

shuttle the other way

this cloth is imperfect,

the fabric of founding

sand through the glass

movements and sects

torrid stories

rend its identity

yet we’re still here

still running

And finally, here's the latest draft, thanks to some constructive criticism from my wife, which includes bringing in more of the process into the metaphor:

American Thread

the lamb yields

to the shear

for the sake

of a clump of fleece

carded and combed

to fibers

that are twisted together

to a thread

the weaver crashes the bar

in the loom

the warp and the weft

align

to traverse and

shuttle the other way

this cloth is imperfect

the fabric of founding

movements and parties and

characters come and go

torrid stories

rend our identity

yet we’re still here

the loom still running

PAD Day 18: An Experiment, with a Familiar Old Poem

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "temptation" poem, and... (2) well, I'll let NaPoWriMo's Maureen Thorson describe this one: 

First, find a poem in a book or magazine (ideally one you are not familiar with). Use a piece of paper to cover over everything but the last line. Now write a line of your own that completes the thought of that single line you can see, or otherwise responds to it. Now move your piece of paper up to uncover the second-to-last line of your source poem, and write the second line of your new poem to complete/respond to this second-to-last line. Keep going, uncovering and writing, until you get to the first line of your source poem, which you will complete/respond to as the last line of your new poem. It might not be a finished draft, but hopefully it at least contains the seeds of one.

Okayyy.... Well, I tried this with a newly-published poem by a poet friend, and although I was pretty satisfied with the result, I didn't feel comfortable posting it because I couldn't contact her for permission to use it. So instead I'm posting this one, based on William Carlos Williams' classic "This is Just to Say". (Obviously, it's not a poem I'm unfamiliar with, but oh well....)

Tempting

and so cold

was the spring wind today

so sweet

was the hand I held

they were delicious

those lips

forgive me

for saying it to the world

for breakfast

I want to make you bacon

saving

you the crispiest piece

you were probably

wondering why I would

and which

kitchen I would cook it in

the icebox

that was my heart and the contents

that were in

it, have thawed

the plums

of my passion

I have eaten

of the juices of life

this is just to say

I love your flavor

PAD Day 17: Engagement Stories

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "love" and/or "anti-love" poem, and (2) "write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time."  So without further ado...

Family Engagements

My wife’s grandmother had one date

with her future husband, back when movies

were silent and a nickel.  Its title is lost to the ages,

and they didn’t even hold hands.

Her little brother and sister sat between them.

They were married over fifty years

and had four children.

One evening my wife’s father came to visit

his friend, a fellow musician, and met his sister.

He wrote letters to her, and in one he said

that when he played his saxophone,

the music on his stand dissolved

and he would see her face.

They married six months before the war.

After a Christmas snowstorm, our son took his girlfriend

to see their favorite neighborhood lights display.

She turned around to brush some snow

off a lit plastic snowman, and when she turned back

he was on one knee.

He was married with his grandfather’s wedding ring.

And I, the romantic poet,

proposed to my beloved, my wife of forty-five years,

over the telephone.

PAD Day 16: Light Verse on Fun and Games

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and Na:PoWriMo are rather easy and fit well together: (1) write a poem about something that's your favorite, and (2) write a poem that features the idea of "play". So here's a little light verse about my favorite game.

Weigh with Words

I think a splendid game of Scrabble

sets one above the common rabble.

Strategic placement of those tiles

can bring sweet scores to lexophiles.

How great to get your foe in trouble

with “bingos” or a triple-double.

The winning Scrabble player girds

his loins with rare, exotic words,

Like QI and QAT and SYZYGY,

and ZAX and SUQ and QUIXOTRY.

Though words like MUZJIKS bring elation,

They’re hard to work in conversation.

Vocabulary won’t impress

when causing listeners distress.

So go enjoy your game of Scrabble;

but know some words just sound like babble.

PAD Day 15: I Know All the Best Words

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "metaphor" poem, and (2) "write a poem in which a villain faces an unfortunate situation, and is revealed to be human (but still evil)." This is political and a bit heavy-handed, and the metaphor is rather obvious, but I offer it for what it's worth.

Vader Redux

They all hate me, that Rebel Alliance,

those troublemakers in their X-wing fighters.

They don’t want me to build the Death Star,

my greatest idea. It’s huge, the size of a moon,

a deterrent, a barrier, a wall if you will,

against alien insurgents, rapists and murderers.

I mean, what’s the point of a Death Star

If you can’t use it? They hate my storm troopers too,

good people, just misunderstood. I want a parade

with the greatest show of force this empire

has ever seen. They’ll all salute me.

I know more than the generals anyway.

Maybe I didn’t have a chance to play

Clone Wars with storm trooper figures as a kid.

Maybe my dad didn’t give me enough attention,

and when he did, he criticized me without mercy.

But none of that matters now. I’m at the top

of the heap. They all fear my imposing presence -

the mask, the black cloak, the full head of hair.

I can choke any of them with a single thought,

and my light saber is the biggest, in my normal-sized hands.

That lyin’ Kenobi learned the hard way.

Just you wait - I’ll Make the Empire Great Again!

PAD Day 14: The Stuff (and Nonsense) of Dreams

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "report" poem, and (2) write a poem based on entries in a "dream dictionary", which purports to interpret symbolism in dreams.  The actual assignment was to write entries for the following dream "symbols": teacup, hammer, seagull,

ballet slipper, shark, wobbly table, dentist, and rowboat. I stretched the prompt a little here, and had a little fun, even if it's not great poetry.

Spectral Analysis

I. Report from Dreamland

Last night I sat down with my teacup on a wobbly table.

I invited my dentist to tea, and he brought a hammer

in case I needed him to smash the china.

I put on ballet slippers before we both went fishing

in my leaky rowboat. In the middle of the lake,

a seagull crapped on my head

and a shark took a bite out of my oar.

II. Interpretation from the Dream Dictionary

The teacup is an obvious symbol of hospitality.

You invite the dentist because you like him

as a person, but the china represents your teeth,

and the dentist’s hammer, his tools.

It’s time to get a new dentist.

The wobbly table represents either your fear

of the decline in your physical condition,

or a hatred of assembling Ikea furniture.

The ballet slippers stand for your need

to feel more agile on your feet, or at least

a secret desire to walk en pointe.

As far as the seagull dumping on your head,

well, you can figure that one out pretty easily yourself,

although it could just signify the wish for a new hat.

Sharks always represent the same thing,

without exception. Swimming towards one

means you will need a lawyer.

Trying to escape one means a lawyer will sue you.

And shark bites, obviously, are legal fees.

The leaky rowboat is, of course, the Ship of State,

but rowing it to the middle of a lake could mean

you want to escape all the wackos

who want to interpret your dreams.

PAD Day 13: A Plea from the Lowly Worm

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a poem about an insect (or other small creepy-crawly) and make it the poem's title, and (2) "write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended. For example, if you chose the phrase 'A stitch in time saves nine,' you might reverse that into something like: 'a broken thread; I’m late, so many lost.' Or 'It’s raining cats and dogs' might prompt the phrase 'Snakes and lizards evaporate into the sky.'"  I hope I did justice to the second prompt, but I did enjoy writing this one:

Early Worms

We're disgusting to so many -

eyeless, legless, flesh-colored, slimy,

snaky little things wriggling out of moist earth

and squirming, beached in a way,

on sidewalks after a storm.  

But how many times have we served you

sacrificing ourselves as bait for the fish

you put on your dinner tables?

Must we remind you farmers and gardeners

that we creatures create the rich soil

that grows your flowers and crops?

And don't forget, if you can bear it,

the service we perform after you die.

We think, if there were any justice in this world,
the saying would be, "The early worm gets the bird."

PAD Day 12: A Haibun for Survivors

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "lament" poem, and (2) write a haibun (a mixed form of prose and haiku). This week we are finally getting weather that really feels like spring, even flirting with summer, so this haibun celebrates that, along with the hardiness of the flora in my neighborhood. You could call this an "anti-lament" poem.

Defiant Ones

The true season has finally decided to show up, after weeks of cruel teasing. The first day of spring gave us heavy wet snow that bowed and split many trees about to bud.  A section of privacy fence collapsed from the weight of the snow and crushed my backyard forsythia. I hefted up the fence and braced it with bungee cords, a temporary fix, but I worried about the fragile bush, squashed almost flat to the ground. As it happened, there was no need to grieve  - today it sprang back with a vengeance.

first swath of color

a vibrant yellow brush stroke

in my back garden

The first mild afternoon in my neighborhood this year demands a walk and I oblige. The cherry trees are coming into full glory, but one that caught my eye is barely standing at an acute angle to the sidewalk and curb in front of a neighbor's house. It looks like a car has hit it, with gouges and stripped bark on one side, yet it has the strength for one last show.

mortally wounded

the blooming cherry tree says

please save your laments

PAD Day 11: Patching Potholes

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "warning" poem, and (2) write  "a poem that addresses the future, answering the questions 'What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind? If you are a citizen of the “union” that is your body, what is your future “state of the union” address?'" Here's my first take on that:

Note to Future Highway Self

Warning:

Infrastructure problems ahead.

You will become more high-maintenance

in years to come. You will damage yourself

without even trying. Potholes will spring up

out of nowhere. Your concrete supports

will start to crumble. Be sure you have

a good road crew, and adequate funds

to keep the drive as smooth as possible.

There will be detours, for sure,

a road closing or two, but in the end,

we hope you have a pleasant journey

overall, till you take that final exit

into whatever utopia you've imagined.

PAD Day 10: Darkness and Light

My poem today was a "triple prompt": I used the NaPoWriMo prompt to write a "simultaneity" poem, about several things happening at the same time. I also used the Poetic Asides blog prompt to write a "deal" and/or "no deal" poem, and I also employed the word bank from the Sunday Whirl blog, using all twelve of the words (stranger, drive, bread, light, on, switch, growl, devil, off, shy, stripe, snatches). Admittedly, The Poetic Asides prompt got the short shrift, as my poem only mentions a "deal" in passing, and the word bank was a relatively easy one to work with, but I guess the result turned out all right, if a bit dark (despite all the "light" references):

Simultaneity

Right now, as I flick on the switch in my bedroom,

someone else in my neighborhood is turning off

the light in theirs. On the next block, a raccoon shies away

from a garbage can when the motion detector light

goes on, but not before snatching a crust of bread.

In the next town, in a room lit only by a laptop screen,

a perfect stranger reads one of my poems online,

while some kid in the dimly lit parking lot of a convenience store

decides whether to hold it up.  A junkie in the nearby city

makes a deal with the devil under a strobing halogen street light,

while in the next state, a man who has been driving

with a broken headlight and two days without sleep

drifts over the middle stripe in the road.

PAD Day 9: Battle of Large vs. Small

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a poem with the title "Battle ______", and (2) write a poem in which "something big and something small come together". This isn't the first time I've written about my household nemesis, the ant, and it probably won't be the last.

Battle of the Kitchen

I've brought in the WMDs for a frontal assault

on the advancing line toward my cupboard.

They will not take my provisions.

They will not overrun the countertops.

They shall not pass.

I drove them back from the sugar

but now they're attacking the cereal

and raisins. I need to outflank them

with poisonous buttons and spray,

or even that homemade concoction

of powdered sugar and boric acid.

At first I feel  no remorse for my use

of chemical weapons in this campaign.

This is my domain, dammit, and they

are the invaders. There's no U.N. for ants.

But I must admit there's the smallest pang

of guilt when I seen dozens or hundreds

of tiny black bodies lifeless on the shelves.

I wonder how different it feels from

a bombardier looking through his sights

at everything and everyone

he has just destroyed below.

PAD Day 8: Magic and Family

Just wanted to share something first: I attended the  book launch party for the annual poetry journal U.S. 1 Worksheets today in Princeton NJ. As usual, it was well-attended, and dozens of poets read their poems that are included in the new issue (#63 - it may be one of the longest-running small independent journals in the country - they have been publishing for 45 years!) Anyway, I got to read my sonnet "Dewey-eyed', which I wrote for last year's April PAD challenge. Thanks as always to Nanacy Scott, Dave Worrell, and everyone else involved. 

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "family" poem (that is, about a family), and (2) write a poem where mysterious and magical things occur. I guess both prompts are rather peripheral to what I turned out, but oh well:

Hazel in the Tree House

My granddaughter took the color of her eyes

and made it the name of her imaginary friend.

Hazel lived in a house in the cherry tree.

Hazel would invite her up to play

in the tree house with her pet baby elephant,

and they would all dance a kind of jitterbug.

When she would bring her fairy wings

and magic wand, Hazel turned into

a real fairy and made her one too.

They flitted around the windows

of the houses of the neighborhood

and peeked in. Hazel was the one who made

her tree blossom all pink-white in April.

But eventually imaginary friends move on,

usually to another town, with another name

to be friends with other girls and boys.

So it was after one more spring spectacular

that exploded the cherry tree with flowers,

when Hazel left, practically overnight.

The blossoms faded a few days later,

and the wind caught up the falling petals

into a swirling cascade that to most people

looked like snow, but to Madison

they looked like tears.

PAD Day 7: A Bonus Poem for Baseball Season

So here's the other poem I decided to write, which more directly addresses the Poetic Asides "senses" prompt. It also ties into the NaPoWriMo prompt (see prior entry) because I put "Phillies fan" on both the "powerful" and "vulnerable" lists of my identities. So here you go:

Phillies Fan

It's a blessing and a curse

to root for a team that has lost

more than 10,000 games

in their century-plus existence,

but I have been lucky enough in my life

to witness two World Series titles.

(I can hear you Yankees fans snicker.)

Every year spring brings mixed emotions

of optimism and doubt. This year

there's a new manager, and some

bright new talent: Hoskins, Crawford,

Kingery and Nick Williams,

and some new veterans too,

like Arrieta and Carlos Santana.

But it also brings all the joys

of the ballpark, after a winter

of hibernation: our guys in red and white

trotting onto the field; the Phanatic,

pot-bellied, long-snouted, very green,

performing his usual antics;

the bat cracks, the cheers and boos

(Phillies fans don't hide their emotions);

the fly ball lofting into center field

that you pray will clear the fence;

the smell of popcorn and spilled beer;

the taste of a good beef hot dog;

squirming in a hard plastic chair

when things don't go so well,

and jumping out of it when they do.