I think I had a pretty good month of writing a poem a day this April. I knocked one off each day, even though April is traditionally a busy month in my household. Still, it wasn't my busiest month (one year I banged out over 50). I produced just over the minimum, 32 in all. (Or 34, counting the "warmup" poem I wrote on March 31.) Here are ten of what I think were among my best of the month (with an annotation of the two prompts for the day)
[Day 1: "Seed" poem; tanka]
Orchid Seed
the odds against survival
astronomical
a perfect, fragile flower
[Day 9: Title "_____ But ______"; poem in the voice of an animal or plant]
Rock, But Living
Hello, I am [unintelligible musical language].
My human friend Grace calls me “Rocky.”
That is because I am made of rock, but living.
I am from planet you call Erid.
We meet in space, near star you call Tau Ceti.
My human friend Grace calls me “Rocky.”
That is because I am made of rock, but living.
I am from planet you call Erid.
We meet in space, near star you call Tau Ceti.
After I send Grace messages
made from metallic xenon, we dock our ships.
We are scientists and engineers.
We work together to try to solve problem
made from metallic xenon, we dock our ships.
We are scientists and engineers.
We work together to try to solve problem
of “astrophages” which are eating our suns.
We become friends, even though we are very different.
I breathe ammonia, he breathes nitrogen and oxygen.
I have five appendages, he has only four,
and something called “face.”
I can only “see” by echolocation.
But we have same objective, to find way
to save our suns and our universe.
Good job, good job, Rocky and Grace.
Grace tells me not to say more,
or I will make something called “spoiler.”
Grace says, come watch moving picture
of our story. Amaze, amaze, amaze!
I breathe ammonia, he breathes nitrogen and oxygen.
I have five appendages, he has only four,
and something called “face.”
I can only “see” by echolocation.
But we have same objective, to find way
to save our suns and our universe.
Good job, good job, Rocky and Grace.
Grace tells me not to say more,
or I will make something called “spoiler.”
Grace says, come watch moving picture
of our story. Amaze, amaze, amaze!
[Day 10: "Mini" poem; poem of "a few short stanzas, with a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given."]
Holes in Minab
We are not sure what the drone sees at first—
dozens of rectangular holes, some still undug,
their dimensions etched in the dirt,
near the rubble that used to be a school.
What are those little holes in the ground?
They are scars, the wailing of souls.
What will go in those holes in the ground?
The remains of more than a hundred children.
Three reckless rockets found their mark.
Three reckless rockets fired by our country.
The holes look so small from up here.
And we, too, are so very small.
dozens of rectangular holes, some still undug,
their dimensions etched in the dirt,
near the rubble that used to be a school.
They are scars, the wailing of souls.
What will go in those holes in the ground?
The remains of more than a hundred children.
Three reckless rockets fired by our country.
The holes look so small from up here.
And we, too, are so very small.
[Day 12: "Set" poem; "" write your own poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today."]
Little Woodbury
I used to dabble in model railroads,
as did my father, and his father before him.
Grandpop had a set of the original Lionels,
solidly made, not an ounce of plastic on them.
He ran the steam locomotive with its loud whistle
and real smoke pouring from its smokestack,
competing with Grandpop’s own pipe.
It pulled a caravan of box cars, coal cars,
cattle cars, gondolas, even passenger cars,
and last but not least, a caboose.
The train traversed a large oval, chugging over a trestle bridge
and through a tunnel in a papier-mâché mountain,
then circled a little village that looked like his hometown.
In fact, he built scale models of the buildings of Woodbury
from cardboard, balsa wood and paint—
the city hall, the hospital, the Methodist church,
the movie theater, advertising The Wizard of Oz,
including his own, a three-bedroom bungalow
he shared with my grandmother, flanked by two
large cedar trees, just a block from the real-life
train station, also represented on his layout.
The town was populated with little ceramic people
and 1930s-style die-cast Fords and Chevys.
I’d spend hours watching that Lionel logging scale miles
around and around little Woodbury, and sometimes
he let me take the controls. Once I asked him,
“Why do so many train sets have oval tracks?”
And he answered, “Because no matter how far you travel,
you always come back home.”
I used to dabble in model railroads,
as did my father, and his father before him.
Grandpop had a set of the original Lionels,
solidly made, not an ounce of plastic on them.
He ran the steam locomotive with its loud whistle
and real smoke pouring from its smokestack,
competing with Grandpop’s own pipe.
It pulled a caravan of box cars, coal cars,
cattle cars, gondolas, even passenger cars,
and last but not least, a caboose.
The train traversed a large oval, chugging over a trestle bridge
and through a tunnel in a papier-mâché mountain,
then circled a little village that looked like his hometown.
In fact, he built scale models of the buildings of Woodbury
from cardboard, balsa wood and paint—
the city hall, the hospital, the Methodist church,
the movie theater, advertising The Wizard of Oz,
including his own, a three-bedroom bungalow
he shared with my grandmother, flanked by two
large cedar trees, just a block from the real-life
train station, also represented on his layout.
The town was populated with little ceramic people
and 1930s-style die-cast Fords and Chevys.
I’d spend hours watching that Lionel logging scale miles
around and around little Woodbury, and sometimes
he let me take the controls. Once I asked him,
“Why do so many train sets have oval tracks?”
And he answered, “Because no matter how far you travel,
you always come back home.”
[Day 14: A "form" and/or "anti-form" poem; ""write a poem that...bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances."
Customer Service
Welcome to Megacorporation Inc.!
Para Español, oprimo uno.
We’ll solve your problems as quick as a wink!
Press 2 if your favorite color is pink.
Press 3 if you live in Nome or Juneau.
We care at Megacorporation Inc.
Press 4 if you need a new kitchen sink.
Press 5 to hear “We Don’t Talk About Bruno.”
We’ll solve your problems as quick as a wink!
We’ll transfer you to our chatbot named Link.
He’s AI, and he knows more than you know.
“Hi! Welcome to Megacorporation Inc.!
I’ll help you out, but give me time to think…”
[Hold music plays, courtesy of Suno.]
“There, I solved your problem! Emoji wink!”
We hope this helped, but would you say we stink?
Take our short survey—we’d really like to know!
Thanks for calling Megacorporation Inc.,
Where problems are solved as quick as a wink!
Para Español, oprimo uno.
We’ll solve your problems as quick as a wink!
Press 3 if you live in Nome or Juneau.
We care at Megacorporation Inc.
Press 5 to hear “We Don’t Talk About Bruno.”
We’ll solve your problems as quick as a wink!
He’s AI, and he knows more than you know.
“Hi! Welcome to Megacorporation Inc.!
[Hold music plays, courtesy of Suno.]
“There, I solved your problem! Emoji wink!”
Take our short survey—we’d really like to know!
Thanks for calling Megacorporation Inc.,
Where problems are solved as quick as a wink!
[Day 17: "Ambiguity" poem; "a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet."]
Overview Effect
“Trust us, you look amazing, you look beautiful….”
- Victor Glover, Artemis II crew
Zoom out with a lens and a spaceship
and find our other spaceship, the round blue one
surrounded by a void as it hurtles around the sun.
All the cliches come out—no borders in space,
and so on—but the feeling is real.
Sometimes we need to pull away to look closely,
and reflect on who we are on this rock,
who we could be, and what we can do as a species
now that the walls of Paradise have come down.
The Hindus say a kalpa, the time between creation
and destruction of the world, is four and a half billion years.
That’s how old our planet is.
There is no room for complacency.
We need to act, to do what we can now,
before our future spins into darkness.
But we also need to pray that our children
and grandchildren will survive what we have left them,
and that if there is a Higher Power, it will be merciful.
[Day 23: "Juxtaposition" poem; a villanelle that ends with a question.]
The Ride
This season has included everything,
ongoing wars between the hot and cold,
the roller-coaster whiplash of the spring.
Today the wind whips up an icy sting,
tomorrow we’ll want shorts and T’s, we’re told—
this season has been full of everything.
With blizzards and tornados happening,
It’s hard to weather weather, grab a hold—
the roller-coaster whiplash of the spring.
And yet, the flowers blossom, songbirds sing,
the sun warms up and bathes us all in gold.
This season has included everything.
Soft rain, hard hail, let Mother Nature fling
at us whatever comes, we will be bold—
we’ll ride the coaster whiplash of the spring.
By August, we’ll be wishing we could bring
back April. Won’t you come back to the fold,
you season that would burst with everything,
you roller-coaster whiplash of the spring?
ongoing wars between the hot and cold,
the roller-coaster whiplash of the spring.
tomorrow we’ll want shorts and T’s, we’re told—
this season has been full of everything.
It’s hard to weather weather, grab a hold—
the roller-coaster whiplash of the spring.
the sun warms up and bathes us all in gold.
This season has included everything.
at us whatever comes, we will be bold—
we’ll ride the coaster whiplash of the spring.
back April. Won’t you come back to the fold,
you season that would burst with everything,
you roller-coaster whiplash of the spring?
[Day 24: "Unidentifed" poem, "write your own poem that takes place at night, and describes something magical or strange that happens but that no one is awake (or around) to notice."]
The Mission
Long after midnight, a beam of light
slices the dark like a bright escalator
from the UFO to the ground,
and a small army of “little green men”
(more like teal, actually) scurries
in all directions to begin their mission.
Some raid the local coffee shop
because they’ve discovered they like matcha,
while others go to locate the wormhole,
finding it in a janitor’s closet at the high school.
Then they trace all its tendrils to most
of the houses in town, and use a contraption
like a cosmic Roto-Rooter to extract all the things
the townspeople have lost over the years.
They work like shoemaker’s elves,
quickly and silently, these benign beings,
and an hour later they are sucked up
into the beam, and hurtled back into space.
It’s like Christmas for the humans
waking up this morning, like Joe Martinelli,
who comes downstairs to find on his kitchen floor
an assortment of keys, combs, and umbrellas,
and in a big separate pile, the long-lost mates
of thirty-seven unmatched socks.
slices the dark like a bright escalator
from the UFO to the ground,
and a small army of “little green men”
(more like teal, actually) scurries
in all directions to begin their mission.
because they’ve discovered they like matcha,
while others go to locate the wormhole,
finding it in a janitor’s closet at the high school.
of the houses in town, and use a contraption
like a cosmic Roto-Rooter to extract all the things
the townspeople have lost over the years.
They work like shoemaker’s elves,
quickly and silently, these benign beings,
and an hour later they are sucked up
into the beam, and hurtled back into space.
waking up this morning, like Joe Martinelli,
who comes downstairs to find on his kitchen floor
an assortment of keys, combs, and umbrellas,
and in a big separate pile, the long-lost mates
of thirty-seven unmatched socks.
[Day 27: "Fan" poem; "write your own poem in which all the verses contain the same number of lines (whether couplets, triplets, quatrains, etc.) and in which you give the reader instructions of some kind."]
How to Celebrate a 75th Birthday
Be proud that you’ve been here
three-quarters of a century.
That’s three generations,
entering great-grandpa territory.
Ignore the ache of the day
and tell your body to behave.
You’ve got important things to do,
including nothing.
Think of all the metaphorical bullets
you’ve dodged along the way.
Think of all the presidents
you have suffered through.
Think of all you’ve accomplished—
family, travels, books, charity.
The world is your birthday balloon.
Be your own biggest fan.
Have a margarita or a Moscow Mule.
Toast dear ones who never made it this far.
Relax, enjoy the warm spring day,
the azaleas that celebrate you every year.
Look ahead, and try not to worry about
what may lurk around the corner.
three-quarters of a century.
entering great-grandpa territory.
and tell your body to behave.
including nothing.
you’ve dodged along the way.
you have suffered through.
family, travels, books, charity.
Be your own biggest fan.
Toast dear ones who never made it this far.
the azaleas that celebrate you every year.
what may lurk around the corner.
Day 29: "Pocket" poem; "compare your everyday present life with your past self, using specific details to conjure aspects of your past and present in the reader’s mind."
Talisman
I find a rock in my pocket,
a smooth white one my granddaughter gave me
for safe keeping. She thought it was a diamond,
but I didn’t correct her, and I rub it absently
with my thumb, which summons up memories
of when I used to collect rocks in my pocket,
and I could name them—
shale, sandstone, granite and quartz—
and kept them in my dungarees
(that’s what we called jeans back then,
before supermodels wore them)
along with some string, a compass,
a pack of Juicy Fruit Gum, a seldom-used comb,
(I had a crew cut that summer)
and some change from my allowance,
back when parents paid allowance in change,
so I could ride my one-speed Schwinn into town
and buy a Matchbox toy, back before they were
all speedy, slick-wheeled sports cars.
Today I would buy a milk truck, #35 in my collection.
I’d pay my 50 cents and stick it in my front hip pocket,
safe inside its little cardboard box (hence the name)
before stopping at the newsstand to buy candy
with the rest of my change, maybe a Baby Ruth
or some Good & Plenty. I had no car keys, no credit cards,
no phone in my pocket (if there was trouble,
you found a pay phone booth, like Superman),
but I did have rocks, just like I have one today,
pacifying my nervous thumb, which somehow
a smooth white one my granddaughter gave me
for safe keeping. She thought it was a diamond,
but I didn’t correct her, and I rub it absently
with my thumb, which summons up memories
of when I used to collect rocks in my pocket,
and I could name them—
shale, sandstone, granite and quartz—
and kept them in my dungarees
(that’s what we called jeans back then,
before supermodels wore them)
along with some string, a compass,
a pack of Juicy Fruit Gum, a seldom-used comb,
(I had a crew cut that summer)
and some change from my allowance,
back when parents paid allowance in change,
so I could ride my one-speed Schwinn into town
and buy a Matchbox toy, back before they were
all speedy, slick-wheeled sports cars.
Today I would buy a milk truck, #35 in my collection.
I’d pay my 50 cents and stick it in my front hip pocket,
safe inside its little cardboard box (hence the name)
before stopping at the newsstand to buy candy
with the rest of my change, maybe a Baby Ruth
or some Good & Plenty. I had no car keys, no credit cards,
no phone in my pocket (if there was trouble,
you found a pay phone booth, like Superman),
but I did have rocks, just like I have one today,
pacifying my nervous thumb, which somehow
has unlocked its magical powers.
