PAD Day 1: Rusty, Dusty, Moldy...

 It's April again, and that means time to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. I admit I have not written a lot since last April, nor have I been submitting as much as usual. I've been dealing with a mixture of writer's block, laziness, and "imposter syndrome," and I think April is just the ticket to give me a swift kick in my allegedly creative ass. Normally I follow Robert Lee Brewer (Write Better Poetry on the Writers Digest website) and Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo site for daily prompts, and I will continue that this year, but I will also be following Rick Lupert's daily prompts on his Poetry Super Highway website. (He was kind enough to publish me as one of the two weekly featured poets last August, and I have participated in some the poetry book exchanges with other poets that he has organized, plus he will be featuring one of my suggested prompts on April 25.) I plan to try to use at least two prompts from these three sources each day, and some days maybe all three. I hope to shake off the dust, or rust, or mold, or moss, or barnacles, or whatever metaphorical growth may apply to my months of relative inactivity.

So here are today's prompts:

Write Better Poetry: Write an "optimistic" poem.

NaPoWriMo: "...write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time."

Poetry Super Highway: "Evolve a poem that involves an exotic fruit, one fruit, and a town you’ve never visited, or else have distant memories of."

I got a little sidetracked, thinking about movies rather than novels, and didn't address the NaPoWriMo prompt, although I may return to it if time permits. This poem ends on an optimistic note and makes reference to three movies that are set in New Orleans. 

Bananas Foster

That brilliant blue and yellow flambé
that first burst forth from a pan
at Brennan’s Vieux Carre on Bourbon Street,
New Orleans, a city I’ve never visited
that’s high on my bucket list —
 
that sweet, caramelized scent,
a conflagration of rum, banana,
cinnamon and ice cream,
is now duplicated all over,
and not just in the Big Easy.
 
My wife’s cousin the restauranteur
served it tableside in his New Jersey steak house
before age burned up all the recipes in his mind.
These days you don’t have to go South
for beignets either, or gumbo or po’ boys.
 
But there’s so much more to absorb there
in Crescent City, like the warmth and fire of music:
Dixieland, zydeco, swamp rock, a second line
dancing and drumming through the French Quarter.
 
Unlike Benjamin Button in that movie,
I’m not getting any younger,
and before my own blue flame goes out,
I know I will make it to Nola,
as sure as Stanley shouted “STELLA!”
and that frog turned back into Prince Naveen.