Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write an "unidentified" poem (about A myaterious or unidentified phenomenon), and (2) "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 prompts today fit together perfectly, and I had a lot of fun writing this little narrative, most of which I composed in my head while wating to get through a medical test this morning. I hope you enjoy it too.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment