Today’s prompt: “write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-ten-7/)

Raining Cats and Dogs

It’s raining cats and dogs
like a grotesque Biblical judgement,
Vicious and violent and unprecedented.

Dogs were the god of storms
and cats were witches riding the wind:
the vicious sounds of animals fighting.

The idea of household pets
hurled from the skies
and violently dashed upon the ground

Is only slightly more horrifying
than the sight of drowned animals
floating along on vicious flood waters,

Streams swollen and choked
with debris and casualties:
bloated corpses from violet nature.

It’s raining cats and dogs
but not literally, thank god,
because that would unbearable:
Vicious and violent and unprecedented.

Today’s prompt: “write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of ‘things.'” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-nine-5/)

Things that Make a Home

Home is where the heart is

Replace deadbolts and door knobs
Redo baseboards and window trim:
Cut, stain, install
All brand new custom fit
Paint
Strip and refinish doors
More paint
Hardwood floors: strip, sand
Refinish

Sump pump
vent fan
Insulate water lines
Ductwork

Home is where you make it

Replace light switches, outlets
New ceiling fans
Custom built breakfast nook
Storage bench
Custom built-in closet organizers
Bookshelves
Comfy window seat

Caulk, regrout tile
New shower cartridge
Magic Eraser is a god-send

Home is where you want it to be

Cut up sod, create garden
Install fence: post hole auger, concrete
(Heaviest 50 pound bags you’ll ever lift)
Tree removal
Landscaping
Plant trees
More landscaping

Lawn mower spark plugs
Clean the carburetor
Replace garage door springs
Custom built workbench
Custom storage solutions
New snow shovel

Gonna build a garden shed soon

Barbecue grill
Porch swing
Dining on the deck

Home is where you are

Today’s prompt: “think about the argot of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-eight-6/)

Weeding

Everyone knows weeding
keeps a garden healthy.

Everyone knows weeding
is necessary in order

For plants to grow.
But isn’t a weed a plant?

Why is a rose more beautiful
than a dandelion?

At least a dandelion
is more useful.

But isn’t beauty useful, too?

Continue reading “NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 8” →

Today’s prompt: “write a poem of gifts and joy.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/one-week-down/)

My Gift

All I’ve ever wanted is to know I did good.
To know I helped make someone’s world better.

All the worry about how, about selfishness
and greed and anger and resentment

How can I do good when all these roil
Like a wadded up, wedged in, blocked pipe?

All the worry – all the parts of myself
I don’t deserve, that no one deserves,

The roiling, wadded up, wedged in, choked on
Psychological blockage,

Maybe it’s all just because I can’t tell
Whether I did good.

Maybe I don’t need to know.
I just want to do good.

It’s the little things:
The difference between “knowing” and “doing.”

I have a gift for semantics and sometimes
It’s all good.

Today’s prompt: “write a poem that emphasizes the power of ‘if,’ of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-six-7/)

If I Could

If you could see yourself through my eyes,
Maybe you’d stop doubting, stop
Wondering if you’re worth it.

If I could see myself through your eyes,
Maybe I’d finally understand
Why you choose to be with me.

If I could do one thing,
One single perfect wonderful thing,
I would

Be.

Just be.

With you.
With me.

Without doubt.
Without worry about the why.

Without wondering,
But with wonder.

Just be.

What would our lives be like,
If that were enough?

Today’s prompt: “write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-five-6/)

Somewhere, So Far Away

Somewhere, so far away,
A warm, safe place where as a child I lie.
Where do we go now?

I prayed for the thunder and the rain
To quietly pass me by.
Somewhere, so far away.

So dream alright,
I know it’s going to take some time.
Where do we go now?

Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Somewhere, so far away.

I dream at night
Of going home someday.
Where do we go now?

My home my friends and you
I watch them fade but what can I do?
Somewhere, so far away.
Where do we go now?

Continue reading “NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 5” →

Today’s prompt: “write your own sad poem, but one that … achieves sadness through simplicity.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-four-7/)

Once

Here
Right here
There once was a park
With slides and swings
And teeter-totters and climbing gyms
And a big wooden structure we turned into a fort
Surrounded by trees and filled with grass.

Here
Right here
There were children running,
Jumping, playing, kicking, catching, climbing,
Laughing, yelling, crying, whispering, arguing,
Learning joy and sorrow and triumph and loss.
Learning how to exist in the world.

Here
Right here
Once.

Today’s prompt: “write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-three-5/)

You Had Your Mother’s Eyes

When you were first born,
You had your mother’s eyes,
Her sleek body, her bullish face,
Her determined yell.

When you were a toddler,
You looked like Elmer Fudd,
Your face and body grown soft,
Rolling and stumbling through your world.

When you were a child,
Your eyes—so like your mother’s, still—
Took on a look of eagerness and fear,
Your face and body lean and rubbery.

When you were a teenager,
You looked angry and hopeful
And full of a lust
You didn’t know what to think of.

When you were a young man,
Your father made his first appearance—
In the fullness of your shoulders and chest,
The length of your leg and sinewy arms
And your newly found sense of superiority.

When you were a man of the world,
You looked driven—
Idealistic and selfish and sure of yourself,
Convinced this was all yours for the taking.

When you were a lover,
Your eyes—so like your mother’s, still—
Took on a look of eagerness and fear
And a lust you were delighted to embrace.

When you were a father,
Your face and body grew soft,
You learned gentleness and selflessness,
Hope and fear and helplessness and power,
And your eyes were filled with wonder.

When you were middle aged,
Your eyes looked tired and content,
Your body at home with itself—
Yours, more than your mother or father.

When you were an old man,
You had your mother’s eyes,
Her sleek body, her bullish face,
Wrinkled skin and palsied hands
Which knew the toll of a life lived well.

Today’s prompt: “write a poem that … resists closure by ending on a question.” (http://www.napowrimo.net/day-two-6/)

Soft Dark Deep Night

There’s a sound:
Distant whistle,
Muted rumble,
Fleeting in the soft dark
Of the deep night.

It might be a train.
It might be an ancient beast
Awakening.

It grows more distant,
Fainter—a train on the hunt,
A beast rushing toward its destination.

There are stories you used to tell me
Which I will never attempt to retell.

They belong to you.

To soft dark nights
And empty spaces
Where we only knew ourselves.
Your voice in my ear
And your breath on my cheek.

Stories of monsters and angels
And men and animals
And storms and green growing things
And the mysteries of our universe.

Is this a beast hunting you now?
Is this a train rushing to meet you
At some far remote station?

Somewhere, here,
In the soft dark
Of this deep night?

Today’s prompt: “write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something” (http://www.napowrimo.net/it-begins-2/)

Practice Makes Perfect

“Measure twice, cut once”
He always said.

More like – measure a bazillion times
Cut once, mess it up, do it all again.

I always was all thumbs.

“Follow the grain”
He always said.

But the grain is road map
with no key, mapping a countryside
I can’t understand.

I never could get the hang of it.

“Don’t overwork the wood”
He always said.

As I tighten yet another screw
Until the wood splits.

There’s a point at which strength and gentleness converge.
It’s here that master craftsman show their mastery.
It’s a point I’ve never been able to divine.

“It’s OK if you mess up.
Just try it again.”
He always said.

So I try again, and again,
Fail, and try to fail better,
But really I just keep failing.

“Practice makes perfect”
He always said.

So I keep practicing
And I keep waiting for perfection.