Another chart-based prompt: a flavor plus two words to describe it. My words were: Watermelon, sweet, mocking. (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-six-12/)

Sugary red pulp,
Mocking the red of my tongue.
A splash of sweet juice.

Pick one from a list of odd musical notations, a music genre, and a word. I chose: “Like you’ve been hit by an arrow,” interstitial, bones. (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-five-12/)

What makes you move? I ask.
Imagine you’re dodging an arrow.
Fluid grace, balance and flow.
An alignment of bones,
The melting of tension,

Strength through relaxation.

The in-between moments,
Strung together, leading on
To bring you into oneness.

Movement. Breath. Mind.

“Write your own poem about living with a piece of art.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-four-13/)

There’s a moment when stone comes to life:
It breathes, pulses, warm and supple.
Such an extraordinary thing for stone to do.

How many chisel strokes are required
To imbue life into inert marble?
Ten? One hundred? Hundreds of thousands?

Some say math exterminates the magic.
Kandinsky filled his notebooks with precise geometries,
And on his canvas, chaos reigned.

“Write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-three-11/)

If I were to name what I am
I would say I’m a punnerist
Far more than a poet.
Puns, like poems, play
With language. The distance
Between them closer than
Some imagine. Poems, like puns,
Come at the world simultaneously
Sideways and direct. Face on,
Askance. There’s joy in playing
With meaning, with space, with
Tone, with expectations. There’s
Far less distance between poems
And puns and painting and
Art is how we see the world

Differently

“Write a poem that directly addresses someone, and that includes a made-up word, an odd/unusual simile, a statement of ‘fact,’ and something that seems out of place in time” (https://www.napowrimo.net/day-two-12/)

I didn’t include all of these, but that’s OK. This was inspired by an image of Georgia O’Keeffe’s kitchen mixing bowl from the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum.

You owned the same mixing bowl as my grandmother:
Plain, glass, perfect function with no concern for aesthetics.
So utterly in contrast with the beauty of your work.

Maybe you were always more like my grandmother
Than I realized. She lived a life of function
But yearned to create beauty.

The vibe doesn’t match, a frisson of expectations,
Ideals abutting reality, the humanization of you,
The idealization of her. Nested potentialities.

Would you have been her, had your life shunted
Onto a different path? Would she have been you,
Had her treasured dreams come true?

I would have liked to meet the her-that-was-you.
Beauty and function, dreams deferred and dreams fulfilled.
What is, what was, what could have been.

“Take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word.” (https://www.napowrimo.net/april-1-it-begins/)

Automatism
Automat
Auto

If ever there was an ism
to encapsulate our times

Car-addicted,
convenience obsessed,

So eager to offload our humanity
to AI,
algorithms

We’re making automatons
to take our place,

And making automatons
of ourselves

A portrait poem (https://www.napowrimo.net/na-glopowrimo-are-nearly-upon-us/)

She doesn’t look like someone who changed the world.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she just looks tired.
Worn down, worn out, worn thin.

But I do know better, and what I see transforms:
Strength at last able to let go, wisdom earned in pain,
the hard-lined, stark beauty of righteousness.

I know that I will never know her.

I know history, what others say of her,
What little she said of herself,
the accumulation of facts.

I know what I see, how she seems,
an agglomeration of my assumptions,
who I need her to be.

To me, her eyes speak of trials witnessed and lived,
hard held principles tested and enduring.
Survival.

She is a potent symbol of hope.
She was a person who lived.

I will never know what’s missing.

“If you could tell your younger self anything, what would it be?” she asks.

I ponder the passionate ignorance of my youth, and I know my answer:

“Nothing,” I tell her.

The most important lessons can’t be taught by the telling.
Experience must be lived, born witness to your own failures and successes.

Besides, younger me wouldn’t listen anyway, not even to myself.

“Old man! You surrendered your dreams too easily! I know I can do better than you!”