Tag: glopowrimo

Is the image something beautiful or lost amidst forgotten dreams
Silently gliding through the unknown, seeking, daring, listing
Memories are fleeting things, darkness, flash, and glow
The riverbed is winding, pathway for the soul
Guardians line the shore protecting every bend
Against the boat that carries them to their final beds
Mists that float and fly away without a second thought
I’ve forgotten the way; I cannot follow beyond this gentle pass

For the source poem, please see By the Stream by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

NOTE: This poem is inspired by the Day 18 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net – to write a revision/response poem based upon an existing piece. For the instructions, see the full blog post here.

on the importance of beer

one sunny day,
many years ago,
while water skiing on the lake
Grandpa started to sink
beneath the surface,
somehow managing to keep
his beer from spilling,
yet allowing his dentures
to sink into the seaweed garden below

NOTE: This poem is inspired by the Day 17 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net – to write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time.

It’s 2 a.m.
smoke fills the air
in this sound-proof basement
she sways to her own music
singing, rewriting lyrics,
to an old Five Satins song

In the chill of the night
the motley boys behind her
strum guitars, patter at drums,
and one lonely saxophone blows tenor,
lending a hint of blues to the mood

I caught you and held you tight
an accent tints her voice
altering from thick whiskey on the rocks
to something almost…Transylvanian?
her lips curve the words into a playful smile

‘Cause I needed…just one bite
she curls her fingers, lunging
pretending that she is vampire and I prey
when she invites me, I sing with them
a pre-pubescent voice struggling to match her

Later, I remember how I lived
for these moments, center of her
spotlight sun – smiling, tragic, beautiful, wild
living life with arms outstretched – more sister
than mother, a grown woman
she never stopped playing

NOTE: This is poem is inspired by the Day 16 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net – to write a poem that prominently features the idea of play.

The Tragedy of Being a Villain

One sometimes wonders
what leads a villain down the path
of being miserable and evil.
Is it a simple turning point
or something more?

Would the Evil Queen
have been quite so vile
if when asking her mirror the fateful question
it had simply fallen from the wall
and shattered?

Would Maleficent
have been so malicious
if her invitation to the grand celebration
had been sent and not simply
forgotten?

Would the Sea Witch
have been so devious
if she hadn’t been banished from the kingdom
and instead given a seat at least
near to the throne?

Would the Wicked Witch
have been so vindictive
had someone not committed larceny
and murder against her sister
with a house?

What turning point
would it take,
for a hero to simply become
a villain?

The Rowboat of Your Dreams

Row, Row, Row
Unless your boat is on the land
A boat without water is like a train with no track
Perhaps you are on the wrong path?

Row, Row, Row
Unless your boat has no oars
A boat with no oars is like a car with no gas
You must lack the proper tools to move forward.

Row, Row, Row
Unless your boat has but one oar
A rowboat with one oar cannot be a canoe
Repeating the same action will not get a different result.

Row, Row, Row
Unless you are moving against the waves
The current is flowing opposite your direction
Perhaps you are trying too hard to get where you want to go?

Row, Row, Row
Alas, you have water, good weather, and two oars
Gliding forward with positive momentum
You must be on the right path!

Note: This poem is inspired by the prompt for Day 14, from NaPoWriMo.net – to write entries for an imaginary dream dictionary.

The nonsense of words selected for a spelling bee…

The GOVERNOR is a DYSFUNCTIONAL
CURMUDGEON who QUAFFS KEROSENE.

The RESURRECTION of PLEBEIAN concerns
leads to a QUOTIDIAN discussion on
childcare and the MORTGAGE.

A state of HYPERPYREXIA
gives the EFFERVESCENT sensation
of donning a MONOCLE
more OPAQUE than clear.

My LIEGE suffers from LARYNGITIS,
therefore I shall ACQUIESCE to his request
and REGURGITATE his speech
as I have heard it read before.

The SABOTEUR could not believe his luck
When SERENDIPITY revealed to him
the beauty of time-released explosives
delivered by SUBCUTANEOUS injections.

NOTE: This poem is nothing more than a challenge from my writing group to use the words from our recent spelling bee fundraiser in a piece of writing – hence the title. Also, I’m sorry!

In my neighborhood, there sits a fenced off mudpit. One lonely ducks swims through the muddy waters where once there lay a pond. Ducks, geese, squirrels, and butterflies all danced and floated along these shores and through these trees. Now this landscape is little more than mud-slick banks and barren limbs. The duck looks to us for food, as if we might have some morsel to toss over the fence, but we have none. Heavy machinery growls and heaves in the distance, replacing the chattering noises of animals – their presence is little more than ghostly impressions that I summon from memory. The air smells of raw dirt, foul water, and exhaust. Gone are the smells of pink and purple blossoms and fresh cut grass. The lone duck swims back to the center of his tiny mud pool. This heap his solitary kingdom.

Man reshapes the land.
Beauty turns to lifeless brown.
Nature takes its leave.

NOTE: This poem rather loosely follows the Day 12 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net – to write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live. 

 

Crone Ascending

When that which was
and that which is becoming
realizes that which shall be.

Wrinkles like record-keepers
mark the years, the moments
fixed, earning their place,
in the register of time.

Round and supple curves
have melted, hanging heavy
on a frame shrunken, shorter
where it once stood tall.

A barren, empty womb
where unfulfilled promise,
fruit that never ripened,
has withered and died.

Eyes, curtained windows,
into a mind full, but inaccessible
broken stairs, rotted rungs,
and detours without destination

When the maiden has faded,
the mother turns away,
and the crone is ascending.

If I Were a Desert

If I were a desert
I’d be endless sun
light, searing and brilliant,
dancing like glitter
over each speck of sand

If I were a desert
I’d be shifting landscapes,
treacherous visions,
gliding over a graveyard
of dust and bleached bone

If I were a desert
I’d be scales and shells,
sharp spines and venom,
life through persistence
shifting amidst my sands

If I were a desert
I’d be warm breezes,
heat from a lover’s breath,
exhaling torment and promise
against raw, responsive skin

If I were a desert
I’d be dry lips,
parched and cracked,
whispering to cool rains
begging for the waters to come

and quench me