Today’s poetry prompt at Napowrimo for national poetry month in the USA is to make a poem using the unique sounds of home.
Parking With Mom
I’d like to kick him in the slats!
That man in the yellah cah who took my pahking place. Although, isn’t it a pretty cullah?
Well, just keep looking.
It’s so busy today. We’ll have to cudgel our brains…
Huh? You mean to find a spot?
I mean to find a good spot, not one that’s just dry along so. I hate to walk very fah.
What about over there behind the bank?
That would be driving our ducks to a poor market. We can do bettah.
The prone Diogenes asks Alexander the Great
to move out of his sunlight, his testicles sagging
and visible, stained with last night’s glorious wine drunk.
As a bee dances first before it dies for its queen,
so the nuclear sunset looks glorious before it reaches you.
Alexander laughs and moves to one side.
An irradiated lily puts its blossoms away for a time
when the air is safe to perfume again.
Scratch, jack, bones,
skins, buckage, bank.
The nicknames change over time.
Did you know your distant ancestors worked no more
than four hours a day to earn their living?
They did not have a twenty four hour fire hose
of distractions, though.
Living was distraction enough.
If you find yourself addicted to electronic distractions
in the interstitial time between work and sleep, try saving a third of your income.
Your income is the congealed energy you traded your time for.
This practice will help wake you up.
And don’t forget to write.
Today marks the end of NaPoWriMo’s challenge to write a poem a day during April. I took the challenge (the poems are here) and I must say I found it oddly liberating.
Mainly, it liberated me from having to fuss too much over any individual poem because I knew tomorrow would offer another opportunity. It became like dipping a bucket in a stream each day. Some days the bucket brought up sparkling, fresh ideas. Other days not so much. But it always brought up something.
I usually think of daily writing more as a habit of prose writers, but I learned that I was simply writing down what flows in the stream in each of us every day and trying to say it honestly with a minimum of fuss or “art” around it. Some poems are obviously better than others, but that isn’t really the point.
If you have never tried this as a poet, I highly recommend it! And you don’t even have to wait until next April.
Once there was a seance that left everyone with a shimmering feeling of being inside on a snowy day.
Even the TV sat up and took notice, stopping its own snowing.
One can be in two places at the same time if you don’t mind being both substance and shadow.
Now the winter won’t let go.
The birds still call each other by their winter names.
They resemble maracas that can’t stop clacking when they are left on the table. Music swallowed by frozen water.
It is still beautiful to see a newborn in the womb, feet askew on the glass skin.
An aquarium fish looks out at you
and asks if we are related.