NaPM April 15 2016

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 


Topic 15: Today is poet's choice day!!  Write a poem inspired by whatever inspires you.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[just mercedes]

#15 I’m sorry


I never thought you’d be offended
by my quick words, but after all
a clock, once wound, is bound to chime
the hours, counting down the time
between the fight, and fences mended.
Sometimes you win; that’s when I fall
but one of us is always up
and offers help. A loving cup
to steep the wine of friendship in
shines pure gold, though made of tin.

[billy]

Could I Write Of Finer Things:

I'd like to leave the paper white
with ne'er a word abroad.
Instead it seems I'm writing shite
I guess it strikes a cord.
The poetry I often pen
is full of poo or farts;
were I to write a sonnet then--
Thinks "man of many parts"

To be, to do, a big fat poo!
To ponder on the porcelain;
while traipsing iambs two by two
across the paper while in pain.
To squeeze, to clench, to let it out.
A piece to make you lift your nose
and with a taught eureka shout,
you lock and load a sphincter's hose
and raise a little to explode.
The bathroom shakes, a rumble's heard
the butt-cheeks spread to shed a load.
There it is; a creeping turd.
A splash! it hits the water hard,
lets hear it for the shit-house Baird.

[cidermaid]

@Billy - love your poetry.  A decent turd take effort and is admirable in so many ways, but you are so much more than just a shit-house Baird.  (fittingly I read your offering on the Po with fondle in hand)

[just mercedes]

hey Billy congratulations, your poem has more shit in it than mine. Just.

[billy]

[Tiger the Lion]

Furies
 
She is silken
but will not collapse
should my curious fingers broach the web.
 
Tonight she’s shattered shards of glass;
more keen to bend light
than draw blood.
 
But still my will is quarantined,
its fury false fire
to seraphs made of straw.
 
Another breath might fan the flame.
 
Let me take it away.

[Achebe]

crap. Just as I was shaping up to write a romantic sonnet or two.

[LunaDeLore]

Does it end, really

sunrise
morning dew
sunset
and
sometimes
you

inspire

roses
creeping vines
poses
sometimes
wines

inspire

midnight moons
sand dunes
walks in the park
and sometimes
noon

inspire

afternoon
beers
best wishes
sometimes
tears

inspire me to write poetry.

[Todd]

So billy, milo says write a poem inspired by whatever inspires you.

Fantastic!

[Todd]

Of Cancer and Cranes
 
She would stand in profile
before a mirror. Thin
as a sheet of paper
creased by an invisible hand.
Folds within folds,
until words took flight
from the hollow
of her throat. Tiny birds,
escaping language
or symbol, expressed
in a dry cough. She compressed
to her final shape,
and I was told that she would fly
too, that wings had been pressed
into her flesh.
So I waited,
under the cold razor
of sun and sky,
waited for her to open
and explain
the meaning
of this design.

[cidermaid]

Paul just want to say I'm a fan of this from my first look...been back to re-read several times already.
Really lovely.

Furies
 
She is silken
but will not collapse
should my curious fingers broach the web.
 
Tonight she’s shattered shards of glass;
more keen to bend light
than draw blood.
 
But still my will is quarantined,
its fury false fire
to seraphs made of straw.
 
Another breath might fan the flame.
 
Let me take it away.

[Tiger the Lion]

Paul just want to say I'm a fan of this from my first look...been back to re-read several times already.
Really lovely.

Furies
 
She is silken
but will not collapse
should my curious fingers broach the web.
 
Tonight she’s shattered shards of glass;
more keen to bend light
than draw blood.
 
But still my will is quarantined,
its fury false fire
to seraphs made of straw.
 
Another breath might fan the flame.
 
Let me take it away.

Thank you, Cider. My free writes sometimes work but often don't. Pleased you like this one. 
Paul

[bedeep]

Inches and Feet

We both know
I'm doing this wrong.
The actual poem is written
on the soles of my feet
and if I keep walking
there's a chance I'll find
the correct blank paper to step upon
to trigger alchemical printing
and then, behold!
a poem will appear.

It will be in a language
nobody knows, that can only be read
with a braille of the toes,
which when rightly brushed
will send signals
through nerves to brain

only I won't notice.
You will, but if you are either
too close or too far away
the poem will be lost
and leave a frothed ether of wishing
that the signal had been missed
after all.

No one has yet figured out
precisely the space required
in inches. We just have to
keep experimenting.
Until this is solved,
there will be ongoing
outgassing, an endless exhaust of words
pretending to be poems.

[Leanne]

Love this, bedeep! Long may you gas.

[bedeep]

Love this, bedeep!  Long may you gas.

And, thanks!

[Tracy Mitchell]

Stories to Fluff a Walrus

A classically formed eye, rimmed
with glasses, black globes arriving
from above, over the colored parts.
It comes to your choice - the fedora,
cigar, and bourbon.  Without ice.

Between the fly and more flies, appear
a flower, a feather and a fish.  The feather
waves, the fish wiggles. The flower smells
better than the fish, the fish tastes better
than the flies, the flies are quicker than
the flower.  That’s the whole f’ing picture.

You see the background sweeps upward like a neck
leading to flecked stars in the night. The foreground
is a tree without leaves, just cherries, each like
death itself, choice red against a rising spattered void.

When the motion sensor triggers the spotlights
the wildlife camera captures bodies dodging,
faking, flesh and fur surging toward the bushes.

He stands in a dark coat, collar up, she holds
the cigarette with her lips. The air is saturated
with sparkles, sweet wet snow dots zip toward
the camera’s eye like eye drops, like pregnant
little novas ready to explode.

Starfish cluster together, look like hands forming
the relief effort, all except the applause, or maybe
just a hundred reaching tongues in search of  honey.

I am a robot with one antenna, yellow eyes,
metal skin.  I hope to carry the beautiful red dressed
woman from the lake before I short out or rust up.  
That can’t be part of these stories.

[Leanne]

Somewhere between the notes that tremble in the throat of some cosmic guitar,
in a far, fireborn galaxy with only one simple sun, a lifegiving aureole,
where the whole of existence resonates with unified melody
and the free stars blink to the backbeat of the most divine drum,
I will hum my life to the primeval mass that swims in a sea of space.
The embrace of this exulted nothingness shall pulse with the blue
that begs to renew the shattered, tatterdemalion desires –
those first fires will rekindle a spark that hid in subsonic ice.
Is the price of a universe too high? Or worse, will the sale be made
and, unplayed, will the planets remain tone deaf and voiceless?
Will I, breathless, be unable to form the tune that lets me stand?
As my hand reaches into the darkness of your unfettered world
I am hurled beyond the song, and can only listen.

[just mercedes]

Wow Leanne. Intricate rhyme scheme, like a dance.

[Achebe]

I am a big fan of rhyming in between the lines - far more natural than end rhyming, and less obvious a device than enjambment. This is beautiful.