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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 14: Write a poem inspired by a favorite holiday.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more.
Questions?
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What happened to day 13?
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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(04-15-2013, 04:01 AM)Todd Wrote: What happened to day 13?
sadly, I had a IRL event that kept me away for a day. I can try to do a make up.
milo
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Let's just call it a time zone glitch and pretend the universe didn't have an April 13 this year.
It could be worse
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I was trying to get away with that, but Todd outed me
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04-15-2013, 08:16 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-15-2013, 08:17 AM by billy.)
(04-15-2013, 04:01 AM)Todd Wrote: What happened to day 13? be quite please. if i have to do an extra cos of you, there will be repercussions
(04-15-2013, 04:53 AM)milo Wrote: (04-15-2013, 04:01 AM)Todd Wrote: What happened to day 13?
sadly, I had a IRL event that kept me away for a day. I can try to do a make up.
milo
too late.
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I have a solution with the poem I'll post here.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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04-15-2013, 09:06 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-15-2013, 09:06 AM by Leanne.)
The thirteenth of the month
decreed by milo and the world at large
to be poetry-free
shall forever remain sacrosanct
in memory
It was the sainted day
upon which quills were set aside
and eiderdowns, fluffed to perfection,
became the feathers of choice
and dreams, those intangible beasts
of hated abstraction
and courted surrealist being
spread silent wings across
the unshattered crystal Saturday
It could be worse
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i had a holiday today
milo the monster stayed away
no words to write, no testing text
i can't believe i wasn't vexed
expecting catch up i signed in
the day had gone i didn't sin
but milo did, and eye to eye
he clear forgot then told a big fat fuckin' lie 
no one is allowed a life outside this forum dammit
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paradigm
the clocks monday away the felted
gray they push the lay, disrobe the lay
of tuesday's faults. it is the built
array, the guilt anenome we cluster gay
about the wedneday hilts. strike and spay,
strike and spay, melt the gray of salts. we wilt
the stilted thursday's sulks. It is the malted
bray, the gilt or gelt "assay". acrimone
the lilt, the lilt, the silt of friday spalls, belted
halls. only time to vault. we vault. glorify, gestault.
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Did you hear that billy? Milo thinks you should be spayed!
It could be worse
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04-15-2013, 12:10 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-15-2013, 12:10 PM by Todd.)
Revisionist History and Time Machines
Elevators no longer skip
the thirteenth floor.
Christ no longer split
the horizon. His blood
dripping like rain.
People do not go back
in time to kill Hitler;
that is simply a side effect,
as is the child not drowning
in Crystal Lake.
Barry and Claudette lie
on a bed of dry pine needles.
Her back arching like
the blade of an axe.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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(04-15-2013, 11:40 AM)Leanne Wrote: Did you hear that billy? Milo thinks you should be spayed! it can only happen the once
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Topical cop-out
“Do tell me of a holiday
that lends itself to pretty words,
and don’t be trite, but find a way
to plumb to wordy depths unstirred.”
“Oh milo dear, you are absurd!
No trout now lingers in this pond.
You older poets ate the spawned
new fish and left this sport a bore,
and me with naught but slimy line:
‘Kris Kringle is a fatty whore!’”
I dunno, holidays don't inspire much in me but a good dose of cynicism.  Love and affection, those things people love to associate with holidays, should be everyday, and so I try to make them so common that they don't need a special day to be remember.
And I vote 'no' to a make up day for the 13th, FYI.
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August in Prague
August in Prague and only the downcast
faces of ghettos greet the players. Worry
lines the streets because August travels fast,
it warns a different type of cast. Days hurry
Haman, although he's dressed in stranger's robes.
September's trees wear Purim finery, leaves
pool the streets like castoffs from some party
Alasuerus threw. We hail Vashti's sheaves
(although she never comes!) She knows her duty
and wears her exile in Esther's fragrant globes.
Pogroms graze wearing a king's signet ring
and reap the sighs of cast and crew the same.
But who will be the one to sing
the part of Mordecai, to cry the refrain
from the gallows and pluck the tender lobes?
Friday the Thirteenth
Why don't you write a poem today?
They all will ask and I will say,
"too much work" or "just a cough"
or "jury duty" vague enough
perhaps, or maybe I was baking apple pie.
There is a camp on crystal lake
where teenagers are on the make.
I know I shouldn't let it vex me
they're teenagers they can't have sex! See
now I have to ask you all to lie.
So I was sick! Please just don't ask
about this cleaver or this mask;
they are some props I bought for Halloween.
And if the cops ask where I've been
I was writing, you are all my alibi!
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Sorry a first draft of ideas only to offer.
The school trip.
The fog of childhood fears lifted
as I hefted my suitcase and in-grafted
my burdens into the bus trunk.
Two delicious weeks of freedom
Rachel , normally to be avoided,
smiled with me. Everyone else cried.
The trip from the Midlands to St Moritz,
took 18hrs and 22 minutes
off our faces and re-mothered us.
Out of the window the foreign
views acted as make up removal,
the mountain mists - a nebuliser.
We both did our own thing.
Frightened of heights, rubbish at skiing.
I got altitude sickness.
All too soon I sat, opposite
Rachel again, our tears an apposite
tribute to the passing beauty.
All around us a happy hum
of gift and bruise sharing.
Not caring, we cried our hearts out.
The bus turned the escapees in.
Rachel’s step dad waiting.
A lift for me with a neighbour.
Concerned looks for Rachel
Nobody knew I lived alone;
both my parents had left home.
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and surprise ending indeed  did you mean knows or knew?  i enjoyed it a lot.
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Thanks for the typo Billy should be Knew (will correct this)
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It's nice to see a homage to Crystal Lake. I thought I'd have to kill a groundhog to commemorate a special day.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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in honor of the most recent holiday my family back in the US had:
April snow day
Don’t worry kids the lights and heat will be back soon,
for now it’s snuggle time! Timmy get the blankets
and Dad you boil some water, Traceybaby don’t cry…
OK YES I know the new stove isn’t gas
just turn the tap on hot and fill the kettle.
See Tracey, it’s exciting— we’ll all have tea together!
Tiffany you quit poking your brother and Timothy James
don’t you DARE dump that on her head!
Yea Tiffany that’s a good idea, why don’t you all
get out the winter trunk and go build a snowman,
but NO FORTS OR SNOWBALLS, got it?
Dad and I will just go get warm in our room now, but
we'll be watching you out the window!
_______________________________________
The howling beast is back.
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