NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 2

The prompt today is to write a poem that resists closure by ending on a question.  This doesn't actually have a question as the final line (or any line), but does raise a question, I think.

Old Man

An old man sits

in the park

on a day so blurred

one might not know

if it was morning

or evening.

The wind

ripples puddles,

blows

so comfortably cool

one might not know

if it was spring

or fall.

He takes a handkerchief

from his pocket,

lightly dabs his face.

I can't tell if he's

wiping away rain

or tears. - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 1

The prompt for today is to write a poem that provides the reader with instructions on how to do something.  Since I don't know how to do anything, here is what I came up with:

How to Write a Surrealist Poem

Start with a fish, but put it

in an unconventional situation,

for instance have it carry a briefcase

while waiting for a train at the station.

Don't allow the train to arrive.

Have the fish met instead

by a giraffe wearing roller skates

with a puffin sitting on its head.

Make the giraffe ask, "Where are you headed?"

and the fish reply, "I'm going to the moon,"

to which the giraffe will say, "Hop on my back"

as the puffin inflates a red balloon.

Let them float up into the sky

until they are well out of sight

and only visible with a telescope

when the moon comes out at night. - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWrimo 2019 Early Bird

Well, it is almost the start of National Poetry Writing Month -- NaPoWriMo -- in which we write a poem per day for the entire month of April.  An optional prompt is given each day, plus there is an Early Bird Prompt, given on March 31st.  Today's prompt is to write a poetic self portait, in which we portray ourselves in the guise of a figure from history or mythology.  Here is what I came up with.

Portrait of Myself as Vlad the Impaler

After a few hundred years

I grew weary of being remembered

for my cruelty and bloodlust

even though I brought it

upon myself

by impaling my enemies on stakes

on the grounds of my castle,

often taking meals while sitting

in the midst of their squirming,

screaming bodies as they died,

nailing turbans to the heads

of visiting Ottomans when they didn't show

the proper respect,

and performing countless

other acts of malice.

At the time it brought me

orgasmic ecstasy,

and my legend grew

feeding on fear and veneration,

like the Old Testament God.

But these things faded

over centuries.  I was dead

but my hell consisted of memories,

of reliving the horrors 

I had perpetrated

so that I felt some relief

when Mr. Stoker wrote his novel,

transforming me into a supernatural

creature of the night,

living on the blood of victims

because I had no choice.

Such a hell was comparable

to the one I was experiencing,

almost.

But further years softened me

in the minds of millions,

transforming me first into 

an eccentric but lovable

grandfather, a patriarch

to a family of friendly monsters,

and then into a mascot

promoting chocolate flavored cereal

on Saturday mornings,

and finally into a benign,

almost avuncular eccentric

with a passion for numbers 

and a quirky laugh,

whose main vocation in life

was teaching children to count. - Jeff Barnes

Foot Haiku

Even at my age

my feet keep getting bigger.

I'll soon need clown shoes. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku Lullaby

Chaos in the sky --

thunder, lightning, wind, and rain

lull me into sleep. - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Hour before dawn --

branches crisscross the full moon.

Last day of winter - Jeff Barnes

Haiku

Sunless morning drive.

In a continent of clouds --

heart-shaped lake of sky. - Jeff Barnes