NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 6

Today's prompt is to write a poem of what is possible, the power of if.  Well, I started to do that in my mind and got completely off track, which led to this instead.

Elegy

It is useless

when I stand at your grave

to try to feel your essence

in the wind,

as though your ghost

lingered among the grass

and trees,

useless

to listen for your voice

in the songs of birds

simply defending

their territory

or calling for mates,

useless

to seek your spirit

in places we used to go,

for those restaurants,

stores, and

movie theaters

aren't there anymore.

Only through music

can I reach you.

The songs you loved

playing in the car

as I speed down

the highway

make me aware

0f your presence

as though you were

in the seat beside me. - Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 5

The prompt for day is to write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following:

1. the villanelle form

2. lines taken from an outside text

3. phrases that oppose each other in some way

To me, this sounded a lot more difficult than it actually was.  It came pretty easily once I got the idea of what to do, and started writing it.  In fact, it almost wrote itself.  I hope Dylan Thomas isn't spinning in his grave.

Morning Lament

(with apologies to Dylan Thomas)

Do not go gentle into dawn's light.

Nighthawks should burn and rave at the new day.

Rage, rage against the dying of the night.

Nyctophiles know that the night is right.

Would that the darkness could forever stay.

Do not go gentle into dawn's light.

It pains the eyes to see how bright

is the garish sun at the height of the day.

Rage, rage against the dying of the night.

The moon and stars are more subtly bright.

Would that they never had to fade away.

Do not go gentle into dawn's light.

The darkness should never fill you with fright.

Nothing is so soothing as a gentle moon ray.

Rage, rage against the dying of the night.

The gaudy sun in my eyes is a blight.

I long for the stars at the end of the day.

Do not go gentle into dawn's light.

Rage, rage against the dying of the night. -- Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 4

The prompt today is to write a poem that conveys sadness through simplicity.

Mother in White

She is as white

as the feathers

of a snowy egret

white as the dress

she wore at her wedding

white as the carnations

in the box outside the window

white as the porcelain Buddha

that sits on the shelf

white as the broken shells

of this morning's eggs

white as the crumpled paper

in my wastebasket

white as the bleached bones

in an anatomy lab

white as the sheets of the bed

she will die in. --  Jeff Barnes

NaPoWriMo 2019, Day 3

Today's prompt is to write a poem that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.  I am not sure I have a long, meandering poem like that to share at this point, but this little haiku sort of spans years in my mind -- my childhood home, revisited.

Haiku

House I grew up in --

when I walked through it felt like

visiting my grave. - Jeff Barnes

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