Self Portrait

I think I must be very ugly.

How can I be annoyed with others,

when I do the same or worse?

As soon as I pinpoint someone else's fault

it comes bubbling up through my own skin

like a giant greasy zit.

How can I easily hide the truth

with rotten flower-words?

That's what he did,

and I hated him for it,

so why do I do the same?

How can I feel so damn entitled?

Today a man asked me to feed him.

I told him I didn't have money,

but I did.

I walked a block and crossed the street,

then doubled back and gave him my orange.

How ungenerous.

To need a block and a half

to decide to feed a hungry man.

How ugly.

Möbius Strip

Life with you is like a circle,

twisted once for good measure.

A gut-wrenching trip

that always ends right

where it began.

Round and round...

...and round...

Faster and faster...

...and more nauseating

each and every time.

I don't think I can bear it again.

-----

Prompt: Write a poem based on the concept or idea of a "Mobeus strip."

Truth

He sat there,

drinking like a fish,

consuming enough bourbon

to knocked a man out.

He was a happy drunk:

jovial and flirtatious,

at all the wrong times

and with all the wrong people.

It was an act of mourning.

He drank because he'd lost a child,

a grandson.

Lost him to a fit of stupidity,

with a woman who didn't care.

He laughed because he felt like crying,

and drank to forget the truth.

----

Notes: My prompt was "Write a poem that begins with a description of an event, telling what appears to be happening. Then give a description of what is really occurring."

Between us

There is so much between us

too much

miles of tundra condensed

into a single sheet of glass.

We stand back to back

separated by inches of miles.

The glass has broken before,

shattered by circumstances

that you control.

The shards always rain down on me.

Cutting and tearing,

destroying everything that I've built.

I'm the one who gets hurt

and you never turn

to help pick up the pieces.

It's tragic--

replacing the glass with brick.

Even if you finally turn around,

you won't be able to reach me.

Earth & Sky

I could see the storm coming for miles,
angry bright flashes among ominous clouds.

I could feel the change in the wind,

suddenly cool and agitated,

herding the leaves,

burning against my cheeks.

The darkness ate the sky,

smothered the hazy blue sky.

Immense. Powerful. Awful.

I could have passed by the seed

a hundred times and never noticed it.

Tiny and insignificant, I could hold it in my palm.

I pressed it to the earth and turned my back.

While I was gone the earth created

something out of nothing.

Tiny. Powerful. Incomprehensible.

----

Notes: Today's prompt was ""This and That"- Write a list of phrases such as "salt and pepper", "cats and dogs", "love and war". Write a poem with the first stanza about the first word and the second stanza about the second word." I like how this one turned out.

Ripples

Last night I dreamt I stood
between an old woman and a child
in a place where the black ground
rippled like water.
You hurried past us, no backward glances,
leaving a stormy wake.
The child shrieked after you
stomping out large ripples, uncomprehending.
The old woman watched you go, silent.
Her tears made plinking tiny ripples.
You didn't notice, and she,

unlike the child, was unsurprised.
I made no ripples at all.

The dream turned on its head,
changing black to white,

and in that surreal moment,
I was both old woman and child.

Luxor

always sits,

watching us intently,

forever patient and understanding.

His eyes: too light, penetrating.

I wonder how deeply he sees,

how much of us he really understands.

His eyes are much too insightful, too intelligent.

His whiskered eyebrows bounce, creasing to show his concern.

He is never far away, our eternally faithful furry guardian.

----

Notes: This poem was based on the prompt "Write a poem that starts with a one word title, two words in the first line, three in the next, and continues by adding one word per line. (Variation: use as a prose exercise.)" I apologize for falling off the one-a-day bandwagon.... I fear that with the start of summer and my upcoming move, I've had other things to worry about. I will do my best to pick up the pace once I've gotten settled in.

Auction

Why should we value an oil portrait

painted of a stranger by a stranger?

Or an exotic tamed monkey?

What use could there possibly be

in the fibula of a long-dead saint?

Why do we dress up in austere clothing

and march in pairs into distinguished halls

to wave bills about like fans?

Such a bizarre, barbaric ritual.

"Starting bidding for the nude cupid statue

at ten thousand dollars."

"Ten thousand!"

"Ten thousand from the gentleman

in the garish sport coat.

Do I have fifteen thousand?"

"Fifteen thousand!"

"Yes, fifteen thousand from the veiled lady

with the diamond ring and pearl earrings.

Do I have twenty thousand?"

"Twenty thousand!"

"Twenty thousand from the woman

with the sapphire brooch.

Do I have twenty-five thousand?

Going once, going twice....

SOLD, to the woman with the sapphire brooch."

----

Note: Today's prompt was: "List ten items that you would buy at an auction, or tag sale. Write a poem including those items. You may chose to title your poem, "Things Found At An Auction". Variation, have someone else create a list for you." Not my favorite, so far. I'm really not a fan of prompts that ask me to use lists of items in my poem. I think they're just awkward. Oh well. I did the best I could.

The same

I was surprised yesterday,

when I fell back

and actually hit the floor.

I think I became too dependent,

too used to you catching me.

Expectant and ungrateful.

The day before yesterday

I condemned mannerless children

who make demands without thanks,

without thought for anyone else.

I condemned him for forgetting me

when he didn't need my help,

for turning his back and leaving.

Today I realize that I am the same.

Too little, too late:

you're already gone.

----

Notes: Today's prompt was: "Write a poem concerning the "absence" of something. Consider the absence as a positive, or a negative." I wasn't particularly in the mood for writing a poem about absence, but I put my best effort into it anyway. I hope it came out okay.

A cello's anatomy

Every day he waited patiently
to feel her cool fingers on his spine,
for her to draw her bow across his strings.
He waited to sigh in ecstacy
under her gentle caress.

Today was no different.
As she approached, he felt his
metronome begin to tick faster.

----

Notes: The prompt for this one was to write a poem using metronome... it turned out to be harder than I thought it would be.

Chain-link fence

A web of cold metal
spun out of spite.
Her fingers strained
toward the warmth
that she could see,
but not touch.
Her frostbitten knuckles
bled.

It was the finest torture.

----

Notes: The prompt for this one was "chain-link fence"

Saturated

The air was a sponge

gluttonously filling itself,

packing itself as full as it could,

til it was too full to breath,

suffocating and heavy.

Saturated.

And then it exploded

into a myriad of light

refracting rainbow drops

plummeting to the earth,

flashing their blinding vibrance,

full, bright and colorful.

Saturated.

They crashed into them,

onto their lips of flint and tinder,

into the space between them,

too full to bear, about to explode.

Saturated.

----

Notes: I apologize for how long I've been away. I finished my last final exam today, so I should be more reliable from now on. I'll try to catch up on the prompts I missed over the next week.

Anyway, the next prompt from The Journal was to write a poem using three different definitions of the word saturated.

My house

My house is big and beautiful and green.

Because green is my favorite color.

I helped paint it.

I held the paintbrushes

while Daddy stood on the ladder.

Mommy has lots of gardens,

but there are never flowers.

Except for the yellow ones near the house

and the pink one in the forest

that I'm not supposed to pick.

She says it's because of the trees.

I don't understand. I like the shade.

There's a snake in the woodpile.

Daddy caught it and showed me.

It's skin was slippery and cool,

like the hose when Mommy waters the flowers.

He wouldn't let me hold it.

He didn't want me to get bit.

I asked Daddy if it was a boy or a girl.

He didn't know.

I think it's a boy.

Daddy caught me a frog, too.

I kissed it, but it didn't turn into a prince.

I kissed it again, to make sure.

The carpet in my room is orange.

Mommy wants to change it.

She says it's ugly.

But I like my orange carpet.

Mommy promised me green carpet, though.

I guess new carpet would be okay.

There's lots of planes.

Mommy says they land near our house.

She wears things in her ears at night

because they're too loud.

My brother and I always check

to make sure they're not UFOs.

They're so loud and so bright.

They can't be normal planes.

I have a swing-set, with monkey bars.

I like to do the monkey bars.

I'm good because I practice a lot.

The swings on my swing-set are green.

Mommy and Daddy gave it to me for Christmas.

We have a big hill in the backyard.

During the winter, Daddy piles up snow

until we can sled from the deck.

It's fun, but there's lots of trees at the bottom.

My brother bought a snowboard

at a yard sale with his allowance.

It's pink.

He's really bad at it and he always falls.

I like sledding, especially on the green sleds.

They're round and they spin really fast.

Sometimes Daddy sleds with me.

Behind the hill there's a swamp.

During the summer it smells funny

and there's lots of bugs.

I don't like bugs.

During the winter, it freezes.

My brother and I walk on the ice

until we can't see the house anymore.

There's a tree on its side.

It's roots stick up like fingers,

reaching to grab me

and bring me to another world.

----

Notes: Since I didn't get to write a poem yesterday, I wrote two today to make up for it. This is the fourth prompt on The Journal. The prompt was: "Write a poem that describes a walk through a house from the perspective of a child." I liked this prompt.

Why?

Why am I me?

I was born as me;

I don't know how

to be anyone else.

But why was I born?

I was lucky.

I was one of millions of eggs.

I was at the right place

at the right time.

Was it fate?

I don't know,

no one ever really knows.

At least not while they're living.

What does it mean, to be living?

It means having a pulse.

It means thinking.

It means vibrance.

I can't explain it.

Why not?

Because I'm human.

I'm a candle

next to the sun,

overshadowed by the light.

----

Notes: Today's prompt: "Write a series of questions and answers to compose a poem." I didn't really like having to write in questions and answers, and I'm not thrilled with the final poem. I do like the last three lines, however. Perhaps I will be able to use them (or some modification thereof) in a future poem.

the faults of a sparrow

he was an eater of seeds

a generally harmless common creature

content with anything in small amounts

blunt-beaked and stubby

not at all extraordinary

she had seen a thousand sparrows

it was not him but the ruthless eagle

that she caught her eye

----

Notes: I'm currently sitting the the Newhouse labs waiting for my videos to export, so I decided to take on prompt #2. I was amazed by how little I had to say about sparrows! This is what I managed to come up with... thoughts?

The prompt was: "Write a free verse poem using "sparrows."

Watching

Sun always watches from afar:

watches flowers burst into vibrant colors,

watches the slow, inevitable changing of seasons,

watches the heinous deeds of humanity

performed with false certainty of privacy.

Sun watches everything, knows everything,

except for the existence of Moon,

who watches Sun,

from the protective shadow

of her brother Earth.

Sun is too caught up in watching

to notice he is being watched.

----

Notes: So, the first prompt on The Journal is "Write an Anaphora poem. An Anaphora is 'the repetition of a word or expression several times within a clause or within a paragraph.' In poetry the repetition of the phrase can be just at the beginning of each line, setting the tone as a meditation or a mantra, or it can be utilized more subtlety within the poem. The poem can be free verse or prose style." I decided that I'm going to go in order so that I don't accidentally miss one. The word I chose to repeat was "watch."

Update

So, NaPoWriMo is now over. Next, I intend to work through the 53 poetry prompts found on The Journal. For those of you who would like to join me, you are more than welcome. Post it in the comments so that I can follow your progress as we go forward. There are 53 prompts, and I'm going to try to keep up the one-a-day posts, so I should be finishing up this list sometime in the middle of June, at which point I will be looking for suggestions for more prompts to take up. Happy writing!

Reflection on NaPoWriMo

First off, I'd like to thank all of those who have taken time to read and comment on my poems. Receiving feed back from you all helped to make the NaPoWriMo challenge a ton of fun.

My decision to take the NaPoWriMo challenge was a very last minute one: I decided that I was going to participate at 8PM April 1st. I was emotionally and physically at the end of my rope, and in desperate need of a constructive way to let out negative energy and my feelings. I stumbled upon the NaPoWriMo challenge when an acquaintance made a post about it on Facebook. It was a fateful encounter. After doing some quick research and some soul searching, I decided that I had found the outlet I had been searching for, and I decided to take the challenge.

Given that I was stressed before starting the challenge and April is the last month before finals, it was probably not the wisest decision, but I've long sense decided that wisdom is overrated, and the NaPoWriMo challenge is something I wanted to do. So I did it. I successfully completed a poem a day for the entire month, a feat I wasn't sure I'd be able to achieve and that I am now very proud to declare.

The only thing left is to select my top three poems for submission. I know which three I like the best, but I'm always curious to hear other people's opinions. Do you specifically remember any of my poems that you particularly liked? Please leave a comment if you have an opinion one way or another.

Thank you for taking the time to read my poems, and I look forward to reading and writing more poetry with you all in the future!

NaPoWriMo #30 - Free Day and Farewell

Burning

Every second of every day

is consumed by burning.

It's what people do,

something we all have in common.

We burn with passion,

anger, desire, regret.

Even our tears cannot

extinguish our burning.

We burn brightly

because we are temporary.

We burn everything we have

from the inside out,

then implode,

like a human super nova.

And then the burning is gone

leaving behind a cold husk

that's nothing like what we were

when we were still burning.

----

Notes: So, I couldn't think of any prompts that I had failed to write to that I wanted to write, so I decided to revisit the elemental prompt and take on a new element. I did water the first time, so I decided to tackle fire this time around.

Liar

I knew you were lying

the second I saw her,

watched you together:

clinging, disgusting,

like a pair of mating slugs.

It turned my stomach,

both the sight and

the sudden realization

that absolutely nothing

had changed.

----

Notes: I wanted to write on prompt, but today's prompt was related to headlines. I'm part of a journalism school, and I'm so sick of all things journalism related that I wanted nothing to do with today's prompt. So, this is my submission to NaPoWriMo #29, which is really just a second intuition poem, sans free write. I liked yesterday's poem, and my free write was intuition based, but the poem just wasn't.

NaPoWriMo #28 - Intuition

I wonder

I wonder what it's like

to watch the world

speed away without you,

to be left alone

while the wind blows away

pieces of what you once were,

to be conscious of your own fading

into the unremembered, into oblivion,

to become faceless, nameless,

some benevolent giver of life.

I wonder what it's like

to have a future written in stone

and a past of vanishing sand.

Free write:

When I remember my “a-ha moment” from my past, I understand the place I am meant to go with my words and poetry today is somewhere. There's no wrong place for poetry to take you, no wrong place for poetry to go. I'll go wherever the wind blows me, whether it be an enchanted forest or a volcano perched on the edge of eruption.

I realized on a day that there was nothing particularly special about that I am going to die. That's right: I'm not immortal and I won't be young forever. Everything around me is temporary. My world is even more temporary than I am. By the time my grandchildren are born (assuming I have grandchildren), everything will be different. None of them will know what a DVD is, and they'll probably never have been to a movie that isn't 3D. I wonder if I'll get lost in the confusion. If I'll slowly slip away into the sands of time until there's no one left who knows that I existed.

It's a sad thing, being left behind. Possibly even sadder than dying. I don't remember even the names of my great-great grandparents, let along further back. It makes me feel guilty. I wonder if I'll be remembered. If someday someone will be proud to have me as an ancestor, or if I'll be a faceless giver of life.

I'm much more likely to be faceless.

----

Notes: Well, my free write was focused upon my intuition (especially the last line of it), but somehow that didn't quite come across in the poem. Though I did focus on the same subject that my a-ha moment surrounded.

NaPoWriMo #27 - Let Someone Else Take the Lead

For my dearly beloved,

Everything you could ask for and more

But not the thing you really want,

Really need...

Unnecessary things only

And things you don't want

Right when you don't need them...

You didn't actually expect more, did you?

----

Notes: February is my birth month. I chose it because it has so many things associated with it, and I didn't feel like writing an acrostic poem that was actually about myself.

I haven't written an acrostic poem since elementary school. They're not one of my favorites, but they're more interesting than I remember them being (and they accomplish the task of easing us into the final stretch quite nicely.... but let's not think about that. It's too sad).

NaPoWriMo #26 - Getting Scrappy

I'm not my brother's keeper

How many times must I let you break me

before I hold you at arms length?

How many times must I

allow you to hurt me?

Am I bad for wanting

you to just go away?

Don't get confused:

I do still love you.

That's an obligation

of being siblings

But it doesn't mean

I want you near.

You used me up.

My patience

is all gone.

There is

nothing

left.

Free write

Phrase: Am I my brother's keeper?

Oh, the irony. That it was said by Cain, when the Lord asked about his brother, Abel, whom he had killed. Siblings, anger, and the desire to kill all in one neat little package.

Do we deny association to deny guilt?

I don't. I deny association and refuse to be associated with him because I can't handle it. He tears me apart and destroys me. Every time I let him get close, I inevitably walk away bleeding. Lies do a lot more damage than blows, no matter how hard they might be. I've had enough of cowering in the corner and letting him walk all over me.

I am not my brother's keeper. It's not an easy thing to say. There's a part of me that wishes I was strong enough to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him back onto the right path. To make him understand how much his lies hurt. It hurts me to admit I can't do it. I feel guilty for deserting him.

It's not that I've given up. Not quite. I just don't want to get hurt anymore. It's like a shield, that I'm reluctant to let down.

I am not my brother's keeper. It's not my responsibility.

I'm not my brother's keeper. I need to learn to let go.

-----

Notes: Earlier on today, I wrote a highly experimental piece, and I'm not sure how well it came out. I'm currently sitting in a lab waiting for a video to render, so I decided to write another. I really enjoyed the phrase prompt, and had started a second freewrite based on a second phrase. Here is the conclusion of that start.

Apocalypse

When Man was created,

He was good.

A protector, a name-giver.

Then entered corruption:

vile, profane,

slithering up,

twining round

our souls.

Then incest-

Lot's daughters-

the destruction of purity,

the birth of monstrosity.

What is humanity now?

Where are we going?

Is there anything left?

The world is ending.

----

Notes: This is my submission to NaPoWriMo #26; it's off prompt. I wanted to play with combining words and the images together into the same poem. So, this is my depiction of the corruption of humanity through the degradation of language. I hope that it communicates clearly.

NaPoWriMo #25 - First Things First

I really hate this graphics project

"I really hate this graphics project,"

is what she said to me,

and though it's not in my nature,

I'm inclined to agree.

I don't feel like going,

there's nothing more to say,

but since the meeting's scheduled

I've got no choice today.

There are scant few minutes

til out the door I go

In those minutes I've written,

though it's not my best work, I know.

-----

Notes: Okay, I found out shortly after reading this prompt that I have to be at a meeting for a group project in a couple of minutes. (Meaning I have very little time to write this). Ironically, that means that the first thing I heard after the prompt was "I really hate this graphics project." So, this little poem/rant is an expression of my frustration.

NaPoWriMo #24 - Find a Phrase

the leopard

i wonder sometimes

how it felt to be trapped

trapped in his own skin

he could never escape

from his mistakes

from his past

from his spots

he had tattooed them on with ink

in a dusty cellar

before he knew better

before he understood

that they would never come off

or maybe someone else

tattooed them on him

while he was sleeping

maybe he didn't even know

it didnt matter

the world didnt care what happened

She didnt care what happened

he had spots

and that was that

he was stuck on a path

he hadnt chosen

and there was no way

to go back

he was a prisoner

in his own skin

Freewrite

Phrase: A leopard cannot change its spots.

This English proverb originated from the Bible, in the chapter of Jeremiah. It talks about how a sinner is no more capable of changing his ways than a leopard is capable of changing his spots. Are we all fated to be stuck? Stuck on some path, that we choose when we're young, before we know better? Is it really true that you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

A leopard cannot change its spots. No matter how hard he tries, he'll always be spotty and dirty and not good enough. I think leopards are beautiful, even if no one else does. Why would they ever WANT to change their spots?

Sometimes I think that beauty is found in the imperfections: the mole on the side of a supermodels face, or your tendency to flush bright red when you're embarrassed. Like watching you turn into a giant, angry tomato.

A leopard cannot change its spots. That's such a sad statement. I remember in Tarzan, when Jane's mother tells Tarzan that he's a spot and Jane is a stripe, and that no matter what Tarzan does, he'll always be a disgraceful spot. Thinking back on it, I guess that this was a reference to this proverb.

So some of us are spots, some of us are stripes and some of us have no pattern at all. I wonder which I am. Probably no pattern what so ever. I'm not chic enough to be a stripe, yet also not outlandish enough to be a spot. I guess I'm kind of boring, really. But that's okay. Like the proverb says, I cannot change what I am. Nor do I want to.

NaPoWriMo #23 - Unlikely Couples

A girl and her dolls

I think I've owned one or two,

I'm not sure because they never

made much of an impression on me.

I never liked girly things,

like playing dress up or putting on makeup,

unless it was forcing my brother to be my model,

but then it was fun for an entirely different reason.

I never played with them,

they sat in a net on my wall

collecting dust.

I used to pretend they were fishes

being hauled out of the ocean,

their cries of "help me, help me"

muffled by the absence of water

to fill their gills.

They were wholly uninteresting,

but sometimes I could transform them

into fishes or crocodiles or enemy soldiers

and battle them with my ruler-sword

(or gun, if I felt like playing in modern times,

for a change).

My playground was the world next door,

and really, who needs dolls there?

---

Notes: I had no idea what to write for this prompt, so I ended up writing about something I didn't like that I should, rather than the other way around. A twist on the prompt, but still applicable, methinks. X.x

NaPoWriMo #22 - A Wordle

Rust

Things eat at you

when you're left alone.

When there's no one else

to wipe away your tears

and they're left on your face

to fester, to rust.

Looking at me,

you might think I had freckles

across my cheeks

and beneath my eyes,

that I sat too long in the sun

without protection,

allowing my skin to burn

leaving a myriad of colored splotches

in the wake of its peeling.

Would you ever suspect

that I was rusting?

Right before your eyes,

every moment I get closer

and closer

to falling apart.

-----

Notes: Looking at today's wordle, "rust" was the one word that really stuck with me. So I based a poem around it. :)

NaPoWriMo #21 - Perfectly Flawed

Perfection

Perfection exists

in the realm of nothingness.

No person has ever seen it,

no object has ever touched it;

There is no proof of perfection.

Does perfection exist?

------

Notes: This poem was (admittedly) written very quickly. I have a lot of school work to get done tonight, but if I finish early I may revisit the prompt (or write something off prompt) to make up for it.

Solar Eclipse

I remember you were a golden sun

with eyes that glistened bright like morning rain.

You were as wild as raging rivers run
once just as sweet and just as free of pain.

I remember I looked to you,

as adventurous sailors seek the stars
forever lost upon the ocean blue
or sitting drunk in weary seaside bars.

Now you have fallen, without any grace,
like a great bird with broken battered wings.
Your terrible, bloody, deceitful, face
now shows the plain and awful truth of things:
if you had really flown so very high,

the fall would certainly have made you die.

----

Notes: So, I wrote this sonnet a couple months ago. When I saw the today's NaPoWriMo prompt, I dug it up so that I could post it, because it suits the prompt perfectly. That being said, I did write a new hero poem (see below).

NaPoWriMo #20 - The Hero Poem

Storybook Hero

I plucked you from a storybook

complete with your plastic sword

and fearless stead -- a pony in truth,

but faithful nonetheless.

I prescribed you many traits:

courage, honesty, strength.

When I was scared,

I painted you with war paint

using my mother's eye-shadow.

When I was happy,

I polished your crown 'til it shone.

Until I closed the book

and looked You in the eyes.

NaPoWriMo #19 - Light bulb moments

Human

How many years did I live

under the impression that you were perfect?

A saint. No, an angel. Infallible and righteous.

I still think so, sometimes. Most of the time.

Unless I'm reminded otherwise.

It was a flash of unexpected anger

when your eyes, ever calm, teared up.

You didn't cry, but nearly.

It struck me

the moment the gale of your anger

reached my ears.

I don't remember the exact words,

but it sounded like

"I'm only human."

NaPoWriMo #18 - meow!

Well, I've kind of already written a cat poem, see Mittens, but I will do my best to write a second.

House cat

Sometimes he's all purrs,

sitting there in the sun

eyes closed, apparently relaxed

his thrashing tail the only sign

of impending mischief.

But it's over in a flash

and then he's a fluffy mass

of pounce, destroy and bite.

Wild, fierce, like his cousins

who must be fierce to survive.

Instinct, I guess.

But then he's tired,

and the only battle left to fight

is over which bed he should sleep on.

NaPoWriMo #17.2 - Something elemental

Necessary

She had always wished

to be as necessary to him as water,

to be something he couldn't live without.

She knew it was selfish,

that it was impossible,

that it was foolish, even.

But that didn't stop

the stab of envy in her breast

every time she watched him

raise his glass to his lips

and sip, eyes closed in contentment.

NaPoWriMo #17.1 - Something elemental

The Power of Water

She had always been conscious

of the fact that her body was 70 percent water

and proud of it, too.

She had seen often enough

how water could carve its way through rock

with only persistence and time for tools.

It was gentle, yet powerful.

Soothing, yet destructive.

It was such a beautiful contradiction,

one she strove to emulate.

NaPoWriMo #16 - What's that smell?

Okay, for today’s prompt we had to write a 5 minute free write on a smell and then write a poem based upon that free write. I’m going to post the poem first, and then the free-write below it, so that you can read my inspiration.

Mittens

He was a storm cloud with wide yellow eyes

and a kink for having his tail pulled.

I remember him being beautiful,

but in the eyes of a child all things are.

He was too skinny, but I never realized.

He was sick, but he still took care of me.

He curled around my head like a lion:

Glaring. Watchful. Arrogant, despite his size.

Even then he smelled sick.

Like urine and sickness and death.

I was too young to know,

I’d never smelt it before.

Sometimes I think he really was a lion,

forced into a much smaller body.

That’s why he died,

because his body couldn’t handle it.

Scent: cat urine

I remember how weak he was. He couldn’t always make it to the litter pan. How long was he sick before we realized it? How long did he take care of me while I was sick before I realized it?

I remember his fur smelled like urine. I didn’t clean the litter pan, so I didn’t know it at the time, but years later, when I got a cat of my own, I finally realized what it was.

I remember he lay on my pillow, next to my head, watching over me, glaring at anyone who dared to come near me. Protecting me. His eyes were like an owl’s, and even then he was too skinny for it to be healthy. I can’t believe I never realized it, how sick he was, I mean. And he still had the time and the patience to take care of me. Animals are amazing.

I remember my pillow smelled like his fur for months after he died. Cat urine is a hard thing to get out. I remember holding him in my arms when he was a ball of fluff. He was so cute, like a storm cloud with big yellow eyes. I remember how he actually liked having his tail pulled. What a strange cat.

I remember how weak he was. I remember being unable to turn my back when he was put to sleep, even though I didn’t want to watch. It was raining. The mums were in bloom. We brought home three red mums to plant on his grave. Mums don’t usually survive the winter, but those did, and I was glad.

I remember my mom wrapped him in a towel. We didn’t unwrap him before we buried him. I think we didn’t want to see the body. So we buried him, towel and all. He has a headstone, too, but since there are so many rocks in the area, it’s hard to find unless you know where to look.

I remember going to visit him, a couple of times. I need to go more often. I don’t live there all the time any more, but he was precious, so I should visit him. I wish I could visit him. I’ll never forget him.

NaPoWriMo #15 - Carrying a tune

Ok... I think I should be upfront about this: I can't carry a tune to save my life. In other words, this cannot go well.

Their skin fit beautifully

It impacted her strikingly,

how their skin fit wonderfully.

She stared fretfully

thinking hers fit awfully.

Her eyes simply couldn't see

that her skin fit-- it was meant to be.

She'd fill out like a sapling tree

if only she would let it be.

NaPoWriMo #14.2 - You want me to write a what?

Ok. As promised, here is my second attempt at yesterday's prompt.

Edit: After reading through some of the other cleaves posted (which I couldn't see before because I posted this from my phone), I realized that I was doing this entirely wrong. I apologize for my failed cleaves, and I will try to do better in the future. T.T

Her mind

She was in a desert
where there was nothing.
No cacti, no oasis, no end,
not even a scorpion to sting at her feet.
There was sand,
but after hours of walking,
hours of it scalding her souls
that too was reduced to nothing.
Baren. Parched. Even her frustrated tears
did nothing to quench it.

It was raining watermelons,
baby kangaroos and munchkins,
and small creatures--never before seen
from the bottom of the sea
with headlights on their eyelashes.
Too much, too fast!
Her mind overflowed
in a flood of multicolored paint
scrawling with reckless abandon a rough imitation of her flood.

Her mind was by nature a cyclic beast.
There was no mean that it strove to attain
nor any certain predictability.
She found there was no use pondering it.
Instead, she opted to simply let her mind
borrow her hands when it had something in it.

NaPoWriMo #14.1 - You want me to write a what?

Okay, this is my first attempt. I will probably come back and attempt to write another later today, but I'm not sure I'm going to have time, so I'll post this for now.

Their skin

Her skin was too tight.
It constrained her,
squeezing so hard it burned.
Pointing her into the future
like a straight jacket.

His skin was too loose.
He swam through it
lost and confused
trying to find his heart
in the endless void.

Their skin fit beautifully.

He leant her some of his spare skin,

and, unwittingly, his heart.

He freed her from her straight jacket.

She found his heart and filled the abyss.

Together, their skin was beautiful.

NaPoWriMo #13 - Smoke a Dubie

Kisses

A kiss is like a dress falling off a tall building.

Sometimes it flutters, slowly, softly, to the ground

delicate, intricate white lace pooling at his feet.

Other times a bead sewed to your breast drags it down

bringing it crashing to the floor, and in the confusion,

you're not quite sure what has happened, or why,

or even who you are any more.

One time, it slipped off your shoulders like it was velvet,

leaving tingles and rays of introverted sun in its wake,

and you weren't even sure when the dress hit the ground

because your sun was shining too brightly

for you to see anything else.

NaPoWriMo #12 - Secret Code

Daylilies

I sit in my mushroom throne

surrounded by daylily courtesans.

They'll only last a day

and then I'll be tired of them

and their constant simpering.

But they can't really help themselves.

Flowers are the sex of plants, after all.

Soft petals, wet with nectar,

chasing after bees,

who are already pledged to another.

How lewd! How common!

It's no wonder I can only

tolerate them for a day

before wishing them gone!

But so long as it is summer,

there will always be more daylilies.

NaPoWriMo #11 - The Thing You Didn't Choose

A Poem to You

It's been a while, hasn't it?

Since I walked away.

It's not a choice that I regret,

but it's made me different today.

You could have been my lover,

but it wasn't in the cards.

You were far too immature,

so the choice wasn't even hard.

I've never liked to compromise,

so when you asked me to choose

it was easier to walk away

than to walk a mile in your shoes.

As a result I'm alone,

without you by my side.

Free to do as I like,

but part of me has died.

NaPoWriMo #10 - Celebrate!

The last two prompts have been really hard for me, and I haven't been in an especially poetic mood, so I hope this came out okay.

21

I'm an adult now

in the eyes of everyone.

The government finally

acknowledges my independence.

There is nothing I can't do,

no rights left to gain,

no barriers left to cross.

It seems kind of sad.

Something so cherished,

so anticipated,

passed almost uneventfully.

No fireworks,

no dancing in the streets,

just a quiet admission of age

on a day not so unlike

every other day.

NaPoWriMo #9 - Your Mission

For today's prompt, we had to write a poem that contained 12 words from a list, a bitter taste and a couple words from a poem that hadn't quite worked.

My twelve words were: flap, pail, jug, lever, octopus, marionette, rug, jam, limp, startle, bruise, walker. The poem that I took a chunk from was my response to Prompt #2, acronym.

On a side note, this is the longest poem I've written so far, and also the first one to rhyme.

How to Catch an Octopus

You'll need a pail of sardines

and some tuna jam

and a jug of sea greens

for if an emergency comes to hand.

Promise him a walker,

for every octopus longs to walk.

Slowly pull the lever,

tell him you want to talk.

Make sure he doesn't see the closing of the net.

Then raise him with a length of cord

til he dangles like a marionette

and let him struggle til you're bored.

Watch him in silence

as he flaps in the breeze.

But keep your distance,

for he has yet the strength to squeeze.

Don't startle the beast

or he'll ink

spewing black where you want it least

til it hurts to blink.

Don't be startled by his desperation

or his willingness to bruise.

There's no cause for admiration

of a creature who can't even wear shoes.

He'll never walk or even limp

or learn to cut a rug.

It's a wonder he's not extinct

when he's less capable than a bug.

Sell him to the market man

for a pocket full of change.

Then walk away, while you still can.

Don't look back til you're out of range.

Don't worry, the bitter taste is normal.

It's just the ink, nothing more.

You've done nothing abysmal.

You're no different than you were before.

NaPoWriMo #8 - Unusual Love Connections

The five metaphors I ended up coming up with were indian summer, day lily, crocus, first frost and ice cream. I ended up writing about a crocus.


The First Flower

A crocus
pushed its way through the ice
accumulated over months of bitter cold.

He appeared overnight,
a spot of vibrance in the endless white.
Maybe he always existed
under the snow,
and I failed to notice him
before he bloomed.

He was the first flower.
Unexpected. Beautiful.
Short lived.

By the time the insects began to chirp
he was gone.
Leaving behind only a clump of crinkled brown
to prove that he had existed.

NaPoWriMo #7 - Love, Funny Side Up

Our assignment for day 7 was to write a funny love tanka... for details on what this form entails, visit the Read Write Poem Website.

the night they met

a lewd comment overheard followed by a slap

a beer pitcher poured over his head in anger

another he stood by watching

impressed by her fire

their relationship began when he apologized

NaPoWriMo #6 - Converse with Images

Today's prompt was to write a poem based off of an image and the memories associated with it...

Back then

I still remember

standing with you in front of the camera

with our chubby cheeks and jack-o-lantern smiles

giving each other bunny ears like it was an Olympic sport.

Me, in my garish fuschia leggings

that only a child could wear and not be embarrassed.

You, in a hand-me-down shirt from our older neighbor.

I still remember

what it felt like when the world was small.

Back then, my favorite animal was the t-rex,

and you played the trombone.

Back then, we collected Pokémon cards,

even though we didn't know what to do with them.

Back then, I still understood you.

NaPoWriMo #5 - Make Your Poetry Personal

So today's prompt was to personify our poetry and give it a name.... It actually wasn't as hard as I thought it would be after I came up with a name.

Poetry

You are Ash,

short for Ashley,

the name I was almost given.

A part of me,

and yet completely separate.

You are Ash,

like what remains

after hurt and anger

burn through my body

and are extinguished by tears.

You are Ash,

the black chalky substance

I smear into words on the page:

imperfect, smudged,

yet beautiful in your honesty.

NaPoWriMo #4 - Inside Out

I thought this was a really hard prompt....

In the twenty-first century

In the twenty-first century

it is no longer sufficient

to wear your heart

on your sleeve.

You must also

wear your large intestine

as a belt,

wear your small intestine

as a scarf,

carry your mind

as a handbag

to hold your worries,

and don your stomach

as a vest.

Your skin is

naturally

your suit.

It holds the outfit together.

In the twenty-first century

everything must be understandable

at a glance,

so no one has to take the time

or put down their blackberry

to actually look.

NaPoWriMo #3 - Scared Yet?

The prompt for the 3rd poem was to write about something that scared or unnerved us.

Time

I'm caught in a riptide:

I cannot swim against it.

It cannot be fought.

It drags me

further from child-like certainty,

further from the shore,

going ever faster,

blurring into the future.

I can only tumble,

uncertain,

into the unknown.

NaPoWriMo #2 - Acronym

Hmmm... I'm not sure I'm happy with this one...

Rare Witch Project

Crocodile's eyeball, testicle of a leprechaun,

fungus from between a giant's toes...

Mix in your Grandmother's pot

dusty from 50 years of neglect.

...frog urine, bat's blood,

the stomach contents of a trout...

Raise the temperature,

but don't let it boil.

...vulture's feather, a human tooth,

the big toe of a dwarf...

Stir clockwise thrice,

then reverse.

...a four-leaf clover, unicorn tears,

a rodent carcass from the side of the road...

Let it simmer, then cool.

It's almost done.

...three drops of scum,

from a fish tank uncleaned for a year.

Perfect, now take a sip.

Don't worry, gagging is normal.

A draught to bring happiness

is bitter by necessity.

NaPoWriMo #1 - Shuffle a Poem

My songs:

I'm still here - Johnny Rzeznik

Tinkerbell - James Newton Howard

These Walls - Trapt

Lullaby - Orange Appeal

Butterfly - Corinne Bailey Rae

The last night

How long

have I sat behind these walls

in the castle you built me?

These walls

made of all the finest marble

and held together

with a mortar of lies.

How come I'm still here?

Do I imagine

that a brush of Tinkerbell's wings

or a lullaby

will be enough to set this right?

I'm foolish enough.

We both know that.

But even I acknowledge

that we'll never fly again:

we're a one-winged butterfly

and I'm the only one trying.