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!