Today's poem is based on an aisling, a poem depicting a vision of a woman representing the land in which the poet lives.
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Today's goal was to employ vivid similes in the style of old timey detective novels. This is...very much outside my wheelhouse. My brain is just not creative in that way. However, my husband's brain comes up with weird stuff like that on the fly all the time, so I delegated the poem writing duties for today! Our joint efforts resulted in this, another poem about our dog. The three similes are his, the end is mine. Her face, her voice, dripping with angst like rain from the gutters.
Her not-so-silent protest hitting me like unwelcome fanfare. Her eyes focused like the point of the laser she does not chase. Quaking with pent up motion she would release in an explosion If only someone would open the door! -Alvin and Ember Chu Today we were supposed to write in the style of Kay Ryan. This was my attempt. Desensitization
Plagues the nation. All the fiction We've seen on our TV screens makes Scenes of reality Seem distant, Because everyone knows Reality shows don't Show reality At all. So we have been Conditioned Without our permission To accept television As fiction While artists And journalists Alike claim They aim to Help us see clearer By holding a mirror Up to society, But all the Lenses and frames And numbers without Names Are just more Layers between Fellow players In this Game of life. It is time We look suffering In the eye And shed a tear, Because objects In mirror are Closer than they appear. A poem with repeated sounds. I love a little alliteration.
Such a satisfying sound sensation, Repeated realization Of phonemes, form a fun foundation For a poem. Today we were supposed to start with a person we used to know, then a job we used to do, then art that has stuck with us, then close with an unanswerable question. I couldn't tie that all together without writing a novel, so I just have the beginning and the end. Tuesday night was date night
As I remember But memory is a queer thing. Why would I remember that? Why would a four year old Know a Tuesday From any other day? Why would I remember that But not have a single Distinct memory Of what we did - You, me, Stephanie, and Bonnie- Every week At your house or mine? I don't remember what games we played But I know I enjoyed those times. And I remember you. And I know you remember me. At least you did Because you found me Years later. Called me out of the blue Me now in Michigan, You in Florida. Your life was hard For one so young But your beautiful soul Was resilient. We talked for hours. That was twenty-two years ago. Why did you never call back? Why did I not get your number? Are you out there somewhere? Who did you grow up to be? For today's personification of a food, I give you a haiku. Because short. Because tired. A mother's warm hug
Not always cool to want me But I comfort you Today's prompt is to start your poem with a command. Grow up.
That's what we were told By Those who already had. The panacea For all childish ills. A mirage. Not a Band-Aid to cover your hurt, But a gag To cover your complaint. Grin and bear it So They don't have to. "Grow up," They instruct, Because that's what people see. But those who grow up Without first growing roots Will fall At the first gust of wind, Will wither At the first sign of drought. So grow down. Establish your roots deep, Safe from the trivialities Of the surface Where they will nurture you From within When the outside world Fails to provide. And spread your roots wide So the storms Which knock you about Will not topple you. They will not see The invisible growth You are accomplishing. But it is not for Them. For in first growing down You have given yourself The foundation from which to Grow up, And the freedom To bloom Without fear of the elements. Today's prompt is to write five answers to the same question. Today, I also saw the OB... I. In three weeks if she's punctual.
II. Later if she's comfortable. III. Tomorrow if she just can't wait. IV. At a moment preordained by fate. V. She will come like a thief in the night. So perhaps I will come back to yesterday's prompt at some point. Normally I like a form prompt, but I was just not feeling the curtal sonnet. Today we are told to draw inspiration from a dog we have known, and my dog, Sadie has been providing me with plenty of personality lately.
Today's prompt is to write about something we take no interest in. I find nearly everything interesting to some degree (often a very high degree), but there is one thing that inexplicably shuts down my brain and makes all curiosity die. Unfortunately, it is awfully similar to the example given by our prompt giver, which frustrated me for a time, because I wanted to be more creative than to use the given example, but you know what? It is what it is, and I am who I am, and I actually like how this poem turned out! Also, I have a meeting with my financial advisor on Monday :/ Don't tell him about this! It would be in my own interest
to take interest in interest rates or the impact of market fluctuations on my financial situation, but what can I say? knowing a 401K from an IRA makes me Roth. And wherefore said wrath? It is not the Math. For I enjoy a differential and can solve your exponential, and you might think this shows potential, but your prospecti go unread, because finance hurts my head, which is why I find it wiser to hire an advisor. Prompt: the opening scene of the movie of your life The rustling of wind through
Tall grasses Accompanied by an insect symphony Fade in from White On a grasshopper Perched on a bending blade It flies off Disturbed by (zoom out) A Toddler In a pink and white Windbreaker (keep zooming) Whose explorations are being observed by Her mother And her father carrying an even Younger child On his back The toddler laughs And tries to catch The fleeing grasshopper The camera Leaves the family to their moment To pan the arboretum As an instrumental version of "Dust in the Wind" Starts up (Can we get those rights?) Cue beginning credits Superimposed Over changing landscapes Of my life. Today we were supposed to write how "Everything is going to be amazing," and I'll be honest, I struggled. I could not be bombarded with news about the war in Ukraine, the wildfires out West, shootings, violence, refugees being refused refuge, and write such a thing without feeling disingenuous or willfully oblivious. But even those experiencing tragedy first hand have moments of hope, so I suppose we are allowed some too. She looks at the face of her friend
red eyes haunted by the vision of her smoldering home and raises her glass "This sleepover is going to be amazing." Ella mira la cara de la policía fronteriza cansada y libre de compassión y reza "El futuro va a ser increíble." She looks at the face of her babe born here in the bomb shelter and smiles "Your life is going to be amazing." She looks at the face in the mirror worry lines developing before their time and turns off the news "Everything is going to be amazing." After yesterday's prompt to write about something big, today we write about something small. A tiny green speck
Is all it will take To ruin a dish You worked so hard to make. Not to be picky, I hate to be rude, But keep that cilantro Out of my food! My first thought regarding today's prompt to write about something very large was my belly. I am feeling awfully big these days. This led to the big life change the big belly represents, which in turn led to a broader metaphor. Looming large
Like the sun on the horizon line At the transition from night to day Which appears so much bigger to the eye Though no brighter Than the same orb high above at noon, Is the greatness of the sunrise An optical illusion? Situational confusion? Perhaps, But this does not make Our experience of its size, Its import, Any less. A love poem for my hubby! You are my cup of tea
Warming me Bringing flavor to my life. I inhale your warm breath Like the steam rising from my mug Then tell you to stop stealing my oxygen. You are my brown high heeled ankle boots Giving me confidence Making me feel pretty And so comfortable. I try not to wear you out, Because I want you around for the long haul. You are my afternoon nap Refreshing me Spoiling me. I luxuriate in you Like a lizard in the sun. You are my resting place. But you are so much more Than my tea Or my boots Or my nap, Because you love me back. Today's nonet (nine lines, starting with nine syllables and losing one each line) is brought to you by Alvin's birthday! What do you want to eat for breakfast?
Chocolate covered strawberries. Birthday wishes do come true! What more do you want, Love? A day to relax. Simple desires. Let it be As you Wish. Whoops! I just reread the prompt and realized I didn't really do...basically any of it. Oh well. This is the result of me reading the prompt in the morning, forgetting most of it apparently, and writing my poem in the evening. Ember will see a dead animal on the side of the road and cry,
But I just wince, the world having worn my empathetic bones weary. Ember knows she is strong and believes she can fly, But I won't leap for lack of trust in the landing. Ember knows the names of the plants in the forest and the stars in the sky, But I have only the memory of once possessing such knowledge. Experience, prudence, wisdom: Euphemistic consolation prizes To replace what has been lost to Time. Prompt: Challenge or question a proverb or saying When it rains it pours
Like salt in your sores Compounding frustration and pain But sometimes you're resilient Or a shower feels brilliant And sometimes the rain is just rain. Sugar causes cancer (doesn't everything these days?) And damages your liver same as alcohol. Spice is not for everyone (heartburn, amiright?) And has been shown to contain toxic levels of ... something. Everything is different now. Nice is a vice. Good luck, little girl. Today's phrase acrostic comes to you from a place of being about to bring a child into a world vastly different from the one in which I grew up, of being bombarded on one side with new articles daily about how every mundane thing in your life or environment is either making you sick or killing the planet while being told on the other side, "We never worried about any of that stuff and you all turned out fine." I tend to take it all with a grain of salt, but sometimes it feels like this. Enjoy?
Prompt: Write about a mythical person or creature doing something unusual. Hunting at night had always been fun,
But Diana desired a day in the sun. Her pale complexion demanded vacation. Moonbeams just don't yield the same pigmentation. So off to her brother Apollo she went. Upon striking a deal she was intent. "Apollo," she said, "make your dear sister smile And let me drive your chariot a while." Thought he, just one day could not be a sin, As he considered the plea of his paler twin. "For one day only, you have a deal." And oh, how with glee Diana did squeal! She traded her bow for his golden reins, Checked the feed bags, and took great pains To ensure that all was in tip-top condition Before taking advantage of her given permission. For she now controlled the length of said day, And she fully intended to take the long way. So she zig-zagged and spiraled and arced through the sky, And the people below were left wondering why This day was so weird and so long and so strange, And Apollo was left to regret the exchange. Today's prompt is to write a poem in the form of a prompt. Yep. I based mine on the method I used in college for all paper and essay writing. Wait for the sun to set.
Put the kettle on to boil And throw a handful of green tea leaves In the strainer Or directly in the teapot If it's the kind with a built-in strainer in the spout. Remove the kettle from the heat Right before it whistles (You can sense it like The calm before a storm If you are paying attention). Then pour the hot water into the teapot In a thin stream From as high a place as Your skill, your physiology, and the architecture Will allow So as not to scald the delicate leaves. Exercise forty-five seconds of patience If the leaves are fresh (Longer if they are old). Drink. The whole pot. Slowly. Tiny Chinese teacupful by tiny Chinese teacupful As the world around you Goes to sleep. One by one Lights will be turned off, Cars will cease to pass by, The crickets will fall silent. The stars (if you pay attention to such things As I'm told Poets are wont to do) Will be found Where you are unaccustomed to find them Visiting strange locales. Here In the heart of night Which has no beat But is rather like the space between beats Is where you will find The words That are uniquely yours. For you are the only consciousness, The sole creator of sound In this dark Silent Space between heartbeats. Here Among the soggy tea leaves And strange stars Is your poem. Today we are tasked with writing a glosa which expands on a quatrain from another poem. I chose to use my Uncle Brian's poem from yesterday's prompt! The lines from the original poem serve as the last line in each ten line stanza. If no one hears a tree fall,
Does it make a sound? Do any still seek answers To questions most profound? And who does one believe When witnesses abound? If the target audience Determines a fact's fitness, How does one seek truth if Truths are born of witness? The lessons of this life Make of each a student. Not all will choose to learn. Those who do are prudent. Their thoughts go on in wiser ways, Minds grow and become fluent. Others blindly bumble through, Against which they are remonstrated, Those who fail to attend To what life has demonstrated. The future is unknown to all. We learn from what is past. And so we cling to memories, The only things that last, For the future can't be fathomed, And the present passes fast. You must be willing to change course, To respond with quickness When the way is blind and You can't see through a wall's thickness. Brick by brick we build up walls To hide the truth from sight, For without a witness Then none or all are right, And in the chaos, Wisdom yields Surrendering to Might. For none can see through the brick wall That we have fabricated. No, none can see through a brick wall Unless it's fenestrated. Today's task is to write a poem based on a word from Haggard Hawks' twitter feed. We've passed the vernal equinox
And thus it must be spring And one might feel secure in this On hearing the birds sing But I will not be fooled By a couple days with sun Into thinking like the crocuses That spring has really sprung. Their stripy leaves break through the soil. Admittedly, I smile. False Spring, you will not win my trust, Will not my heart beguile For I have lived here far too long An April Fool to be And sure enough on April first What do I wake to see? A fresh white blanket o'er the Earth A cruel joke to play. 'Twas afterwinter all along Disguised as a spring day. To be honest, after reading "Robert Haas's 'A Story About the Body' and A Brief History of Prose Poetry," I still don't think I know what prose poetry is. I'm not sure the author does either. What makes a bit of prose a poem? Who decides? The writer? The reader? The font? Anyway, here's my attempt at the NaPoWriMo prompt for the day. An old man stood alone in the church. Not physically. No, there were others in the pew with him, but with enough space between them that an onlooker could see they had not come together. And not spiritually either, for his voice and eyes were raised in a sort of rolling garbled unison of the "Our Father" with the rest of the congregation. But still, loneliness was on him.
He made an effort for his weekly date with God and man. His clean shirt was tucked in. His jacket was pressed and rolled free of lint. What was left of his hair was neatly combed and his beard was cleanly trimmed and oiled. "Let us offer each other a sign of peace," said the priest from his place at the front. A young family in front of the old man hugged and kissed. Then they turned around and each in turn shook the old man's hand, warm friendly grasps all - even that of the small child. "Peace be with you," they said before turning to face the altar once more. "Peace," was all the old man managed in return. There was more behind it, but it got caught behind the lump in his throat. The family did not see the glisten in his eyes, one tear in each that did not fall, but made his brown irises shine like tempered chocolate. It may have been gratitude. Or sadness. Or both. For this sign of peace was the only human touch the old man received these days. |
AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
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