Thirty-thirty done.
Sorry that the last two sucked.
I'm going to bed.
Showing posts with label NaPoWriMo 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NaPoWriMo 2011. Show all posts
Saturday, April 30, 2011
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Thirty
Sonnet 14
To write a poem while Bill Barnum performs
has to be the greatest sin of all.
Zen ostrich stance, he dances while the norm
walk by, often not noticing at all.
His holed up dancing shoes will always slide
on down the floor without an unplanned step,
as he gets lost in his zen motorcycle ride,
his eyes gazed in surprise amidst own trip,
a cockatoo and manticore in back
arguing over which way he should turn.
Bill Barnum takes the wheel in circles wide,
spinning so much he marvels at the burn.
Where there's smoke, there's fire, a party for friends,
no time to worry about where it all ends.
To write a poem while Bill Barnum performs
has to be the greatest sin of all.
Zen ostrich stance, he dances while the norm
walk by, often not noticing at all.
His holed up dancing shoes will always slide
on down the floor without an unplanned step,
as he gets lost in his zen motorcycle ride,
his eyes gazed in surprise amidst own trip,
a cockatoo and manticore in back
arguing over which way he should turn.
Bill Barnum takes the wheel in circles wide,
spinning so much he marvels at the burn.
Where there's smoke, there's fire, a party for friends,
no time to worry about where it all ends.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Nine
A bus could be the ideal place to write
if not alone, if searching for a nook
to hide yourself, invisible in sight.
This rolling pot, you scribble while it cooks.
Standing stamped of leather jackets crowd.
Kids wave outside to bikers in the lead.
Wheelchaired revels, in full recline, laughs loud
as hurried huddled stare outside to read,
search streets for signs, a saving beacon glow
of final destination in their sights,
college tourists pretend they already know
the location of every sensory delight.
There is a poem in every stop you hit.
Sometimes it's caught (this sonnet isn't it).
if not alone, if searching for a nook
to hide yourself, invisible in sight.
This rolling pot, you scribble while it cooks.
Standing stamped of leather jackets crowd.
Kids wave outside to bikers in the lead.
Wheelchaired revels, in full recline, laughs loud
as hurried huddled stare outside to read,
search streets for signs, a saving beacon glow
of final destination in their sights,
college tourists pretend they already know
the location of every sensory delight.
There is a poem in every stop you hit.
Sometimes it's caught (this sonnet isn't it).
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Eight
The comic carnival has turned parade
as costumed men and women head outside,
continuing their brightly donned charade,
a hoard of Batmen waiting for their ride.
The Joker and Bizarro share a smoke,
costumes competing with the blossomed trees.
Black Canary/Green Arrow couples joke,
enacting proposals on bent costumed knees.
A young Nightwing in wheelchair strikes a pose
with every caped crusader he can find.
Zatannas sit half-naked under coats,
the staring eyes now few enough to mind.
A dozen Green Lanterns pocket their might,
as brightest day turns to blackest night.
as costumed men and women head outside,
continuing their brightly donned charade,
a hoard of Batmen waiting for their ride.
The Joker and Bizarro share a smoke,
costumes competing with the blossomed trees.
Black Canary/Green Arrow couples joke,
enacting proposals on bent costumed knees.
A young Nightwing in wheelchair strikes a pose
with every caped crusader he can find.
Zatannas sit half-naked under coats,
the staring eyes now few enough to mind.
A dozen Green Lanterns pocket their might,
as brightest day turns to blackest night.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Seven
Sonnet 11
The broken people love their patchwork man
and dig him up on anniversary,
resew him just enough so he can stand
and let him lead them through patchwork symphony.
The patchwork man is much more patch than work,
and time has set alight unworkmanship,
limbs dragging lower wher good thread was shirked,
one loose shoe left behind after a trip.
The patchwork has nothing left to say,
so we sew on our words we think are his,
praise be to all his broken toys at play,
every letter used to justify their lives.
The patchwork man is still but still he'll lead,
the broken into getting love they'll need.
The broken people love their patchwork man
and dig him up on anniversary,
resew him just enough so he can stand
and let him lead them through patchwork symphony.
The patchwork man is much more patch than work,
and time has set alight unworkmanship,
limbs dragging lower wher good thread was shirked,
one loose shoe left behind after a trip.
The patchwork has nothing left to say,
so we sew on our words we think are his,
praise be to all his broken toys at play,
every letter used to justify their lives.
The patchwork man is still but still he'll lead,
the broken into getting love they'll need.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Six
Sonnet 10
I steal more soda from McDonald's fount
and start a poem before I had to go.
I've stolen words from each and every haunt
under every camera, none of which can know
my conspiratory scratch. It can be read
but only barely, one for the courts
to translate the translation from my mind
acquired to and fro my weekend ports.
And would they charge? I bet they'd charge,
claim I shoplifted their marquee,
scam its letters, and hid them in my barge
of a notebook, scrambled up by me
into these words, that couldn't possibly be mind,
surcharge added the next time I dine.
I steal more soda from McDonald's fount
and start a poem before I had to go.
I've stolen words from each and every haunt
under every camera, none of which can know
my conspiratory scratch. It can be read
but only barely, one for the courts
to translate the translation from my mind
acquired to and fro my weekend ports.
And would they charge? I bet they'd charge,
claim I shoplifted their marquee,
scam its letters, and hid them in my barge
of a notebook, scrambled up by me
into these words, that couldn't possibly be mind,
surcharge added the next time I dine.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Five
The phone sits like a letter I can't write,
my silence towards you no doubt in the air
from me to you, a call to make tonight
if I can write this poem and meet you there
in the mutual spaces we share between
our jobs, our families, our private places,
struggling not to be heard or seen.
No one around, still we're keen for traces,
the lives kept in our corners, desks, closets.
We'll interrupt ourselves before they do
with quick goodbyes, content our deposits
keep secure as before the next day's due.
Still I rush this poem to call before
your wondering mind is left to wonder more.
my silence towards you no doubt in the air
from me to you, a call to make tonight
if I can write this poem and meet you there
in the mutual spaces we share between
our jobs, our families, our private places,
struggling not to be heard or seen.
No one around, still we're keen for traces,
the lives kept in our corners, desks, closets.
We'll interrupt ourselves before they do
with quick goodbyes, content our deposits
keep secure as before the next day's due.
Still I rush this poem to call before
your wondering mind is left to wonder more.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Four
Sonnet 8
I cut my hair to keep me moving fast.
Ten weeks of growth can keep you on a trudge.
The fingers that ran through it three months past
feel like they tug, as if to hold a grudge.
Though plain enough to use a barber's knife,
you still prefer the baptism by sink.
Salon hands take ten weeks of your life,
assistants taking care of work-napped links.
The cut begins, the locks all taking flight
followed by the rare delight of loss.
Something happens to your hair at night.
Your griefs show upon your head his dross,
hundres of stranded Marie Antoinettes,
cut for your sins, just waiting to be swept.
I cut my hair to keep me moving fast.
Ten weeks of growth can keep you on a trudge.
The fingers that ran through it three months past
feel like they tug, as if to hold a grudge.
Though plain enough to use a barber's knife,
you still prefer the baptism by sink.
Salon hands take ten weeks of your life,
assistants taking care of work-napped links.
The cut begins, the locks all taking flight
followed by the rare delight of loss.
Something happens to your hair at night.
Your griefs show upon your head his dross,
hundres of stranded Marie Antoinettes,
cut for your sins, just waiting to be swept.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Three
Sonnet Seven
Haiku cause wars, the words of which outlast
the single stanza that caused such debate
between self-professing master of the past
and younger writers making them irate.
The younger crowd are picked up by the ears,
drag their bodies out to open land
and cherry blossoms, sentenced to years
to write haiku for them time and time again.
A haiku is a single patch of land
that can't sustain a life for very long.
Some poets irked with elderly command
turn sonnets, sestinas, never branded wrong.
Where are the old master's angry calls
about longer forms? Perhaps they lack the balls.
Haiku cause wars, the words of which outlast
the single stanza that caused such debate
between self-professing master of the past
and younger writers making them irate.
The younger crowd are picked up by the ears,
drag their bodies out to open land
and cherry blossoms, sentenced to years
to write haiku for them time and time again.
A haiku is a single patch of land
that can't sustain a life for very long.
Some poets irked with elderly command
turn sonnets, sestinas, never branded wrong.
Where are the old master's angry calls
about longer forms? Perhaps they lack the balls.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Two
Sonnet 6
The nasty bastards work the poet mines
looking for method they can fleece,
the perfect meter tool, the perfect rhyme,
a sharpened metaphor as murder piece.
The nasty bastards dare to scour in in depths
and carry out the angriest memories,
a task that can be just as sulphurous
as coal mining on their hands knees,
but nasty bastards take joy in the find,
a bit still pulsing with another's heart
which strikes unhearing inspiration blind
when molded into verse and tagged as art.
The nasty bastards til their vengeful words,
the air around them keeping back the birds.
The nasty bastards work the poet mines
looking for method they can fleece,
the perfect meter tool, the perfect rhyme,
a sharpened metaphor as murder piece.
The nasty bastards dare to scour in in depths
and carry out the angriest memories,
a task that can be just as sulphurous
as coal mining on their hands knees,
but nasty bastards take joy in the find,
a bit still pulsing with another's heart
which strikes unhearing inspiration blind
when molded into verse and tagged as art.
The nasty bastards til their vengeful words,
the air around them keeping back the birds.
NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty One
Sonnet 5
They sit at tables rehearsing their hellos,
timing the beat to my apology.
And when it doesn't come on standing toes,
they'll have to chalk it up to mutiny
while drinking coffee tradedmarked Maverick,
their pictures hanging next to employees
of the month. Everyone moves quick
to use their group numbers like refugees
in desert lands. This isn't just a group,
it's trench war wordsmiths. The unseen enemy
had breakfast, went to work, packed his soup,
oblivious to all the revelry,
to all the clatter in this corner shop.
It's still a win if victims don't show up.
They sit at tables rehearsing their hellos,
timing the beat to my apology.
And when it doesn't come on standing toes,
they'll have to chalk it up to mutiny
while drinking coffee tradedmarked Maverick,
their pictures hanging next to employees
of the month. Everyone moves quick
to use their group numbers like refugees
in desert lands. This isn't just a group,
it's trench war wordsmiths. The unseen enemy
had breakfast, went to work, packed his soup,
oblivious to all the revelry,
to all the clatter in this corner shop.
It's still a win if victims don't show up.
Friday, April 29, 2011
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Nine, Poem Twenty
Sonnet 4
Our pockets hold a spot for secret hands
we told each other we wouldn’t hold.
We’re ignoring each other’s commands,
Marking each transgression where we’re bold.
Elevators are not public if alone.
Ears lightly brushed is fine if it’s not kissed.
The rules should not be broken once they’re shown,
We still trade each other things so they’ll be missed.
Our secret is that there aren’t quite secrets yet,
keeping our talk away from muffling gloves,
meeting in lighted corners they can vet
reading our lips, watching each other shove
each other away, turning away, discreet.
Our pockets hold our next time to meet.
Our pockets hold a spot for secret hands
we told each other we wouldn’t hold.
We’re ignoring each other’s commands,
Marking each transgression where we’re bold.
Elevators are not public if alone.
Ears lightly brushed is fine if it’s not kissed.
The rules should not be broken once they’re shown,
We still trade each other things so they’ll be missed.
Our secret is that there aren’t quite secrets yet,
keeping our talk away from muffling gloves,
meeting in lighted corners they can vet
reading our lips, watching each other shove
each other away, turning away, discreet.
Our pockets hold our next time to meet.
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Nine, Poem Nineteen
Sonnet 3
She has a scrapbook of my first mistakes,
each pratfall kept in photographic pause.
A dilettante, she stops at the end take
discarding everything that was the cause.
My portrait mouth a constant desperate “o,”
my anthem a drum beat for each thud.
Nine hundred ninety miles they’ll never know,
edited out for my first step in the mud.
The portrait of my greatest victory
is not a photo op for enemy or friend.
My stammer ruins all prosperity
they pull the errors and just make up the end.
I meet you now, appearing quite adept.
I’m terrified to take a single step.
She has a scrapbook of my first mistakes,
each pratfall kept in photographic pause.
A dilettante, she stops at the end take
discarding everything that was the cause.
My portrait mouth a constant desperate “o,”
my anthem a drum beat for each thud.
Nine hundred ninety miles they’ll never know,
edited out for my first step in the mud.
The portrait of my greatest victory
is not a photo op for enemy or friend.
My stammer ruins all prosperity
they pull the errors and just make up the end.
I meet you now, appearing quite adept.
I’m terrified to take a single step.
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Nine, Poem Eighteen
Sonnet 2
The first dater just lies like a bastard
to leave the room, retreating to the bar,
where she can’t yet follow. He plays pastor
to drinking buddies, sermon from a car
radio playing back in his head to decry
himself, asking someone to hold the lash,
punish him for helping to create a lie.
He’ll forget all this following his crash
into his bed, thrown by forlorn friends
who will forget his behavior this night,
and he will too, remembering the ends
but not his means, beer killing the blue light
that illuminated memories best dead,
unsold yearbook, poetry book unread.
The first dater just lies like a bastard
to leave the room, retreating to the bar,
where she can’t yet follow. He plays pastor
to drinking buddies, sermon from a car
radio playing back in his head to decry
himself, asking someone to hold the lash,
punish him for helping to create a lie.
He’ll forget all this following his crash
into his bed, thrown by forlorn friends
who will forget his behavior this night,
and he will too, remembering the ends
but not his means, beer killing the blue light
that illuminated memories best dead,
unsold yearbook, poetry book unread.
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Nine, Poem Seventeen
Sonnet
She’s sending out the first texts of Spring.
The poets are ripe for picking, lonely with spite
for themselves. Many haven't written a thing
except debates on the correct usage of light
to shine on her. She doesn't have to show
to win. The admirers get things underway
without her there. She won’t even know
who is left standing at the end of the day.
It’s up to her inbox to tally the score
in the morning. The rumors already sent
her seal of approval. She wishes for more,
the power to call forth a rally, a witch hunt
in Salem, crushes persecuting crushes,
false surprise applied like her shadows and blushes.
She’s sending out the first texts of Spring.
The poets are ripe for picking, lonely with spite
for themselves. Many haven't written a thing
except debates on the correct usage of light
to shine on her. She doesn't have to show
to win. The admirers get things underway
without her there. She won’t even know
who is left standing at the end of the day.
It’s up to her inbox to tally the score
in the morning. The rumors already sent
her seal of approval. She wishes for more,
the power to call forth a rally, a witch hunt
in Salem, crushes persecuting crushes,
false surprise applied like her shadows and blushes.
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Nine, Poem 16.5
Towards the end of the 30 poem flight,
my limericks have dropped out of sight.
You say, Chad, worry much?
Are you in any rush?
And I'll just say, you're fucking A right
my limericks have dropped out of sight.
You say, Chad, worry much?
Are you in any rush?
And I'll just say, you're fucking A right
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Seven, Poem Fifteen
Haiku Debate At The End of The World
Two reincarnated haiku purists
picked the perfect time to come back
as roaches with the ability
to rebuild literature
as s modern day Archys.
half-eaten cat
begs me to let it die
and then does so
A1 tries to reassert
that haikus return to nature
A2 asks what the hell for,
there nothing left of nature
but themselves. Good, says A1.
I only ever wanted to talk
about myself anyway.
two bitter bullfrogs
stare down for a lily pad
not even there
While A1 and A2 duel
for supremacy with blackened swabs
that A1 insists are twigs,
the reincarnated soul of Basho
knows he is finally guilty
of false timing for coming back now.
He looks over the last
act of electricity by man,
a fallen marqui, red letters
shattered by dying white.
last summer's twilight
cherry blossom memories
this is good enough
Two reincarnated haiku purists
picked the perfect time to come back
as roaches with the ability
to rebuild literature
as s modern day Archys.
half-eaten cat
begs me to let it die
and then does so
A1 tries to reassert
that haikus return to nature
A2 asks what the hell for,
there nothing left of nature
but themselves. Good, says A1.
I only ever wanted to talk
about myself anyway.
two bitter bullfrogs
stare down for a lily pad
not even there
While A1 and A2 duel
for supremacy with blackened swabs
that A1 insists are twigs,
the reincarnated soul of Basho
knows he is finally guilty
of false timing for coming back now.
He looks over the last
act of electricity by man,
a fallen marqui, red letters
shattered by dying white.
last summer's twilight
cherry blossom memories
this is good enough
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Seven, Poem 14.999
Chocolate Jesus Haiku
Chocolate Jesus
has never heard of Tom Waits.
Don't you find this sad?
Chocolate Jesus
has never heard of Tom Waits.
Don't you find this sad?
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty Six, Poem 14.9
Click here for the inspiration behind this poem.
Turducken Jesus
Three essential holy substances:
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, broil.
The perfect Christmas dinner
converting people who manage to miss
Easter and Thanksgiving gatherings.
Jack T. Chick publishes pamphlets
claiming Turducken Jesus is a lie
because Jesus and The Lord are the same.
Alternative recipes offer the lamb
in place of piled on Jesus.
Nothing good can come of this.
Less dismissible is the spirit debate.
One accepts you can fill your self
with spirit, but feed a family of twelve?
This debate will keep the schools of thought
too busy to ask where all of this
body, blood and soul comes from.
Or worse, visualize Heavens plains, strip-teased
with increasing speed, until barren of grace.
Turducken Jesus
Three essential holy substances:
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, broil.
The perfect Christmas dinner
converting people who manage to miss
Easter and Thanksgiving gatherings.
Jack T. Chick publishes pamphlets
claiming Turducken Jesus is a lie
because Jesus and The Lord are the same.
Alternative recipes offer the lamb
in place of piled on Jesus.
Nothing good can come of this.
Less dismissible is the spirit debate.
One accepts you can fill your self
with spirit, but feed a family of twelve?
This debate will keep the schools of thought
too busy to ask where all of this
body, blood and soul comes from.
Or worse, visualize Heavens plains, strip-teased
with increasing speed, until barren of grace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)