NaPoWriMo #26: In a Churchyard

the knell of parting day

slowly

plods

to darkness

Now fades        

solemn stillness

where droning

drowsy tinklings lull

Beneath       

a mouldering heap

for ever laid

The rude sleep

For them no more    

her evening

return

the envied kiss 

mock their

homely destiny          

with a smile

the poor

boast of 

beauty

Awaits

the grave

    

the fleeting breath

the silent dust

Death

Perhaps 

Some heart   

might have 

waked

to 

the spoils of time

And froze

    

The applause of  

ruin

o'er smiling

eyes

Their lot forbade

their crimes confined

wade through slaughter 

And shut the gates of mercy

The struggling pangs       

the blushes of shame

heap

the flame

    

the madding strife

wishes  

the cool sequestered vale of

noiseless tenor

    

these bones

still erected

Implores         

the unlettered muse

and

many a holy text

to die

 

the parting soul

pious drops the closing eye

Ev'n from the tomb 

Ev'n in our ashes 

mindful of the unhonoured dead

their artless tale

by lonely

kindred spirit

       

the peep of dawn

the dews

meet the sun 

at the foot of yonder nodding beech  

--April 26, 2013

Prompt: An eraser poem.  (Pick a famous poems and erase words or even whole stanzas from it, until it becomes your own.)  Taken from Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"

NaPoWriMo #25: Hair-of-Gold

A tale of woe I've yet to tell
To you, oh reader fair,
Of a child brought to doom.
The tragedy's her hair.

Golden curls sprang from her head--
Real gold!--fine, smooth, and pure.
A couple clippings from her scalp
Could any thing procure.

Good fortune, yes, it seems to be.
Ah, but luck's a curse.
To a such a girl as Hair-of-Gold
Wealth never has done worse.

Though given all she'd ever want
She never could be pleased.
She threw out meat a tad too tough
As if it were diseased.

She wouldn't eat a blackened pie
Or drink water less than cold.
Perfection only she required.
When she was eight years old,

Tales reached her ears of Faerie Realm
Where everything was good.
This place of magic, it was said,
Lay in the Darkened Wood.

Her neighbors told her it was bad
And begged her not to stray.
But Curls-of-Gold was sick of them
And so she would not stay.

She thought she'd rule the Faerie Realm.
She thought she'd be their queen.
And so she left! By human eyes
She never more was seen.

For she got lost.  The forest dimmed.
Her belly growled.  She floundered.
She'd only missed a single meal,
But quickly hunger found her.

Now, the end of Locks-of-Gold
I tell you with despair.
While wishing for some porridge,
She got eaten by a bear.

--April 8, 2013

Prompt: a Ballard.  (I wrote this early this month, and it works.  Plus, you don't go assigning ballards on a Thursday.  You just don't.)

NaPoWriMo #24: Rebecca

rebecca
reBEccA
ACcEber

rebecca lang
ReBEcca LANg
re ANG bE Lcca
LANg acCebEr
lANG accebER
CA be RE
REBEcca Lang

rebecca dawn lang
reBeccA Dawn GAnL
rebecCA Dawn
Ca lANg CEbeR

rebecca dawn isako lang
dawN isakO
dawN isakO ACcEber
dawN isakO re ANG bE Lcca
dawN isakO REBEcca Lang
dawN isakO Ca lANg CEbeR
gNal Okasi Nawd accEber
Isako rebecCa dAwN
reBEcca

Rebecca

--April 24, 2013
Prompt: Use only the letters in your name to write an autobiographical poem.  (Thank goodness I have four names.)

NaPoWriMo #23: Grey Clouds

Today I want to be alone.
Grey clouds hang on the brow of May.
An old dog gnaws upon its bone.
Today I want to be alone.
And ponder feelings of my own.
I wish the birds would go away.
Today I want to be alone.
Grey clouds hang on the brow of May.

--April 23, 2013

Prompt: A triolet: an eight-lined poem in iambic tretamenter (eight syllables). The first, fourth, and seventh line are identical.  The second and last line are identical.  The rhyme scheme should go ABaAabAB.

NaPoWriMo #22: Vegetable Garden

Spring's green tendrils bring to mind
Veggies from another time
Once in orange clay pots grown
A supermarket for my home:
Cherry tomatoes on the vine
Spitting juice, all warm and fine;
Basil with its fragrance sweet;
Purple eggplant full of meat;
Small zucchini's yellow flowers
Grow up soon, I count the hours.
Alas for me, these plants are gone.
Empty pots stand all alone.
All that care has gone to waste.
My garden I no longer taste.

--April 22, 2013

Prompt: In honor of earth Day, write about nature.

NaPoWriMo #21: Fairy Tale Fortune Cookies

You will be declared fairest of them all.  Don't get too attached.

Queen and Princess alike will beg you for a favor.  Decline them.

Taking in a snow-white maid will incur considerable trouble.  Reconsider.

For the love of God, DON'T take presents from strangers!

Like this cookie, glass coffins hold wonderful surprises.

You will be forgotten, grow dusty, and shatter.  Sorry, brother.  Fortune was not on your side.

--April 21, 2013
Prompt: Re-write Frank O'Hara's "Lines from a Fortune Cookie."

Weekly Update: 4/20/13

Caring for my cancer-stricken Grandma was less difficult than watching my mother cry.  I don't know why that is.  Except when she's in pain, my grandma seems cheerful and relaxed, albeit lazy.  My mother's emotions seem more intense.  I can't imagine losing a parent myself.  Or dying.  I find myself observing closely, storing memories for a day (hopefully far in the future) when I may have to crack them open for my own benefit.  In the meantime, I try to be as comforting and accomodating as I can be.

Miraculously, I kept afloat of my writing.  I completed my poems for the week and added 15,000 words to the rough draft of my second novel.  I wrote whenever my grandma napped or any other sliver of time I could find.  My writing went slow, but it went.  I'm grateful for that.

I'm surprised I've been able to churn out so many poems.  In college I could hardly write a poem a week.  I'd delve deep into my soul, and after two weeks, my soul would run dry.  But this month, I found a way around it.  I just don't write about myself.  I make up stories or jot down observations or play with language--but I don't cut a vein and drain my life's blood onto the page.  Why should I?  That's not the kind of story I want to write.

Three weeks into NaNoWriMo, and most of my March Brainstorming Notes are now useless.  The story turned while writing.  The plot went wild on me.  I don't consider it a bad thing.  I like it when stories get a mind of their own.  I like it when they go in unexpected ways.  Oddly, when this happens, I see all sorts of interesting connections start tying together.  The story seems to know where it's going, even if I don't.  I hope that's the case.  I have one week left to write up an ending.  Let's hope the muse continues to follow me.

NaPoWriMo #20: Owl and Mermaid

Owl passing o'er waves
Spied Mermaid laying in a cove.
Fins glistened like wet seaweed,
Hair as sweet and black as clove.

Owl fell in love with Mermaid.
When she swam for open sea,
Owl followed on the salt breeze,
Screeching love so earnestly.

Mermaid dove under the dark waves.
Owl circled from above.
Though he could not enter her world,
Still he crooned his songs of love.

Wings gave way, and Owl dropped.
Mermaid's head broke the surface.
As he fell, her arms reached out.
She cradled Owl to her chest.

Though parted by the sky and sea,
They kept a love that could not be.

Always Owl stayed near Mermaid,
Flew the ocean, hunted fish.
Mermaid caught him when he wearied.
Both together were at peace.

Until one day a gale seized Owl,
Blew him far from Mermaid's side.
Feathers torn, he cried for Mermaid,
Sinking into salt-filled tide.

Mermaid wept and searched for Owl
All throughout the ocean grim.
Then one night the ghost of Owl
Came to Mermaid in her dream.

He spoke to her of the dark water
Where his broken body lay.
Mermaid swam but could not find it.
Fish had gnawed his bones away.

In the sand lay one black feather.
Mermaid wore it in her hair.
Worlds united, Owl's spirit
Followed Mermaid everywhere.

Though parted now by death and life,
They kept their love against all strife.

--April 20, 2013
Prompt: Choose 5 words from a list and write a poem with them.  I chose: Owl, Clove, Seaweed, Salt, and Ghost

NaPoWriMo #19: Seeking Juliet

Seeking Juliet.
Beauty bloomed of thirteen years.
Must love knives, poison.

--April 19, 2013

Prompt: a personal ad.

NaPoWriMo #18: Bad Days Come

Bad
days come
like flies, one
following another.  A swarm
of small annoyances, constantly buzzing
headaches.  Bad days come
and I want
sleep so
Bad.

--April 18, 2013

Prompt: Begin and end with the same word.