Official DUP NaPo/GloPoWrimo Competition
2.
View to a Fill
You may not think that there is a lot to a hole,
but just ask Dug,
to be severely surprised:
the almighty spectrum of stance and infinite number of perspectives
are crammed into the hole Dug calls home.
Dug digs deep to uncover and catalogue each viewpoint
hoping all those standpoints and vantages
will grow long gangly legs for Dug to perambulate about on:
as Dug is sick of sitting on the fence during debates
without so much as a leg to stand on.
Though Dug is not quite that desperate
to become a flipping frog who hops
from one view to another,
hoping their hops put them in pole perspective position
where the thoughts are fresher than tomorrow's daisy
and make great leaps and strides with their progressive outlook,
instead of the croaking broken bloated approach
that the toads flick out:
ribbiting on and on in a way that no cares to hear.
Dug is by no means too keen on becoming a crane either;
those bird brains who always have a superior overview
never bothering to swoop down
dirtying their feathers with actual specific facts or focus
instead flying high with an expansive scope
getting in a frenzied flap in the framework and the future
seldom seen doing any groundwork.
A fine set of legs
would also let Dug run away from the fish;
those serene swimmers that dive deep
dragging poor witty worms
down into profound depths that defy perception
making all sentiments naught but drops in an ocean.
All this means
Dug is ceaselessly wrangling the diverse dimensions
of all attitudes and universal opinions
as a good worldview can move the world
therefore a few outlooks can surely move a worm
and let them turn over a new leaf
- all the easier to eat and forage,
now isn't that some thought for food!
((Unique words: 201.)
View to a Fill
You may not think that there is a lot to a hole,
but just ask Dug,
to be severely surprised:
the almighty spectrum of stance and infinite number of perspectives
are crammed into the hole Dug calls home.
Dug digs deep to uncover and catalogue each viewpoint
hoping all those standpoints and vantages
will grow long gangly legs for Dug to perambulate about on:
as Dug is sick of sitting on the fence during debates
without so much as a leg to stand on.
Though Dug is not quite that desperate
to become a flipping frog who hops
from one view to another,
hoping their hops put them in pole perspective position
where the thoughts are fresher than tomorrow's daisy
and make great leaps and strides with their progressive outlook,
instead of the croaking broken bloated approach
that the toads flick out:
ribbiting on and on in a way that no cares to hear.
Dug is by no means too keen on becoming a crane either;
those bird brains who always have a superior overview
never bothering to swoop down
dirtying their feathers with actual specific facts or focus
instead flying high with an expansive scope
getting in a frenzied flap in the framework and the future
seldom seen doing any groundwork.
A fine set of legs
would also let Dug run away from the fish;
those serene swimmers that dive deep
dragging poor witty worms
down into profound depths that defy perception
making all sentiments naught but drops in an ocean.
All this means
Dug is ceaselessly wrangling the diverse dimensions
of all attitudes and universal opinions
as a good worldview can move the world
therefore a few outlooks can surely move a worm
and let them turn over a new leaf
- all the easier to eat and forage,
now isn't that some thought for food!
((Unique words: 201.)
2/30
God's Masterpiece
The world I live in is a work of art
The finest and the best masterpiece of all time
Crafted by the greatest artist
The greatest master Himself
I see His signature
In everything He made around me
In the faces of nature
On land and on sea
My eyes are lenses that capture
The beauty of this earth
I glimpse perfection
In how He created this universe
The trees and mountains
The rivers and seas
The sky and the ocean
The ground that supports my feet
All these wonders hold my fascination endlessly
As nature shows me a serving of God's masterpiece each day
In the simplest of things that sometimes escape my gaze
When I fail to notice their existence with my very eyes
Like the blooming of flowers and the trees
In the unfurling of their buds
In the falling of their leaves
I am but a mere observer of God's masterful skills
A spectator of His craftsmanship
An audience in His universal and divine exhibit
Words used=169
Unique words=101
#NaPoWriMo2019
God's Masterpiece
The world I live in is a work of art
The finest and the best masterpiece of all time
Crafted by the greatest artist
The greatest master Himself
I see His signature
In everything He made around me
In the faces of nature
On land and on sea
My eyes are lenses that capture
The beauty of this earth
I glimpse perfection
In how He created this universe
The trees and mountains
The rivers and seas
The sky and the ocean
The ground that supports my feet
All these wonders hold my fascination endlessly
As nature shows me a serving of God's masterpiece each day
In the simplest of things that sometimes escape my gaze
When I fail to notice their existence with my very eyes
Like the blooming of flowers and the trees
In the unfurling of their buds
In the falling of their leaves
I am but a mere observer of God's masterful skills
A spectator of His craftsmanship
An audience in His universal and divine exhibit
Words used=169
Unique words=101
#NaPoWriMo2019
2/30
hourglass
I remember the first time I asked
a question of doubt.
A question called bad.
We cut to a Catholic school
drowning in plaid:
The fourth grade religion classroom...
My teacher, thin, with light leather skin
and black mop hair
that gray had just kissed -
she was widely hated, called a meanie,
but even then I had a way of seeing;
I knew it was the snot in our noses,
the teeth in too many kids' sneers
taking her patience to a cheese grater.
She liked me, I think, for understanding.
Back then, remember,
I had my head full of the sand of belief
which was bound to leak
from my glass body
one day.
Every grain.
Soon as I didn't need to believe in something better than life -
soon as I found the first drops of joy
in adoring the rain
as my classmates complained.
Anyway. The teacher spoke.
Talked about God, of course. Recapped our lessons.
God wants....
God thinks...
God says....
God loves.
My attention was caught, pulled,
at those words like cards in bicycle spokes -
why would you..?
How could you?
The logic? The use?
...How could you know? Did he talk to you?
Couldn't find it.
Also couldn't let her whizz by.
So I raised my oblivious hand,
called upon, asked the question
that threatened my sand:
"How do we even know there is a God?"
Thirty fourth-grade heads whirled around at me.
An exact replay of the sound they made:
"oooooooooooo." trouble.
The answer was, "We don't. There probably isn't.
In any case, child, I was told comforting falsehoods
starting as small as you -
I can now only bear the weight
of all the fear and pain and worry in my life
by locking it in my closet
and praying louder than all of it.
No death in my world. Someone cares about me specifically.
Everything will be okay. There is a plan. Always, and always a reason.
I am too fucking far gone to question it.
It's at my dinner table, my pew, my Christing job,
shivering people, lost or not, huddled around a paper-mache fire.
Like weed, like H, you return and return
because it's just what you do.
How often, how bad - depends how deep these lies
connect to your need, a delicious puzzle piece,
and joy when you sing, buzzing with your fellow bees,
joy from a hive that has hired and swallowed me,
that does not condone the poking and prodding of reality,
the pursuit of truth
regardless of what we want to be true.
It's just like the two minutes' Hate.
It is safer to scream.
Easier to believe."
But what she did was define faith,
talk in circles,
tie the circles into knots,
the knots into a net
and get us all back under the rope.
Had us all fold our hands for the lunch prayer.
I'd made us late, so we sped through
the sign of the cross, and that day
when I grabbed my lunchbox,
it grazed my desk, I think.
Knocked my hourglass off.
hourglass
I remember the first time I asked
a question of doubt.
A question called bad.
We cut to a Catholic school
drowning in plaid:
The fourth grade religion classroom...
My teacher, thin, with light leather skin
and black mop hair
that gray had just kissed -
she was widely hated, called a meanie,
but even then I had a way of seeing;
I knew it was the snot in our noses,
the teeth in too many kids' sneers
taking her patience to a cheese grater.
She liked me, I think, for understanding.
Back then, remember,
I had my head full of the sand of belief
which was bound to leak
from my glass body
one day.
Every grain.
Soon as I didn't need to believe in something better than life -
soon as I found the first drops of joy
in adoring the rain
as my classmates complained.
Anyway. The teacher spoke.
Talked about God, of course. Recapped our lessons.
God wants....
God thinks...
God says....
God loves.
My attention was caught, pulled,
at those words like cards in bicycle spokes -
why would you..?
How could you?
The logic? The use?
...How could you know? Did he talk to you?
Couldn't find it.
Also couldn't let her whizz by.
So I raised my oblivious hand,
called upon, asked the question
that threatened my sand:
"How do we even know there is a God?"
Thirty fourth-grade heads whirled around at me.
An exact replay of the sound they made:
"oooooooooooo." trouble.
The answer was, "We don't. There probably isn't.
In any case, child, I was told comforting falsehoods
starting as small as you -
I can now only bear the weight
of all the fear and pain and worry in my life
by locking it in my closet
and praying louder than all of it.
No death in my world. Someone cares about me specifically.
Everything will be okay. There is a plan. Always, and always a reason.
I am too fucking far gone to question it.
It's at my dinner table, my pew, my Christing job,
shivering people, lost or not, huddled around a paper-mache fire.
Like weed, like H, you return and return
because it's just what you do.
How often, how bad - depends how deep these lies
connect to your need, a delicious puzzle piece,
and joy when you sing, buzzing with your fellow bees,
joy from a hive that has hired and swallowed me,
that does not condone the poking and prodding of reality,
the pursuit of truth
regardless of what we want to be true.
It's just like the two minutes' Hate.
It is safer to scream.
Easier to believe."
But what she did was define faith,
talk in circles,
tie the circles into knots,
the knots into a net
and get us all back under the rope.
Had us all fold our hands for the lunch prayer.
I'd made us late, so we sped through
the sign of the cross, and that day
when I grabbed my lunchbox,
it grazed my desk, I think.
Knocked my hourglass off.
2/30
Your Hate is Delicious
I love how you hate me, it’s freaking delicious
If I could bottle and sell it, I’d be the richest
Then you could hate me more as time keeps going by
Though I won’t notice it, no matter how hard you try
My shield is impenetrable and you will soon see
You took on too big a challenge when you thought to perturb me
There are so many other things to do more worth your while
Maybe give you some joy and maybe even give you a smile
But please keep on going with what makes you so mad
Remember what they say no publicity is so bad
I know I’m on your mind and consume your thoughts when near
But I’m not going anywhere no I’m staying right here
Sitting here with some popcorn as you put on a show
Now get ready, get set and go, go, go!
It’s entertaining at the best of times and oh how it makes me laugh
When you commit all these blunders and commuting your gaff
You’ll reap what you sow when your bad habits do bear fruit
But you’ll be far away from me, I won’t care and it’s so moot
So carry on carry on while I enjoy the antics you perform
Keep talking that crap and fill others with scorn
They can see right through you oh they all know your name
They watch always as you play your silly little game
These rumors flying around come straight from your mouth
As they say loose lips sink ships and you’re only headed south
Unique words: 158
4/2/19
Your Hate is Delicious
I love how you hate me, it’s freaking delicious
If I could bottle and sell it, I’d be the richest
Then you could hate me more as time keeps going by
Though I won’t notice it, no matter how hard you try
My shield is impenetrable and you will soon see
You took on too big a challenge when you thought to perturb me
There are so many other things to do more worth your while
Maybe give you some joy and maybe even give you a smile
But please keep on going with what makes you so mad
Remember what they say no publicity is so bad
I know I’m on your mind and consume your thoughts when near
But I’m not going anywhere no I’m staying right here
Sitting here with some popcorn as you put on a show
Now get ready, get set and go, go, go!
It’s entertaining at the best of times and oh how it makes me laugh
When you commit all these blunders and commuting your gaff
You’ll reap what you sow when your bad habits do bear fruit
But you’ll be far away from me, I won’t care and it’s so moot
So carry on carry on while I enjoy the antics you perform
Keep talking that crap and fill others with scorn
They can see right through you oh they all know your name
They watch always as you play your silly little game
These rumors flying around come straight from your mouth
As they say loose lips sink ships and you’re only headed south
Unique words: 158
4/2/19
2/30
My Poetry
My poetry is like a fine mist,
The verses caress like a tender kiss,
But when I drop ink with a twist of my wrist,
I spit mad bars because I get pissed.
Here’s the gist of it,
I slip the quip in there,
It’s whatever comes up to the surface whenever the spirit moves me,
If there’s a lisp in it,
It’s my speech impediment,
I breathe fire because aside from the ire writing also behooves me.
My verses are a mix of history and mystery,
A puzzle of lost pieces with imagery,
Whatever sounds clever I pull the lever and let the words flow,
My thoughts tend to get stuck at the dam,
If there be floods I’ll be damned,
I’m playful yet a little unstable but I’m careful not to let it show.
And so if I had to sum up my poetry,
I’d say it’s a reflection of me,
A twister of emotions filtered, tuned, groomed and rhymed,
I’m not always at my best,
But I get it off my chest,
So long as the words are ready, steady, primed and perfectly timed.
------
187 Words
113 Unique
#NaPoWriMo2019
My Poetry
My poetry is like a fine mist,
The verses caress like a tender kiss,
But when I drop ink with a twist of my wrist,
I spit mad bars because I get pissed.
Here’s the gist of it,
I slip the quip in there,
It’s whatever comes up to the surface whenever the spirit moves me,
If there’s a lisp in it,
It’s my speech impediment,
I breathe fire because aside from the ire writing also behooves me.
My verses are a mix of history and mystery,
A puzzle of lost pieces with imagery,
Whatever sounds clever I pull the lever and let the words flow,
My thoughts tend to get stuck at the dam,
If there be floods I’ll be damned,
I’m playful yet a little unstable but I’m careful not to let it show.
And so if I had to sum up my poetry,
I’d say it’s a reflection of me,
A twister of emotions filtered, tuned, groomed and rhymed,
I’m not always at my best,
But I get it off my chest,
So long as the words are ready, steady, primed and perfectly timed.
------
187 Words
113 Unique
#NaPoWriMo2019
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
2/30
E.L.
I lost you last night.
Made sense.
I usually have something of a plan,
but with you for some reason
I was always winging it.
You were above my pay grade-
wish you could hear me
laugh about it now.
For 15 years I wore you
as a kind of clandestine
feather in my cap.
I made some messes,
cleaned them up
and thanked the heavens
that you stuck with me.
We connected,
some place between
the heart and the head.
I’ll miss your pragmatic elegance,
even as I know that’s why
you ultimately left.
#napowrimo2019
E.L.
I lost you last night.
Made sense.
I usually have something of a plan,
but with you for some reason
I was always winging it.
You were above my pay grade-
wish you could hear me
laugh about it now.
For 15 years I wore you
as a kind of clandestine
feather in my cap.
I made some messes,
cleaned them up
and thanked the heavens
that you stuck with me.
We connected,
some place between
the heart and the head.
I’ll miss your pragmatic elegance,
even as I know that’s why
you ultimately left.
#napowrimo2019
Anonymous
2/30
Evernescence
Behold! In night sky up there!
How vibrant the light of these
Poets I do declare
traveling from whence cast
'cross unraveling galaxies vast
shining upon our Presents
warming us by degrees;
blazing incarnates recent 'n long Past
decent to masterful greats
Into Universe their wisdom gifted
sifted from All That Is about
through stargates
and there is no doubt -
your poetry radiates words told
directly Heaven-sent to me -
embodied, minded, souled;
essence I can no longer live
without
with Love for Ahavati 💜💑💋
Evernescence
Behold! In night sky up there!
How vibrant the light of these
Poets I do declare
traveling from whence cast
'cross unraveling galaxies vast
shining upon our Presents
warming us by degrees;
blazing incarnates recent 'n long Past
decent to masterful greats
Into Universe their wisdom gifted
sifted from All That Is about
through stargates
and there is no doubt -
your poetry radiates words told
directly Heaven-sent to me -
embodied, minded, souled;
essence I can no longer live
without
with Love for Ahavati 💜💑💋
NaPoWriMo 2019 - April 2nd - No:2 of 30
A POOR SUBSTITUTE
It was an impressive, if expensive
piece of kit. A triple filter system
promising to protect from
all water impurities -
agri-chemical run-off,
acid rain,
chem-trail nano-particles,
bacteriological bummers
and the usual mains fluoride and chlorine.
Compact, easy, efficient -
travel safely anywhere in the world:
pour water from a muddy puddle
in one end; drink confidently out the other.
I sat in the shop somewhat dazed
and longed to sip freely from a cool mountain stream
bearing an honest promise …
… ‘I am the water of life’.
(89 words. 70 unique words)
A POOR SUBSTITUTE
It was an impressive, if expensive
piece of kit. A triple filter system
promising to protect from
all water impurities -
agri-chemical run-off,
acid rain,
chem-trail nano-particles,
bacteriological bummers
and the usual mains fluoride and chlorine.
Compact, easy, efficient -
travel safely anywhere in the world:
pour water from a muddy puddle
in one end; drink confidently out the other.
I sat in the shop somewhat dazed
and longed to sip freely from a cool mountain stream
bearing an honest promise …
… ‘I am the water of life’.
(89 words. 70 unique words)
10 Toggle navigation Menu
Deep Underground Poetry
Poems Inspirational The Southern Boys Muse pt.1
The Southern Boys Muse pt.1
2/30
Steve likes to do magic as he shakes my tree
he calls me the cutest ever he did see
Abracadabra he says reaching out to grab me
as we kiss going higher and higher
taking a ride on his big ole jet liner
that ole Charlie, he's loves to go South
fiddle in hand looking for the devil himself
Van calls me his girl with eyes of brown
as we sail into the mystic on a day like this
I cant tell you why I made the eagle fly so high
he thought me a woman witch
perhaps he saw me soar over the seventh bridge
took him to his limit in that hotel room
left a peaceful feeling as I left on my broom
you don't know how Tom feels unless your high all the time
he loves him some MJ free fallin' from the sky
I wasn't being petty as i told him with a frown
don't mess with me baby I wont back down
that man Manford he's outta sight
got too close now blinded by my light
Joe, hes easy going but he cant drive
fancy car for me speed one-eighty-five
Deep Underground Poetry
Poems Inspirational The Southern Boys Muse pt.1
The Southern Boys Muse pt.1
2/30
Steve likes to do magic as he shakes my tree
he calls me the cutest ever he did see
Abracadabra he says reaching out to grab me
as we kiss going higher and higher
taking a ride on his big ole jet liner
that ole Charlie, he's loves to go South
fiddle in hand looking for the devil himself
Van calls me his girl with eyes of brown
as we sail into the mystic on a day like this
I cant tell you why I made the eagle fly so high
he thought me a woman witch
perhaps he saw me soar over the seventh bridge
took him to his limit in that hotel room
left a peaceful feeling as I left on my broom
you don't know how Tom feels unless your high all the time
he loves him some MJ free fallin' from the sky
I wasn't being petty as i told him with a frown
don't mess with me baby I wont back down
that man Manford he's outta sight
got too close now blinded by my light
Joe, hes easy going but he cant drive
fancy car for me speed one-eighty-five
2/30 The Garden
The garden awakens to pure simplicity
in the morning when dew is on the lawn.
The flowers, like thoughts began to bud
but no vivid colors yet, only green and
non-descript ones.
They, unaware of
complexity spread out around bark mulch
behind a neat row of bricks placed by
Nana one by one.
She made time for such
things of grandness that were so beautiful
in her eyes.
68 words, 59 unique
The garden awakens to pure simplicity
in the morning when dew is on the lawn.
The flowers, like thoughts began to bud
but no vivid colors yet, only green and
non-descript ones.
They, unaware of
complexity spread out around bark mulch
behind a neat row of bricks placed by
Nana one by one.
She made time for such
things of grandness that were so beautiful
in her eyes.
68 words, 59 unique
2/30
Proverbs [ NaPoWriMo 2019 Collection ]
I. Nature’s First Green
i Wisteria in Snow
April's green linen jacket
donning Saucer magnolias;
marbled pink umbrellas
of scented organics
Cocooned Wisteria unfurl
lavender wings from dormancy—
inverted hyacinth sleeping
as bats over a lambent lawn
Then, snow—unannounced;
her magnetics appealing
to vulnerable blooms;
their frost bitten corolla
so once brightly birthed
darkened now by touch.
What we learn letting go—
surrendering our lives unto fate
is the price for knowledge:
experience, inevitable death
wisdom through rebirth
. . .
Words 71
Unique 71
Proverbs [ NaPoWriMo 2019 Collection ]
I. Nature’s First Green
i Wisteria in Snow
April's green linen jacket
donning Saucer magnolias;
marbled pink umbrellas
of scented organics
Cocooned Wisteria unfurl
lavender wings from dormancy—
inverted hyacinth sleeping
as bats over a lambent lawn
Then, snow—unannounced;
her magnetics appealing
to vulnerable blooms;
their frost bitten corolla
so once brightly birthed
darkened now by touch.
What we learn letting go—
surrendering our lives unto fate
is the price for knowledge:
experience, inevitable death
wisdom through rebirth
. . .
Words 71
Unique 71
2/30
Tower
Once
I thought
my little life
would stack up all
nice and tall and straight,
that the blocks would line up
just right, that I'd know how to
place them so my tower didn't teeter and
totter and eventually topple over into a shapeless pile
But
I could only build so high
before it crumbled
back down
one
piece
at
a
time
Tower
Once
I thought
my little life
would stack up all
nice and tall and straight,
that the blocks would line up
just right, that I'd know how to
place them so my tower didn't teeter and
totter and eventually topple over into a shapeless pile
But
I could only build so high
before it crumbled
back down
one
piece
at
a
time
OH GROW UP
Poem 2 of 30
That resourceful, grief stricken six year old boy
Impetuous lad still demanding control
With my impulses plays, his favorite toy
Betimes undermines my mature adult role
Perpetually craving a dopamine fix
He lures me to unhealthy diversions.
Whispering “come on...one last time, just for kicks.”
While my will to resist he imprisons.
Prescription pills, I am told,
will stifle diminutive tyrants
But I fear growing too old.
Losing my humor, my vibrance.
For my little man is always curious,
finding joy in the simplest of things
I dread being dull ever serious
With new focus I pray he still sings
Poem 2 of 30
That resourceful, grief stricken six year old boy
Impetuous lad still demanding control
With my impulses plays, his favorite toy
Betimes undermines my mature adult role
Perpetually craving a dopamine fix
He lures me to unhealthy diversions.
Whispering “come on...one last time, just for kicks.”
While my will to resist he imprisons.
Prescription pills, I am told,
will stifle diminutive tyrants
But I fear growing too old.
Losing my humor, my vibrance.
For my little man is always curious,
finding joy in the simplest of things
I dread being dull ever serious
With new focus I pray he still sings
Anonymous
apadravya worship xxiv ~ the satanist iv
3 ov 30
[iii]
somewhere, your third eye is dark...
... i know the varying hues ov it, the subtlety ov your body
in all it's transmutations
as i lay crucified across dharmachakra
{a butterfly on a wheel}
once again questioning multiples ov four & five & my insignificance
because my subconscious clutches at frail coincidences
wondering if two more times might be the charm....
...somewhere, i can pretend not to see
[ii]
mayhap the cataclysm was waiting to be birthed in the center ov
your henna stained palms, i can think ov no better place to die_
impaled on tattooed spokes,
bleeding thru your fingers until i am a husk ov snapdragons skulls
& dandelion wishes
[i]
empires pivot in the nodes from the base of your spine
to where a lotus blooms black between your brows;
i play childhood pastimes amid a thousand rice paper petals &
meditate your capacity for mercy kills
{ô satan, prends pitié}
that i might drown in the vortices ov your spit
3 ov 30
[iii]
somewhere, your third eye is dark...
... i know the varying hues ov it, the subtlety ov your body
in all it's transmutations
as i lay crucified across dharmachakra
{a butterfly on a wheel}
once again questioning multiples ov four & five & my insignificance
because my subconscious clutches at frail coincidences
wondering if two more times might be the charm....
...somewhere, i can pretend not to see
[ii]
mayhap the cataclysm was waiting to be birthed in the center ov
your henna stained palms, i can think ov no better place to die_
impaled on tattooed spokes,
bleeding thru your fingers until i am a husk ov snapdragons skulls
& dandelion wishes
[i]
empires pivot in the nodes from the base of your spine
to where a lotus blooms black between your brows;
i play childhood pastimes amid a thousand rice paper petals &
meditate your capacity for mercy kills
{ô satan, prends pitié}
that i might drown in the vortices ov your spit
