Official DUP NAPOWRIMO (National Poetry Writing Month) 2017
April 26 ( NaPoWriMo 2017 )
Temptation
When there seemed all the space in the world
Of a place unbound in life's orbit
This was, after all, a rule of thumb
And your touch became unthinkable.
To live in a time that has run out,
No room to stretch one's limitations,
What does it all mean to be standing
So adrift on the edge and not know.
To fathom the next exhalation
As being one's last of temptation,
It no longer matters nor should it
This close to a lost art abandoned.
And as the last air that I swallow
Buys me scant little time to indulge,
I won't try to sully this moment
'Twas my fortune to know life at all.
Will be entered in the competition "Why (Not) Me?"
Welcome to HUMP DAY WEDNESDAY, Team Napo Poets! It's Day 26 and we're here to cheer you over that speedbump! We're T-minus 5 days out and preparing our landing gear!
We're holding strong at 21amazingly extraordinary Poets eligible for that trophy! Make sure you support them on the final leg of this challenge!
Ahavati
JohnnyBlaze
mel44
RevolutionAl
Earth_Child
Jade-Pandora
Hepcat61
LobodeSanPedro
MadameLavender
DaisyGrace
Viddax
Whale
FromtheAsh
Magnetron
MaryWalker
PsycoticMastermind
Anarchitect
Josh
SatansSperm
Crimsin_Unveiling
David_MacLeod
Congratulations to our next Featured Napo Poet, Earth_Child!
https://m.facebook.com/DUpoetry/photos/a.10154508509648665.1073741826.148635498664/10155156836123665/?type=3&source=48
We're holding strong at 21amazingly extraordinary Poets eligible for that trophy! Make sure you support them on the final leg of this challenge!
Ahavati
JohnnyBlaze
mel44
RevolutionAl
Earth_Child
Jade-Pandora
Hepcat61
LobodeSanPedro
MadameLavender
DaisyGrace
Viddax
Whale
FromtheAsh
Magnetron
MaryWalker
PsycoticMastermind
Anarchitect
Josh
SatansSperm
Crimsin_Unveiling
David_MacLeod
Congratulations to our next Featured Napo Poet, Earth_Child!
https://m.facebook.com/DUpoetry/photos/a.10154508509648665.1073741826.148635498664/10155156836123665/?type=3&source=48
NaPoWriMo 26/30 for April 26th, 2017
Villanelle/Terzanelle/Verzanelle No: 26
(Author's Note: Somehow I've just managed to post today's NaPoWriMo on page.3 of the "speakeasy NaPoWriMo" forum by mistake. Hopefully this posting is now in the right place)
A WORD IN SEASON
Reflecting on my hand stretching, I open out
and watch it reach a one-time enemy
to end the war of vain complicity
for those who are so sure, allow no doubt
examine action in solemnity
and watch it reach a one-time enemy
a softer answer beats a pressing shout
when heated words have charged finality
examine action in solemnity.
It’s not about a plan to kill and rout
for karma has its circularity
when heated words have charged finality
so holding back pronouncements we would tout
a word in season heals with charity
for karma has its circularity
avoiding all the pain of many bouts
we pause, considering the enmity -
a word in season heals with charity
to end the war of vain complicity.
Villanelle/Terzanelle/Verzanelle No: 26
(Author's Note: Somehow I've just managed to post today's NaPoWriMo on page.3 of the "speakeasy NaPoWriMo" forum by mistake. Hopefully this posting is now in the right place)
A WORD IN SEASON
Reflecting on my hand stretching, I open out
and watch it reach a one-time enemy
to end the war of vain complicity
for those who are so sure, allow no doubt
examine action in solemnity
and watch it reach a one-time enemy
a softer answer beats a pressing shout
when heated words have charged finality
examine action in solemnity.
It’s not about a plan to kill and rout
for karma has its circularity
when heated words have charged finality
so holding back pronouncements we would tout
a word in season heals with charity
for karma has its circularity
avoiding all the pain of many bouts
we pause, considering the enmity -
a word in season heals with charity
to end the war of vain complicity.
Mystical Plane
I've fallen into
a mystical plane
my eyes newborn
to these vistas
I blink them open slowly
take a look around me
winged beasts take flight
on the backs of dreams
into a onyx sky
no stars shine here
the light from the beings
that wander about
is all that is needed
to illuminate a mind that aches
I'm new to these shores
I've washed up here
from a dark wasteland
of too much alcohol & drugs
this is a healing place
where I can recover
the beautiful pieces of me
I thought I'd lost along the way
they have been kept safe here
for the day when I finally
acknowledged I missed them
the void had me in its maw
If it had its way
I would never again
have the jewels to my crown
that make all the special qualities
that are me
until this point i'd forgotten
my real name
knowing only prisoner 86401
so I slowly remove
my orange jumpsuit
& put on the garments spun
from wisdom
with knowledge I am home
Copyright © 2017 Crimsin. All Rights Reserved
#27 of 30
I've fallen into
a mystical plane
my eyes newborn
to these vistas
I blink them open slowly
take a look around me
winged beasts take flight
on the backs of dreams
into a onyx sky
no stars shine here
the light from the beings
that wander about
is all that is needed
to illuminate a mind that aches
I'm new to these shores
I've washed up here
from a dark wasteland
of too much alcohol & drugs
this is a healing place
where I can recover
the beautiful pieces of me
I thought I'd lost along the way
they have been kept safe here
for the day when I finally
acknowledged I missed them
the void had me in its maw
If it had its way
I would never again
have the jewels to my crown
that make all the special qualities
that are me
until this point i'd forgotten
my real name
knowing only prisoner 86401
so I slowly remove
my orange jumpsuit
& put on the garments spun
from wisdom
with knowledge I am home
Copyright © 2017 Crimsin. All Rights Reserved
#27 of 30
April 26, 2017
CYCLE IV: AIR
The Scents of Battle
Air, whisper soft as rustled satin’s dawn,
And hard as jungle ‘vore’s impassioned roar,
In wafting hints of skirmish’ agents drawn,
Compiled in clash and screams, advance implore.
For certain comes with risen, dawning light,
The wind of battles’ fighting and yet fought,
The heated scents, exerts from contests’ might,
In sweat and froth, the force’ engagements brought.
Long may the night have known by candles’ smoke,
Components’ place and point in blown demark.
For in the dark of star’s slow pass’ invoke,
From prod and poke, the coming war’s embark.
For in first light, the night fires’ fumings break,
That combat’s thrill and thrust perfumes partake.
CYCLE IV: AIR
The Scents of Battle
Air, whisper soft as rustled satin’s dawn,
And hard as jungle ‘vore’s impassioned roar,
In wafting hints of skirmish’ agents drawn,
Compiled in clash and screams, advance implore.
For certain comes with risen, dawning light,
The wind of battles’ fighting and yet fought,
The heated scents, exerts from contests’ might,
In sweat and froth, the force’ engagements brought.
Long may the night have known by candles’ smoke,
Components’ place and point in blown demark.
For in the dark of star’s slow pass’ invoke,
From prod and poke, the coming war’s embark.
For in first light, the night fires’ fumings break,
That combat’s thrill and thrust perfumes partake.
Anonymous
26/30
Building Blocks
I was a laborer for a bricklaying outfit
in Chicago for about a week until
I was laid off to the side like a
pile of crumbled cinder blocks
Though I forced my protesting body
battered as it was, out of bed
every morning to report for duty
they were more merciful in
simply putting me out of my misery
I was thankful for the opportunity
and freely admit that I have about
as much upper body strength as
those dinosaurs with tiny arms;
I can't do a chin-up or ten push-ups
to save my life
Nowadays, I mortar words together
building walls in the minds of readers
who paint murals upon them with their
process of association
There's no physical exercise involved
in sitting at a desk before a computer
and I have atrophied into something akin
to our extinct friends along the lines of
a rubber chicken, but my poetic erections
will be standing firm for generations to come
Building Blocks
I was a laborer for a bricklaying outfit
in Chicago for about a week until
I was laid off to the side like a
pile of crumbled cinder blocks
Though I forced my protesting body
battered as it was, out of bed
every morning to report for duty
they were more merciful in
simply putting me out of my misery
I was thankful for the opportunity
and freely admit that I have about
as much upper body strength as
those dinosaurs with tiny arms;
I can't do a chin-up or ten push-ups
to save my life
Nowadays, I mortar words together
building walls in the minds of readers
who paint murals upon them with their
process of association
There's no physical exercise involved
in sitting at a desk before a computer
and I have atrophied into something akin
to our extinct friends along the lines of
a rubber chicken, but my poetic erections
will be standing firm for generations to come
26 of 30
The Thin Line of Passion and Fury
Enthusiasm in the infatuation
Dedication to romance’s obsession
Motivated by a devoted wildness
Encouraging a wrath and matching madness
An unrestrained fierceness sought
Wounds of indignation matter not
Untamed tempers fuelling craze
Anger erupts and fury set ablaze
Intense passions laced with rage
Sentiments of violence to assuage
Love’s fervour producing excitement
Preferred to alone and discontent
Inspired by “Kiss with a Fist” Competition
The Thin Line of Passion and Fury
Enthusiasm in the infatuation
Dedication to romance’s obsession
Motivated by a devoted wildness
Encouraging a wrath and matching madness
An unrestrained fierceness sought
Wounds of indignation matter not
Untamed tempers fuelling craze
Anger erupts and fury set ablaze
Intense passions laced with rage
Sentiments of violence to assuage
Love’s fervour producing excitement
Preferred to alone and discontent
Inspired by “Kiss with a Fist” Competition
Anonymous
26/30
The Tell-Tale Poet
My literary colleague
speaks of using word as
building blocks
but let me tell you
he is no tale-tell cinder fella story
like that Edgar Allen Poe sure was
I know this to be true
because I can still hear the beating
hearts of victims imprisoned
in his brick walls
rhythmic with their scratching
nails against mortar, clawing
drawing in the last breaths
well beyond oxygen depletion
enduring as ghosts of the English
language he murdered most foul
The Tell-Tale Poet
My literary colleague
speaks of using word as
building blocks
but let me tell you
he is no tale-tell cinder fella story
like that Edgar Allen Poe sure was
I know this to be true
because I can still hear the beating
hearts of victims imprisoned
in his brick walls
rhythmic with their scratching
nails against mortar, clawing
drawing in the last breaths
well beyond oxygen depletion
enduring as ghosts of the English
language he murdered most foul
Anonymous
26/30
Evermore
My dearest Eleanor, come!
away from the bedroom door
Join me in an exchange of rum
between rumpled sheets and
silken fabrics we shall explore
Let that rotten Raven be!
to wander streets in its misbegotten
misbehavin' ways of mis-fits with their
tweets; crowings, comings and goings
blowings of big black cock in the night
tis not my cravin' these days
Oh, Eleanor, oh, dear God!
you are the first and the lass
in my thirst queer and odd
Cradled 'tween plump cheek ass
your bottled liquor I wish to drink from
evermore
evermore
Evermore
My dearest Eleanor, come!
away from the bedroom door
Join me in an exchange of rum
between rumpled sheets and
silken fabrics we shall explore
Let that rotten Raven be!
to wander streets in its misbegotten
misbehavin' ways of mis-fits with their
tweets; crowings, comings and goings
blowings of big black cock in the night
tis not my cravin' these days
Oh, Eleanor, oh, dear God!
you are the first and the lass
in my thirst queer and odd
Cradled 'tween plump cheek ass
your bottled liquor I wish to drink from
evermore
evermore
Anonymous
26/30
Type, Poe, Type!
When modern day Poes are in the throes of poetic passion
composing disjointed prose about Gothic romance
occurring in the dark expanse of a mansion
there are only thrustings and thirstings
followed by bustings and burstings
involving squirtings and spurtings
of words and letters coming
together in no particular
fashion
seeing on scarlet
through Masques of Red Death
as the deluge of literary splooge flows
our Poets are unable to see the red line
underneath their typos
Type, Poe, Type!
When modern day Poes are in the throes of poetic passion
composing disjointed prose about Gothic romance
occurring in the dark expanse of a mansion
there are only thrustings and thirstings
followed by bustings and burstings
involving squirtings and spurtings
of words and letters coming
together in no particular
fashion
seeing on scarlet
through Masques of Red Death
as the deluge of literary splooge flows
our Poets are unable to see the red line
underneath their typos
For what it is worth
Once more unto the breach
of the peace
dear friends and fiends
once more our words live,
blathering, slathering and gathering
to put pen to paper
or lines via laptop
or communion by computer
or tales by tablet.
Each one a tale in itself
with accompanying profile pictures
which are tableaus unto themselves
screaming and jostling for attention
or merely stating the miserably mundane
or building wonders with words;
possibly trying to do one of those things
as the world turns
and time eats away at our essence
hoping to prove and provide
ideas and tales to live forever
though in the grand scheme of things
soon we will be mere wormfood
even if we do get to be referred to
as 'poets' or 'wordsmiths'
though our brains be long atrophied
and our fires long quenched
our energy spent, the words written,
and only those words as markers
of our time on this earth.
Still,
it beats rotting outside
or inside as a sales assistant;
though some will surely not agree
poetry makes us immortal and free.
(Day and Entry 26, GMT 19:57)
Once more unto the breach
of the peace
dear friends and fiends
once more our words live,
blathering, slathering and gathering
to put pen to paper
or lines via laptop
or communion by computer
or tales by tablet.
Each one a tale in itself
with accompanying profile pictures
which are tableaus unto themselves
screaming and jostling for attention
or merely stating the miserably mundane
or building wonders with words;
possibly trying to do one of those things
as the world turns
and time eats away at our essence
hoping to prove and provide
ideas and tales to live forever
though in the grand scheme of things
soon we will be mere wormfood
even if we do get to be referred to
as 'poets' or 'wordsmiths'
though our brains be long atrophied
and our fires long quenched
our energy spent, the words written,
and only those words as markers
of our time on this earth.
Still,
it beats rotting outside
or inside as a sales assistant;
though some will surely not agree
poetry makes us immortal and free.
(Day and Entry 26, GMT 19:57)
Anonymous
24/30
Gutter Punch Drunk
Poe may have been a nutter
who died face first in the gutter
but his words will live on to butter
down to the very last crumb
the bread of Gothic romance
starved generations to come
His verse today and tomorrow
is a reminder of the sorrow
he tried to drown in the bottle
a depression he could not throttle
because with four fingers of rum
in each hand, he was all thumb
Gutter Punch Drunk
Poe may have been a nutter
who died face first in the gutter
but his words will live on to butter
down to the very last crumb
the bread of Gothic romance
starved generations to come
His verse today and tomorrow
is a reminder of the sorrow
he tried to drown in the bottle
a depression he could not throttle
because with four fingers of rum
in each hand, he was all thumb
Anonymous
werbepause vii
26.04.17. poem 26 of 30
i thought i would
live with
the refractions of you,
feel the days linger on
the periphery of moments,
in the quiet when my
mind stops racing & i am
left alone with my thoughts,
turning them over
& over like sea glass
to see if the light could
change their appearance
from a new angle
{the dimensions remained
unchanged by perspective}
perhaps the spectrum
would evolve from
its perpetual stasis.
growth has been painful
26.04.17. poem 26 of 30
i thought i would
live with
the refractions of you,
feel the days linger on
the periphery of moments,
in the quiet when my
mind stops racing & i am
left alone with my thoughts,
turning them over
& over like sea glass
to see if the light could
change their appearance
from a new angle
{the dimensions remained
unchanged by perspective}
perhaps the spectrum
would evolve from
its perpetual stasis.
growth has been painful
PERFUME IN THE KEY OF D
Chanel on my shirt
Letters in the grate
Great words perfume and fade
Even two eyes can not see the whole sea
Does it matter that ours was a whole sea
Even seas turn to deserts
May be we were only a bath or a bottle
What does it matter
Empty is empty
I sleep on my grave
And I turn because there's no one there
There never was amongst the worms
And the living
Nothing but a shirt reading letters
On a park bench
In the perfume of you
The perfume of the ocean
And of the channels to the sea
And the play of sailors and sea creatures
And the sounds that become words
As if words were worlds
In the key of D
Chanel on my shirt
Letters in the grate
Great words perfume and fade
Even two eyes can not see the whole sea
Does it matter that ours was a whole sea
Even seas turn to deserts
May be we were only a bath or a bottle
What does it matter
Empty is empty
I sleep on my grave
And I turn because there's no one there
There never was amongst the worms
And the living
Nothing but a shirt reading letters
On a park bench
In the perfume of you
The perfume of the ocean
And of the channels to the sea
And the play of sailors and sea creatures
And the sounds that become words
As if words were worlds
In the key of D
