Official DUP NAPOWRIMO (National Poetry Writing Month) 2017
27/30
A Life Lived In Black And White
My childhood was a not a scary movie
Quite the opposite; quiet and dull
lived within the maze of Illinois cornfields
When it came to Saturday night
Creature Features, I was front and center
for flicks to the imagination such as
Night Of The Living Dead
on WFLD Channel 32 out of Chicago
Not that there are any particular
oustanding memories I can recall
other than my sister leaving the room
in revulsion when zombies ate a
couple after they burned alive
in a car fire and I said,
Mmmm ... tastes like fried chicken
It was life lived in black and white
fright fests intensely contrasting
the 9 to 5 grind house of torturous
horrors to come as an adult when
life imitated art and we became
the walking dead overnight
Whenever the weekend arrives
and the sun goes down, I feel myself
in my element - a vampire roosting
in the soil of his native homeland
lining a cozy coffin
A Life Lived In Black And White
My childhood was a not a scary movie
Quite the opposite; quiet and dull
lived within the maze of Illinois cornfields
When it came to Saturday night
Creature Features, I was front and center
for flicks to the imagination such as
Night Of The Living Dead
on WFLD Channel 32 out of Chicago
Not that there are any particular
oustanding memories I can recall
other than my sister leaving the room
in revulsion when zombies ate a
couple after they burned alive
in a car fire and I said,
Mmmm ... tastes like fried chicken
It was life lived in black and white
fright fests intensely contrasting
the 9 to 5 grind house of torturous
horrors to come as an adult when
life imitated art and we became
the walking dead overnight
Whenever the weekend arrives
and the sun goes down, I feel myself
in my element - a vampire roosting
in the soil of his native homeland
lining a cozy coffin
Welcome to 'To-Hell-With-Throw-Back-Thursday-Give-Me-Sunday-Already", Team Napo Poets! It's Day 27 and we're not lookin' back! We're T-minus 4 days out and have spotted land!
We're holding strong at 21 travel-weary but accomplished 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 today's featured Team Napo Poet, David MacLeod. Be sure to support his and all Team Napo members!
https://m.facebook.com/DUpoetry/photos/a.10154508509648665.1073741826.148635498664/10155156998553665/?type=3&source=48
We're holding strong at 21 travel-weary but accomplished 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 today's featured Team Napo Poet, David MacLeod. Be sure to support his and all Team Napo members!
https://m.facebook.com/DUpoetry/photos/a.10154508509648665.1073741826.148635498664/10155156998553665/?type=3&source=48
Anonymous
could be worse (27th)
if you want to know how I feel
give me a pen
and turn away
my thoughts get all tangled
impossible to articulate
when I have to talk to you
face to face
my world is filled with liquid emotions
and none of the swells are quiet
they clamor and grip me
pull me this way and that
the funnel from my mind to my mouth
narrows and constricts
and words can’t find their way out
but give me a pen
and leave me to be
it becomes the outlet
freedom of expression
a way to sift through my thoughts like a sieve
trust me, it sometimes frustrates
the turmoil won’t be silenced
unless through my pen
but that’s just the way it is
and things could always be worse
at least when I’m writing
the words eventually come through
it’s worse when the pen
inexplicably remains mute
if you want to know how I feel
give me a pen
and turn away
my thoughts get all tangled
impossible to articulate
when I have to talk to you
face to face
my world is filled with liquid emotions
and none of the swells are quiet
they clamor and grip me
pull me this way and that
the funnel from my mind to my mouth
narrows and constricts
and words can’t find their way out
but give me a pen
and leave me to be
it becomes the outlet
freedom of expression
a way to sift through my thoughts like a sieve
trust me, it sometimes frustrates
the turmoil won’t be silenced
unless through my pen
but that’s just the way it is
and things could always be worse
at least when I’m writing
the words eventually come through
it’s worse when the pen
inexplicably remains mute
And That Alone
The words of the wicked stepmother filled my brain with so much pressure, the cap on my mental radiator began lifting under the steam like the little steel knob on the pressure cooker my mother made soup with, in winter months. That hissing sound and metallic cling echoed the words that came to mind as that lady classed as wicked in her Gothic rhetoric retorted "Mirror Mirror on the wall". Well her pointed nose, sharp finger nails and cackling voice makes amusement when she continues with "who is the fairest one of all?"
If a talking mirror doesn't blow your socks off, the answers surely must. "You, are the fairest in the land" the reflected image reveals.
Why argue with a talking mirror?
You are beautiful.
And that alone is the content of all futuristic muster
As we learn to love ourselves, worlds part in the envelope of the the addressee of life and our spoons fill our mouths with warm soup in the winter of our longing and search of self and wicked Gothic step mothers.
Men seemingly (as generalised as this closing statement is) don't make good story telling antagonists, evidently proven in the lack of wicked Gothic step father's in hard cover children's books.
-x-
Twenny eight a thingy poemy thingy mabob type write thing what you call it.
27 of 30
An Arduous Path
Self-deceived, I’m frequently lead astray
Uncorroborated fears, myself I betray
Never one to realise through observation
Efficiently misguided amid temptation
Invariably travelling an arduous path
Routinely stalled in the aftermath
Typically stubborn to abide by instruction
Experiencing life’s awkward induction
A harshness along the road I roam
But carrying on until I find home
Not always the surest means of survival
But conclusive insight affords a revival
The journey resumes, I persevere on
Greater lessons I seek before I am gone
An Arduous Path
Self-deceived, I’m frequently lead astray
Uncorroborated fears, myself I betray
Never one to realise through observation
Efficiently misguided amid temptation
Invariably travelling an arduous path
Routinely stalled in the aftermath
Typically stubborn to abide by instruction
Experiencing life’s awkward induction
A harshness along the road I roam
But carrying on until I find home
Not always the surest means of survival
But conclusive insight affords a revival
The journey resumes, I persevere on
Greater lessons I seek before I am gone
April 27, 2017
CYCLE IV: AIR
Raise in Praise
Bunch Grass cathedral's pray'rs', our sanctify.
Bright sun, as still as church, and Blazes' hot.
The dunes, our sacred sacrament apply.
We, prostrate, naked praise our god’s begot.
Once beachly crofts relenting worships’ bends,
Exerts, the Host and Holy Wine’s encase.
In service’ genuflecting, rhythm blends;
Our kneeling’s grace and fill of Holy Place.
When offers splash on tabernacle’s ark,
In melting stuff, gift sacrificial spill,
The sea’s divine procession’s chill embark.
We rise to winds’ afresh, brought with god’s will;
Arms spread, as celebrants before the creche,
To wade Pacific font’s baptize refresh.
CYCLE IV: AIR
Raise in Praise
Bunch Grass cathedral's pray'rs', our sanctify.
Bright sun, as still as church, and Blazes' hot.
The dunes, our sacred sacrament apply.
We, prostrate, naked praise our god’s begot.
Once beachly crofts relenting worships’ bends,
Exerts, the Host and Holy Wine’s encase.
In service’ genuflecting, rhythm blends;
Our kneeling’s grace and fill of Holy Place.
When offers splash on tabernacle’s ark,
In melting stuff, gift sacrificial spill,
The sea’s divine procession’s chill embark.
We rise to winds’ afresh, brought with god’s will;
Arms spread, as celebrants before the creche,
To wade Pacific font’s baptize refresh.
27/30
Turrets Syndrome
Lie back on the leather couch
while I listen to the sound of
your guts spilling out
messy innards of a claustrophobic
life not being lived
up to its potential
on the inside looking out
from a towering monument
to Insecurity's stronghold over
the most innocuous of daily decisions
reinforcing imprisonment within
a physicality of unfortunate events
The more unraveled bowel
the more intestinal fortitude
can be mustered as rope
to be utilized in repelling
down from the turret
Without hair like Rapunzel
this will have to do
Turrets Syndrome
Lie back on the leather couch
while I listen to the sound of
your guts spilling out
messy innards of a claustrophobic
life not being lived
up to its potential
on the inside looking out
from a towering monument
to Insecurity's stronghold over
the most innocuous of daily decisions
reinforcing imprisonment within
a physicality of unfortunate events
The more unraveled bowel
the more intestinal fortitude
can be mustered as rope
to be utilized in repelling
down from the turret
Without hair like Rapunzel
this will have to do
April 27 ( NaPoWriMo 2017 )
El Ni·ño Renga
(linked haiku)
1
from tidal warming
in the winter of my birth—
deluge to downpour
2
coming up for air
in the rushing waves' escape—
kelp beds where I lay
3
even in my sleep
these underwater senses—
riding the currents
4
gazing at the moon
connecting with her phases—
my other mother
5
years of endless drought
gone into hiding for now
never far behind
6
return to winter
celebrating in the rain
of the El Ni·ño
27/30
Squawk and Gawk, Chicken Little
More than Thirty Days
has quietly gone by without
the sky actually falling
despite your daily fart
blossoming release
into the atmospheric under
current; attempts
to breach the ozone layer
with a peculiar brand of
bubbled stink
allowing the deadly ultraviolet
to rain devastation down
upon our heads
or in the very least
giving everyone a
substantial hole
( other than yourself )
to gawk at
while you point and thump
your fist upon the
Bible of Self Fulfilling Prophecy
I'll be darned if that ain't
the entire month of April
without some poor sap maimed
limb lost in a cotton nitpicker
All is well in Duperville
It always was
Squawk and Gawk, Chicken Little
More than Thirty Days
has quietly gone by without
the sky actually falling
despite your daily fart
blossoming release
into the atmospheric under
current; attempts
to breach the ozone layer
with a peculiar brand of
bubbled stink
allowing the deadly ultraviolet
to rain devastation down
upon our heads
or in the very least
giving everyone a
substantial hole
( other than yourself )
to gawk at
while you point and thump
your fist upon the
Bible of Self Fulfilling Prophecy
I'll be darned if that ain't
the entire month of April
without some poor sap maimed
limb lost in a cotton nitpicker
All is well in Duperville
It always was
27/30
Ultra Violet
Sliding
winding down the stripper pole
I'm the gliding garden snake
who stole your virginity
in a single dance
without removing any pants
opened those eyes to their
widest yet
Your soul within bathed
in the glory of my alter ego
Utlra Violet
And with a little grinding
hip shake-shake
mere inches from your face
I take money faster
than you can possibly make it
How 'bout we plan on a play date?
I'll see you next week
after payday
Ultra Violet
Sliding
winding down the stripper pole
I'm the gliding garden snake
who stole your virginity
in a single dance
without removing any pants
opened those eyes to their
widest yet
Your soul within bathed
in the glory of my alter ego
Utlra Violet
And with a little grinding
hip shake-shake
mere inches from your face
I take money faster
than you can possibly make it
How 'bout we plan on a play date?
I'll see you next week
after payday
27/30
Ultraviolet
no sirens blaring
Everyone running for their lives
no sirens blaring
Ultraviolet raining down from the skies
no sirens blaring
Without warning, civilization dies
"No need for sirens"
The President tweets
while Joe Public fries
Ozone holes plugged with rhetoric
prone to confabulation in a nation
brainwashed by their own creation
artificial realities of self preservation
Climate Change
is nothing but a hoax
perpetuated by Scientists
who have extensive university
degrees in telling jokes
But, I digress
and here I am to confess
I didn't believe it either
until I heard
no sirens blaring
Fresh water supplies evaporated
no sirens blaring
Boiling seas now over salinated
no sirens blaring
The President tweets
"It's nothing but a hoax
no sirens blaring
and the joke's on no one
but us
Ultraviolet
no sirens blaring
Everyone running for their lives
no sirens blaring
Ultraviolet raining down from the skies
no sirens blaring
Without warning, civilization dies
"No need for sirens"
The President tweets
while Joe Public fries
Ozone holes plugged with rhetoric
prone to confabulation in a nation
brainwashed by their own creation
artificial realities of self preservation
Climate Change
is nothing but a hoax
perpetuated by Scientists
who have extensive university
degrees in telling jokes
But, I digress
and here I am to confess
I didn't believe it either
until I heard
no sirens blaring
Fresh water supplies evaporated
no sirens blaring
Boiling seas now over salinated
no sirens blaring
The President tweets
"It's nothing but a hoax
no sirens blaring
and the joke's on no one
but us
Preaching before the reach
Strength and inspiration are just out of reach,
apart from more words on words
more meta-words and reflection
when what is needed
is some refraction
in this watery soul
to change the flow
and aim for a better direction,
all is needed is the right sound
and music track
to reverberate in myself
and shake down the walls of despair
and mansions of melancholia
like the trumpets of Jericho.
Clouds coalesce joining in communion
but they are merely grey and insipid,
not the heralds of a storm to reborn in
to bring thunder and force to my soul
so caught up in metaphors
and archaic elemental speech
that I barely exist in the modern world
where hate and madness run rife:
the machine has intelligence
and social media is beyond god;
too peaceful to test us
yet too threatened by terrorism to be safe in.
One day I will flood
and expand my borders
washing the world with wonder.
Until then,
it is but a dream just out of reach.
(Day and Entry 27, GMT 20:07)
Strength and inspiration are just out of reach,
apart from more words on words
more meta-words and reflection
when what is needed
is some refraction
in this watery soul
to change the flow
and aim for a better direction,
all is needed is the right sound
and music track
to reverberate in myself
and shake down the walls of despair
and mansions of melancholia
like the trumpets of Jericho.
Clouds coalesce joining in communion
but they are merely grey and insipid,
not the heralds of a storm to reborn in
to bring thunder and force to my soul
so caught up in metaphors
and archaic elemental speech
that I barely exist in the modern world
where hate and madness run rife:
the machine has intelligence
and social media is beyond god;
too peaceful to test us
yet too threatened by terrorism to be safe in.
One day I will flood
and expand my borders
washing the world with wonder.
Until then,
it is but a dream just out of reach.
(Day and Entry 27, GMT 20:07)
Anonymous
apadravya worship ~ {xii}
27.04.17. poem 27 of 30
iii.
i travelled inward to meditate my contribution to
the chaos in our spines.
blamelessness is just another illusion i've worn to excuse how much i
crave the violence,
the taste of blood & discord & humiliation
& sweat.
i have so often tried to push you beyond your
threshold for cruelty, chasing
another endorphin saturated high
with your hands wrapped around my throat.
squeezing.
ii.
it was a means to an end, a rebirth at a moment of
blissful near death
filled with blue-lipped-prayers.
i used you as much as you did me until we'd
used each other up
& the fix stopped being enough.
i understood the momentum, the impact; knew where
the bruising
would be darkest, most beautiful
and it lost its appeal.
i.
my aloofness at the devastation was the breaking point.
the rorschach stains blooming bloody black
under my skin
stopped divining the root of my proclivities.
i slept with the creaking floorboards again.
27.04.17. poem 27 of 30
iii.
i travelled inward to meditate my contribution to
the chaos in our spines.
blamelessness is just another illusion i've worn to excuse how much i
crave the violence,
the taste of blood & discord & humiliation
& sweat.
i have so often tried to push you beyond your
threshold for cruelty, chasing
another endorphin saturated high
with your hands wrapped around my throat.
squeezing.
ii.
it was a means to an end, a rebirth at a moment of
blissful near death
filled with blue-lipped-prayers.
i used you as much as you did me until we'd
used each other up
& the fix stopped being enough.
i understood the momentum, the impact; knew where
the bruising
would be darkest, most beautiful
and it lost its appeal.
i.
my aloofness at the devastation was the breaking point.
the rorschach stains blooming bloody black
under my skin
stopped divining the root of my proclivities.
i slept with the creaking floorboards again.
NaPoWriMo 27/30 for April 27th, 2017
Villanelle/Terzanelle/Verzanelle/Tillanelle No: 27
I’ve just invented the Tillanelle. It is a specialised form of the official Terzanelle, but keeping to only two rhyme-endings (instead of the usual six); otherwise 19 lines as usual and following the Terzanelle format exactly. I use some latitude in the repeating lines. Here’s the comparison.
Official Villanelle: A1 b A2 a b A1 a b A2 a b A1 a b A2 a b A1 A2
Official Terzanelle: A1 B1 A2 b C1 B1 c D1 C1 d E1 D1 e F1 E1 f A1 F1 A2
My new Verzanelle: a B1 B2 a B3 B1 a B4 B3 a B5 B4 a B6 B5 a b B6 B2
My new Tillanelle: A1 B1 A2 b A3 B1 a B2 A3 b A4 B2 a B3 A4 b A1 B3 A2
A JOURNEY OF FAITH
“You’re standing on my holy ground …”
I look around to find the source
but see no god who makes this sound
“I am the seed behind the force
I am the one to whom you’re bound”
I look around to find the source
“and when you realise what you’ve found
you’ll thank your guiding star, of course
for I’m the one when homeward bound”.
And whilst debating ’til I’m hoarse
I chance to spy a sacred mound
and thank my guiding star, of course
I love the place and walk around
a star-gate in a rocky course
which chanced to share its sacred mound.
Connection is its own recourse
for standing on my holy ground
where star-gates work their rocket course
I need not know who makes this sound.
Villanelle/Terzanelle/Verzanelle/Tillanelle No: 27
I’ve just invented the Tillanelle. It is a specialised form of the official Terzanelle, but keeping to only two rhyme-endings (instead of the usual six); otherwise 19 lines as usual and following the Terzanelle format exactly. I use some latitude in the repeating lines. Here’s the comparison.
Official Villanelle: A1 b A2 a b A1 a b A2 a b A1 a b A2 a b A1 A2
Official Terzanelle: A1 B1 A2 b C1 B1 c D1 C1 d E1 D1 e F1 E1 f A1 F1 A2
My new Verzanelle: a B1 B2 a B3 B1 a B4 B3 a B5 B4 a B6 B5 a b B6 B2
My new Tillanelle: A1 B1 A2 b A3 B1 a B2 A3 b A4 B2 a B3 A4 b A1 B3 A2
A JOURNEY OF FAITH
“You’re standing on my holy ground …”
I look around to find the source
but see no god who makes this sound
“I am the seed behind the force
I am the one to whom you’re bound”
I look around to find the source
“and when you realise what you’ve found
you’ll thank your guiding star, of course
for I’m the one when homeward bound”.
And whilst debating ’til I’m hoarse
I chance to spy a sacred mound
and thank my guiding star, of course
I love the place and walk around
a star-gate in a rocky course
which chanced to share its sacred mound.
Connection is its own recourse
for standing on my holy ground
where star-gates work their rocket course
I need not know who makes this sound.
Toys in the attic
every so often
I shed my skin
cast everyone
& everything
I have known
to the dust of time
to be kept
as memories
on the wind
do not think
that you know
who I am
the only ones
that do
are the toys in my attic
those I dissect
in crampt
tiny spaces
in search
of some shared
pain & sorrow
with a smile
while you think
I am smiling at you
& you smile back
but all the flowers
are dead now
neglected
subjected
to the torture
that is me
be careful
my love
for my kiss is poison
i sit
in a dusty
windowsill
looking at
the reflection
of my shattered self
scars
my physical graffiti
anguish
tattooed
upon my soul
& the silent solitude
of the ether
my only companion
except for the toys
that I carefully put
back into their boxes
& stack on that dusty shelf
next to an empty flask of tears
in the attic
of my mind
04272017
every so often
I shed my skin
cast everyone
& everything
I have known
to the dust of time
to be kept
as memories
on the wind
do not think
that you know
who I am
the only ones
that do
are the toys in my attic
those I dissect
in crampt
tiny spaces
in search
of some shared
pain & sorrow
with a smile
while you think
I am smiling at you
& you smile back
but all the flowers
are dead now
neglected
subjected
to the torture
that is me
be careful
my love
for my kiss is poison
i sit
in a dusty
windowsill
looking at
the reflection
of my shattered self
scars
my physical graffiti
anguish
tattooed
upon my soul
& the silent solitude
of the ether
my only companion
except for the toys
that I carefully put
back into their boxes
& stack on that dusty shelf
next to an empty flask of tears
in the attic
of my mind
04272017
