Into the night she fled nerves awry, feelings dead. Tricked by his deceitful lies no one had listened to her cries.
Castle and dreams now miles away heart faltering, heavy as clay. Past the forest deep and dank she came upon a riverbank.
Exhausted, she gave in to pain collapsed as thunder struck with rain. Hands to breast, as breath grew short, she smiled as Death offered his support.
NAPOWRIMO Day 18. Prompt: Today we don’t challenge you to write all of a long, dramatic, narrative poem, but we invite you to try your hand at writing a poem that could be a section or piece of one. Include rhyme, include unlikely and dramatic scenes…basically a poem with the plot of an opera!
directions to self, and you, if you wish. Stop imbibing Trumpian news. Take only one small sip per day. Think revel instead of wallow. Revel in sunshine, a best seller book. Walk outside breathing in fresh air, plan for someone’s birthday surprise. Arrange day trips away from news. If you ruminate, Trump wins. Do your small part pf course. One political post per day. Donate to a cause. But do not allow him to fester in your brain, to loose fistulas of lies that chafe, clouding your eyes to the joys nearby. Take care of your mental health. That is of prime importance in these days of . . . well, I don’t know what they are of. But that’s the point. It’s our task to define them. To decide how we change them. How we live and love in them. And God knows, we must.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe! Today Dora asks us to write a poem using an imperative….a demand of sorts.
Photo from a spring walk last year along the Charles River. A habitual dog walker often takes a rest at this bench….always makes me smile. We need more smiles these days.
One, two, what can we do? Three, four, can’t bear any more. Five, six, need a fix. Seven, eight, it’s not too late. Jump ahead to twenty-five, that amendment’s power drive. Then go back to the standard rhyme, he exits out in rhythmic time. Nine, ten, a thankful amen.
NAPOWRIMO Day 7. Prompt for the day: Write a poem that can be a “song: something to clap, snap or jump around to.” I’ve changed the words here to the childhood rhyme, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the door. etc”
If you don’t want to read a political statement in explanation of the poem above, stop reading here.
Today, the President of the United States is playing the “proverbial game of chicken” with an unstable and violent regime. “A whole civilization will die tonight” if Iran doesn’t open the Strait of Hormuz by 8 PM EST. Note: the Strait of Hormuz was open until the US and Israel bombed Iran. Listen to President Trump’s recent public appearances: IE standing beside the giant Easter Bunny at the annual Easter Egg Roll, talking about Iran, how great his military is; telling children they can sell the pictures he colors with them because he’s signing them and his autograph is worth a lot of money. But they couldn’t sell anything from President Biden because he had people follow him around with an autopen. Look at his Truth Social posts in the last few days: laced with expletives. The man is more than unhinged. He is seriously mentally ill. He is not competent or fit to be in the office of the Presidency.
It is time to evoke the 25th amendement and remove him from office. At the very least, his family should stage a serious intervention meeting with him; as should members of Congress. Handle it discreetly and quietly if they wish. If he won’t resign, invoke the 25th amendement. We can not allow this man to continue in this powerful position.
Smoke filled jazz club. Those in tune tap fingers on sticky table tops, keep time while rhythmic brushes swish on snare drum tops. Others slump in chairs, empty shot glass littered tables. I lean forward, waiting . . . for Sandburg’s oozing saxophones.
Escapists. Jazz aficionados. Musician wannabes. Tourists like me. We all sit while tired bouncer stands outside struggling to hear riffs between terse turndowns of fake IDs. Another night. Another dollar. A job’s a job. Music or not.
Written for Day 1 of NAPOWRIMO. April is National Poetry Writing Month and the challenge is to write one poem, every day in April. Prompts are given daily at https://www.napowrimo.net
I’m joining my Australian friends and writing to the early bird prompt for those “whose geographic relationship with the international date line means that April 1 arrives a bit earlier than it does at National Global Poetry Writing Month HQ.” Here in Boston, it’s 9 AM on March 31 but it’s the start of April 1 in Sydney.
The early bird prompt? “Write your own poem in which you refer to a specific writer or artist (or work of literature/art) and make a declarative statement about want or desire. Set the poem in a particular, people-filled place, like a restaurant, bus station, museum, school, etc.”
NOTES: References to Dizzy Gillespie, famous jazz musician; and Carl Sandburg’s iconic poem, Jazz Fantasia. Image from Bing Create.
A mistake above? Delete that empty space. Backspace until it disappears. Or fill it up with words. Add words. Lots of words.
Or recognize its value. Listen to its open silence. Spend time there, relax in empty space. No judgement. No expectations.
Just be.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and asking folks to include the word “silence” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in the body of their 44 word poem.
Quadrille: a form created by dVerse. The poem is composed of 44 words, sans title. Within the 44 words, one word given by the pub tender, must be included.
Sun shimmers through forest’s canopy. Moon cuts path across ocean’s abyss. Infant’s mouth opens to circle small, pink tongue slides in and out and in again.
Girl grins, pumping swing as pigtails fly. Puddles appear inviting all to splash. Child’s momentary shock as bat hits ball, then small feet fly to first.
Thick carpet of pristine snow invites children of all ages to lie down, swooping arms. Create guardian angels among us.
Folks sway in jazz club, hear saxophones mellow out. Watch nimble fingers create piano riffs, brushes rhythmically swish on snares.
In the midst of ever present news, cacophonies of catastrophes. Find space to feel lightness, safe harbors for hope.
Hope for the wrongly convicted. False confessions coerced confessions eyewitness misidentifications forensic science errors public defenders inexperience.
Cell doors clang shut futures stunted tears long since evaporated possibilities suffocated except the Innocence Project has my name.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Melissa asks us to consider the song, “Folsum Prison Blues”, written and performed by Johnny Cash. The first four lines of the song are “I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ’round the bend And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.” Melissa asks us to write a poem inspired by the song….and by Johnny Cash actually going to Folsum Prison and singing to the inmates. The Innocence Project is an organization that works toward the release of prisoners who are wrongly accused and imprisoned for crimes. To date, their organization has succeeded in the release of 250 innocent prisoners. The Exonerated Five (formerly the Central Park Five) are some of the more famous individuals who benefited from their work. Image by Daniel Vanderkin from Pixabay
Abracadabra because I want a magician’s wand to change what was into what was not and what could be. Defy divisiveness, effects of hatred, and speaking of the “us” versus the “other”. Forge ahead to find new paths. Gather those who want positive change. Hand in hand with hope, honesty and just intentions, may we begin to just listen. Truly listen knowing we are all located within the same sea of humanity. Listen and listen more. Open our ears and hearts. Make a concerted effort, not numbing the pain of others into oblivion. Prayer is not enough. In the quest for healing, we must reflect on what could be and make it so. It may seem tenuous until we verbally and actively validate the worth of all God’s people. Xenophobia is not an option. You and I, if we’re honest, also have roots in other places. Zest and good will toward all humanity: may it be our Resolution for 2026.
Written for Meet The Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re asked to become Abecarians: Create a poem of 26 lines where each line begins with a letter of the alphabet and the letters are sequential. I’ve written from A to Z. Not the first letter of the first word in each line. Image from Pixabay.com
People are different. Color, ethnicity, gender, religious beliefs, language, citizenship, culture.
Gather them all in one place, in concentric circles facing each other, holding hands. Each circle defined by a trait.
Note: circles have no beginning or end. He who joined first disappears. She who joined last disappears. All are integral to their circle.
Herein lies a truth of geometric principle. Concentric circles differ in radii but have the same center point. And what is that same center point?
As Maya Angelou famously wrote, “We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.” The center point is our humanity.
Sadly however, truth is not constructed reality when the builder is a demolitionist.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today I am hosting: go to https://dversepoets.com to see the prompt this poem is motivated by.
He or she or it peers out from window’s side. Black obsidian-like pupil orange incandescent iris. Half there, half hidden. All knowing? Fearful? Oblivious? Seer by unearned reputation among feathered fowl.
I arrange alphabetical letters. Create single words, strung-along thoughts gibberish with mismatched curves. Leaked ink stains fingers, dribbles dots on embossed paper smears black blotches. Accidental undefined punctuation blobs.
What seers roost among us? Spew artificial intelligence scenarios. Indulge everyman, everywoman, every androgynous human. Note the ever present “man” in that word. Want it? Steal it or create it. At the cost of many for the pleasure of few.
That all seeing obsidian eye? Taxidermist’s handiwork unfinished. Half-body only. Nothing else behind the window. What you see? Rancid carnage, stuffed roadkill. Alternative reality. This is all we get. ““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting the pub’s Open Link Night today, as well as dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM EST. Folks can post any poem of their choosing, no required length, form, or topic OR write an ekphrastic poem, one that is motivated by one of three “window” images I’ve provided, or any “window image” of their choosing.Owl image above from Pixabay.com
Join us LIVE on Saturday, October 25th, between 10 and 11 AM EST!! Want to see and hear poets from around the globe read their poems (all in English)? We’re a very friendly bunch! Come join us to sit in, read a poem of your choice, and/or join in the conversation. Click here and then click on the Zoom meeting link provided (video and audio). Hope to see you Saturday, October 25th between 10 and 11 AM at our LIVE session!
lillian the home poet 