Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo 2020

Soured

 

Sociopath usurpers rise to the top
Floating above mere human resources:
Doubtful cream of a churned and churning crop
Soulless spawn of data-driven forces.

I long to see them finally confounded;
I’ll laugh as they leap from towering losses
Their assets seized, liquefied, impounded . . .
May God repay our sociopath bosses!

 

https://i.pinimg.com/originals/23/3d/91/233d913efbcaebd13762221dd2f45d72.jpg

 

 

PROMPT #22: use an idiomatic phrase as the jumping-off point for your poem.

(The cream of the crop…)

 

Estrofas Duchampescas

Para recoger las horas perdidas
hay que coger las zorras perdidas . . .

 

In order to re-cog the wheels of loss
one must make hay in the azores of loss . . .

 

 

PROMPT #21:
Find a poem in another language,
and perform a “homophonic translation” on it,
which means to try to translate the poem
simply based on how it sounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Handmade of the Lord


PROMPT #20: write a poem about a handmade gift that you have received.

I spent this afternoon watching She (1965 Hammer version) with my daughter  because I was dreading trying to rise to the challenge of this prompt. I wound up with a half-baked limerick based on Luke 1:37, 38

For with God nothing shall be impossible.
And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord;
be it unto me according to thy word. And the angel departed from her.


Eternal salvation’s a gift

From a righteous young maid in a shift

Who had never been laid;

By God’s Spirit hand-made

was her baby, our burdens to lift.

 

I could have weaseled my way out of this very challenging prompt with a haiku . . . but you were spared this time.

 

 

Rustic Rambling

 

Aggressive clowns stalk the sidewalks
dressed like they’re fifteen when they’re fifty:
methadone zombies and smoked-out ghosts.

From foul urban ghettos’ trash-strewn streets,
from vicious twerking braided beats,
I love to get away and climb God’s sylvan hills;
see no litter, and hear
no thugs’ pulsing sound systems, smell no drugs,
and drink of Mother Nature’s thrills.

Behold no trace of urban dysfunction
here in the glorious green unction
of generous Nature,
where educated citizens enjoy the Creation
far from the vile gangsta nation.

Call me elitist, call me names;
but wind sighing through the summer trees
brings me to my knees;
your ugly non-culture
is only good for drama revenue:

Maintaining bureaucracies,
family court payouts,
dogging absent fathers,
. . . nothing new
forced me to free verse this.

I leave you, soul-dead city, for the hills
organic Nature’s subtle rills

What city-life hates:

natural, tranquil, reflective . . .

Anathema to Urban.

 



PROMPT 19: write a “walking archive” poem (go on a walk and gather up interesting things.