NaPM April 22nd 2019
Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 

NaPM April 22, 2019

Topic: write a palinode retracting a view you wrote about earlier this month.

Form: any, (typically an ode)

Line Requirement: any
i know i called you princess
while shagging you last night
i know i bought you food and drink
and held your body tight
all of that was bullshit
shovelled on so you'd comply
in truth it was only flim-flam
a big fat fuckin' lie.
Mission Accomplished

What constitutes the mission of a ghost
which hovers near its body’s dying-place?
Revenge, perhaps, but that is but one point
of setting what his death left out of joint
to rights. Thus Hamlet’s kingly father’s shade
calls trivially for his murderer
to die in turn.  What’s death to one who dwells
within its lightless hall?  But, kingly still,
his murmurings procure a double death:
of his usurper and his feckless get
that Denmark might be ruled by Fortinbras–
a princely son more worthy than his own.

Palinode to........

Damned Old Mole

What does it profit Hamlet’s father’s ghost
to pour his poison into his son’s ear?
Condemned to Hell when he, unshriven, died,
what benefit does he, afire, derive
from dragging down his murderer to face
like torments?  Not to mention his own son
who died red-handed, likewise regicide,
and, too, unshriven.  What this revenant
affirms is his unwillingness to grant
forgiveness, for which he deserves his Hell.

(Oddly enough, just as I finished this the classical radio station piped up with “The Prince of Denmark’s March.”)
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Broken Couplets

Of course they knew what was happening,
but chose to ignore it, like walking
onto a frozen lake, only the hear a crack;

land too far away, so they keep moving,
hoping to get back to the condoms
in their sock drawer,

unopened since their last anniversary.

Palinode to:


Neither of them noticed when their conversations
became frozen puddles, stepped on occasionally,

only to crack, release water, and soak through boots,
but close enough to home for socks, still dryer warm.

Neither of them noticed the window left open,
so they could clutch even harder at fraying quilts;

cold mornings chatting in bed, naked, blankets
shared, replaced by a silence, coated in frost.

Time is the best editor.
It doesn't happen everytime I sit down.
Just an excuse to not incomplete a task.

Over-reacting may be just how I'm known,
To myself, my wife, and people who don't ask.
I'm assuming too much, my thoughts are my own.

It doesn't happen everytime I sit down,
Waiting for the light to shine so I can bask
In the creative juices flowing through my crown.

Over-reacting may be just how I'm known
When presented with any menial task
My mother points out it got worse as I've grown.

It doesn't happen everytime I sit down
Over reacting may be just how I'm known
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
Survivor's Guilt

The spaces between us narrow
as time moves irresistibly forward
to the past, to what we see waits before us.

The void between life and death,
the gulf between Greece and Troy,
the lecherous smile of my uncle Pandar,
the air between our bodies,
the skin between our spirits:

poetry crumbles in the face of ugly truth,
that love is formed out of remembered lust,
love of one's long-neglected youth.

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