Poetry Forum

Full Version: April 28 NaPoMo 2021
You're currently viewing a stripped down version of our content. View the full version with proper formatting.
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 28, 2021



Topic: write a poem based on/ inspired by/ about a fairytale

Form: any

Line Requirement: any
Chasing the Farmers Wife

Three blind mice were on the run.
But they stopped to eat some cheese.
They must have been starving.
I think they must need some help.
With a cat that may eat them.

I wonder if they ran after the farmers
wife? They looked tired anyway.
The look like they are going to pop
Like a balloon, where will they go now?
Why were their tails cut off with a carving knife?
They must have been naughty mice.

So, keep chasing the famers wife mice.
I think you got something going for you.
You’ve got to defend yourself from humans.
This is greatest moment of your life.
Your three blind mice.
The coyote and the crow
had a contest to see who
was the most clever.  Although
the coyote had tricked the crow
to drop the meat by singing,
the crow tricked the coyote
into dancing with his mom
on his back until she died.
Don’t Talk to Strangers

I was going to write a kid’s story-
a little bit spooky, a little bit gory
about a big bad wolf who stalks
a young girl who wears a red hood.

What if I write that the wolf
kills the girl’s grandmother
and leaves her for the girl
to eat, and the girl does?

What if I write that the wolf
then tells the girl to remove
her clothes and get in bed
with him, and she does?

What if I write that the wolf
then eats the girl?  Do you think I could
make people forget such a story
was written hundreds of years ago?

"Not likely", you say?
Perhaps then a tale
about being eaten
by a poem-a-day...
1974: An unFairy Tale


The SLA spun straw from guns.
Patty Hearst knew from the first
Field Marshall Cinque was not Rumpelstiltskin.

The seven headed cobra of revolution
made a rich man dance to their lunatic piper’s tune
transformed a Princess into Tanya, superstar guerrilla 
whose voice was like a poisoned sonata 
as she recited her distant confessions.

This was no game: the SLA
staged their own auto-da-fe on national TV,
sparing Tanya for her sudden awakening.

Moral:
The Fascist Insect still rules.
The Princess is now a housewife.
even for the oak
that cliche of stoic strength--
the sky is falling
Falling off the shoulders of giants

You can find Jack
in some late bar
off the main drag
that smells of pizza,
TV turned up too loud,
beers stains on his belly.

He shouts at strangers
tells them his problems
tries to sell his magic beans,
they nod because they know
what he means.

He pawned the golden eggs
his mother left
for drinking money
and rolled up smokes,
sleeps under the damp
leaves of an abandoned
beanstalk.

Afraid of being eaten
by unfamiliar spaces
he only speaks to giants
mostly in rhyme and always
without reason.

One day soon Jack
won't come back from the market,
the Vicar will plant him in his garden
and say a few kind words
in an unkept corner 
then forget what he said.

Only an old lady carrying sticks
will see the green shoots
rising through the fresh dug earth,
followed by Jack
as he climbs above the clouds
one last time.
'Please kill me,' begs the bird, for he foresees
   no end to being rejected for his looks
by pretty siblings, farmyard families,
   a torrid turkey and a few tough chooks

and all because he doesn't look the way
   they think he should, supposing him a duck
or something else, his coat all silver-grey,
   not brown or yellow; 'Wrong!' the chickens cluck;

one day he saw a mighty flock of birds,
   white birds so beautiful, he gave a cry;
these now approach and hear his three sad words,
   he bows his head, in readiness to die...

then sees his water-image, shining white;
the swans embrace; he cries with sheer delight.
She Dreams of Licorice


They go by Margaretta and Johannes;
they buried Vati last year as he had
their Mutti in that famine long ago–
a starving time when Mutti had convinced
poor Vati to desert them in the woods
where wolves and witches preyed upon the lost.

Today they promenade on village streets–
Johannes who’s no longer little Hansel
who leaves no trail of pearls like crumbs behind,
with his young second wife and his three kids
preceded by a belly any witch
would laud and covet for its bacon store.

While Margaretta who’s no longer Gretel
walks darker streets with deeply shadowed eyes.
Those pearls they found inside their witch’s lair
twine in her mind with smells of licorice
and oven-roasting flesh; she hears witch-screams
for mercy in her childless, haunted dreams.