NaPM 9 April 2022

[RiverNotch]

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.

Topic: Write a poem as if someone in particular has been raised from the dead, someone who hasn't been (or has yet to be?) raised from the dead. Eg, you write a love song to a resurrected Abraham Lincoln, or you describe Hitler coming back to life.

Form: Any

Line Requirement: At least 8

[Semicircle]

I asked igor for the brain of some idiot
so I could force him to do labor,
but now I'm stuck with this doctor frankenstein guy.

He's asking for his rights and stuff
and giving me advice on how to do my job,
boring me to tears,
so I abruptly say, "goodbye!!!"
setting the townsfolk on him.

[Xlateralus]

Jim died last Tuesday,
but it could have been any particular day
He wasn’t very particular about life he said
“I’ve seen it all” which from my point of view
was odd.

A lonesome 35 year old line cook left a lot on the linen.


jim died last tuesday but his stench was reborn today
a bloated mess on a sheetless mattress

[CRNDLSM]

Holy shit! What the fuck?! I
thought you were dead!  You are dead!
Oh my God! Ahhh!  What are you
doing here?! This is a dream,
this isnt real, you're dead! Why?!
Why? It's all in my head!
Ahh! Die! Die! I'll kill you too!
Die! Die! You're dead! Dead! Die! Ahh! (endless screams)

[Semicircle]

Jim died last Tuesday,
but it could have been any particular day
He wasn’t very particular about life he said
“I’ve seen it all” which from my point of view
was odd.

A lonesome 35 year old line cook left a lot on the linen.


jim died last tuesday but his stench was reborn today
a bloated mess on a sheetless mattress

Jim must be a pretty stinky guy to always smell like death.

I don't think reborn is the word you're looking for,
small nitpick.

[dukealien]

Informed


After we raised him from the dead
(a tough job given scattering
of his parts by royalists)
we took it on ourselves to ask
Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell
his opinion of George Washington
as a sort of Plutarch’s parallel
to his own life.  We thought
to teaze him as his Commonwealth
barely survived him while
Washington’s Republic just rolls on.
And he said,

“Washington’s a godly man
of no particular religion;
he was always humble before
the opinions of others
and failed often
but not in the end.

“I on t’other hand
was always humble before my God
but no man.  I knew Providence
would grant success;
Wahington thanked Providence
when he succeeded.”

A little piqued, we asked him then
which of the two God rated higher
since he was one to know.

And Cromwell smiled his crooked smile
and saying, “Neither,” vanished.

[TranquillityBase]

In Miss Laurie's parlor,
I dug a trench about a cubit square 
and began to sacrifice the sheep. 
Spirits began to appear 
wandered to and fro, 
watching the dark blood pour into the pit.

We heard the sound of a piano 
and I heard a great moaning.

Persephone turned to me 
as I made my way along to the President. 
Lincoln said: “You may stand alongside while she plays the piano.” 

Mrs. Laurie's daughter was whispering 
in a dark corner with dead youths and old men, 
brides newly perished, soldiers 
in their bloody uniforms of blue and gray.

She played another tune 
while I had speech with the President,
promising him the finest jet-black sheep of my flock. 
He nodded to verify that the payment was accepted.

On the banks of the parlor 
we wandered in conversation, 
while I caught hold of the spirits, 
laid them by the trench, 
and then as quick set them free to drink. 
Drinking, they might hear the words of the President.

Lincoln, sitting on the instrument,
beat time while the tune played on 
and the ghosts approached. 
All assembled, 
Persephone ended her song.

Lincoln then spoke,
but in the tongue of Angels,
which no human can translate.

[Xlateralus]

Jim died last Tuesday,
but it could have been any particular day
He wasn’t very particular about life he said
“I’ve seen it all” which from my point of view
was odd.

A lonesome 35 year old line cook left a lot on the linen.


jim died last tuesday but his stench was reborn today
a bloated mess on a sheetless mattress

Jim must be a pretty stinky guy to always smell like death.

I don't think reborn is the word you're looking for,
small nitpick.

Probably not reborn, he is dead. Good call. 


Also I read elsewhere you are pissing people off (only soft core pissing don’t worry). So thusly I am a fan of you. Cheers.

[Semicircle]

Jim died last Tuesday,
but it could have been any particular day
He wasn’t very particular about life he said
“I’ve seen it all” which from my point of view
was odd.

A lonesome 35 year old line cook left a lot on the linen.


jim died last tuesday but his stench was reborn today
a bloated mess on a sheetless mattress

Jim must be a pretty stinky guy to always smell like death.

I don't think reborn is the word you're looking for,
small nitpick.

Probably not reborn, he is dead. Good call. 


Also I read elsewhere you are pissing people off (only soft core pissing don’t worry). So thusly I am a fan of you. Cheers.

It's not hard to piss off poetry people,
they are very sensitive.

I know this because the other day
someone called me an idiot,
so I pulled out my large quill pen
and wrote a poem about abuse
with my own blood.

I wrote it on wax paper though,
so it all just washed off when I picked it up.

[Xlateralus]

Obviously indubitably

[Semicircle]

Hmmm yes indeed!

*Raises eyebrow dubiously*

*adjusts monicle*

*washes hands with soap*

[RiverNotch]

Time stretched your shape
so thin it shattered
into hundreds of fragments, memories
that called for a broom, that bled bare feet.

How did it feel to pass on
into a prosaic
collection of morals?
"Don't smoke. Don't drink.
Your tita thought highly of you
and your future, before she passed,
hoping you wouldn't follow her path...."

This was your favourite meal. This pair of shorts
was yours, though we don't remember
seeing you wear it. This dog
still keeps your memory, hiding his face in mourning
at the mere mention of your name.
This bench was where you often hid
for a smoke. This was your purse,
this was your phone.

How does it feel to come back
with your mysteries revealed,
your anecdotes mythologized?
And maybe through the course
of your new life, you'll regain
your curves and return
to music: glass statue

of an ageing woman shattered,
the shards gathered and molten
together, reshaped
into a harmonium.

[busker]

The first of us

Were you just a little bit different
than your sire,
a grip only slightly
firmer around chipped flint,
and its fire
a little less daunting,
death more haunting,
and the stars like so many questions
asked nightly?

[Mark A Becker]

I was shocked. Gone
for 34 years. I waited
and waited, and prayed
for your return, each year
thinking this would be
the one. Then, like a miracle
it finally happened in ’05
in our Nation’s Capital:
baseball was back!