NaPM April 09 2016

[milo]

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 09: Write a poem inspired an occupation. (IOW - what would you like to be when you grow up, Johnny?)
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[Todd]

Life After 30
 
is a sandcastle under
the fluorescent sun, and nothing
is meant to last. There is a pulse
in the waves that crash, in the hand
that creates the hologram of ocean
beneath this cellophane sky.
There is the black that I wear
to remind me never to run
from the black we face.
The flower will flash, and we
who bring sleep will awaken first.
I will rise like a great fish circling
as others sink beneath
the white light of morning,
to stand again in ever new possibility.

[just mercedes]

I wanted to design in mud or stone
a home as native as the primal cave,
so easy to construct, a man alone
could build his palace, though without a throne,
while serving none that grind down to the bone
his spirit, make him live a working slave.
A man is free when all his needs are met
without the need to take on heavy debt.

[Weeded]

A sky speck speaking contrails I wanted 
to be mach five screaming faster 
than sonics in combat so trigonomics
I studied careful with life in mind.
Until third grade I was clear with the vision,
started to lose sight and in turn my conviction.
'Cuz it's only 20/20 with wings on their chest,
I started to lose faith, started living in jest.
Went from sky-high dreams to high as a sky dreaming,
still chasing speed so the streets gave me meaning.
I picked up a guitar started singing the blues,
now I'm spittin' in mics and speaking the muse.

[bedeep]

Occupy

What I do not find, I'll win
where water thickens and blood grows thin.

I cast my hook down deep within
and wait. I occupy my skin.
I exhale so I can breathe in.

I count the stars and watch them sin
then later listen to the din
of morning's engine. The spiders spin
their webs to trap their kin.

Is this the only way I can begin?
It seems to be. The wound's a grin
and every laugh is sorrow's twin.

While I wait I conjure winter's djinn
to turn the water thick
and the blood thin.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Offshore Platform #557 Calendar Photographer

Four glass bottles square in shape, each partly full –
water we wish, geopeptides, the clear, God’s mist,
as seen through the windows of crew quarters.

Five abreast and walking in waders they tote
air bags for inversing things, invasive things
like turbulence and the wash from gull wings.  

But for the steel rigging on each month’s page
these would be precisely cropped Nikon shots
of a sea creature’s shell opening to the morning,

a crest curling continuously back into the ocean,
clinching to save itself in endless inward spiral.
Or a crust of music from the fever tree.

[cidermaid]

My stress will melt
like a late Spring freeze.
Anger will be grilled
Gouda cheese, dripping
from my chin; molten
layers of laver words.
Unsaid they will solidify
upon my chest,
become mountains of testimony;
uncontested evidence of your guilt,
as I destroy your defense
with my intelligence.

There will be just enough applause,
as the winners crown is lifted.
The prize, a subtle shift
in who gets to give
and who takes.

I will be noticed.

[Keith]

Catch that pigeon

I used to feel as smart
as a done up top button,
always sat up straight
for the spare milk.
But collars get tighter
long days try to apologise,
children get carried like rugby balls
to the weekend touch line.

With age comes great responsibility
so I applied and got the job
the fountain of all knowledge,
apparently "youth" was already taken.
So now they ask and I tell them,
they ask again and I show them.
Each day my pigeon fly's out the window
and returns with messages
heavy around his ankle.
So I sit in the dark and read them,
I go home and I read them,
I look at my phone and I read them.

He tells me what it's like,
the freedom of flight
out over the city down the tracks
into the country, washing high
over the coast.

I hope one day he never comes back.

[milo]

Let this be a day of writing -
God commanded
and so the writers were born.

They were simple at first,
smearing colors on the walls
of caves to tell the tales
of their simple lives

but they remembered the word of God
and they learned to form letters
and they carved it into stone tablets
and inked it onto animal skins.

And as each age passed the writers
grew more important -
their words formed governments
or created writs of war

Then man created the language
of machines and became like gods -
writing codes that could create
more codes. And God looked down

and noticed that all was wrong, he said -
"NO" i said a day of "RIGHTING"
what is wrong with you? Now please
Let there be a day of reckoning.

And so the wreckoning began.

[billy]

The Engine is Red

I'd watch the dancers in the fire
swirl and dive and jig and bob:

On finding daddy's lighter;
secretly feeling its warmth.
It was see-through yellow
like our Emily's blouse;
the one that showed her powers off.

Her tits were not as hot,
they didn't spark when flicked.
Dad bought a new one red one
to light his pipe and I moving on,
threw me matches on the dull coals.

I want to wear a yellow coat
and ride a big red engine
and put out gigantic blazes
that murder black skies.

but first i need to learn
how to start them.

[RiverNotch]

A sky speck speaking contrails I wanted 
to be mach five screaming faster 
than sonics in combat so trigonomics
I studied careful with life in mind.
Until third grade I was clear with the vision,
started to lose sight and in turn my conviction.
'Cuz it's only 20/20 with wings on their chest,
I started to lose faith, started living in jest.
Went from sky-high dreams to high as a sky dreaming,
still chasing speed so the streets gave me meaning.
I picked up a guitar started singing the blues,
now I'm spittin' in mics and speaking the muse.

Damn, this would make a good song! Nice one.

---

And I can't help but read a biting critique of modern youth (especially that somewhat privileged section that went and messed up Wall Street that one time a few years ago) in your poem, bedeep -- cool stuff.

---

Pretty stung by cider's stuff, too -- somehow, I can relate. Just wish it had a title.

---

A VISIT TO SOME FORGOTTEN CHURCH IN MOSCOW

One dusty hand reached out, caressed
my cheek -- the other held
offerings to be bought, gilded frames
of some saints: Vasil fool, Sergei,
and the painter-monk Andrei.

This hooded figure also spoke
in hazy voice -- and Russian. My guess:
If only you could hear,
far-hearted tourist, their complaints
about this house of God turned pile of earth,
iconostasis flushed by rain,
and censer made bouquet,
then how you'd weep! (or pay)
as now I do.

Back then, I wanted to become
a doctor -- returning home, I laughed
at the leprous spot below my eye.
How young was I!

[bedeep]

This was a good day! Weeded, speakin' the muse right enough; Billy, in my humble opinion that's a fine piece that deserves a less flip last line; Rivernotch yours is evocative as hell. And thanks for enjoying mine, I didn't find it an easy prompt at all. I enjoy all the reads here; never once bored.

[Achebe]

Confessions of an almost professional playboy

Ever since the day I discovered women
I've wanted to be a professional playboy.
That's what I'd like to be when I grow up
though there's little time for that, since I'm 107
and my penis is unsighted like the Pillsbury doughboy's,
I''m hopeful some gorgeous young nymphos will shown up - 

Chinese and Japanese, Italians and Czechs -
I shall ply them with the skills of a poet out for sex - 
such as enjambment, its uses, and where to slot a spondee - 
for poetry is hotter than a six pack and pecs
(or so they told me in that online course I paid for,
which Mr. Manley on their website has said for),
but all the while treat their heart as a plaything,
promise I'll call, that promise being a nay thing.

Within a year or two I'll be ready - 
so watch out, you Misas, and Mashas and Becs.

[billy]

i agree with the last line thing bedeep and i'm not finding any of them easy

[Achebe]

i agree with the last line thing bedeep and i'm not finding any of them easy

Interesting. I thought the opposite. The last line was the whole poem, it was perfect.

[ellajam]

@milo, though not a funny poem,

"NO" i said a day of "RIGHTING"
what is wrong with you?

made me laugh out loud.

[billy]

I agree with you Achebe

[milo]

@milo, though not a funny poem,

"NO" i said a day of "RIGHTING"
what is wrong with you?

made me laugh out loud.

Well I am glad.
It is supposed to be a funny poem.

[ellajam]

@milo, though not a funny poem,

"NO" i said a day of "RIGHTING"
what is wrong with you?

made me laugh out loud.

Well I am glad.
It is supposed to be a funny poem.

What's not funny is thinking about all the wrong paths, but that's probably my own problem. I continue to enjoy the poem.

[Tiger the Lion]

I Don’t Wanna Be a Cowboy

I always loved the sounds of horses—
the clippity-clop of a slow trot
and the whinnies and neighs
in between.
 
Back when we still watched Westerns
I had a toy
gun that must have weighed
a kilo. You could cold-cock Goliath
and not chip the paint.
 
They don’t make ‘em
like that anymore. They’re plastic now
and look more real, but the feel is inauthentic.
 
You wouldn’t want to play out at night
in your camouflage skin
looking for giants to slay.