April 27 NaPoMo 2021
#1
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 27, 2021



Topic: write a poem of 10 lines or more incorporating at least 4 senses

Form: any

Line Requirement: at least 10
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#2
Senses of Direction

Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
dat red, white, n blue house wit star spangle trim, n dat thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. Dat Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out dare jawin at Jesus, in’er holey slippers, pink spandix shorts,
n triple large raslin t-shirt.  If ya slip by unnoticed, consider yerself blessed.

Jus act natchal like, whistle a little n bear lef on Poplar keepin yer hands
out yer pockets, 'cause at sidewalk's uneven. At a loost up, clangin stop sign,
'cross fom Public Works, yer ears may get to twitchin fom the warblin
of a sweetest soundin songbird ya ever did hear.  But dat ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of dat ever joyful Eva Jones. Next door, dat Perkins’
bitch oughta be shot fer barkin whenever Eva gits on to a tune real hot n soulful.

Where we at? Oh yeah- at thend a Poplar ya can't help but ta smell sumpin
real fishy. Dat nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o Murky Bottom Run
where dat reekin redneck Earl flops 'is rotten fish ta fester on a bank, n plops
eye wat'rin dumps right off a path. Eben if he ain’t dare I’m sure dat smell'll be.
I can’t hardly believe dey made dat rat breath, sweat stain, skank o puke
a depadee. Anywho... watcha step on a path n head on up ta the tracks.

Trundle longst the train tracks a bit steerin clear of them sticker bushas
n poison oak (itchin for like ever if ya brush agin it).  Comin up’ll be
a burnt out lil shack where them kids useta go ta make out til dat Horton
girl got gangbanged and strangelt.  Man, dat was...well never yoo mind.
Up a piece dares 'is gnarly oak what’s got n old, frait rope swing on er.
Getcha a good feel righta ‘bove da big knot n swing er on out 'cross a crick.

On n‘other side dares 'is small clearin, n a bit beyon dares a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
taste em on a breeze. But don’t be thinkin bout pluckin yoo no juicy one,
either fom a branch, nor off a ground, cause that salty little somabitch
P.R. Johnson hides out in 'is pick up, jus waitin, n fer sure he ain’t no type
ta hole back on givin ya a good taste a some buckshot. Blam! right’n a snoot.

Now yer on ta the tricky part- foller the bobwire fence til ya spot n openin
where P.R.'s truck crashed through it a bit back.  By a big bend in the crick
dares 'is flat, smooth outcroppin where them idenical Dickson twins
uselee go sunnin of a day like this'un. If CindyandSusy are thar n wavin ya over,
don’ be shy. They gon gitcha forgittin if yer comin or goin when 'ey show off
'em tans, but hey, from 'ere on out- yer happy fer sure an in mighty good hans.

Ya want I oughta write dat down fer ya young feller?
Reply
#3
A heron lands in a cypress by the river
dog barks amid birdsong
breeze glances my skin and stirs
chimes out where the scent of anaqua blooms
joins the overcast of green and gray cloud.
Spring settles in.  Grass, now spiky 
with new shoots amid last year’s
yellowed cuttings.  And I think:
dreams and Spring travel together
like Summer and disappointment.
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
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#4
Saying goodbye to sunlight

The daylight slips like an otter
into the stream behind tired eyes,
its dusty pink embers quench
the ruddy cheeks of falling clouds.

lush lips search out the sweet
damp grass of nightfall
and calls out the ground
that fears the flaming torch.

The darkening scent of silhouetted trees
rest their leaves as all creatures
breathe the shallow breaths of sleep
and whispered incantations
only the dawn will hear.

If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
Reply
#5
Sensory Scomo

Skin crawls
with the thought of brainwashed maggots
stinking to the heavens, with their hatred for faggots
and religions false
(as deemed in their own special doctrine). I hear
the sound of madmen laughing, grinning ear to ear,
seeing nothing but mirrors and smoke.
One of them is our PM, no joke.
Reply
#6
The teacher asked the kids, 'what do you think?'
Then again louder for who couldn't hear.
Tapping the page with a delicate touch,
A student raised his hand, 'Ms., what's that smell?
I think Billy made a mess, I can taste
it.' 'Its the lawn crew laying new mulch, see?'

She asked again about the painted sea,
Another student raised her hand, 'i think
it's pretty.  It's so real like I can taste
the salt.  And the crashing waves you can hear
them.' The young girl raised her nose up to smell
deeply, then shuddered wrinkling her face, touch-

ing her nose.  The class laughed.  The teacher touched
the boat, a blurry man aboard at sea,
struggling alone in the darkness, the smells
mixed with experience, fear what we think
navigating life, miles away and here
simultaneously.  Personal taste

in home decorating, her outfits, taste
in aesthetics, her classrooms a nice touch
to vacation away in the mind. Here
the children all day are all that she sees,
and this picture has always made her think.
Another whiff, 'i really like that smell.'

The kids gag, 'its gross! It's an awful smell!
Can you light a freshener? Get the taste
out of my mouth!' she smiled, 'but just you think,
the plants will drink the nutrients and touch 
up the place real nice, and some trees you'll see
will grow huge delicious fruit, and you'll hear

all the birds making homes, and while we're here
we'll appreciate the gifts of life.  Smell
the air one more time, to see what I see,
and just see if you can't hold an orange, taste
the fresh juice of a well fed tree.'  She touched
her own nose and smilest, 'now what do you think?'

She closed the book with a light touch and smelled
the pages, hearing a murmur, the taste
of manure, 'See you tomorrow!  I think...'
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
Reply
#7
The Air is Cooling Itself Tonight

The sea is cooling itself tonight, I’ll see it shine
Across from the shore, I see the beach swelling
Into a pure walkable body of sand. I can taste.
The crabs and what they look like, I might just
Touch the water too, feel it on my stubby toes.
Then I might gather up some wood to cook a
nice meal, I wait for friends to dance with me.
Who knows! I may just create a bubbling feast.
Of calamari, salads, and a bottle of Corona with
a lime wedge.
Then things will get interesting when I hear.
The sound of seagulls wadding waiting for us.
To give up our food and give to them, not a chance!
I smell the sea air and all is beautiful to me.
That is what being on the beach feels like.
Reply
#8
April morning --
a wood pigeon sings
from the swaying sycamore
while I sip builder's tea
and smell cut grass.

I want to stay
in this moment
of calm,
but my phone rings --
it's the doctor.
Reply
#9
(04-28-2021, 03:24 AM)Leaf Wrote:  April morning --
a wood pigeon sings
from the swaying sycamore
while I sip builder's tea
and smell cut grass.

I want to stay
in this moment
of calm,
but my phone rings --
it's the doctor.

well done Leaf! with a quite good twist of a finish
Reply
#10
Seventh of Five


What part of my sensorium is this,
an ache in knees and ankles, thumbs and hips
of mornings and when I stand up, its kiss
that’s nothing like a touch?  Hurt coldly slips
around inside.  Sight verifies they swell–
those joints, and I live for a freezing touch
of alcohol in mouth to numb me well
or aspirin’s ice-pills I need so much.
No sixth sense, then, required to perceive
what lies in years ahead, its name is pain
which death alone can finally relieve– 
a seventh sense no prophet need explain.




(04-27-2021, 09:20 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  A heron lands in a cypress by the river
dog barks amid birdsong
breeze glances my skin and stirs
chimes out where the scent of anaqua blooms
joins the overcast of green and gray cloud.
Spring settles in.  Grass, now spiky
with new shoots amid last year’s
yellowed cuttings.  And I think:
dreams and Spring travel together
like Summer and disappointment.

Particularly nice, I think.  And an observation to match the images.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Reply
#11
(04-28-2021, 06:47 AM)Mark A Becker Wrote:  well done Leaf! with a quite good twist of a finish

Thanks, Mark :-)

Yours is very impressive; great use of language there  Thumbsup
All best,
Leaf
Reply
#12
(04-28-2021, 10:43 AM)dukealien Wrote:  Seventh of Five


What part of my sensorium is this,
an ache in knees and ankles, thumbs and hips
of mornings and when I stand up, its kiss
that’s nothing like a touch?  Hurt coldly slips
around inside.  Sight verifies they swell–
those joints, and I live for a freezing touch
of alcohol in mouth to numb me well
or aspirin’s ice-pills I need so much.
No sixth sense, then, required to perceive
what lies in years ahead, its name is pain
which death alone can finally relieve– 
a seventh sense no prophet need explain.




(04-27-2021, 09:20 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  A heron lands in a cypress by the river
dog barks amid birdsong
breeze glances my skin and stirs
chimes out where the scent of anaqua blooms
joins the overcast of green and gray cloud.
Spring settles in.  Grass, now spiky
with new shoots amid last year’s
yellowed cuttings.  And I think:
dreams and Spring travel together
like Summer and disappointment.

Particularly nice, I think.  And an observation to match the images.

Perhaps my favorite from you yet, Tim.
Great images! Fine finish! More like this one, please.
... Mark
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