NaPM 28 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 nonsense! Or something so arcane it may as well be nonsense. Blame duke xD

Form: Sonnet (meter and rhyme aren't strict, but a volta is required)

Line Requirement: 12-14

[Semicircle]

Defeated by a riddle

Floor's heartbeat, plucking away hairs.
Empty rooms, in the middle sits chairs.
Submarine takes the plunge
down deep into sponge,
listening to 90's grunge
down deep in the sponge.
Sleeping inside dreams;
plagued by nightmares.

Every part of the
bottomless pit
is it's middle.
Every small question
turns to riddle.
Excuse me if I'm bitter,
I didn't want this sitter
of entrails and litter.
Though,
I appreciate
the plucked hairs
I can fiddle.

[Mark A Becker]

Forgetting

I felt a tingle in my head
that said that Spring had come.
The days get longer out ahead
with an earlier rising sun.
Showers keep the flowers fed
while in the park dogs run.
I didn’t hear a word you said
as I dreamt of fishin fun.

Suddenly I feel a certain shock
and I give my neck a smack-
how is it that I forgot
that bugs would all be back?
Now there’s way more than a lot,
and I'm under constant attack.

[dukealien]

Gash and Gary


I blame the Duke, of what it matters not–
of Athens, Erl, or jazzy Dixieland–
he and his minions always take a hand
in vishery and bilgary and plot.

O, that his handsome Duchess only got
some sense to read my dotes and understand
what dastard missonance His Grace has planned
for her tute quate and earl-y brimming tot.

It’s code, all code, my dreamel dreary doll,
unquantiful without its pripper key!
Give heed, and if you cant at least send cash.
Your servant savant bregs you to caul Sol
before, beaftertude, too leat to see
what urks the Duke, he rancers with a gash!

[CRNDLSM]

Finally, I could shower
where I feed my shoes.  Moments,
like glowing Celtic durots,
tank spectacularly.  Whose
who had hardened whole halves of
flour,  like another gold top,
Hold another old slope in
the desert, done in, again.

The shower, the desert, thee...
The flower, the gold, the glue...
A gun to show the new taste!
A race to cave the cold crew.
And so many dancing chairs
choosing not won, but through.

[RiverNotch]

Easy to write any sort of nonsense
in fourteen lines. Fourteen times two
is twenty-eight, which is four away
from thirty-two, the number of ways one can follow

on one's journey to heaven: ten branches
of the tree of life, three elements, seven
planets, and twelve
houses of the zodiac. The four taken being

the four holy books, the four beasts, the four
appointed kingdoms on this black earth.
Then white water, yellow fire, and the culmination:

red, air, blood, the most favored color
of teens caught up in their passions
and aging men in regrets.

[TranquillityBase]

Peter Ulynov’s Father was made into a pie 
by Mrs. Down The Lane 
in Constantinople

Peter and his mother lived with lettuces 
and some French peasants in a sand-bank 
underneath the root of morning
and plunder of shoes.

His mother drags out 
the criminal camomile tea 

Then he peeped over. 
He saw Mr. McGregor 
strung up in the the garden

MacGregor had three little secrets, 
cheating people, lulling them to sleep,
and shedding their blood 
for Mrs. Down The Lane in Constantinople.

[busker]

Darling Cypriot apricots,
my mulven tidings grindalee
like sunken jacks. My drunken hacks,
purveyors of a pointy trade, my free
dom loving politicians,
bandicoots of every hue,
if only you hair were the right shade of pink,
your ears were blue -

O, what a difference that would make to the world,
a bowl of milk, and mittens too,
not whither away with the wastrel wind,
but sing Magoo.

O Magoo,
my pointed practitioner, androgyne
of #metoo...