Day Eight ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2016

Day Eight. Those two words almost rhyme. Technically, they're in assonance. Same vowel sound. Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "It’s Friday, and writing poems isn’t easy! So let’s give ourselves a break with a simple prompt today. Poets have been writing about flowers since, oh, the dawn of time. So today, I challenge you to add your own poem to this long tradition, by finding a flower, and versifying in its honor. Happy writing!" Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a doodle poem. In my mind, I’m thinking of how I like to doodle when I’m talking on the phone or sitting in a meeting. I used to doodle in my classes when I was younger. So for a poem, I’m thinking this could start off as something small that stays small or builds to epic proportions. Doodle around a bit today. If needed, start by describing something close at hand or within your current field of vision." Okay, here we go, friends. Starting off with Alan today. "The prompt required a flower poem," Alan says, "but I confess that I rarely write about flowers, tending instead to notice the brief blooming period of trees. My town has dogwoods and redbuds (called Judas Trees in some areas) all over, and it occurred to me how the legends around such trees at times violate the spirit of the scriptures such legends intend to support." Wither A dogwood petal shriveled, edged in brown surrounding pink to red, still clinging tight this morning, after heavy rain, a night more like late autumn than mid spring. Unknown how many times in spring from town to town I’d find a festival, someone would write a “Legend of the Dogwood” piece, invite a pastor to recite a story grown to near apocrypha, about how Christ, somehow aware the source wood of His cross, decided He would mark the tree. To me, that notion seems all wrong, that He dismissed the beauty of the tree. He suffers loss of stature, cursing means of destiny. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I interpreted the word "doodle" in Robert's "doodle poem" prompt very literally, ending up with several flowers in a love poem that's a partial abecedarian, just the head and the tail. (Click on the image below to see it full-size.) Flower Doodle —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here is Jed's flower poem, about an illustration Jed has been working on as a cover for an indie-published story and finally completed. Jed spirals in (or down) . . . count the syllables in each line. For a Field Guide A line-drawing of a rosebud, Repeated in the margins. A simple illustration. The story has long waited. I keep on practicing, Imagining it done. The flower won’t be red. Darkness closes in, But light will not drown In the dark I shade. The blossom’s flame In night will shine. How I practiced, With loving Gentle lines. I settled. Accepting Something. Done. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Sarah offers today a meditation on life and death occasioned by flowers. Brava! Just Weeds Yellow flecks in a sea of melted tar, bending, swaying, as they poke their heads up refusing to die; bubbles of brightness sailing across concrete waves in summer's desert throes, hardy soldiers clad in gold. Yet, the gentlest souls fade fastest when death draws near and the sunlit heads bow with white in soft desperation. The breeze whispers "Let go. Come home," and like pure fairy sands, the silver clouds dissipate into night; slender, green flags marking their lonely graves. —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today Ven responds vis-à-vis flowers in a rondeau to one of the most famous rondeaux of the twentieth century, "In Flanders Fields." Red Poppies Thrive Red poppies thrive where dead men lay. Due to the lime, or so they say. It’s not cool to speak for the dead, to see glory where thousands bled. And so we don’t praise John McCrae. But visit Flanders, view the fray. Soak in the field’s crimson haze then judge yourself what it is that led red poppies to thrive. Forget modern conscience, gainsay critics’ cries. View this field and pray history won’t reprise fat fed beds of this weed. Ignore your head, see with your heart, death and glory wed in red poppies that thrive. —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Bravo, all. Flowers doodled and versified magnificently, all around. Friends, won't you comment, please? Love to know what you're thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don't find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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