Day 12 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2017

A dozen days of April have elapsed. A dozen poems for a double-dozen prompts. Playing the dozens. Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "write a poem that explicitly incorporates alliteration (the use of repeated consonant sounds) and assonance (the use of repeated vowel sounds)." Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: "write a guilty poem. The poem can be written from the perspective of someone who is (or feels) guilty, or it can be about someone (or something) else that’s guilty. But guilty of what? Cheating on a test? Or a spouse? Or a diet? Only you know, and only your poem can reveal the truth." Okay, from me, some over-the-top soundplay — alliteration, assonance, even some consonance, and the occasional rhyme — on the theme of guilt. No, I Don’t Feel a Bit Guilty Our president, Tweedledee — or is he Tweedledum? no, Tweedledrump! — tweets while the rest of us sleep. He twiddles his teeny-tiny thumbs to keep from pressing the red button. Red is his favorite color, for ties, for party, and especially the shade of shed blood. His thumbs couldn’t keep from mashing buttons to launch Tomahawk missiles. So does Tweedledrump feel any guilt for spilt civilian red? Not at all. His approval rating got a bump up and his stock portfolio humped higher. No wee-hour tweeting from Tweedledrump on that. No tweeting on guilt except guilting folks who worked for Obama. Trumped-up fake news. Trumped-up drama. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] So the "I" in my title could be Trump (or T___p as some call him in order to make fewer the occurrences of his name in the world since he loves his brand to be invoked repeatedly, whatever the reason) or it could be me . . . but nah, I don't feel guilty at all for writing that. To set up his confluence of soundplay and guilt today, Alan tells us, "When I returned home Monday, a lone bee was attempting to find the log gum we had moved the day before." Go back a couple of days in the blog for the earlier part of this story in Alan's poem "The Karen Cajka Bees Go to Jonesborough" for Day Ten. Where Are Those Who Were before Us? Its trunk of log gum gone with hive, a lone bee flew to one nearby as hollow but without the hive and found no entrance with each try, a worker lost through cycled sun a frosty night outside the hive, not huddled dark and close and warm like every bee inside the hive, a bee alone, its purpose gone, no queen to serve, gone with her hive, no honeycomb, no beeswax home, no pollen cell to feed the hive. What we preserved to move the hive means more than one lone hive-lost bee imprinted with the notion “hive” but vested with sad fate by me. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] In response to the earlier poem, I had written, "Alan, I hope another queen finds one of your trees to start a hive." Little did I know that there would be a sad outcome of a lone worker bee trying to find the hive that was home. Doomed to be forever lost. "Sad Bee" photograph by Barry Easton 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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