Day 21 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 95

Greetings once more, friends! My poem today is #95 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #460, including last year's Stafford Challenge poem count). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: Write a “poem in which you muse on your name and nicknames you’ve been given or, if you like, the name and nicknames for an animal, plant, or place.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For the third Two-for-Tuesday prompt:  1) Write a high poem, and/or . . . 2) Write an low poem.” I've been successful this month in consistently combining the prompts. Done again today. I'm writing today in the haibun form — a Japanese poetic form with a prose paragraph and a haiku together. Nicknames High and Low             —haibun In fifth grade, my classmate Steven Pasquale called me “The Goat,” a pun on my family name, and that nickname stuck for a year, with other classmates also calling me that. Thank goodness it went away. Thirty or forty years later, there was a high point for that nickname when people started referring to the GOAT as an acronym for “greatest of all time,” applied often to Michael Jordan or Muhammad Ali. But there was no such high point when we were in fifth grade. Steven also made up another nickname: “Gotera Paper” (that is, “go tear a paper,” like in the bathroom). That was a low point that only stuck around for a day or two, again thank goodness. If I had been sharper, I could have struck back with a nickname for Steven like “Piss Quality.” I wonder where Steven is these days — never too late, even sixty years on.                         Friends called me “The Goat”                         when we were ten. They were right —                         “greatest of all time”! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Mountain Goat (Photo Source) Today, Alan is also combining both prompts — he was a DJ in college and this poem is about that biz, especially stage names for radio personalities. These Are the Pros and Cons of Broadcasting In Tuscaloosa, two guys in the dorm room right next door “studied” media, the jock who couldn’t walk on baseball half-assing his sports writing, not being telegenic, and a radio DJ, another aspiring Rush. In those days, local stations weren’t all syndicated yet, and one learned cultivating personality alone, unless a car wash opened or a B-side musician headlined a Shriners potluck. I won’t name these two—the sports guy’s byline runs locally, but barely; the DJ’s name on air is still “Steve Shannon,” a common DJ handle in the Ronald Reagan years, but this one once ridiculed a local public figure, already troubled, until he threw himself—overpass, oncoming traffic, morning rush hour—Steve Shannon changed his name and took graveyard shifts at a small sister station until notoriety faded and he could resume being Steve Shannon on air at a charity bazaar or some rural high school dance, introducing the prom queens whose names remain in gossip scrawled on yearbook endpapers. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Okay, we're three weeks down. Thanks for coming by the blog. See you again tomorrow? Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 20 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 94

Hello, friends! My poem today is #94 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #459, including last year's Stafford Challenge poem count). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “For today, try writing your own poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a ‘No ___’ poem.” Once again, I am combining the prompts. No More Dragons? No.             —curtal sonnet Today’s prompt for a mythic animal probably made you think that I would write a ditty on the almighty dragon. After all, I wear dragon apparel daily! I composed one hundred and eight dragon poems last year! Shall we dragon? Or is it, drag on? I read a poem today with the metaphor “dragon’s breath” for war. So folks still need to know dragons, at least in Asia, are wise, kind, esteemed.                                   “Dragon dragon dragon!” —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_dragon By the way, the "one spoken phrase" required by the NaPoWriMo prompt was fulfilled by the last line of this poem, "Dragon dragon dragon," and this happens to be a quotation of the last line of my poem "Sestina: Dragon," which appeared in my most recent book Dragons & Rayguns and originally appeared in the blog during April 2014. Just a fun little detail. Today, Alan is combining both prompts as well, but with several animals. No Innocence I have taken many lives, but none on purpose. 1. Hundreds, maybe thousands of insects before the depletion of the biomass, especially as I frequented interstates and rural two-lanes, especially during an early-season road trip back from Jacksonville so that as I drove through South Carolina, the worse of the Carolinas, I encountered a plague-like cloud of love bugs whose remains splattered the hood, grill, bumper, and windshield of the state car I was driving to the degree I felt concerned I would lose access to the motor fleet for the rest of my career, and 2. Random birds, no more than ten, usually songbirds flying too low and colliding with me (again in cars) so that they caromed off the windshield, presumably dead from the impact, except the one undoubtedly dead and slightly integrated into the central grill of a 1972 Ford LTD, and then, a few years ago, a duck that just plopped down on the State of Franklin Road while Thomas Crofts, medievalist, was riding with me to get Mexican food, prompting him to say, “¡Chingada Madre!” a term we sometimes hear from language students in our department but never any Mexican folks we know, and 3. No turtles, because they are too easy to miss, and a good guy will hit a turtle only by accident, and I have been spared, and 4. No dogs, although I have been known on familiar streets to slow down so a particular dog can catch me, only to see how confused he gets afterward, but 5. Sad to say, about ten assorted other small mammals, absolutely never on purpose, always the ones that dart heedlessly into the street, prompting me to swerve in what I afterwards attempt to persuade myself has been a successful maneuver to miss them, even if I hear a thump under the floorboard, and I swear never again to look in the rearview mirror immediately afterward, I swear. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Amazing details again today, Alan. With regard to swerving (in this poem's section 5), remember William Stafford's warning and advice about roads and animals, “to swerve might make more dead,” from his poem “Traveling Through the Dark.” It's okay, maybe better, not to swerve. (Incidentally, friends, check out that Stafford poem . . . it's my favorite of all his poems.) Thanks for coming by the blog today. See you again tomorrow? Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 19 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 93

Greetings, friends! My poem today is #93 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #458, including last year's Stafford Challenge poem count). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, pick a flower or two (or a whole bouquet, if you like) from this online edition of Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers. Now, write your own poem in which you muse on your selections’ names and meanings.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a family poem.” As usual, I am combining the prompts. The Greenaway connection is revealed within the poem. My Mother's Sampaquita             —curtal sonnet Mom’s favorite flower: sampaguita, national flower of the Philippines, known in horticulture as Jasminum sambac. Its name comes from “sumpa kita,” Tagalog phrase for lovers, “I promise you.” Called Arabian or Indian Jasmine, in Kate Greenaway’s book Language of Flowers, this climbing vine’s blossom means “I attach myself to you.” This sweet bloom, white stars of fragrance, I always attach                                     to you, my sweet Mom. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Source: https://findingutopiabykgmresorts.com /p/sampaguita-the-philippine-national-flower Today, Alan is working with the Language of Flowers prompt. His plant is the Judas Tree and the significance is "Unbelief. Betrayal." Redbud (Sometimes Called “Judas Tree”) The on-air name ages like cheap mirrors whose aluminum alloy corrodes and flakes from its back, the decay like the CD rot of a later technology, the lack of care to preserve integrity over time. A man’s pompadour does not misdirect scorn from the man. The scent of a mouth pursed with peppermint does not mask the imagined scent of seeping bandage glimpsed below an untucked shirttail, metallic raw pork savor of uneven stitches. Eddie McAnnally’s connection attempted to introduce himself into WXXR during my graveyard shift. It was not his pompadour that pissed me off, but the realization that I was alone, and people for miles around knew it and knew where I was, hubbing it for minimum wage, hardly gas money, holding down a DJ job in case I ever needed another one, keeping my options open in case I ever needed a real job if the English thing didn’t work out. Eddie Mac would call me “Professor” on the air before I’d earned my bachelor’s degree, and he expected me to accommodate his bookie friend. No one trusts barbershop hair tonic fragrance to mask the scent of desperate vulnerability to chance. The Professor brooked no horseshit, and will have walked away from fandom, pep rallies, congregations, and blood ties, Daedalian affiliations, flying nets, no more, forever. Táim i mo shagart. The door shut him out. The bolt locked him out, like the denial I still feel when turning aside the mostly fastidious gambler who relied on Eddie Mac to admit him after hours to read the most current scores from the Associated Press teletype, information the next morning’s newspapers would offer, the whites of his watery eyes as lustrous as the streetlight’s reflection from the pearlescent saddle of his Lincoln Continental’s landau roof. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Amazing details, Alan. I especially savor the allusion to James Joyce's Ulysses. I mentioned yesterday that we've been at a poetry festival — Poetry Palooza — this weekend. While at the festival we have been visiting with our friend Neta Updegraff in Des Moines, who graciously offered us her guest room. When I happened to mention the Greenaway prompt last night in conversation, Neta said, "I have that book!" And there it was: The Language of Flowers! It was interesting to actually hold the book and not just see it online. If you looked at the online version, you'll see that this is a different edition, with different illustrations. Here are some photos of Neta's book, which she had received as a gift from her sister in years past. First, the front cover . . . quite a small book in the hand, as you can see. Then, pics of the dust jacket inside text (front flap and back flap), which give some fascinating background on how the book came to be. Following are a couple of sample pages. Finally, the intro page, with an inscription from a "Father" to a "Mother" — originally an anniversary gift from 1913 — with a sweet dedication in verse. Very interesting. No mention of Kate Greenaway, who must have put together and illustrated a larger edition later than the original book of which this is a facsimile. Here is the text of the dedication page, since some young people now are not able to read cursive. This is written in a lovely hand. To Mother. Wishing you many happy returns of the day. from Father. August 8th 1913 There is a language, “little known”, Lovers claim it as their own. Its symbols smile upon the land, Wrought by Natures wondrous hand; And in their silent beauty speak, Of life and joy, to those who seek For Love Divine and sunny hours In the language of the flowers.                                         F. W. I. Thank you so much, Neta! A wonderful addendum to today's prompt and poems. Thanks for coming by the blog today. See you again tomorrow? Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 18 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 92

Howdy, friends! My poem today is #92 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #457, including the poem count from last year's Stafford Challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, we don’t challenge you to write all of a long, dramatic, narrative poem, but we invite you to try your hand at writing a poem that could be a section or piece of one . . . with the plot of an opera.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a reconsideration poem.” Again, combining the prompts. My list of roles reconsidered is pretty true, though not necessarily in the order given. Reconsideration Opera             —curtal sonnet At five, I wanted to be a pirate. It was the eyepatch. But no, seasickness. Then I decided to be a spaceman. It was the jetpack. I reconsidered — spooky vacuum, pesky G-forces. I thought maybe a cowboy, a horseman, but when I saw a real horse — scary! Viking, scientist, and then guitarist ultimately when the Beatles came in. And now the bass. Till the Viking lady                     sings, the bass I’ll play on. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today, Alan is also working with both prompts: a reconsideration of a certain translation of Beowulf. In Which I Insert a Vital Explanation for a Logical Omission in the Feast of Heorot Scene in Beowulf as Translated by Seamus Heaney                             The truth is clear: Almighty God rules over mankind and always has.                             And yet the mystery persists, how could a monster loathsome as the grave, pungent as the slaughterhouse, evade the guards to set himself among the weary warriors, and not be smelled? Spear-brothers lay as thick as kenneled puppies, snug and warm of bellies full, their guts protruding, gaseous gale of pork and ale expressed through windpipes’ belches, God-directed, or, more likely, tunneling through hell-path guts with sulfurous expulsion, one’s nearby kinsman sleepsealed of eyelid, saved from blindness, others, snoring mouth agape, to dream of Alison and think themselves in the wrong tale, one, too near the hearth, igniting farts that singed the fair flank fur from Pussgar, Hrothgar’s favored mouser, troubled dreams of demons, fires, and pitch which Christ alone could overcome.                             Then out of the night came the shadow-stalker, stealthy and swift. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] An illustration of Grendel, the monster from Beowulf, by J R. Skelton (source) Beautifully done, Alan. Wonderful language. Thanks for coming by the blog today. I've been at a poetry festival — Poetry Palooza — for the last couple days so I'm posting this quite late. See you again tomorrow? Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 17 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 91

Hello, friends! My poem today is #91 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #456, including my poems in last year's Stafford Challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “For today’s challenge, write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write an ambiguity poem.” The favorite poem I'm using is "Soldier's Dream" by Wilfred Owen. I'm employing the same form as he did, two envelope quatrains in pentameter, like the opening octave of a Petrarchan sonnet. As usual, I'm combining the prompts, though my ambiguity aspect is reversed. The title is a famous phrase from Owen, from his poem "Strange Meeting." ​ ​​​. The Pity of War Wilfred Owen wrote about a dream Where “kind Jesus fouled” the machines of war, But God sent Archangel Michael to repair The weapons. And so, war still on — obscene. About today’s war in Iran: is it Jesus Or Archangel Michael who is now in charge? It’s eminently clear who’s on the march. Friends, it’s not at all ambiguous. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo source Today, Alan is also working with both prompts — the favorite poem he's responding to is "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman.. Song of Trumpself I celebrate myself and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to you as good belongs to me. I golf, years without a soul, I’m lean and lithe in my eyes, chipping balls from the       rough of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, the best of blood,       my blood, Much better than the Deutsche of my father, the servant       Scot class of my mother, the diluted of my children       (especially the one by the Bulldog dropout), I, now nearing eighty years old in perfect health begin, Hoping not to leave office or to die. Creeds and schools in abeyance. Retiring back a while suffered from what they were,       I have now forgotten, I charge harbor fees, grant permits, overlook every       hazard; Nature is undeveloped real estate, nothing more. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Nicely done, Alan. Well-rendered voice here. Thanks for swinging by today. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 16 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 90

Welcome, friends! My poem today is #90 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #455, including my poems in last year's Stafford Challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, try writing a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught or told you.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a new poem [— that is, a poem] about something or someone new.” I'm combining the two prompts again in a single poem, a Quadrille Quaiku, a new poetic form invented by David Hoffmann — exactly 44 words like a quadrille, with 4 linked haiku using strict 5-7-5 syllables, and 11 words per stanza. New Bass             —quadrille quaiku New Fender Jazz Bass, in brilliant electric blue, active and passive, five bright roundwound strings, sounds wonderful, smooth thunder in springtime rainstorm. It doesn't speak but it has a beautiful voice, deep, mellifluous. It boldly declares to me, confidently, I'm your new number one. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] My photo of the new bass when it arrived in late February. Today, Alan is also working with both prompts — a new interaction with a voiceless family member. The Last Lesson My Dad Taught Me You can take a retractable pen and a small spiral-bound notepad, lift the suit’s lapel, and slide them into the shirt pocket underneath, where he always kept them, still without touching the room-temperature skin of his folded hands. You can look at his closed eyes—you have seen him sleep before, but never with his jaw set quite that way. You can ask yourself if he needs the glasses. You can admire how white his hair got, how full and straight although at almost eighty years his hairline receded a bit. You can do all of it as if you have done it before outside of steeling yourself for this time, but you have never before placed your right hand over his folded that way, and you do, and you have never before kissed his forehead without his showing some feeling in return, and you do that, too, new gestures that do not comfort you both, because you’re not the same. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Wow. That's an amazing poem, Alan. Thanks for coming by today. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 15 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 89

Hello again, friends! My poem today is #89 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #454, including the number of poems from last year's challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, we’d like you to write [a] poem that muses on love, but isn’t a traditional love poem in the sense of expressing love between romantic partners.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, take the phrase 'Under (blank),' replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.” I'm combining the two prompts again in a single poem. Under My Thumb — What?             —curtal sonnet “Under My Thumb” by the Rolling Stones was one of my favorite radio songs in seventh grade. A guy calls his girlfriend “squirming dog,” docile “pet,” and “Siamese cat.” I didn’t notice anything wrong with those slurs back then. I hope I didn’t think that was how love was supposed to be. With my parents, my dad was controlling towards my mom. Just the same with my friends. A wonder we learned to love tenderly,                                     passion and care entwined. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo Source Today, Alan is also working with both prompts. Underwear After forty-something years Everything means something more, so when I cannot see (my belly in the way) whatever the hell is going on at the top of my thigh, just below the hem of my shorts, not even flirting this time, and I ask her to take a look, in some ways it’s like asking the luthier to check the buzz from the B string. We hold the ideal of the note and can only approximate it with the earnest care of our seasoned instruments and continued practice. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] That's a subtly sweet meditation on love, Alan. Thanks for coming by today. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 14 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 88

Great to see you, friends! My poem today is #88 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #453, including the number of poems from last year's challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “a poem that . . . bridges . . . the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For the second Two-for-Tuesday prompt:  1) Write a poetic form poem, and/or . . . 2) Write an anti-form poem.” I'm combining all three prompts above in a single poem — for "form and anti-form," I begin with a curtal sonnet and then move to free verse. Actually, four prompts, however, because this is also a tribute poem for the Eye to the Telescope call for submissions on the theme of tribute. Tribute to George Jetson             —curtal sonnet, at first Most people are clueless I’m a poet. They only see George J, with Jane his wife, daughter Judy, his boy Elroy, our dog Astro —Rastro, he growls — and our robot maid Rosie. I write poems on our lives in the sky, living high above the smog, jetting around in flying saucer cars. I work at Spacely Space Sprockets, where life is pushing buttons all day, just a cog. In between button pushes, I write verse.                   Here’s my new monologue. “I don’t tell people I write poems because everyone in 2062 thinks poetry is passé. Who needs poems when we have such incredible technology: flying cars, apartment buildings up in the clouds like Googie drums, moving slidewalks to go everywhere (who needs walking?), humans living in outer space, aliens living here on Earth, jetpacks, robot pet animals, and robot housekeepers. Poetry is old hat, old-fashioned, obsolete, they say. But writing poems makes me happy, just like drumming, like when I got to jam out with Jet Screamer. That kid’s A-okay . . . eep opp ork ah-ah! I just can’t let anyone know, especially Jane. She would think I’ve gone bananas. Maybe I have. Uh-oh, this poem-machine is careening out of control, spinning in zero-g. Jane! Stop this crazy thing!” —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo Source Today, Alan is working with the "poetic form" prompt, using a form he invented, described below. Controlling Modes of Speech Is Infringing on Free Speech My institution’s architect has made aesthetic plans affecting how we speak to one another, but it’s not unique designing offices where we’re displayed behind glass walls; of course, he was dismayed to learn no bookcases was a mistake— we’re lit professors, after all; opaque, fake frosting on the glass has not allayed resentment we were wronged. Bulletin boards face banishment by admin overlords, replaced by screens that cycle an ICE raid, corruption, shootings, broken peace accords, but no “reward” sign or “top wages paid” or invitations to potlucks next week. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan said about this poem, "This is a form I invented that begins with a Petrarchan octet. I call this sonnet form the Uvalde sonnet; I invented it about four years ago in response to the Robb Elementary School shooting. I have moved the culminating couplet one would expect from a Shakespearean sonnet to follow the octet so that it feels as if it occurs prematurely." It's an interesting form, and here Alan is employing slant rhyme with the "-eek" and "-ake" rhyming sounds. Thanks for coming by today. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 13 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 87

Hello again, friends! My poem today is #87 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #452, including the number of poems from last year's challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: a “poem about a remembered, cherished landscape. . . . includ[ing] language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal, spoken speech.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a problem poem.” I'm combining both prompts, again, in my poem today. The "language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal, spoken speech" is the word that jumps across from the second-to-last line to the last line. San Francisco's Cityscape             —curtal sonnet Just a year after I finished high school, the Transamerica Pyramid was finished in San Francisco. Amazing structure, just about fifty stories tall, beautiful spire that transformed the city’s skyline from mostly square, boxy buildings. That tallest skyscraper a slim echo of an age-old shape, tombs of the Pharaohs. But now the city’s skyline has gone wrong: the new tallest, Salesforce Tower’s phallo-                               centric look — ugly thing. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] The Salesforce Tower is at the top center of this photo. The Transamerica Pyramid is in the foreground, bottom center. (Photo Source) Today, Alan is also combining the two prompts. The "cherished landscape" is hinted at, and the "problem" is obvious. His Legacy When he is gone, the country’s needs will not permit the funds required to restore all he has destroyed. Rose Garden? Gone. The East Wing? Gone. The National Forests? All gone. Someone who spends his life at meals and golf courses does not regard pristine deserts, crystal water, verdant meadows, ancient mountains as valued for themselves; he sees undeveloped real estate, land to be taken and used all up. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Only too true, Alan. Your poems on you-know-who in DC are so true. Thanks for reading our poems today. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 12 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 86

Welcome back, friends! My poem today is #86 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #451, including the number of poems from last year's challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “We’d like to challenge you to write [a] poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a set poem [as in] set my alarm [or] set things in motion.” I'm combining both prompts, as usual, in today's poem. The photo below is my mom, Candida, a little over 50 years ago. This poem, incidentally, will be a part of a collection of poems I'm writing about her. What Mom Would Always Say             —curtal sonnet When I became a young teen and started going out more with my buddies, my mom would always tell me, each time, “Be careful.” The tone of any outing always set by those inevitable words. One time, I had already crossed the street, when Bill said, “Hey, your mom’s calling you.” I looked back. She was on the porch waving. What could Mom possibly want that was so darn crucial? It was embarrassing, but I went back.                       “Love you, Vin. Be careful.” —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today, Alan is working with the "set" prompt. If only George H, a character in the poem, were a relative of the speaker, Alan would have satisfied both prompts. But George H. can't be related to the speaker because it would ruin the point about unexpected kindness. Radio Song More than a quarter of a century ago, my wife and I were stuck in awful jobs in Knoxville, Tennessee—we followed work (I had a brand-new PhD) and left beloved Tuscaloosa, settled long enough to start another search for jobs, and hunkered down. The spring of ’91, the best of bands released the album Out of Time, and I bought all the single discs in local Knoxville shops, but none of them had gotten the fourth disc, which had the last few songs of a live set. What could I do but call George H., Vinyl Solutions’ chief, and ask him please to ship it to me, years before the internet or Amazon, and, yes, he did, and I will not forget the kindness of a man who knew I loved a band, his shop, and Tuscaloosa, how it was to be a broke grad student, kept in time with porches, midnight croquet, cheap and filling food along the strip, and George, whose last name, Hadjidakis, stays with me now as the world collapses ’round our ears. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] A lovely poem, Alan. Thank you. Thanks for swinging by. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 11 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 85

Welcome back, friends! My poem today is #85 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #450, including last year's poem count). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Erasure poetry — also known as blackout poetry — is written by taking an existing text and erasing or blacking out individual words. . . . Today, we’d like to challenge you to write [an] erasure/blackout poem.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a home poem.” I'm combining both prompts, as I always try to do. I'm working with a page from Richard Hugo's wonderful book The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on Poetry and Writing (1979). My poem is a blackout/erasure poem but I've not done any blacking out or erasing; instead I've left the original text visible and circled the found words and phrases that make up the poem. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] About his poem today, Alan told me, "I have been reading Mary Karr lately, and I especially appreciate 'The Blessed Mother Complains to the Lord Her God on the Abundance of Brokenness She Receives,' and it of course in these times led me to think of another mother named Mary.” The Blessed Mother Complains to the Lord Her God on the Abundance of Brokenness She Receives [Mary Redacted] By Mary Karr Today I heard a rich and hungry boy verbatim quote all last night’s infomercials — an anorectic son who bought with Daddy’s Amex black card the Bowflex machine and Abdomenizer, plus a steak knife that doth slice the inner skin of   his starving arms. Poor broken child of   Eve myself, to me, the flightless fly, the listing, blistered, scalded. I am the rod to their lightning. Mine is the earhole their stories pierce. At my altar the blouse is torn open and the buttons sailed across the incensed air space of the nave, that I may witness the mastectomy scars crisscrossed like barbed wire, like bandoliers. To me, the mother carries the ash contents of   the long-ago incinerated girl. She begs me for comfort since my own son was worse tortured. Justice, they wail for — mercy? Each prostrate body I hold my arms out for is a cross my son is nailed to. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, good job on your blackout poem. Thanks for dropping by, dear readers. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 10 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 84

Welcome back, friends! My poem today is #84 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #449, including the poem count from last year's challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, write [a] meditation on grief.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a mini poem.” I'm combining both prompts, as I usually do. This poem may not be as "mini" because I write tanka sequences often, but ten lines is pretty "mini" for most folks. Below the poem is a photo of my dad holding my oldest son Marty as a toddler, probably from 1973. Almost 40 Years Ago and Now             —tanka sequence When my stepmom called to say Dad had died, I felt an abyss open, empty gap out there in front of me. Some days it’s still there. Like in dreams, where Dad is always in the background not saying a word. I yearn for him to talk, long to hear his voice. He just smiles. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today, Alan is addressing First Lady Melania Trump's statement yesterday on the Epstein situation. The middle stanza is made up of quotations from you-know-who. How to Break Prediction Markets The lies linking me with the disgraceful Jeffrey Epstein need to end today. "I don't know anything about that." "We'll make a decision in about two weeks." "I did nothing wrong." "Shut up, piggy!" "She didn't know him." The individuals lying about me are devoid of ethical standards, humility, and respect. . . . I was never involved in any capacity. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, another masterfully done send-up. Thanks for coming by, dear readers. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 9 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 83

Hello again, friends! My poem today is #83 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #448, including last year's poem count). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, try writing [a] poem in the voice of an animal or plant, or a poem that describes a specific animal or plant with references to historical events or scientific facts.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a '_____ But _____' poem.” I'm combining both prompts, as usual, in today's poem. My speaker is a Marvel alien who is arguably an animal AND a plant. You can see Groot in the Guardians of the Galaxy movies. Groot, But Groot I am Groot. If you can’t understand, this says I am an extraterrestrial alien. I look like a tree. I saved a human from my peers and was exiled from Planet X to wander the galaxy. I am Groot. This says, I’m a Flora collosus. I cannot die as long as even a twig of me remains, because I can regenerate. I am Groot. I am saying I have a best friend, Rocket Raccoon. We are on a team, the Guardians, with Star-Lord, green-skinned Gamora, Drax the Destroyer, and telepathic Mantis. I love them. We love each other. I am Groot. This says, I am Groot. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Art by Flaviano Armentaro (Wikipedia) Today, Alan is combining both prompts as a well in a plaintive call for truth-seeing. Not Bug But Function “[S]ome worms induce crickets and other terrestrial insects to commit suicide in water, enabling the exit of the parasite into an aquatic environment favorable to its reproduction.” Libersat, Frederic, et al. “Mind Control: How Parasites Manipulate Cognitive Functions in Their Insect Hosts.” Frontiers in Psychology vol. 9 572. 1 May. 2018, doi:10.3389/fpsyg.2018.00572 (https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5938628/). Not ally but deceiver, not enabler but manipulator, not dealmaker, not liberator, not savior, not leader, not king. Oh, would some power the gift give us to see ourselves as the world sees us, to turn from those who’ve highjacked Jesus, poor foolish nation, and earn trust back; its loss bereaves us, the world’s devastation! —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, I love how your epigraph is just about longer than the poem itself! Beautifully done. Thanks for coming by. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 8 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 82

Welcome back, friends! My poem today is #82 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #447, including the number of poems from last year's challenge). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a paranoid poem.” I'm combining both prompts, as usual, in today's poem. Paranoid             —curtal sonnet They are after me. They are after me. I can hardly walk down the street, today or any day. That bird on the branch, there, dogs me everywhere. They are after me. That bird’s song is a report to them . . . “they.” That girl across the street — don’t look at her! — has got a gun. She just looks like she’s ten. They are after me. You say, who are they? Well, I don’t know. They have never shown their faces. Maybe I’ve just imagined them.                                         No, they're everywhere. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Image by izafi on pixabay.com Today, Alan is combining both prompts in a protest villanelle. By Law, the Local Judge Candidates Cannot Proclaim Party Affiliation, but This One Posted on Social Media Images of His Attendance at a MAGA Prayer Breakfast Sometimes, some evil folks are hurting you. They may not know your name or what you are. It’s not just paranoia when it’s true. The ones who claim to love you through and through can cut deep wounds inside that show no scar. Sometimes, some evil folks are hurting you in ways you can’t describe, when, from their view, they’re cold and distant like the North Star. It’s not just paranoia when it’s true by your experience. What can you do should you condense in pain while others stare sometimes? Some evil folks are hurting you for fun, you wingless fly, you legless cob, your new and raw recovery from their unprovoked war. It’s not just paranoia when it’s true your neighbors helping them are monsters, too, who “did not vote for this,” damned, unaware sometimes some evil folks are hurting you. It’s not just paranoia when it’s true. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Another courageous poem, Alan. Bravo again! Thanks for coming by. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 7 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 81

Great to have you back here! My poem today is #81 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #446, including last year's poem count). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “In her poem, “Front Yard Rhyme,” Cecily Parks evokes the sing-songy beats that accompany girls’ clapping games, and jump-rope and skipping rhymes. Today, we challenge you to write your own poem that emulates these songs – something to snap, clap, and jump around to.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For the first Two-for-Tuesday prompt:  1) Write a dawn poem, and/or . . . 2) Write a dusk poem.” Here's my poem today, where I'm combining three prompts, the NaPoWriMo one plus both Poem-a-Day ones. Jump Rope Dawn and Dusk Miss Sunrise Dawn, Dawn, Dawn All dressed in plum, plum, plum Turned deep sky blue, blue, blue Clouds of white hue, hue, hue Till sunset dusk, dusk, dusk With scent of musk, musk, musk At midnight dark, dark, dark For horned owls hark, hark, hark —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by xuanduongvan87 on pixabay.com Today, Alan is combining both prompts, in a parodic protest poem. MAGA Double Dutch Before the sun comes up this morning, he will send another warning, sitting on his golden throne, thumbtyping on his cell phone, phone-in interview on Fox, bombing schools with Tomahawks, breakfast prayers with obscene swears, cashing in with billionaires. Putin’s puppet, Bibi’s toy, how many years old is this boy? One, two, three . . . In the gloaming, raging, foaming, threatening, impotent rage, take us back to Happy Days, take us back to Golden Age, take us back to the Stone Age, photographs of ghoulish smiles redacted from Epstein files. Prove to us that you’re no fool— walk on the Reflecting Pool. Putin’s puppet, Bibi’s toy, How many years old is this boy? One, two, three . . . —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] A courageous poem, Alan. Bravo! Thanks for coming by. See you again tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 6 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 80

Welcome, faithful readers! Today's poem for Day 6 is #80 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #445, including last year's total). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “In your poem today, try writing with a breezy, conversational tone, while including at least one thing that could only happen in a dream.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a water poem.” In his poem today, Alan is combining the two prompts again, once more in a love poem addressed to his beloved. Round This Town We were dating back then, Sweetheart, and I was working for my dad on summer days he needed me, DJing when he didn’t, and we spent a Saturday at Smith Lake, a place I hadn’t been for years because I nearly drowned there once. You wore a two-strap one-piece suit, and I was in my trunks, and we stayed in some shallows feeling, well, rambunctious, even you were getting handsy just beneath the surface. I was woozy, brain deprived of oxygen, the blood gone south, and I recalled a playful phrase from a hit at work, a song recorded by a legend’s boy where he threw in the words I said to you, just “Sugar Booger.” Well, you let me know right quick that I should not repeat those words again, and I have not aloud since then, but I remember what I felt that time I said it out loud then, how I think it out loud now. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Lovely and fun poem! About this, Alan wrote, "It was 'Honky Tonkin’,' Vince—Hank Williams, Jr., had a hit with it. Never was as good as his dad—" Here's my poem today, where I'm also combining both prompts. I hope I achieved a "breezy, conversational tone," though maybe that's true of most of my poems. Dreaming of Water             —curtal sonnet I don’t recall almost drowning when I was two. Dad said, “It was me who saved you!” I’ve wondered if he was supposed to be watching me at a pool and looked away? Anyway, thanks, Dad! When I go into cold water now — a swimming pool, rarely — my chest tightens up and a sense of dread comes over me. Last night, drifting off to sleep, I felt I was floating in air, trees below, then on my chest sank a great weight.                                         Water, so heavy. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by Pexels on pixabay.com Thanks for coming by, folks. I hope you enjoyed our poems today. Come on back tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 5 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 79

Hello again, friends! Today's poem for Day 5 is #79 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #444, including the count from last year). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, your challenge is to . . . write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a safety poem.” In his poem today, Alan is writing about things happening at the university where he works. He is merging the two prompts. Missing the Urinal I do not mean the way you think I mean. The renovations to our building made it necessary to convert our johns to gender-free, essentially to build small rooms, a toilet in each one, the sinks in common space outside. I don’t pretend the state considered privacy for folks who are nonbinary or trans to be the reason for this change. The cost to build additional facilities on each floor of the building was too much to spend. It was not safety first. Some of the men— I’m at a university, so I apply that term with reservation—piss without concern. They leave seats down. They don’t wipe up; I doubt some even aim at all. In men’s rooms, urinals are kept in view to keep such disregard in check, but this much privacy lets careless men behave like privileged boys who have someone they don’t acknowledge follow close behind to clean up after them like every mess of every type they’ve ever, ever made. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] https://cuningham.com/2018/06/25/all-inclusive-restrooms. I recently learned about a poetic form, the ZipOde — five lines where the number of words in each line matches the corresponding digit in one's zip code. If there's a zero, the matching line can contain an emoji or a symbol or a number of words (1-9). My zip code is 50701 and you'll see below how I handle the two zeroes. Here are the instructions for writing ZipOdes: https://omiami.org/pages/zip-odes. There, you'll see how to handle postal codes that have letters. Again, I'm merging both prompts in my poem. ICE             —ZipOde from 50701 Supposedly working for our safety . . . zero truth there. Gotta dislike — no, despise — ICE . . . zero accountability. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Thanks for reading our poems, folks. Come back tomorrow and see how Alan and I handle the prompts, especially when we merge them. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 4 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 78

Thanks for coming back! Today's Day 4 poem is #78 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #443, including last year's poems). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, we’d like to challenge you to craft [a] short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a friend poem.” As usual, I'm merging both prompts in my poem. I refer here to Persephone, the Greek goddess of spring, who is also the Queen of the Underworld, where she spends winter. Spring             —curtal sonnet Our old friend Persephone has come back — well, really our ever-young friend, graceful and lithe, bringing with her from underground daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, bouquets of light, as well as spring showers, gentle rain though sometimes too lightning and thunder. But, alas, for me Persephone is not always a good friend like most people think. With pretty flowers comes pollen and sneezing, runny nose, itchy tearful eyes.                             I'm glad it’s not year-round! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by cenczi on pixabay.com. Introducing his poem today, Alan wrote, "In his essay for The Rag-Picker’s Guide to Poetry, Maurice Manning describes his invented form, the 'honky tanka,' as six lines, five words per line, mixed-up meter, and maybe a rhyme, all inviting vernacular speech. I’m following today’s prompts with a honky tanka." Renewed Vow Sweetheart, it’s been fifty years since we first met—suppose on our upcoming fiftieth anniversary it rains hard in August, enough for a deep puddle— together, let’s dip bare toes. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Lovely poem, Alan. Wonderful love poem too. I appreciate how you got in one rhyme, as Maurice Manning suggests: "toes" and "suppose." Thanks for coming by and reading our poems, everyone. Hope to see you tomorrow! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 3 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 77

Glad to see you back! Today's Day 3 poem is #77 in this year's Stafford Challenge (and #442, counting last year). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “[T]ake the phrase 'Open (blank),' replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.” Here's my poem today, melding the two prompts again. Back to my usual go-to: the curtal sonnet, decasyllabics, some slant rhyme. Open Season on Weathermen             —curtal sonnet Have you ever wondered why the weather seems so unpredictable, the season notwithstanding? Meteorologists are not, as you may have thought, predictors of weather. They instead are magicians who witchcraft the weather, not scientists. You ask why are their forecasts not always right? They’re fiendishly clever, weathermen are. They fake errors! Make intended missed forecasts. Say one thing, hex another. Ways                           they keep you sheep confused. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] https://www.sciencing.com/info-12112230-meteorologists-daily Alan's poem today also melds both prompts, with a title borrowed from The Boss. Also, this is a Petrarchan sonnet. Open All Night Imagine leather patches on tweed sleeves, a leather wing-backed chair, a cup of tea, and book-packed shelves with some few spaces free, a well-lit desk—Professor Me conceives well-crafted prose by hand because he leaves transcription and revision all to be light labor of the morning; he will see, well-rested, to each insight as it weaves persuasive, certain, masterfully sure, self-deprecating, honest, true, and pure. I wake. The text from automated thieves, promoted as the stressed-out student’s cure, shifts burdens from enrollees it relieves and makes an AI slop cop out of me. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Yes, indeed, our profession has changed. I had those same images you started with when I began my career in the '80s. I'm glad I'm now retired. Sorry, Alan. Thanks for coming by and reading our poems. See you tomorrow? Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ