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 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 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

National Poetry Month • Day One, NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2025 • Stafford Challenge 75

Well, friends, we're back! Going to be working NaPoWriMo and Poem-a-Day (typically merging their poetry prompts into one poem), plus continuing with the Stafford Challenge, all in that one poem. Also, Thomas Alan Holmes will be joining us again this season. Hurray! Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “As with pretty much any discipline, music and art have their own vocabulary. Today, we challenge you to take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word. For (imaginary) extra credit, work in a phrase from, or a reference to, the Florentine Codex” (an encyclopedia of 16th-century indigenous Mexico). Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For the first Two-for-Tuesday prompt: 1) Write a "Best of Times" poem, and/or . . . 2) Write a "Worst of Times" poem. . . . Write a poem about the 'best of times,' 'the worst of times,' and/or 'the everythingest of times.'” Alan's poem today is a Petrarchan sonnet, with an unusual closing sestet that brings back the a and b rhymes. He said, "I call my variation of the Petrarchan sonnet the Uvalde sonnet, because the expected terminal couplet occurs prematurely." Alan merges all three prompts: both the best of times/worst of times ones along with the musical terminology one, using the word waltz. First the Right Foot, Then the Right Foot, Then the Left Foot It is the worst of times, three-four, the waltz that trips misstepping, like a misspent text, a signal sent corrupted. What comes next is slipping, old denial, placing faults on those who speak only the truth. Trump halts analysis, in his denials vexed by probing questions, even more perplexed that these, his best of times, when as he salts the wounds of those descrying villainy and also those caught in his calumny, ransacker of our nation’s courts and vaults, should be series of days of infamy, diminishment through stumbles, slides, and halts dismissed, denied through obvious pretext. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] You may have noticed that the word "waltz" in the first line is, by coincidence (or perhaps not), the National Security Advisor's surname. I was also successful today in melding all three prompts: like Alan, both the best of times/worst of times prompts as well as the musical terminology prompt — the first term was somewhat familiar but the second term was completely new to me. Bass No Pain When I’m on stage playing my bass it’s the best of times, my sciatica pain in diminuendo. It’s the worst of times when I’m not playing bass. Sometimes I can barely walk. Basso profondo . . . bass as musical medicine, a miracle. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

https://vincegotera.blogspot.com/2025/04/day-two-napowrimo-poem-day-2025.html

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Fighting Kite (page 15)

This seventh poem in Fighting Kite is a Petrarchan sonnet. I'm not certain now when it was written but it might have been in MFA school, like some of the first poems in the book. I was certainly working at that time on achieving a good sonnet. (By the way, there's an earlier blog post on this poem.)         Papa said, "You know I would have to kill you," to Mama, who sat quietly, head bowed. I was just a kid — five or six — and cried deep gut-wrenching sobs. The moon, like a new coin in the window, sliced in half by blue knives of cloud. "You're too young to understand, Vin," he smiled. "It would be my duty as a man." A tear on her cheek, Mama whispered, "That's true." To this day, I don't know if there was another man or if they were only talking possibility, in case, for example, Mama felt her face begin to flush downstairs with a repairman. Her only safety net then — Papa's motto, A place for everything, everything in its place. Page 15 In the earlier blog post mentioned above, here's some of what I said about this poem: [T]he incident recounted in the first stanza did happen. I remember my parents talking in these words or something very like them. I was indeed five or six, and you can draw whatever inference you want from parents talking about such matters in the presence of a kid in kindergarten or first grade. The event certainly stuck with me. I think this was probably, from my father's point of view, part of my indoctrination into maleness, into machismo. Part and parcel, I think, of US Army training as he saw it, from the dual perspectives of trainer and trainee . . . father and son, in the way his father (my Lolo) taught him to be a man, through hard knocks and a thick belt. I mentioned above that this is a Petrarchan sonnet; in the previous blog post, I wrote, "I am using this form because of the tradition of sonnets as love poetry. In this case, though, the sonnet is being used as a vessel for 'anti-love,' for control and oppression in the name, allegedly, of 'love.'" I continued: To be more specific, this is a Petrarchan sonnet with an octave (or eight-line stanza) rhymed abba acca, a small departure from the norm, an octave made up of two envelope quatrains (abba abba). The second stanza is a more standard Petrarchan sestet (or six-line stanza) rhymed cde cde. There is also the usual turn (or volta) at line 9 . . . in this case, a change in time: the opening octave set in the speaker's childhood and the closing sestet set in the present. If the poem was in fact written while I was pursuing my MFA, this is pretty cool experimentation for a student. By that point, I had written quite a few sonnets before grad school, but usually Shakespearean ones, so this Petrarchan sonnet is nice journeyman work. Of course, this is all surmisal . . . I may have written it when I was more experienced as a poet. Sorry I can't be more precise here. In any case, do check out the earlier blog post about this poem. Lots of other interesting material there, such as the Salvador Dali allusion in the poem. Pretty heady stuff! As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.  FIGHTING KITE   INTRO FRONT CONTENTS PREVIOUS NEXT LAST

Day 12 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo suggestion: “another (optional) prompt from our archives. Today, I challenge you to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., 'Dear Poem,' or 'what are my quatrains up to?'; 'Couplet, come with me . . .').” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt today is to “write a sound poem. On day six, we wrote poems that smelled; today, let's write poems that play off sound. This could be a poem filled with rhymes or alliteration, but it could also be about listening to sounds that are being made.” Today, I'm merging both prompts by addressing my poem from Day 11 and telling an anecdote that has a loud sound in it. A Note to Yesterday’s Poem Dear Poem: Yesterday a poet friend said on his blog that I was writing all curtal sonnets this month. Not quite, but I do like them. You’re the exception, prose and haiku poem. So today, back to curtal sonnets. Amanda’s third Fourth of July, she was ready for the fireworks. She strode away from Mom and Dad, stood apart, tall, feet planted wide and hard. When the first sky- rocket launched and exploded, BOOM, she fled                         back to us. “So loud! Why?” —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]             Image by kurt duschek from Pixabay In today's poem, Alan similarly addresses his own sonnet in the form of a sonnet! A Petrarchan one. Annoying Sonnet Constraining me this way may irritate me somewhere near the middle, where the ideas have a brand-new focus. There might be an unintended, sad debate about a hidden message. It’s too late to stop you. I know you don’t even care, because you’re not complete. You’re unaware of how your comments hurt, but why berate a newborn thing? Still, you’re not innocent. You want to make somebody feel. Intent affects result, and you exasperate the situation like a malcontent. My sonnet, damn it, I could never hate you, since you’re mine, but I’m the worst for wear. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, I think this is a better poem than you think it is. Interesting innovation too by ending the poem not with the expected "-ate" rhyme but rather the "-ere" rhyme from earlier in the sonnet. Brilliant! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day Ten ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo suggestion: “Today’s daily prompt (optional, as always) again comes from our archives. . . . I challenge you to write a sea shanty (or shantey, or chanty, or chantey — there’s a good deal of disagreement regarding the spelling!) Anyway, these are poems in the forms of songs, strongly rhymed and rhythmic, that sailors might sing while hauling on ropes and performing other sea-going labors. . . . And what should your poem be about? Well, I suppose it could be about anything, although some nautical phrases tossed into the chorus would be good for keeping the sea in your shanty. Haul away, boys, haul away!” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “For today's prompt, take the phrase 'How (blank),' replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: 'How to Jump Up and Down,' 'How the Murder Mystery Ends,' 'How the Weather Behaves in Georgia,' and/or 'How Much Candy Should I Eat on a Holiday That Has a Lot of Candy to Eat.'” Today, I didn't write a sea chantey. Instead I wrote about sea chanteys and their place in oldtime Catholic parochial school curricula. Again, a curtal sonnet. I wasn't sure if I could rhyme with "Agnes"! But I'm pretty happy at how the "-or" rhyme ended up. Enjoy! How Not to Sing Sea Chanteys When I was in grade school at St. Agnes in San Francisco (“grammar school,” though we seemed to focus less on grammar and more on penmanship, something they don’t practice in elementary school these days) we were taught to sing famous old songs in choir, like “Oh Susannah.” But for some reason, we learned “Blow The Man Down” and other sea chanteys. Why? No sails or cutlasses or tricorn hats anywhere. Just schoolchildren                         chanting pirate songs. Ahrrr! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan did write a sea chantey today, accompanied by a Petrarchan sonnet, all in satire about current events in the news. He said, "I understand after a spate of specific, detailed prompts, a playful simple prompt can offer some creative relief, but the news is still distressing." How to Set Course (a Tennes-sea Chanty) Open your pockets and lock down your doors             (Yee-haw, my hearties!)— Lock out minority speech from your floors             (Heave-ho, my buckoes!)— P. J. O’Rourke once compared us to whores—             (Yee-haw, my hearties!)— That’s all we know about setting a course—             (Heave-ho, my buckoes!). Behind me in the waiting room, I hear the talking heads from Fox deride the three who dared to challenge those in Tennessee who, true to form, consider guns as dear to life as breath. If some should interfere with gun proliferation, they should be ejected from the ruling body, Lee, the governor, agrees in secrecy, because, with public silence, his own name avoids deserved, consenting guns-first blame. Oh, ship of state, you’d think a Volunteer would seek the common good, but in this game, where ruthless players score, a Buccaneer mentality commands this troubled sea. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Thank you for your candor, Alan. Unfortunately, another mass shooting today in Louisville. It seems to be a daily event, perhaps more often than daily now, alas. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day Nine ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “We’re calling today Sonnet Sunday, as we’re challenging you to write in what is probably the most robust poetic form in English. . . . Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own sonnet.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: Write “a number poem. You can include a number in the title of the poem, or drop a number somewhere in the middle or end of the poem. Count sheep, poem by numbers, or share 10 ways to write a poem.” Today, I'm merging both prompts again. Since I've written curtal sonnets many of the days so far, I thought I'd up the ante today by writing a double curtal sonnet: two curtal sonnets linked together in one poem. I'm using decasyllabics — 10 syllables per line — which can look strange when there are digits. Keep in mind that the decasyllabics are determined by speaking the lines aloud. For example, the third line below "8,493 years" looks very short but there are 10 syllables in it: "eight / thou- / sand / four / hun- / dred / nine- / ty / three / years." Why Numbers? There are 93 million miles between Earth and the Sun. It would take a person 8,493 years to walk it. An ant would take 21 million years to walk that far. We humans can walk over 2000 times faster than an ant. But ants can carry 50 times their body weight. Could any human lift something just 10 times their weight? Never. Nature’s laws won’t allow it. Gravity                                         can’t be sidestepped, ever. You’d need 1.3 million Earths to fill the Sun. Using today’s population, that would be 10 quadrillion 400 trillion people. How many ants then? Well, a huge number. Some 20 quadrillion ants on our Earth alone! If you wondered that actual ant count, it’s 2 times 10 to the 22nd. So now someone might just ask: Who cares? Our days are numbered. With math, we’re free. The world’s within our ken.                                         We’re unencumbered. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here's what Alan said about today's poem: "I think I have fulfilled the obligations of both prompts. I have been thinking about the difference between law, justice, and mercy, the difference between power and the responsibility to wield it, and the notion not only of sacrificing children but the varying ideas of what merits such a sacrifice." Three This holiday I’m tasked to think of three long days of death before the Christ arose from loving sacrifice of life for those who’d turn from sin and follow Him. To me, that promise seemed uncomplicated. He accepted what his Father wanted, chose the agony, and even in the throes of death asked God show mankind clemency. In Nashville, not so long ago, a school lost three young kids, three adults, too, but rule of law let lethal weapons easily pass through civilian hands; another cruel procedure let the State of Tennessee expel two of the three who would oppose. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, I'm so impressed at how you use these writing opportunities to address such important issues of social justice. Bravo! Everyone, just a quick observation about Alan's unorthodox technique in this Petrarchan sonnet. In the opening eight lines, he used an "-ose" rhyme (the b rhyme) which he brought back at the end (where "-ee" was the expected rhyme sound) in order to emphasize the word "oppose." The "-ee" rhyme in the last line is made internal, in the word "three" in the middle, which just so happens to be the theme of the poem. Brilliantly done! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 25 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2021

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a thought poem. Of course, my first thought (maybe like yours) is, 'Aren't all poems thought poems?' Well, I guess, but I'm thinking of a poem that captures a thought or random ramblings running 'round your cranium. It doesn't have to be a rambling poem, but that's one thing. Another possibility is having two people share their thoughts with each other and/or NOT share them. Think about it a moment and then unleash your thought poem.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “[W]rite an 'occasional' poem. What’s that? Well, it’s a poem suited to, or written for, a particular occasion. This past January, lots of people who usually don’t encounter poetry got a dose when Amanda Gorman read a poem at President Biden’s inauguration. And then she followed it up with a poem at the Superbowl (not traditionally an event associated with verse!) The poem you write can be for an occasion in the past or the future, one important to you and your family (a wedding, a birth) or for an occasion in the public eye (the Olympics, perhaps?).” This poem came together really quick, maybe 20 minutes. Merging both prompts with stream-of-consciousness followed by a whispered conversation. Funeral trigger warning: car accident details screeching tires on pavement like tearing silk the shoulder wrenched by the seat belt chest banged against the steering wheel breaking your eye torn from its socket your face crashing through the windshield tearing at your skin like a hundred knives like shark’s or tiger’s teeth your arms flailing in wind the bones cracking as your body pounds the sidewalk the wheels of the car up in the air spinning into black “Boy, he looks good, doesn’t he? I thought his face would be a mess.” “Shh. Keep it down. Yeah, they do a great job here. Good make-up.” “I guess the colored lights above the casket help with the skin tone.” “You know, as good as he looks, he doesn’t seem really alive there.” “That’s what people say sometimes, but Uncle Frank looks natural.” “Well, better him than us. Between you and me, I never liked him.” —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan's occasion poem today is a Petrarchan sonnet. P O E M   R E M O V E D while being submitted for publication.   Please come back later. The poem may return at some time in the future. Thank you!   Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 23 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2021

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: Write “an appointment poem. My first thoughts with appointments conjure up visions of doctors, dentists, and parent-teacher conferences. But there are also business meetings and romantic dates.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that responds, in some way, to another. This could be as simple as using a line or image from another poem as a jumping-off point, or it could be a more formal poetic response to the argument or ideas raised in another poem. You might use a favorite (or least favorite poem) as the source for your response.” Mashing up both prompts today in a small ditty after Emily Dickinson (Johnson 927). Here I'm using her go-to, common meter, either hymnal stanza or ballad. Her poem that begins "Absent place — an April Day —" is written in hymnal stanza, slant rhymed, but I'm employing a ballad, more fully rhymed. In the Katoski Greenbelt — beginning with a line      from Emily Dickinson Absent place — an April day without one appointment. No class, no Zoom, no doctors — just the present moment. Here, in these quiet woods I have an appointment — meeting a sprawl of wild bluebells chorusing an indigo chant. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I actually did go for a walk this morning in the Katoski Greenbelt, a park in Waterloo, Iowa, and shot this photo as well as many others of the bluebells I found there. Alan worked with both prompts today, responding to "Under Ben Bulben" by William Butler Yeats with an acrostic Petrarchan sonnet. The line he's playing with is the last bit in the poem, and conceivably the speaker's very last stone utterance. Horseman Considering his soul secure in Christ, Assuming his salvation was secure Since ministers had told him he was pure Through his repentance, sins he sacrificed Against his inclinations; what enticed Could trap him, he was careful. He was sure Of every temptation that might lure, Lamenting the restraint he exercised. Dying before he died by many years, Erroneously thinking joy is sin, Yet going through the motions of the good: Engagement, marriage, even fatherhood Of reservation; he could not begin, Never loving fully, hellbent in fears. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 18 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2021

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt “comes to us from Stephanie Malley, who challenges us to write a poem based on the title of one of the chapters from Susan G. Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words. The book’s table of contents can be viewed using Amazon’s 'Look inside' feature. Will you choose 'the poem squash?' or perhaps 'grocery weeping' or 'the blue socks'? If none of the 60 rather wonderful chapter titles here inspire you, perhaps a chapter title from a favorite book would do? For example, the photo on my personal twitter account is a shot of a chapter title from a P.G. Wodehouse novel — the chapter title being 'Sensational Occurrence at a Poetry Reading.'” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write an ekphrastic poem. An ekphrastic poem is one in which the poet writes a poem based on another work of art, whether that's a painting, photograph, sculpture, mixed media, or other piece of art.” Alan's Petrarchan sonnet today comes from both prompts; his chosen chapter from the NaPoWriMo prompt is “Snowflakes and Secrets.” P O E M   R E M O V E D while being submitted for publication.   Please come back later. The poem may return at some time in the future. Thank you!   Winslow Homer, Fox Hunt (1893) Just for fun, I decided I would also do NaPoWriMo's "Snowflakes and Secrets" to see how different our poems might be. Also doing the Poem-a-Day ekphrasis, on Grant Wood again, like my ekphrastic poem yesterday. Today's form: linked haiku — in American traditional 5-7-5 — finished off by a tanka, similarly syllabled. On Grant Wood’s January Haystacks, snow covered, like cows in a thunderstorm facing the same way. Rank and file soldiers, early morning formation, hushed close order drill. Cotillion damsels in beige and white ballroom gowns dance in unison. Pyramid city, millennia of sand cover, home of ancient ghosts. Tracks of snowshoe hare lead from a triangle door in the closest stack, a comfy refuge within, where Hare took a winter's nap. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Grant Wood, January (1940) Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 17 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2021

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a waiting poem. It could be about waiting tables, but it can also involve any interpretation of waiting. Waiting in line at the store or for a package in the mail or whatever else someone (or something) might wait for.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “I’ve seen some fairly funny twitter conversations lately among poets who are coming to terms with the fact that they keep writing poems about the moon. For better or worse, the moon seems to exert a powerful hold on poets, as this large collection of moon-themed poems suggests. Today, I’d like to challenge you to stop fighting the moon. Lean in. Accept the moon. The moon just wants what’s best for you and your poems. So yes – write a poem that is about, or that involves, the moon.” Today, I offer for your perusal an ekphrastic persona poem in blank verse, combining both prompts. The Moon, Always Waiting, Speaks —after The Midnight Ride of     Paul Revere by Grant Wood As I look down on Earth, my orbiting partner in space, I am puzzled by many things, and I just watch and wait and watch. Tonight, I see a forest of green moons, dark baby moons sleeping all together. I know when they grow into teenage moons and begin to shine, they’ll move into the buildings, with the square windowpanes, their adolescent lunar light radiating out onto the meandering road. As adults, during the day when their moonglow is hidden in sunlight, they will climb the spire of the church and launch themselves into the sky to begin their journeys outward through the galaxy, each becoming, like me, a goddess for some planet. But for now, the young moons are simply content to watch the goings-on of the silly little humans, like the small man riding by on a black horse, leaving no trace, no track, on the trail lit by me. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Grant Wood, The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere (1931) Here is Alan's poem today, in response to both prompts, a Petarchan sonnet. And I, Too, Am a Pocked Body of Dust If You Get Too Close A scientist will say the sun can see no more than its reflector, moon, but why are we so quick to share the symbol, eye for sun, a seeing eye like God’s, and be content the moon, as cold as certainty, see nothing? If you seek concealment, try for shadow, sun- or moonbeam, but apply your common sense: the moon is closer, free of shimmers that distort our mid-day sight, and never turns aside. It keeps its face to us though sometimes veiled in shadow, lapped in orbit, soft influence ev’ry night, and, though its month-long blink’s a shadow’s trace, it cannot help but watch and wait entrapped. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today is International Haiku Poetry Day — the 17th day of National Poetry Month (traditionally, haiku in English are made up of 17 syllables). In celebration Alan wrote a haiku on the themes of "waiting" and "the moon." Bravo, Alan! I am not waiting on moon cycles to plant seeds; the poles have shifted. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I wrote a haiku also. Today's prompts are quite agile! the sky darkening, we wait while the moon blacks out the sun . . . ring of fire —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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P.S. This poem was published by the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art on 23 April 2021. Could be fastest turnaround I've had between composition and publication. Thanks, CRMA! Here's a link to the pub.

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