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, necessary, wrenching 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