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