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. 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