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