Day 2 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2026 / Stafford 76

Hello again! Today's Day 2 poem is #76 in the Stafford Challenge this year (and #441 overall). Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem in which you recount a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write an express poem.” Okay, here we go, merging the two prompts today, in a Shakespearean sonnet. My First Poetic Expression I’m sure I titled it “The Sun”—my very first poem. I was probably six or seven. I was on an outing with my dad on a ferry boat, a bright morning with a blazing sun. I remember looking up at the cloudless sky, intensely blue, and musing, wondering, what the sun was. I knew it was made of gas, though I didn’t know “plasma” or “hydrogen” yet. When we got home, I wrote a poem in three quatrains, alternate rhymes, ABAB. My mom sent the poem to my elementary school, and they published it in the family newsletter. Fascinating I was at that time already a formalist, maybe from nursery rhymes. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by alimison on pixabay.com. Here is Alan's poem today, also merging both prompts. 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!     Wow, that's quite an incident, Alan. The last line is brilliant . . . yes, quite a distinction between "family" and "blood." Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Day 14 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2025 // Stafford 88

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt is based on Kay Ryan's poem "Crustacean Island": “[T]ry writing a poem that describes a place, particularly in terms of the animals, plants or other natural phenomena there. Sink into the sound of your location, and use a conversational tone. Incorporate slant rhymes (near or off-rhymes, like 'angle' and 'flamenco') into your poem. And for an extra challenge – don’t reference birds or birdsong!” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a losing poem. Losing often comes with negative connotations, like losing a game or a family pet or socks (seriously, where do they all disappear to?). However, a person could also lose some weight, bad habits, and/or negativity. ” Here's a small Shakespearean sonnet in short Kay Ryan–like lines. Merged both prompts but cheated on the characteristics of the place described — no plants or animals — all human sounds. Losing the Earth on the Moon Actually, you don’t. If you expect to hear something, you won’t. You have to wear a space suit, and all of the earth’s manifold sounds are in there: breath, the loud rumble in your stomach, the distant crackle of your left trick knee. All those live noises — you’re alive! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo oF Spacesuit on th3 Moon from NASA Alan's poem is a beautiful evocation of sound in a snowscape. Pinnacle View Road Impassible; Pinnacle Overlook Sound If I could stand there, where just last spring I watched hawks circling but always below me and felt rising warm air as the green musk reached even that vantage point, if I could permit time to lapse until the access road became impassable to ice, and I had only a moment to withstand the cold in the clothing appropriate for late spring, I would hear downy impact as quarter-sized flakes layered upon themselves, the plop when branches dipped to their weight, the soft white noise of erasure, even as the flakes caught my lashes, my curls, and brought me to shiver, a vulnerable human sound lonely, only to me perceptible so high above the huddled who cannot hear it. —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 23 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2024

Looks like 2013 was a good year for April blog intros. Here's Day 23's intro from 2013: Day 23. Today is Shakespeare's birthday, born 1564. Had he been an Old Testament patriarch, he would be turning 449 today. Or maybe if he was Methuselah's lesser-known sibling, then four and a half centuries would be a walk in the park. Happy Shakespeare's birthday, everyone! And now, today's prompts. Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “[W]rite a poem about, or involving, a superhero, taking your inspiration from these four poems in which Lucille Clifton addresses Clark Kent/Superman.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's Two-for-Tuesday prompt: 1) Write a "(blank) of the Heart" poem, and/or . . . 2) Write a "Heart of the (blank)" poem.” Today, in honor of Shakespeare's birthday, here is a slapstick-humorous Shakesperean sonnet, merging all three prompts: Shakespeare as a superhero, with a reference to his heart, even! 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!     Super Shakespeare by Mathew McFarren Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 2 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2024

Day 2. Lots of "two-ness" today: April 2 and also a 2-for-Tuesday PAD opportunity. Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, we have our first two-for-Tuesday prompt, which means you get two prompts. . . . 1) Write a happy poem, and/or . . .   2) Write a sad poem.  Two sides of the same emotional coin.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “[W]rite a platonic love poem. In other words, a poem not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love – your love for your sister, or a friend, or even your love for a really good Chicago deep dish pizza. The poem should be written directly to the object of your affections (like a letter is written to 'you'), and should describe at least three memories of you engaging with that person/thing.” Here goes, melding all three prompts — ain't Tuesday grand — plus the three memories Maureen prompted.  Bass Love I first saw you, EB-3 knockoff bass, blank headstock (probably made by Global), on my birthday in 1986, as a gift from Mary Ann. A beautiful Heritage Cherry red finish, silver hardware. I remember learning the theme of Barney Miller for a video Mary Ann shot for a class . . . what a sweet bassline! I played you every week in church, double- horn body and all. You recall that picture where you posed with Amanda, three years old? Well, I’m sad I’ve had you disassembled for 15 years, your repair and refinish undone. But happy to restart work. We'll play again soon! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] A slant-rhymed Shakespearan sonnet with an ending couplet of alexandrines. Also, there's the photo mentioned in the poem of my oldest daughter with the bass, probably from 1990, in Arcata, California. (Click on the photo above to see it enlarged.) Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 19 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2020

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a poem that uses the following six words:             • bump             • embrace             • fixture             • howl             • lonely             • resolve How did I come up with this list? Actually, it’s a tie-in to our Shakespeare Week that starts today, because the Bard is actually credited with inventing all six of these words. Pretty cool, eh? For sestina fans, I kind of intentionally made it six words for a reason. So let’s get writing!” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, our optional prompt challenges you to write a poem based on a ‘walking archive.’ What’s that? Well, it’s when you go on a walk and gather up interesting things – a flower, a strange piece of bark, a rock. This then becomes your ‘walking archive’ – the physical instantiation of your walk. If you’re unable to get out of the house (as many of us now are), you can create a ‘walking archive’ by wandering around your own home and gathering knick-knacks, family photos, maybe a strange spice or kitchen gadget you never use. One you’ve finished your gathering, lay all your materials out on a tray table, like museum specimens. Now, let your group of materials inspire your poem! You can write about just one of the things you’ve gathered, or how all of them are all linked, or even what they say about you, who chose them and brought them together.” I appreciate how Alan so adeptly merges the two prompts, especially how he gets the words bump and howl to work so seamlessly. And the opening line is a hoot! Touring the House I wandered lonely as a dad between his tasks while safe at home and found the sound of “bump” came from the water drained from the main bath, and so I checked the fixture there, assured myself there is no leak, and wiped some toothpaste residue one of the kids left in the sink. I keep banged-up used copies stacked beneath the towels on a wire rack and see somebody’s reading Howl from all those books—I don’t know who. The john’s a fine and private place to read Ginsberg and wash your face. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan's poem is a hybrid sonnet, mixing Petrarch, Shakespeare, and Clare: the first quatrain is a Petrarchan envelope, the second a Shakespearean alternating, and then the closing sestet is comprised of Clarean couplets, which is both a Petrarchan mode and Shakespearean with the ending couplet. The rhymes in lines 5 and 7 are fascinating: there and -due (rhymed consonantally with the related sounds th and d), but wait, there's more . . . we have enjambed rhyme as well, with there, /assured and residue! Today, from me, we have another poem in my aswang novella-in-poems. (Specifics on that project here.) This is set in early 1945, after Santiago's unit has been deployed to fight the Japanese in the Philippines. The two lovers have now had to weather two years of separation because of his military service. In terms of form, this is a sestina that uses Robert's six words in order; the poem also follows Maureen's prompt with Clara walking around her home with Santiago to gather objects that remind her of him. I was fortunate Robert had included the word "howl" because it gave me the entree into an aswang poem today. Aswang Despair Late at Night I was awakened suddenly by a bump in the night, and I turned to embrace Tiyago but he is gone for now. A fixture in my life for ten years, gone. A howl echoing far off is how I think of him. Lonely for my husband away at war, I resolved to be stronger. After all he had resolved to fight for our country — he was no bump on a log. The two of us have had two lonely years while he trained. I’ve learned to embrace this duty he must follow, but in my heart I howl at the unfairness of life. I’ve fixed your face in my mind’s eye as a bright fixture to get me through the days when my resolve slips. I wonder if, deployed now, you howl, fighting in the old country, sharp bumps of bullets and shells loud in your ears. Brace yourself, mi amor. I know you are lonely. If it helps, you should know I’m lonely too. I got out of bed, picked up your picture, hugged it to my breast, the only embrace I own now. I started walking our rooms, resolved to find things connected to you. My foot bumped the dining table you constructed, and I howled at the pain in my little toe. My small howl helped for a moment, distracting me from lonely musings. I found another photograph: my baby bump with you rubbing it jokingly as if to fix it, your smile so bright, your eyes twinkling, your resolve to be a good father so clear in your face. I embraced you that day, I recall. A long, loving embrace that almost removed the memories of you howling and me hunting pregnant women. We then resolved again to give up the aswang ways, no matter how lonely that would make us, just invisible ordinary fixtures in the world of humans. I went to Malcolm, sweet bump of ours, and embraced him. He is our brave fixture among the others, old prey. Bumped, Malcolm howled in his sleep. Instantly lonely, I feared for our resolve. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I had a blast playing with the teleutons or end-words; it was tough to use fixture seven times! I offer a bonus poem today . . . an elegy in these times of the novel coronavirus. In Memoriam John Prine, Dead of COVID-19 Most days, we expect to hear from a famous author of songs loved by millions for decades even more of his lovely music. He was only seventy- three, John Prine, loving and loved husband and father. My daughter Amelia and I have a duo called Groovy News, and we perform a noteworthy song by Mr. Prine, “Angel from Montgomery,” about an old woman living with her old husband, their lives a desert of lost dreams. The song asks, “How the hell can a person go to work in the morning / and come home in the evening and have nothing to say?” The man told us simple, unvarnished truths. COVID-19 may have taken John Prine but in song he lives on. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] RIP, John Prine. Thanks for reading, everyone. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word “comments” in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 14 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2020

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt is the usual "Two for Tuesday": 1. Write a form poem. 2. Write an anti-form poem. Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “write a poem that deals with the poems, poets, and other people who inspired you to write poems. These could be poems/poets/people that you strive to be like, or even poems, poets, and people that you strive not to be like. There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.” Alan today satisfies both prompts with a Petrarchan sonnet. Bravo! I find my Jackself, Father Hopkins, here I find my Jackself, Father Hopkins, here beneath the lip of concrete walk, the nest that’s blown from that whipped cherry tree, the best that I can tell, some feathers still stuck there where hatchlings fouled then flew and now somewhere begin their nests and broods. What downy breast, what shelter, wing or setting hen, professed through watchful action God’s own watchful care? Now watch me care, inadequate and lost, just housed, just fed, not comforted but kept away from friends and music. If I brood, then I am selfish, focused on the cost of keeping others from me safe; accept, O Lord, my shame, my penitential mood. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Check out Alan's book on Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Fire That Breaks: Gerard Manley Hopkins's Poetic Legacies, edited by Daniel Westover and Thomas Alan Holmes. My poem today addresses all three prompts, the two form/not-form prompts and also the poet tribute prompt. The Ballad of Emily and Walt: Synergic Sonnet Not-Sonnet Walt, you Granite huge Grizzly     of a Man – your Pen swirls through air and over Paper — truly     and widely Transcendental! Ah yes, Emily, Amherst's resident angel, your pen adorned with feathers plucked     from an amorous swan, floating and swimming in these American continental     waters, your pen streams a flowing yawp of illumination, energy, and spark Through heaven's firmament, the moon's curling path through the stars, the swash     and buckle of the planets, great wanderers through the obsidian bowl of the sky,     the grand orbit of Apollo and his chariot as the almighty sun, Through the sweeping vistas of the expansive prairies and massive mountains     of this superlative land, the eagles, and the passenger pigeons, flying across the     cerulean dome of the Divine's aerial dominion, the birds of the ground, the ostrich     and the penguin, the hummingbird and the hawk, the nightingale and the lark, Through the aquamarine and indigo depths of the seas and lakes, the swirling schools     of finned creatures, the shark, the albino whale, the miniature minnow, the     many-tentacled octopus, the serpent-bodied and sinuous eel, the folk of the     burbling creeks, the swift rivers, the broad Mississippi, the ocean. Yes, the bobolink my Diva     sings in your Honor, and the owl – Omnipotent chanter –     croons a tune of Dolor. The many and varied peoples of this vast republic extol bright praises to your verse, The regalia-bearing Indians in their verdant woodland, the Irish blacksmith hammering     blades in his forge on Long Island, the German farmers toiling in the black soil of the     Middle West, the Chinese forty-niners in San Francisco all laud your words, from the     rough-hewn cedar cradle to the gold-leaf filigree of the Stygian horse-drawn     ultimate hearse. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] The way the form/not-form aspect of my poem works is like this: the form vibe is represented by the Dickinsonian hymnal stanzas, while the not-form feeling resides in the Whitmanesque long lines of free verse. If you consider the paragraph-like long lines as each one long line, then you'll see that the poem is a Shakespearan sonnet, sans meter. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word “comments” in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 13 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2020

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a purpose poem. Many people like to have a purpose in life. Some folks do things on purpose. And yes, sometimes it appears there is no purpose to life’s events. Whatever drives you, I hope you’re able to pair purpose (or lack of purpose) with your poetry today.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “our optional prompt for today (developed by Rachel McKibbens, who is well-known for her imaginative and inspiring prompts) plays on the idea of stealing. Today, I challenge you to write a non-apology for the things you’ve stolen. Maybe it’s something as small as your sister’s hairbrush (or maybe it was your sister’s boyfriend!) Regardless, I hope this sly prompt generates some provocative verse for you.” I’m “going rogue” today, which means I’m not writing from today's prompts. As Alan has said before when he goes rogue, “I’m not feeling the love from either prompt!” Lee Harlin Bahan, my poet friend from college, has invited me to participate in a new poetry collaboration, exchanging sonnets on the coronavirus pandemic. Today she sent me one that began “Dear Vince” and here’s my response, with an opening that quotes the ending of Lee’s sonnet from earlier. Make COVID-19 Great Again Dear Lee:                   The virus killed 2000 yesterday. Soon it will be 3K, then 4K, moving on up. Some facebook friends were saying today, “Save 95% of people over 5% old folks,” meaning “let’s open the outlet stores, restaurants, churches, and malls. We’ve got to save the damn economy! Who cares if Boomers die?” Some claim social distancing is fake, a Democratic hoax, a Deep State plot to make the president look stupid. “Don’t be a sheep! Don’t wear masks!” they say. To these geniuses it’s evident that Trump is not an opportunist liar. Yeah, Trump is a superhero Messiah. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] This is a Shakespearean sonnet with some slant rhyme — e.g.. hoax and masks — and also one example of enjambed rhyme (rhyme that spans a line break) — let's open / the rhymed with economy. Today, Alan has gone rogue as well; interestingly his poem is also on a medical theme. Tech I understand dialysis leaves you lethargic and sore, that you are thinking of reducing the regimen from three times a week to twice, if any, so you can rest and feel better, but I am not sorry we are doing it for you, and I will try to understand if you decide not to come back. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Hope you all are staying safe out there. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word “comments” in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 26 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2019

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a word, or phrase. You can even repeat an image, perhaps slightly changing or enlarging it from stanza to stanza, to alter its meaning. There are (perhaps paradoxically) infinite possibilities in repetition.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “For today’s prompt, write an evening poem. A poem about or during the night. Or take evening a completely different direction and think of evening the score or making things more even (or fair or whatever).” One evening last fall, I went out in an open green space on the university grounds to see four of the five visible planets strung across the night sky. (The missing planet was Mercury, which is frankly pretty hard to spot, in general, but at this time, it was elsewhere in the sky.) For Maureen’s repetitions, I imaged the planets all as jewels. Originally, I had four “dots” but that seemed pretty boring. Incidentally, while I was out there planet-gazing, two university cop cars stopped to see what this guy was doing out there. I was really excited to be able to share with some other folks this amazing sight — “There's Venus over there, and up here are Jupiter and Saturn, and just rising now, we’ve got Mars.” They were polite — “uh-huh, uh-huh” — and probably decided ultimately I was harmless. Okay, here we go — a Shakespearean sonnet, with some slant rhymes. I close with an alexandrine couplet (six beats per line rather than five) as a closing gesture, a sense of an ending. Four Gemstones in the Heavens As the evening came on last October, cold enough but not yet the frigid wilderness last winter became, I stood out in a field where I could see the purpling sky over trees changing green to black. To the west, the sun had dipped below the horizon, but its halo still glowed red, and just above there hung Venus, a bright blue gem, not far from a yellow jewel that was Saturn. I wished I had a scope so I could see its rings, like I did in college astronomy classes. Almost centered at the top, another sharp blue gem was Jupiter, so large a thousand Earths could fit inside it. Then rose the red jewel, Mars, to complete the resplendent necklace of night. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Actually, just as a point of clarification, a lot more than a thousand Earths could fit inside Jupiter . . . more than 1,300. It is almost 12 times as wide as the Earth. And Jupiter alone weighs 2 1/2 times as much as all the other planets put together! Okay, so I’m an astronomy geek. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word “comments” in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 11 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2019

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Today, . . . we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of origin. Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots. Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers and dust disappearing down an unpaved road. And having come from there, where are you now?” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “For today’s prompt, write a dedication poem. This is a poem dedicated to a person, an animal, or an organization. Or hey, objects work too–like a poem to a rock or paper bag. Put the dedication in the title or in a line under the title (‘for Mother’ or ‘to the heart-shaped rock between the creek and the tulips’). I dedicate today’s prompt to all of you!” Many thanks to Robert for a very generous shout-out in today's poem-a-day challenge post about my book The Coolest Month, which is made up of April poems just like the one below, but over the last seven years. Robert links to Final Thursday Press, where you can find information on how to order the book. You can also order it from Amazon. Merging the two prompts, I'm glad of the opportunity to write about my mother. During the Q&A at the book launch for The Coolest Month two nights ago, in response to a question on writing about family, I mentioned that I had written a lot about my father, resulting in my book Fighting Kite, and that I hoped to do a similar project in my mom's memory. Well, here we have a door opening for me to write one of those poems! Today, I offer a partially slant-rhymed Shakespearean sonnet a closing Alexandrine couplet. Definitely a "dedication poem," especially given the title, but the theme of origin is in there perhaps more circumstantially. For my Mother            —Candida Gotera (1914-1976) She was the voice I heard through the earliest wall. She was the hand on my forehead when I was sick. When I would go out with high school friends, she’d call to me from across the street, saying “Come back,” just to tell me, “Be careful.” She was the lap I sat on when I was four, the comfy chair whose arms would cradle you. Her hair, so black when I was young, became feathered with silver streaks just like my own hair now. When cancer metastasized through her bones, she was never weak, always a smile despite her pain. Her answer to trouble was always hang on, weather the bleak moments. Alhough Mama’s been gone 43 years, she lives on in me: everything of mine was hers. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] In this photo, Mama is second from the left (next to my ex-wife Ivania), Papa is in the middle holding my son Marty, and I am on the right. (Click on the photo to see it larger.) I chose this picture today because one can see how much I looked like my mom at the time. This was probably in 1973, about three years before Mama passed away from cancer. I was in the service at the time — US Army — and I'm guessing early 1973 because Marty was born in June 1972 and I was away at Army training from shortly after his birth until November of that year, at which time we moved into the apartment where this snapshot was taken. I first thought maybe this was taken at Christmas when my parents would have visited, but my haircut was probably a bit long here for someone who had just come back a month before from Army training. Since my dad is in a suit, I'm thinking this might have been Easter 1973. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word “comments” in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Poems Eligible for a Rhysling (Part 2)

Continuing from yesterday's post about Rhysling Award–eligible poetry . . . here's one of my speculative poems this year that appeared only in print, in the excellent poetry magazine Dreams & Nightmares, edited by David Kopaska-Merkel. Aswang Christening: A Family Photo Radiant parents and bouncy baby, all silken and crinoline, taffeta and three-piece wool, are posed in this portrait next to the baptismal font at St. George’s. The baby smells of milk and, slightly, of turned earth. They name him Malcolm. The mother, Clara, whispers to herself, she’ll swear off womb water, that sweet fetal liquor, now that she’s bearing children. Santiago, the father, thanks the parish priest but thinks to himself how plump the man is. Imagines Father Simon running for his Life, pale skin glimmering in dim forest. Behind them, in stained glass, a trick of the light turns the Holy Ghost — a dove — black, not white. —  Vince Gotera, Dreams & Nightmares (Issue 104, September 2016)                     I just remembered that when I started this blog almost ten years ago, I used to comment a little bit on the poetics of the poems of my own I would post on the blog. I originally envisioned the blog as an extension of my teaching so that both my creative-writing and my literature students could come to the blog to learn. Let me go back to that practice now. This is a hybrid sonnet (part English, part Italian, or part Shakespearean, part Petrarchan). It uses the Petrarchan envelope quatrain (abba) but is structured with a Shakespearean architecture: three quatrains and an ending couplet. I'm particularly happy with the rhyming in the third stanza: it's abba (or, in the context of the whole poem, effe) with "priest" rhyming with "forest" in lines 1 and 4, as well as "is" rhyming with "his" in lines 2 and 3. But that's not all. There's consonance in "priest" and "forest": p-r-s-t echoed by f-r-s-t (where the /p/ and the /f/ are related consonants. Besides that, the last two lines of that stanza are a couplet with two-syllable rhymes: "for his" and "forest." Ain't rhymin' fun? I should also point out this poem is part of my in-progress novella-in-poems about two Philippine monsters — mythical aswang — who fall in love, marry, and move to the US to try and live a normal (i.e., human) family life. Do check out Dreams & Nightmares. It's one of the premier speculative poetry venues in the US. And subscribe! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ  If you got here from my list of Rhysling-eligible poems, please click here to go back to the list.