NaPoWriMo 2013

NaPoWriMo2013 Button

For the third year running, I’m taking part on NaPoWriMo! Wondering what it is? Check out the page or the website!

The date for each poem is in italics, and the title is in bold. Each prompt also has a link to the original post, so you can see how the prompt was invented, how it came to be that way, and how it’s related to the poem of that day.

Have any ideas or suggestions for this year or the next? Comment on any of the NaPoWriMo archives or posts!



Write a poem using random words or the same first line as another poem 

Come up with a place, idea, or image and take a few random words that describe that image to start a poem

Write with the voice of a child!

Write about an animal that inspires a feeling in you


April 1st:

Softly Through the Night

She walks

softly in the dark,

her foot on nothing but

still stepping,

still shining with a light

that envelops her whole body,

that is nothing save

the intensity of her soulfire, the

light of her love that still burns even though

he stopped loving her,

stopped seeing


long ago.

But she didn’t stop

seeing him.

She didn’t stop

seeing anyone,

but then they stopped seeing her,

until the fire of her soul told her like a crystal ball


step into this world of darkness


nothing mattered,

nothing but


Now she stopped

seeing everyone, and

everyone stopped

seeing her, and

she walked slowly through

the darkness,

shining foot stepping

on nothing but still feeling,

still stepping,

part of the only light

in this place.

And she walked,

looking for the only other person

that she could see,


who stood in both worlds


Whenever she found him she would

step in front of him and stare


like echo at Narcissus,

having learned long ago that she could not speak

to him, and

could not touch him,

whence her fingers would cause him to

disappear. She

would then have to wander,

wearily, until she

found him again, so

she chose to see his face

over letting him vanish,

even if

his eyes stared through her indifferently,

even if he never responded to her words,

not even to her touch although

his image did vanish,

but she didn’t care


what of this was different from that other world

that she had lived in,


She wasn’t part of his world,

he was all of hers,

and all she ever saw was him

anyway, so

the blackness never bothered her.

She didn’t know

if she was in a new world entirely,

or stuck in her mind, gone mad

with heartbreak,

or if she walked through all things mistily,

walked through her world ghostly,

and although she was there only saw

him. She

stood in the nothingness and looked


saw a distantly glowing figure,


like a ghost,

walking, talking, dancing,

but not with her, to her.

Her approach made no difference,

it didn’t matter if she spoke or not,

but she placed her hands

in the air beside him

and waltzed with him

in painful pretend glory.

And all she saw was


an all he saw was


so what was different

from the world she was in before?

Suddenly in confusion

he paled, then

laughed nervously to his

real partner, said:

“For a moment you looked

like a girl I knew,


but I

can’t recall her name,

and now her face has vanished too.

Just as well.”

Tears stung



and his blurred like watercolors,

but she danced,

on and on,

refusing to stop,

but her trembling fingers,

her distracted eye,

combined to force one mistake

of the placement of her fingers,

which brought his face,

his waist,

in contact with

her hands, and he

paled, widened his eyes,

in shock, in alarm,


“I felt her. I know it.

There’s no mistaking it. It

was her,

though it couldn’t be,



voice began to fade,

his glow to dim,

and she

was alone again, weeping

tears hot with anguish.


fell to her knees

on the floor unseen,

and released two painful sobs

from her tense, hot chest.


glowing, fell, and vanished,

then their flow ceased,

quenched, and

she stood,

face calm, almost grim,

wild but determined.

And she walked softly in the night,

glowing feet treading

on nothing

yet treading

as she went, seeing nothing,

seeing no one,

none save him.

And what was different

from the world she had

inhabited before?

(April 2nd and 3rd are coming soon!)

April 4:

Tinted With Nighttime

Serene soft silky

satin whisper-walkers

dreary drifting above

candy-colored world

tinted with nighttime and dew

like baby spiders on breezes

with tiny white parachutes.

Thinking there is music

but you can’t quite make out the tune;

if you focus on it

it flees like a

shy draiad.

(April 5th will be published soon!)

April 6:

Sifted Beauty

Sifted beauty

to exude and separate the


part of spring, leaving the

liquid awesome raw spring

to pour over your senses


Dirt beneath your fingers,

heat of the sun upon you,

sticks beneath you,

bugs around you,

everything is beautiful

because if it wasn’t

it wouldn’t be there since

it is sifted beauty.

April 7:

Marine Layer Morning

Blue light from outside.

Then, gradual change in light

to bright grey and white.

April 8th:


I’m small,

but I wanna be tall,

’cause at the mall

one store has a huge ball

and it holds every-colored  shawl!

I really wanna touch them all

but I can’t, ’cause I’m small.

April 9th:

Sand Roomba

Purple sand dollar,

 your fuzzy squishy purpleness

is like some cartoon creation.

You creep like a starfish with your tiny tube feet

over my hand, scouring my skin

with your churning mouth.

In the sand where I release you

you begin to whirl in sluggish circles

as you suck up sand and food

for all the world you were a

fluffy sand roomba.

Touching your cushiny skin,

it’s hard to imagine your

bleached white shell*,

hard, firm,

underneath your

squish surface,

even though on your violet back

is that same star shape.

And white bleached shell*,

it’s hard to look at you

and remember

that fuzzy purple life

around this barren bone

without taking a moment

to honor what was.

April 10th:

Love/Unlove Poem

You’re always there for me.

You’re always there.

You’re always there.

Why can’t you stop

stalking me?

I don’t even

like you

that way! Do you

know the meaning of

personal space?

You’re not even special to me

as a friend, so

will you leave me alone,

find someone else,

because you’re




and adorable!

You need to get

your ears cleaned out

of your rotten brain because I never said

you were adorable.


maybe I did.

It depends.

Are you available

this weekend?

April 11:

Blank Page

I. White.

Pure blank white, with a

faint blue cast

or a slight tinge

of yellow.

Blank slate,

the purity of possibility,

the smell of new notebook

and new paper

or recycled paper, it doesn’t matter.

A million ways I could

use this page,

a thousand different tales

or different interchangeable words,

oh the excitement of an uncharted frontier!

Plot lines as of yet unfathomed,

the uncharted waters of story,

and the dim unimagined characters.


and nothing

is here.

II. Nothing.

Characters’ breath cut off in their lungs,

lives left unlived,

problems left unsolved,

questions remain unanswered.

Worse than a bad ending,

here, the infinity of possibility

shatters your mind as you try to conceive

the  everything

and nothing that can be,


the infinite amount

of irritating plot-twists

until you cannot possibly stand

to read the book again.

III. Devastating blankness,

so much to be said and yet unsaid,

perfect image of how,

perfect movie of how,

playing behind your eyes

but you just can’t seem

to put it to words.

You try but get only so far as

only three or four words

before you trail off and stare

with a smile on your face that has


and nothing

to do with the annoyance.

It’s the story.

It’s the irritation,

the frustration

of not being able to communicate

just what you’re seeing,

like a Frenchman staring at

an Indonesia native.

IV. Blank,

crisp like snow,

fresh and clean and innocent,

empty and exciting

but cold and a bother.

But a blank page? What does a writer love more

than the freedom to express

exactly what’s on their mind?

Even if using it is now impossible

it’s the comfort of knowing

that if you must, you can.

Blank page, the exhilaration connected

doesn’t matter whether

you have an idea to chronograph

or not because it’ll be

a blank


April 12:

Sunshine Language

Drowsy dreamy sunshine sleepiness,

feeling the photons tingle across my exposed skin,

the light particles that have whizzed

across the galaxy.

Like a touch,

like speech,

from a being thousands of miles away,

in reverberating Morse-code

and a hum like a symphony

that is in a language I’m half a step from understanding.

The comprehension comes

when I stop trying to comprehend,

whence the tingle pierces

my skin

and enters my subconscious,

instilling me with pure meaning

like drowsing or divining.

A gentle warm electric blanket

made out of hot pins

that constantly rove over my body

and warm me inside and out.

It’s a comforting touch

because you can feel the presence

of a creature that,

although it is so far in your terms,

it is so close in its,

and you can feel that it is close,

like a warm embrace.

It doesn’t leave in a breeze,

but when you enter the shade

that code of a language

is blocked and you are left with a feeling of emptiness

as if your ears were chopped off or as if

you can’t see


Cold and bare,

your skin  is no longer struck

by thousands of tiny particles

that were flung from the heart of a star

with the force of thousands of nuclear bombs.

And it felt so right,

that heat and warmth and contact,

but now it feels so wrong,

this vacancy,

this coldness.

But you have a sunburn,

so put on a little aloe

and SPF 50

before you go back outside

into those welcoming rays.

(April 13 and 14 coming soon!)

April 15:


Riding up like the peak of a roller coaster

and folding wings while swooping,

spread, climb

fold, descend,

wheeling and curving in joy and life

of glory and ecstasy

and beautiful rhapsody

and delight that spring is here.

April 16:

Swallow Haiku

Small swirling swallow

roller-coaster riding the

fragrant springtime wind.

I would be nauseous

if I rode the sky coaster

like the swallows do.

April 17:


Araña spinning webs

that are dew-coated with night:

She has caught the moon.

April 18:

How to Cook a Haiku

Bring the following ingredients

to room temperature

before cooking:

a moment,

a simple observation,

a pack of every word that you know in all languages

preferably pre-coated with calmness,

and a seventeen-syllable mold.

Select words that suit the observation

and compliment the moment, as many

as will fit the mold

without cramping.

Stir vigorously until the words

are where you want them.

Let cook on a 360 degree


for ten to fifteen minutes,

stirring occasionally.

The haiku will be very delicate

but very powerful in image.


more than six billion people.

(April 19, 20, and 21 are not yet posted)

April 22

Honestly Fortune Cookies

I think you should make

a living wrapping fortunes in cookies.

The kind that

everyone likes to eat.

The kind that tells you that

“You will soon be generously rewarded

for your honesty,”

and that give you lucky numbers

7, 25, and 88,

which make gamblers and lottery players

go out and spend monstrous monies

without realizing that

their honesty

is a thing spoken of

only in the most obscure scripts

and fables.

You should make

fortune cookies,

but not

the kind that creep you out with

phrases like “I see you.”

and “I love you.”

You should make the kind of fortune cookies

that are beautiful and poetic,

the ones that

are of such quiet musings

about your admiration or

frank statements about the world

like “Dew turns plants green”

that people don’t understand

but assume have some deep meaning

and pretend to understand.

And you alone will know

how deep

the fortune cookies are

with their simple honesty

that rewards you with

a kiss of sugar.

April 23

Birdsong Ritual

I hear the birds singing gaily

as they flit and they fly about.

I hear the birds. Singing gaily

dawn to dusk, melodies sailing.

I hear the birds singing. Gaily

praising the day. So many that

I hear! The birds singing gaily.

as they flit and they fly about.

April 29


“Magnolia” reads the paint can label,

and the driplet of paint upon the lid

is white with a yellow blush,

creamy calmness and serenity

mixed with a short hint of life

and warmth.

Not the crisp blue-white

of a fresh piece of paper

or new-fallen snow,

but the color of pale butter,

creamy buttermilk,

or ivory.

Clean and warm

like just-washed sheets that still smell

like that Febreze detergent

that your husband insists

is the allergen that causes his snoring.


but not a cold white,

nor the greenish-yellow color

of sea foam;

it’s more like the color

of lovingly grown cotton

under a warm summer sun,

the kind of sun that almost forms glass

when its shafts pierce clouds or that falls between the leaves,

the book kind or the tree kind,

take your pick.

“Magnolia,” I read

from the paint can label,

and look at the fresh-painted wall with a smile.


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