NaPoWriMo 2014

National Poetry Writing Month 2014

For the fourth year in the row, I’m joining hundreds of crazy NaPoets in their quest for 30 poems in 30 days! I’m so hyped I could write about it (and probably will)! If you’re still wondering what it’s all about (although I pretty much just summed it up), check out the page or the official website!

The date for each poem is in italics, and the title is in bold.

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

–Aidyl

April 1:

See Me Silent, Voiceless

See me, voice dying

in tear, a woven never-bell marred

by wind,

bitter wind, rent

me heart-out, render

me right-side out

right-out

right-out

preposterous,

ripped,

ruined,

where am I now? Where

do I stand?

On what shifting seas,

which stay-less waters,

starless skies?

Where am I now? Where

was I when

my words died,

shriveled whisper like the husk of winter

rasping through the broken leaves

and gray trees’ bones

bare and cold in snow.

What was when my voice

faded on the wind,

rich trumpet of a dying unicorn

speared through the heart

by an unholy spear, forged

with suffering, cooled

in the blood

of tortured.

What am I now? No more

than ash,

hissing in the wind, voice

never to be heard,

what no one will ever hear

because they’re too busy listening

to the words of my funeral;

they never knew

where I’d gone.

I am gone,

vanished,

wind gnawing fierce at my skin

till it tore it all away,

April 2:

Notes

Why is writing notes

a crime

when taking notes

is encouraged? Isn’t

taking

rude and mean? Aren’t

we taught

to not

be bullies?

Writing is so much more creative,

personal imagination,

more responsible

than relieving

a person of their hard-won notes.

You can learn from both;

they both have a meaning,

a context;

so whyever is taking

better than writing?

April 3:

Gone Is Winter

Gone is winter

with sharp icicles and snow,

bitter winds and subzero bite:

the teeth have fallen out.

Gone is winter,

the frosty chilly nights

and silent moonlight snows,

with listing whistling winds

blowing

white dust long across the ground.

Gone is winter’s solitude,

the chill in sunlight’s edge,

the silence of the meadows;

no, there’s spring here instead.

 April 4:

Melting Snow

Sad ice clumps

fade into the ground, mud;

bare gray grass.

April 5:

Seasonal Battle

Look, breathe, smell, taste

the air, hear

the quiet mumbling

of constant water tumbling

out the ground and down the stones;

moist is the air,

smelling rich of green,

of spring,

of sweet nectar countryside smell,

living smell,

that was frozen in the bitter knives

of winter winds, all water frozen

into pikes. Snow smell

is gone, that snow

melting slowly, cramming

into every particle of  the dirt,

water table water balloon bursting,

oozing out of the earth’s every orifice;

the earth has hay fever.

Once more the seasons turn

to a battleground,

winter versus summer,

but watch the lengthening

sunlight

burning

away the winter,

burning

the cold air,

burning

the snow to bitter meltwater,

burning,

stroking

the skin with a thousand words,

a thousand thoughts. Cold north winds,

cold and harsh, again, bitter

at defeat, receding

to calm warm winds that carry in Spring

with her lacy petticoats.

Smell her perfume

on the wind;

she’s here.

 

April 6:

Wooly Bear

Wave along, ripple,

fuzzy fluffy orange-black spikes,

get your Halloween costume off the road!

Don’t end up like your buddy there,

you’ll be squished,

your fuzziness,

I will weep,

your fuzziness,

take this olive pine branch

as a token of peace,

let me guide you

to safety,

take faith and fly

like your future self

to where the wheels will not rumble,

where the feet shall not

tread, lest they crush

your fuzziness’ delicate prickles.

No, get on the stick

you dastardly caterpillar! It’s for your own

safety and livelihood, don’t you want

to stay three dimensional? Then grab!

Grab for all you’re worth, but for heaven’s sake

don’t fall off

the branch!

April 7:

Dawn Bluebird

Blue dawn darkness,

sedate indigo,

sleepy sheet, fallow

fields far afield. And silence, only glitz stars

trembling in disquiet

in the quiet, flicker

faint like gemstones, the light

only a hint

of the roar in space

of themselves.

Silence, cold trees

and blue sky like satin, only

distant orange Mars

hanging

like an eye in the western sky, so bright

for the light darkness.

Silence…and yet…

echo bluebird,

cheery call punctuating

the silence, bright morning song

the color of the blue

of the bird, the same

as the

sky. Quiet,

only the bluebird

singing soliloquy, solo,

bell-like ‘fore dawn.

Silence,

cool silence,

full of song.

April 8:

Terrible Beauty [Haiku]

Perfect sunny days

do menace with their beauty;

do I dare feel joy?

 

April 9:

Bright Night

Lights

light up

the  night. I stand

in glorious velvet darkness, laughing

with the stars.

April 11:

Love Poem of a Pawn and Glasses

She felt

so small, insignificant.

He could see right through her,

she was a pawn in the face

of his face. But she loved

his clarity, clean boundaries,

well-sculpted edges and curves, chiseled

to godlike. And she? Well, she

had a figure that caught his eye,

that called for examination. She, overjoyed

that she could have caught

his attention,

smiled

like the queen that she could be

if she really wanted to.

 April 12:

Black/White

To a poet

or a writer

or an artist,

black and white

is anything but;

not

boring, it’ a skeleton,

the foundation

of all existence. Invertebrates

don’t exist

in creative reality

because they’re too squishy, they don’t

survive

the prodding

of lit critics.

And don’t say that creative reality

doesn’t exist

because it does,

thanks to creative liberties.

April 13:

Crocus

Sleepy crocus, open your eyes!

Don’t you feel the sun

beaming hot from the skies?

Hear the sparrow! crisp and clear

melodies sailing, rippling near

and far, up and down. Poke your heads

above the ground and smile

in the sunshine of spring.

 

April 14:

Fall Spring Leaf, Floating

Gusty wind, tearing

yesteryear’s dead decaying leaves

that were once a blaze of

and with

color, sending them

fifty feet into the air, more, spiraling

and drifting, a memory hanging

by an invisible thread. Dead,

it falls

among the new living.

April 15:

Finished Notebook

A filled notebook

is like a finished summer;

all filled,

full of memories, ideas,

experiences, stories,

but that luxurious freedom

of plus possibility

is gone, like a reigned-in tide,

tamed

to every extent. Gone

is the room

for expression, you think

not of the done, but the un-done,

undoing you

because you dwell on what you wish

that you’d done,

wish that could have been,

might have been, lamenting limitless

free imagination first perception

of everything

wonderful, fantastic, pioneer

in paper prairie; what wonders

will we behold? But no, we know

all wonders are charted

on every map;

discovery is gone,

leaving only memories….

 April 16:

Spring Relapse

Where’s spring gone? What’s happened

to the sun-frolic warm-air sweet-green-sugar temperatures, sweet

nectar of that cool-warm smell? Soft smell,

thick perfume that isn’t at all

cloying,

that doesn’t make you sneeze

except if you’re allergic to it. If you are,

sorry,

there’s nothing I can do

about that. What happened

to the spring peepers, the

clamor of birds and robins

ranging wild and free across the lawn? Where

are the rabbits and bugs

and bulbs? Where went those rains,

dewdrop cold sunshine and crisp life anew,

where

have those gone? When did it all

turn to bitter snow, race through summer

and fall

and slam back into winter? Did we backtrack?

Was all the spring a dream, all the warmth

a wish,

every sound a hallucination;

could we have been wanting spring so

that we should deceive ourselves

with its arrival? Where did all this

1.75 inches of snow come from? Icing

on the cake of winter’s cruelty. Winter,

are you a poor loser, can’t you

let the world go, can’t you tell

you’ve lost? Go home!

I don’t even know

what’s going on anymore,

but

it seems to be

winter

again.

 April 17

Air-bird Written Thoughts

All thoughts

gushing,

rushing,

released

through a pinpoint ballpoint

pressure point

release point.

It’s not legible

and I probably won’t be able

to read it

in six million years, but

it’s out there. Pent up thoughts

of days,

maybe weeks,

even months,

half a year

of poetry solitary

confinement, no contact

with another member

of the poet race.

Be free, thoughts! Spread

to the corners of the world, show

just what my thoughts are,

just what you are. Be

like the wind-bird air flyer-thoughts

of culture, spreading viral video

across the globe

and even to the parts of the world

that don’t have internet,

Imagination

is our internet.

 

April 18:

Writing Not-writing

I wish that I could write

but for writer’s block;

that terrible region

of thought

with no exit,

no freedom, no

known way out.

But if I’m writing a poem

about writer’s block

does that mean

that I still have it? Or no?

Gah!

My sanity flees!

Yet…

how can I have written

any words

if I’m blocked? Freedom!

Un-blockage

of the block

turns it into a circle-shape (ha!),

rainbow bubbles that float

on the peaceful winds

of imagination.

 April 19:

Writing A Poem

The poem future constantly changes

as you write, constantly thinking

of connections

and conjunctions,

the future

is fluid.

 April 20:

Who Took My Cheese?

Who took my cheese? I put it

right here

for later, tasty tangy tidbit,

a taste to anticipate.

Lost: cheddar cheese;

aged two years, wrapped

in an oaken embrace

until

it’s silky, satiny, cream-colored

and smooth

as milk, like the hide

of a unicorn, except

less gross.

Every bite

of creamy goodness

was like a moment of brief heaven,

sweet-salty-savory

surprises

that were so familiar to me

with every bite.

I had sought

to extend the euphoria

by leaving it here,

safe

from temptation.

Now my hopes

for that coveted revisit

to paradise, but upon my return

I find

the memory of screams

as it was torn

from its proper position

and spirited away

to an unknown location,

most likely

the trash can.

How could you do such a thing

to me, let alone

that poor cheese?! Thrown

into a garbage heap with smelly socks,

diapers

and orange rinds;

such perfection

doesn’t deserve such a fate!

I shall go into withdrawal

from lack of cheese, no,

too late to fix

your wretched mistake.

Oh,

my poor cheese!

 

April 21:

Word Magnets

There was one whisper tongue

of raw spring

like life-spray,

delirious

with languid luscious day;

lazy moon

shines

with smooth diamond music.

 

April 22:

April Shower Night

Dark gurgling shadows

of green-blue-black

wet with rain

and river water; heavy

with water,

The air

lies close,

like after-shower steam

but better,

because it isn’t hot.

Sleigh-bell jingle

jangle spring peepers,

unable to sing

when those bells do;

their replacement.

Now they croak melodies

into the darkening night,

skin damp

like the air.

Deep blue sky

shot with faint sunset shine

through patches of heavy

rain-clouds, punctuated

by silver sapphire stars, sparking.

April 26:

Piercing Clouds

Sunlight reach

across valley, shafts through broken clouds;

gleam

behind every blade

of grass, put fire

in every  rain-soaked stone,

soggy bough,

slick buds. Touch the flowers

with their heads bowed in misery

from the cold rain,

cup their chin

and raise

their gaze

to meet yours, bright daffodil eyes

gold and shining rain-glimmer

with adoration.

Lance of fire,

why are you hotter now,

gold-er now, fierce pale glow

filled with rainbow in your every

sun-drip drip-drop golden gray yellow blue

raindrops of gentle joy.

It’s good to see your smile

after winter’s bitter jaws.

April 27:

More Word Magnets

Sweet repulsive goddess,

delirious with the trudge

of

light blue lathering shadows

like a

sleepy

cry of

lazy diamond whispers,

a soft scream,

shimmering urge

storm-garden gorgeous….

And drunk pink petals

fall by the thousands;

together, they shine

summer.

 

April 28:

Inky Hands

I wear my ink-laden hands

with pride

for the words I’ve written;

they are no cause

of shame,

nor

are the inkblots

across the paper

the smears,

the scrawls,

no, for they are all

universal sign of written.

I

am an artist. My fingers

are branded

with creativity, my page

with my thoughts.

April 29th:

Favorite Colors

My favorite color

is that particular shade

when a full moon shines

on marine layer fog,

fragmented blue rainbows,

blue-purple clean-sweet coolness

like the best spring water,

sprinkled

with a dash

of starlight

like labradorite,

alexandrite that opal fire

on a cobalt background.

That color of a dream,

color of home

at nighttime

when you lie in bed

waiting

for sleep to come

while the moon peers in pale

through the window, white like scared

except that it isn’t,

not even at all.

Pre-dawn stillness

of a starry early 5:00 April morning

in the 50s,

temperature-wise,

and only the blue call

of a bluebird

serenading the silence.

Yes, that’s my favorite

color. Now, if only

I could bottle it up

and spray it,

that would be

my favorite scent;

at least, that would be so

if it wasn’t already

that lovely smell of….

 April 30:

Rain On Roof

Rain taps out

Morse code sign language

for calm,

no te preocupas

de nada,

“Don’t you worry about anything,

do not fear,

rest well:

I am watching through this night.”

27 total posted poems? Getting closer! (I’ve got a few more on paper)

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