Na/GloPoWriMo Day 30: Final Challenge, try your hand at a minimalist poem. What’s that? Well, a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion
Words and thoughts
meant for the page
not the air
the point and click same day delivery generation
created a new art form
It’s really a thing
it’s really a word.
Day 29 of Na/GloPoWriMo 2019 : Today’s challenge is to blend these concepts into your own work, by producing a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully
Maybe
if I smile more and dress in pasty oatmeal colors
and hold open doors
and let everyone else pass through
and thank them for the chance
to serve them, to help them, to be there for them
One day I will fit in.
Maybe if I walk slower
and think slower
and give up my favorite spot
under the shady tree where me and my dog rest
after our long walks
and scuttle and hustle behind everybody else instead
One day I will be rewarded
and be allowed to fit in.
Maybe if I agree
I was not right, I am never right
where did I get these silly ideas of mine?
If I turn off the lights
behind my eyes
I will be allowed to fit in.
Or.
I could just be me
a flawed and imperfect Soul
sitting under a shady tree
with the best dog in the world
and not worry about
ever
fitting in.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2019 #28: Challenge Write a meta poem or poem about poetry:
Do you know that thing you do to words Anita?
That thing where you bang them together on a page and you
cut and nail and draw all over them
and in the end you stand up and call your Freak show of malformed words
Poetry?
Don’t do that.
Poetry should flow and dance
and leave a trail of starlight in it’s wake
It should shush you into silence
it should make you feel light and
you should always
but always
sit in reverence
as you read it, hear it absorb it into your unyielding skin
like flowers
in a field
feasting on sunshine.
So in all politeness I reply:
I have pumpkin seeds for brains
and a dark place in my chest where my heart used to be.
I always write about the things crawling and nesting inside of me.
I am like Poetry’s weird Auntie
who shows up at Funerals
and laughs at the graveside
as the coffin is being lowered into the ground
and everyone wonders as they stand there silent and somber
” Who in the Hell invited her?”
