NaPoMo 2015 – 4

The Drone of Spring

 

Automatically, a squirrel chases another up an oak,

but he’s a New England squirrel, still a bit confused

by the snow piles with chirping robins hopping by

to the same drumbeat that a white rabbit seems to be

following, though the silly animal is behind glass with

neon plastic eggs being cracked by sticky miniature

humans whose hard-heeled shoes shine in the sun,

the sun that reveals a primlipped grandmamah

who lacks the lexicon to politely note how the bright

rays reveal what the daughter-in-law neglected to dust.

 

 

[Prompt:  drone, lexicon, animal, crack, shine. Note that I changed tense or number, etc. so it’s not a proper word poem.]

NaPoMo 2015 – 3

A Woman with Nothing to Hide

 

Suffering is welcome, as long as it’s kept in a cool, dark place.

Ditto for complaint-free decomposition, with extra credit

for photos of you, waterside in seafoam gauze, kicking

a seersuckered calf at oncoming waves.  Anger sears.

 

There will be none of that.  Bliss is all men ask for

in a lover.  It is mostly what regular women crave from

their friends.  Yes, there are pockets of counterculture

yahoos flying black freak flags.  Crazy is cool unless one

 

seeks employment or cruises the personals fantasizing

about a man on Sag Harbor who doesn’t crave mystery.

 

[Prompt: Mental Health and society’s views, etc.]

 

NaPoMo 2015 – 2

Easter Dance

 

When every feeling has been defined for us,

and The Group has a mantra that ails creativity,

it might be time for a change.  Of scenery.

 

Of goals.  Of venues.  Maybe even, of groups.

How much can it matter if we misstep old reels,

sighing the body electrified by the heart’s need

 

to catch its breath, try not to skip too many beats,

resurrecting the spirit to sacrifice who gets to lead?

 

 

[Prompt: Americana]

 

 

NaPoMo 2015 – 1

Revenge of the 21st-Century Bard

 

It doesn’t cost a cent, unless one is

particularly determined or profoundly

disturbed  And we were all raised better.

 

But every now and again it thrills to give

a trespasser against the spirit his or her

comeuppance, even if only for the the thrill

 

of having tracked down the scent of reason.

Reasons to write “comeuppance” are rare.