30 poems in 30 days, Black Poets Massachusetts, mignon ariel king, National Poetry Month Challenge, Poetry

NaPoMo Poems: Week One

The annual challenge to write 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Month (NaPoMo).  I’ll post seven at the end of each week.  Enjoy!

1…The Look of My Life

I can stride far enough away
to outwalk his voice,
Sleep late enough
–with all the covers–
to outlove his touch,
And taste so many
sweet treats that make
the salt of him obsolete.
Oh, but the silhouette of him,
alone there against the sun,
That’s what gets me each time.

2  How to Begin Writing Poetry

Begin with haiku.
Simple-looking lines, I know.
It’s all downhill now.

If you’re good enough
The wind will start to follow.
Run. Fill your word-kite.

[A loose take on a Japan tribute prompt]

3  The Bachelor King 

He’s in charge alright
of days and knights,
of jesters and astronomers,
commander of the gardeners
ruling the attendants
to his spleen,
but would he give
his kingdom
for a queen?

[Prompt: king]

 The Real “Reasons”

“La la la la LA la la la…

This sistah is fed the heck up

with scrubbing. Sweeping, tolerating

two trifling-mean half-witches

who’d stomp another woman to ashes

or chop off their own big toe

to get a man and their reasons have no pride.


Oh, maybe they’re right.

Why save it up for the ashes?

And love is great, a castle greater,

maybe someone to talk to

other than doves and squirrels.

I want out—don’t care who I have to

sleep with. I’m longing to love him

just for a night.  Kissing and hugging

and holding him tight…


Too bad Black girls never get

fairy godmothers.

–Oh! Hey, who are you?

How did you get in here anyhow?

‘Scuse me?!  I’m going to the ball!

In a carriage a la pumpkin?

Only a special kinda fool

would believe that!

What are you selling…Avon?

–Whoa!  The room is spinning.

Nice threads. Smashing shoes.

Get it?  Glass slippers?  Smashing-shoes?

No?  You’re kinda strict to be

in the bippity-boppity-boo business.

Fine, I’ll play along.  Let the laundry wait.


Well, here I am at the ball,

dancing with him!

Mmm.  A prince indeed.

What did those chicks

put in my tea?  Now, I’m craving

his body. –Is this real?

Temperatures rising I don’t wanna feel.

I’m in the wrong place–!

Uh-oh!  I’m out of here.

Click, click, click, click, click, click


Stop chasing me, Mr. Perfect!

You only want me ’cause

I’m the one who’s running.

–And he stopped, looked confused,

like he’s never heard “No!” before.

Gave me time to get away,

his voice following, completing

…Please let me love you with all my might!!!


I dreamt, alone in my little hearth bed

until he manned up, figured out

how to find a lady—on one knee.

And,  in the morning when I rise,

no longer feeling hypnotized,

I find reasons, reasons, as his bride.

[Tinkered-with song lyrics from “Reasons” by Earth, Wind & Fire]

Prompt:  Rewrite a fairy tale.  This was a tough assignment for an alumna of the Grad Program in English at Simmons.  Feminist writers have rewritten –and feminist scholars have analyzed hell out of — fairy tales.  What’s left to say?

5  Funny Bones

It’s the stillness of this moment,
not the long-ago actions of making love,
that we treasure now.
Breath to breath and memory to memory,
fully clothed, with two Others
in the room.
These are the tests of love,
but also its marrow,
thinking together of when
our skin couldn’t get close enough
so we rubbed and pressed closer
trying to make our bones touch.
When they did, we fell off the bed.
We both laugh out loud now,
post-coital over after-party chat
that suddenly halts.
My husband shrugs at your girlfriend
as if to judge,
“What are these two fools
giggling about now?”

6  The Third Wheel

There is no reason for me to be here,
a part of extended foreplay as you two
play a maybe dance built for two.
Nasty business to build up the longing
in front of company that loves you well
but sleeps badly alone.  Buy a doll.
Let her pucker up for unrequited pleasure.
That’s what toys and kinky videos are for.
I was manufactured for unconditional love.

7  Spring Outfits

The city is no longer
a curtain of cold frost
that laces over sidewalks.
Now the sun crochets
leafless trees’ branches
onto pavement instead.

[Prompt:  write a poem, 6 lines max, using curtain, cold, frost, lace]


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