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NaPoWriMo— Day One
National Poetry Writing Month
April 1st, 2020
Written and posted in response to NaPoWriMo - Day One prompt: write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances.
Manicure
Initially, the self needs to develop
Much like fingernails in the womb.
First, they are malleable and weak.
Yet, sharp and dangerous.
Hence the baby mittens.
As the self hardens
through young experiences
forgetting imagination, magic, and unconditional love,
the growth is clearly visible as nails lengthen and form.
Once fully formed, crescent-moon and all,
the self needs to be filed and buffed.
All our mistakes, pain, regrets creeping back up
to the surface scraped away repeatedly.
Overgrown cuticles pushed back.
We awash in our happy moments,
the successful days to rid ourselves
of the jaggedness and snags.
Hang nails clipped back
to show truth underneath.
Nails soaked and clean,
we face life’s decisions.
Which color?
Which life choice will serve the best?
The best for the foreseeable future.
It is difficult to predict
and impossible to choose confidently.
We jump head-first anyways
into the bright color blindly.
We brush around, searching for something—
something we’ll never find.
Yet, we continue preparing for it—
Attempting to look good.
Good for who?
Who is to judge and decide in the end?
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your writing has improved and will continue to improve for your entire lifetime. there is no skill ceiling; only infinite space and sky.
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NaPoMo - Day Nine
National Poetry Month
April 9th, 2017
Shell Cottage
The seaside cottage with walls made of shell--
held a gorgeous veela inside.
She waited every night
for a break in the protection spell--
signaling the safe return of her werewolf pride--
who, with a pop, would appear under the moonlight
and run inside to kiss the mademoiselle--
with whom he would solemnly confide
before they took to the lovers’ bedside.
--d.f.whit
Written and posted in response to NaPoWriMo- Day Nine prompt: write a nine-line poem.
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I will write about you until my hand aches and my heart does not.
purpl-reign
(via wnq-writers)
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NaPoMo - Day Eight
National Poetry Month
April 8th, 2017
Hurry--go fly swift below the footprints and snowy trail
where countless creatures believe in the old stars
who are always laughing and trusting the mysteries anywhere--
where miracles inspire--when a winter hush waves...
--d.f.whit
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NaPoMo - Day Seven
National Poetry Month
April 7th, 2017
Just a pen stroke
I never knew the pen stroke would be this hard--
I did at one suicidal point--
but have since forgiven,
grown to value the lesson,
and appreciate the change--
Despite the fact that change is never fine.
They say it is, but it’s not.
I anticipated the difficulty
of the final pen stroke
But never knew it’d ruin all my progress,
and bring me back to the dark, seaside cliff
where memorizing salty, waves
crash over our sharp, rocky bottoms.
How could I be back here?
I might be numb and stunned...
but I know what to do--
to force me to step back, away from the cliff’s ledge--
to tear my eyes away from the captivating rhythm of the waves.
Yet, I cannot...cannot bring myself to do it.
Just do it--
it’s just a pen stroke.
--d.f.whit
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NaPoMo - Day Six
National Poetry Month
April 6th, 2017
Eye In The Dark
Daddy, I need a little black kitten.
Why?
I just NEED a little black kitten.
Found abandoned in an East Village alleyway,
I have all these other kittens--trust me, you don’t want this one.
Why?
This cat is never gonna love anyone.
I’ll take it.
The kitten’s new home had all black floors,
and a five-year-old boy waiting.
So, what are you gonna name it?
Eye In The Dark.
--d.f.whit
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I am sitting on my bed. A storm is coming, appropriately. A storm is always appropriate.
Franz Kafka, from a diary entry written c. December 1919, featured in Diaries, 1910-1923 (via wildfairy)
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NaPoMo - Day Five
National Poetry Month
April 5th, 2017
Chic’s Beach
Two young women slid forward through the lazy waves of the Chesapeake Bay--
sluggish and listless--as if the hot August sun sweltered them into a comatose state.
Their arms parted the way forward, farther, and farther out into the heart of the city’s bay--
whose sullied sands were not as bleached and clean as its neighboring coastline,
whose secluded waters were not so turbulent and translucent as the Atlantic Ocean.
Swimming parallel to the bay’s bridge-tunnel, the women had long left
the loud, splish-splash activity of the children’s shallows behind.
They found themselves surrounded in a hushed silence--
with only the bridge’s reverberating rumbles and an occasional seagull’s call.
To fill the silence, they chit-chatted and laughed out loud, as they slowed to a meager crawl--
where they found a profound peace among the salty bay breeze and refreshing, cool water.
This intense outer peace soon dug out deep-seated emotions--
radical, overwhelming sensations of self-awareness.
Discovering what can only be found and felt with self-detachment,
a retraction from the dystopia, and retreatment to mother nature,
they were overcome with an ardent longing to let go--
to follow nature’s steady flow, and join the natural order.
Now treading in-place and silently surveying the close horizon,
they were suddenly startled, and yanked away from the point of no return,
as a loud splash crashed close to them.
Turning, they sprang up and away from the thrashing waves,
and saw a rusty-brown dorsal fin breaking the sea’s rough surface
and a slick, milky underbelly rolling over in the crashing waters.
Sinking back down into the swirling water and falling out of the induced coma,
they swung around toward the shoreline and were shocked awake by how far they had traveled.
Reevaluating their far-reaching intentions and giving into a warped human instinct,
they began flailing and flinging themselves toward supposed safety
Squinting, they could make out a signaling crowd on shore--
who, with energic waving and encouraging yelling, called for them to wake up
begged for them to come back,
to come back to bay’s dirty sands.
--d.f.whit
Inspired by a true-story and NaPoWriMo-Day Five prompt: write a poem that is based in the natural world, and also by the Day Four prompt: write a poem with a secret – in other words, a poem with a word or idea or line that it isn’t expressing directly--an enigma.
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Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
Denise Levertov
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NaPoWriMo - Day Four
National Poetry Month
April 4th, 2017
Home Interior
Suddenly, our surrounding home and memories
felt far away, so lost believing in hope
that they crashed and fell all around us.
Remember when we didn’t let the world know,
know how much higher they flew,
past the rest of them?
They never used to be perfect
until now.
--d.f.whit
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We know most of our
universe is missing. The perfect poem knows
where it went.
excerpt from “The Perfect Poem” by Kaveh Akbar
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Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.
Natalie Goldberg (via writerniche)
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NaPoMo - Day Two
National Poetry Month
April 2nd, 2017
Lemon butter chicken
was a favorite. I wonder
if you miss it, if you ask
her to make it, too.
Even though you hated
my cooking
with fat and love,
even resented
all the care. I wonder
but am a proud
vegetarian now.
--d.f.whit
Written and posted in response to NaPoWriMo - Day Two prompt: write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe.
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