The Onion
GloPoWriMo Day 28 - a concrete poem
I used two online tools - PicMonkey to create the image and Prezi to create the video.
Thursday, April 28, 2022
Wednesday, April 27, 2022
The Boy Who Ate the Wall
The Boy Who Ate the Wall
At night he could hear wolves howling.
His thoughts were loud and they were scary.
When his thoughts scared him, he ate the wall.
A chunk was missing behind his pillow.
Behind his pillow there are no traces.
This lonely house was not his home.
This lonely house is where he lived.
The wall used to taste like school.
He eats the wall, but leaves no traces.
School is a dream he still has.
Even the dead have their dreams.
He walks through the school, it makes him feel normal.
He walks through the school and leaves no traces.
At night he can hear wolves howling.
GloPoWriMo Day 27 - a "duplex"
Tuesday, April 26, 2022
Nettle Picking
Nettle Picking
The enemy never sleeps.
They were ready for us when we came.
They saw us from their narrow slit windows.
They were watching from behind their murder holes,
ready to pour burning tar and quicklime.
Still we advanced.
We had our shears at the ready.
You don’t go nettle picking unarmed.
We wore a full suit of armour on a hot summer day.
Thick boots were necessary, the field was full of caltrops.
The enemy managed to surround us
and we were heavily outnumbered.
Yet, we fought valiantly.
We suffered a few casualties, but that was inevitable.
My index finger stung.
My husband’s ankle itched where the sword pierced the skin.
We won in the end, of course.
Our cause was just and our faith was strong.
Our reward was rich:
a pot of nettle soup with some cream on top.
GloPoWriMo Day 26 - an epic simile
Monday, April 25, 2022
The Fairy of the Meadow
The Fairy of the Meadow
We are in your dream now.
I have visited before, but of course you don’t remember.
We can’t hold onto our dreams.
It would be a mistake even to try.
I don’t trust humans when they are awake.
Not any more, at least.
My sisters and I were here
long before your kind came.
Ours is the magic of the land and the water.
It is the oldest magic that exists.
You can find us in clouds and on mountaintops.
Yet, lately I have grown fond of this meadow
so I’ve decided to settle here.
I am not sure how long I will stay in your world.
Times have changed and I don’t seem to fit in.
Still, the meadow is nice and could use some protection,
so I am in no hurry to leave.
Most humans have moved away from here.
They live in cities now and rarely visit.
I am all alone most of the time.
Except for that oak.
That one is almost as old as I am.
He keeps me company, who else do I need?
When you wake up, leave some honey on your doorstep.
And, who knows, I might visit again.
Whose Dream
Who is the dreamer here?
Whose dream are we in?
Maybe the meadow is the one dreaming
And the two of us are caught inside.
We are the ones in the meadow, after all.
Not the other way around.
We are in a dream now.
That’s all we need to know.
The grass is soft, the sky is full of stars.
We won’t remember this tomorrow.
Nor will the meadow remember us for long.
GloPoWriMo Day 25 - an aisling
You can find more on Slavic mythology and vilas (Slavic fairies) here.
Sunday, April 24, 2022
A Typewriter
Image by KoalaParkLaundromat from Pixabay
A typewriter
I wish I had a typewriter,
loud as a band of drummers in a street protest.
I am sure it would deliver a poem
all by itself.
A poem as dark and dangerous as smudged ink.
As unique as a set of fingerprints.
A poem winding beautifully like a new ribbon.
Each line clearly defined
by a bell and a clank.
A poem tangled like a bunch of keys stuck in the middle,
right where the truth was going to reveal itself.
A poem typed blindly from that place we go to when we close our eyes.
A poem always slightly tipsy,
with that one letter hovering treacherously
over a neat set of well-behaved lines.
A poem as guilty as a smoking gun,
sweet as a cup of coffee
laced with arsenic.
It would be good at covering its trail.
It would tear itself in half
just when you thought you were done with it.
A fugitive poem, wanted by the police,
hiding in public libraries,
disguising itself as other poems,
produced on well-oiled machines,
where nothing ever gets stuck or smudged
and everyone tiptoes around you
and everyone hushes everyone else around you
because you are a poet
and your work is important.
GloPoWriMo Day 24 - the style of hard-boiled detective novels
Saturday, April 23, 2022
An empty river bed
An empty river bed
Watch your step.
This is a treacherous place.
They say there was a river here once.
They say it all started
with the idea
that she could be free.
That she could change her own course.
This is where she tried to run uphill.
She didn’t get very far.
So she hid inside her own pain
and slithered underground.
They say she started building a city there.
With open domes
and draughty corridors.
Her home is constantly eroded.
That's what happens when you build your place
out of mud and anger.
GloPoWriMo Day 23 - (an attempt at) a poem in the style of Kay Ryan
Friday, April 22, 2022
The names we need
Image by cgarniersimon from Pixabay
The names we need
We need more accurate names,
for people, animals and things.
It has become necessary
to define, to declare, to determine.
Gone are the cute tags of names,
the diminutives,
the names with dimples in their cheeks.
We need
boring, reliable names,
bookish, biblical, stable and full of virtue.
You should hear a name and know instantly
what to expect from the one bearing it.
We really need to be more precise with everything.
It is advisable to choose each word carefully.
Nouns should by no means be vague or unclear,
hazy, cloudy or indistinct.
Otherwise, things will become too open to interpretation
and soon everyone will have an opinion of their own.
GloPoWriMo Day 22 - a poem that uses repetition
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