Prince,
Rest in peace
Purple rain
R.I.P
Rip
Ripe
Ripen
Pence
Inspire
Piece nest
Ice lune
Price spare
Pain plan
Lunar pep
Rap spine
Sprain lips
Spur plea
Plea sure
Pleasure
Sure Please
Press ace
Arise in place
Ripen rules
Air Please
Sure tear
It is pain
Purple rain
C’est peine
Rest In Peace, Prince
Rain Is Purple, R.I.P.
NaPoWriMo – Day 21
This is a cento poem. A cento is a collage-poem composed of lines lifted from other sources — often, though not always, from great poets of the past. In Latin the word cento means ”patchwork,” and the verse form resembles a quilt of discrete lines stitched together to make a whole.
Seems that I was busy doing something close to nothing
But different than the day before
The sky was all purple,
There were people runnin’ everywhere
Into the upright and locked position
For landing, can you feel it?
I guess I should have known
By the way you parked your car sideways
Black Muse can eye talk to you
You don’t have to be cool
To rule my world
Wheels get locked in place
Stupid look on my face
But I got news for you
Freedom ain’t free
They lock you in a cell if you try to be
You better live now
Before the grim reaper come knocking on your door
The key is to the lock, the lock is on the door
The door has a knob that you’ve never turned before
I don’t really know y we have 2 go r separate ways
Those are the things that bein’ in love’s about
This is what it sounds like
When doves cry
Condensation-collecting
Gray-spreading
Low-hanging
Visibility-visor
Light-filter
Gloom-gatherer
Pond-covering
Grass-hiding
Sight-obscuring
Route-ruiner
Cloud-copier
Vapor-levitator
Dawn-Brooding
Dusk-Hovering
Breath-taking
Mist-amasser
Mass-mister
Haze-master
A Kenning is a two word phrase describing an object often using a metaphor. A Kennings poem consists of several stanzas of two describing words. It can be made up of any number of Kennings.
Laughter
Sounds of sanders, sawdust, and creativity
10 pound bags of potatoes
spattering in the Fry-Daddy
While Dad sings and makes us laugh
Laughter
Tears, crying, sorrow, pain
Fighting, fear, fighting, fear
Hope
Healing
Takes Guts
Gut-wrenching
truth TruTh TRUTH
Gut-wrenching
Takes Guts
Healing
Hope
Fighting, tears, overcoming fear,
Dare, growing, grief, heal
Laughter
While Dad sings and makes us laugh
Spattering paint in the basement
10 gallon bucket of possibilities
Sounds of sanders, sawdust, and creativity
Laughter
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was “Today, I challenge you to find, either on your shelves or online, a specialized dictionary. This could be, for example, a dictionary of nautical terms, or woodworking terms, or geology terms. Anything, really, so long as it’s not a standard dictionary! Now write a poem that incorporates at least ten words from your specialized source. Happy writing!” My poem is based on the Pedagogy of the Oppressed dictionary of critical theory terms (No, it doesn’t really exist, but I have definitely incorporated at least ten words form my specialized source).
To become fully human
is to risk an act of love.
The oppressed,
in freeing himself,
fights . . .
NOW PUBLISHED IN this book.
. . .
Minha vida.
Minha luta.
Strive towards plentitude!
I am cheating. Rather than writing a brand-new poem, which is what we are supposed to do during National Poetry Writing Month, I am posting a poem that I wrote nine months ago. Some friends wrote a book with a similar theme, so I dug this out today. Also, on Day 9, the NaPoWriMo was “to write a poem that includes a line that you’re afraid to write. ” That line exists in this poem.
My fear
Is bigger than
God’s love for me
“I want to run away.”
I will never again say
“I am free.”
Or
“I can stay here and be okay.”
I believe
Vulnerability is terrifying.
I no longer think
I am lovable.
I will never be good enough.
It is not true that
I am strong.
I am damaged goods.
Nobody believes
There is joy available for me.
Sorrow is my only option.
I used to think
I am strong enough to let down my guard.
I now know that
“I am broken.”
I will no longer say
“I can be whole.”
“I can be whole.”
I will no longer say
“I am broken.”
I now know that
I am strong enough to let down my guard.
I used to think
Sorrow is my only option.
There is joy available for me.
Nobody believes
I am damaged goods.
I am strong.
It is not true that
I will never be good enough.
I am lovable.
I no longer think
Vulnerability is terrifying.
I believe
“I can stay here and be okay.”
Or
“I am free.”
I will never again say
“I want to run away.”
God’s love for me
Is bigger than
My fear
NaPoWriMo challenged participants “to write a poem that incorporates the idea of doubles. You could incorporate doubling into the form, for example, by writing a poem in couplets. Or you could make doubles the theme of the poem, by writing, for example, about mirrors or twins, or simply things that come in pairs.” So, I wrote this. 😉
Three little pigs
And billy goats gruff
Three sneezes will do,
When two’s not enough
Petals, unfolding
To lure in the bees
Strands of a braid
That goes down to her knees
Two birds in the bush
Plus the one in the hand
Lines of haiku
Written freehand
Traffic lights
In red, green, and yellow
Sheets to the wind
Or just a little mellow
Steps in a waltz
Bones in the ear
Rings in a binder
To keep papers dear
Rings of a circus
Larry, Curly, Moe
Strikes to be out
It’s time to go
Based on inspiration from NaPoWriMo2016 and The Daily Post, I have written a san san using the The Daily Post daily prompt “Suitcase”. NaPoWriMo explains that the “poem called a san san means ‘three three’ in Chinese (It’s also a term of art in the game Go). The san san has some things in common with the tritina, including repetition and rhyme. In particular, the san san repeats, three times, each of three terms or images. The lines rhyme in the pattern a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d.”
The frame, atop the journal, in the battered suitcase,
Both holding memories of her old flame
Suitcased in Sadness, agony becomes nocturnal.
In her journal, a moment when his hands framed her face
Now she desperately wants to forget his name.
Then page subsides to leaf, so grief sank to rue,
Eternally framed, and stored, in her journal.
Like the suitcase, her heartanguish, a portmanteau.
The Read-e-ologist 