Vacancy in Vinyl (for NaPoWriMo, Day 24)

I will not cavil over calamari, ham.
Chic in acrylic on my lanai, I alarm a chary larva.
To charm is a cinch, via manic, miry vim.
A rich man may ram my aviary. (In a van?)
I mail the cynical vicar—“Hi ya!” and a racy hymn.
(Chancy.) Calm, calm. His car will jar my china soon.

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 24 prompt: Write a self portrait using words that can be found in your name. Fun with an anagram generator! Here it is again, with the anagram words in bold:

I will not cavil over calamari, ham.
Chic in acrylic on my lanai, I alarm a chary larva.
To charm is a cinch, via manic, miry vim.
A rich man may ram my aviary. (In a van?)
I mail the cynical vicar—Hi ya!” and a racy hymn.
(Chancy.) Calm, calm. His car will jar my china soon.

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Wishful Thinking (for NaPoWriMo, Day 23)

Arise, my muddled monkey mind!
Do something useful with yourself.
No more distractions will you find;
arise, my muddled monkey mind.
No more delays of any kind—
get back to work, you impish elf.
Arise, my muddled monkey mind.
Do something useful with yourself!

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 23 prompt: Write a triolet (aka, the form challenge that almost killed me … but it didn’t, so I guess it made me stronger?). Will link for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. Check it out, if you haven’t already.

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Earthbound (for NaPoWriMo, Day 22)

Weren’t we supposed to be
living on Venus by now, or the moon—
everything enclosed, climate-controlled,
rational? Wasn’t I supposed to be wearing
something in neoprene, high-collared
(though tight across my breasts), having
scientific, yet sex-infused discussions
with men? (We would address each other
as “Dr. So-and-So,” reverting to first names
in moments of passion, high tension. What
happened to that plan?) Where are the pellets,
the ones I was supposed to eat? The capsules,
I mean, to replace all that ridiculous food.
So many resources, for something so
temporary. So much time spent managing
something so crazy, so untenable, this planet.
Earth. We should have known it would
never let us leave. Even now—with
tsunamis, superstorms, melting ice,
all the rest—even now, it sends up
its tender shoots, waves its
cloud arms, says,
“Stay. Stay.

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 22 prompt: Write an Earth Day poem.

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Fortunes (for NaPoWriMo, Day 21)

That dress looks lovely on you.
If you don’t wear dresses, you really should.
Don’t trust the person to your immediate left.

You once cried when your favorite Super Ball fell down the storm drain.

Don’t pretend you’ve never cried.
We each have our portion of sorrow.

Think about your future.
Forget everything you ever knew.
No one gets out of here alive.

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 21 prompt: Write a poem in the form of fortune cookie messages, like this one.

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Nonpareil (for NaPoWriMo, Day 20)

O, bilious quahog!
O, my willowy owl.

You curl, an elusive
ghost, twice around

the miraculous cowbird
of my mercurial heart.

In seaweed, in salt, we squander,
we abscond with an afternoon.

We eat it whole, like a truffle.
It melts slowly, like a nonpareil.

I lied: My heart is no cowbird, not
miraculous. It is a dunderhead,

a generator of ego, a cyclops.
But it only has eye for you.

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 20 prompt: Write a poem using at least five from a list of certain words. I’m going to make you click to find out which ones, but I will tell you that I used 21 of them,

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Shoe Seeks Sock (for NaPoWriMo, Day 19)

Hi there! I’m a loafer, but I can be a little sneaky, too.
Are you tired of sitting around in your drawers? Well,
I’m ready to come out of the closet. I’m brown, tanned,
but I don’t care what color you are. Are you soft and thick?
It doesn’t matter to me what you’re made of. Just want
someone to be with—let’s take a long walk, hit the town
and go dancing, or lie together someplace dark. I should
mention that I have a partner. If you do, too, that’s
even better. Let’s get on our feet and go places.

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 19 prompt: Write a personal ad.

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In the Brine (for NaPoWriMo, Day 18)

Pickles are like blazing stars,
small punches of flavor.

I don’t care whether they are
white-streaked and crisp

or yellow-green and floppy.
Both have their merits.

My mother went through a phase
of making bread-and-butter pickles

in a big Tupperware container.
I didn’t appreciate them then—

they tasted too much like cucumbers.
Cucumbers, I don’t like. Just pickles.

At McDonald’s, which I am supposed
to revile and not hold in any fondness,

my father used to pick the pickles off
his Quarter Pounder. I would put them

on my cheeseburger. Even now,
I will eye any piles of cast-off

pickles, though it’s rare that I’ll ask,
“Are you going to eat those?”

(But sometimes I will.) They are not
necessary, and yet few things seem

less optional to me
than pickles.

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 18 prompt: Write a poem that begins and ends with the same word.

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