Welcome to April, National Poetry Month!
The Monday Poetry Prompts are taking the month off but we strongly encourage you to accept the Poem-A-Day Challenge this April and humbly suggest you follow the Write Better Poetry blog by Robert Lee Brewer because he’ll be posting a prompt-a-day for the Challenge.
I’m sure there are other blogs and websites that will be posting daily prompts this April, so if you know of any others please post them in the comments below for all our collective inspiration.
And if you’re posting your poems-a-day to your blog, please post a link in the comments so we can follow along.
Until May…
Living Poetry 
Although I am not participating in this, but I can’t help to celebrate this community. https://wp.me/pap1rn-211
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | April 22, 2022, 6:07 PMYou just participated!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 22, 2022, 8:57 PMFollow my April Poem a Day at yourplateormine967244485.Wordpress.com
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Posted by yourplateormine967244485 | April 10, 2022, 11:00 PMMy Day 1 poem: April 1
Start a poem with the letter F
–
Frost
The morning light has yet to melt
The frost on these leaky panes
Beyond
our fresh-faced optimism
lies wilted in the bright
A sacrifice to our need for patience
A sign that fools have more
Than one day a year
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Posted by Chris Clarke | April 5, 2022, 11:40 AMGreat way to start National Poetry Month!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 5, 2022, 5:28 PMIt is Day 4 on NaPoWriMO already
Cressida de Nova
http://seachurn.blogspot.com
PS
I only write the short forms of poetry so it wont take long to read:)
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Posted by Cressida | April 4, 2022, 12:47 PMVery sweet. Thanks for sharing.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 4, 2022, 8:58 PMFor the Military Child whose month is justly in Spring, when else?
The Colonel’s Children
The quiet ones live in literary neighborhoods
where the military planes
rumble overhead,
but never on Sunday.
The public walk has a baby pacifier on the electrical box
that belongs to us all,
the pacifier that belonged once to all
and still belongs to the child
who salutes his Father and counts his Mother’s medals.
At present we live in the past
seeing surburbia
as a dreamscape that repeats,
the repetition is our comfort, it placates.
Only the child of war can speak
when all has been said
He enforces the silence
of the mediocre mind
If you want to find originality go small,
Feldman said, before he died.
He was thinking of the quanta
who never thought of him.
Before he died he went on a journey
to Tuva to hear throat singing
and after that
anyone could die content.
Don’t remember this,
too fine a memory erases novelty
we need novelty more than chocolate
novel chocolate has already been provided,
Salted bacon chocolate bars mix
Mayans with pigs;
sounds like a barbeque
in the grass before the step pyramids.
We wish hard to express our thought
even when we see it amounts to very little,
a tinny sound in the pause
after the planes are gone.
In the literary neighborhood
we have learned not to covet fame,
with its demands for orthodoxy
in everything you may have on your mind.
How wild it could have been
had dearest Kierkegaard broken out
of goodness, in print.
If he were near
He would strangle on oneness, niceness,
and cooperation, the trinity.
The collective must have cooperation
yet life happens in depth, in the singular.
Is that fearsome?
Yes,
and
no.
In fiction lives the character you create
who thinks like you want to think,
he would have to be the villain,
and what is a good story without him?
The planes that fly over the lost
pacifiers in the neighborhoods of poets
under large leafy trees,
are Life, objectively speaking.
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Posted by ts19page | April 2, 2022, 3:52 PMMy poem for National Poetry Month challenge from my blog: https://yourplateormine967244485.Wordpress.com titled Findings.
Happy writing ✍️
I apologize if post is duplicate, l was not sure if my first attempt was done correctly. 😊
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Posted by yourplateormine967244485 | April 2, 2022, 1:19 PMMy first poem for the challenge from my blog: yourplateormine967244485.Wordpress.com titled: Findings.
Happy writing ✍️
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Posted by yourplateormine967244485 | April 2, 2022, 1:12 PMApril first, last and always
The Catch of the Day, In Honor of Cliche
The writing on the wall is off the wall
considering the whirlwind tour of editorial
approbation,
even with the patience of Job you will pay the
piper when the march of history lands in your lap.
You must leave no stone unturned and
stay cool as a cucumber or at least a baby gherkin,
for the crying is done over spilled milk
and the suckling is chomping at the bit
to catch you hook line and sinker
and throw you in the clinker
for the long arm of the law wears sleeveless wife-beater tees.
And your pleas fall on on deaf ears,
you will be in for years and years
when you are nicked and in the nick of time
you labor on with loves labor lost to the sands of time.
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Posted by ts19page | April 1, 2022, 5:20 PMHa!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 1, 2022, 10:35 PMIn a Nod to April Fool’s Day:
To Transcend the Downtrend
We will fore fend, she said
will upend
and whether we leave intact or rend
will depend
upon the rampart
we must defend.
The foolish, premeditated, lend
credence to all things pretend
and otherwise descend,
to confabulations of force that tend,
to to tyranny as an unforeseen dividend.
As in, its me against you in the….
You have the universe to lend,
and we comprehend that being many,
at world-end may portend,
that down is not out, and we will mend.
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Posted by ts19page | April 1, 2022, 12:02 PMHa! It all works out in the end.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 1, 2022, 10:27 PMWe tend to bend toward uptrends.
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Posted by ts19page | April 2, 2022, 9:54 AMhttps://www.napowrimo.net/ is a good one, too. I like to mix things up, so I will likely go to both the Robert Brewer challenge and this one. Also, it is Black Women’s History Month, so it might be fun to write a poem after the many celebrated black women poets.
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | April 1, 2022, 7:38 AMMy Contribution to Black Women’s History Month, in honor of an old friend of mine:
Deep-shade Woman
The porch was inhabited;
it was less an entry than a perch
for branchy lurking,
or for commandeering.
Stepping chary up the walk,
tangled in weeds and vines,
I passed like November, from sun
to shadow signs.
Looming massive back and forth
rocking in a chair,
through the gloom I saw
a deep-shade woman there.
Step up, she said, step up.
The chair creaked cross the splintering floor
calling up the dust in curls
to rise around the torn screen door.
Without a word with just a nod
she offered me the other seat,
backless, low, it did not rock,
a footstool at her feet.
Nice to rest, I said.
She nodded swaying heavily,
her chair a moving wedge
hands large, still, and dark,
roots rumpled by water’s edge.
I thought to find you occupied,
with so much time upon your hands
so much to braid and then un-braid
the spin, the woven strands.
Something shifted in her eyes,
smoothly fluid out of sight
not a meaning with a word,
but a quality of light.
Then flowed her voice broad
and low, molding space to fit,
When I work, I work, she said
When I sit, I sit.
* end *
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Posted by ts19page | April 1, 2022, 12:20 PMLove the ” chair creaked cross the splintering floor” Great line!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 1, 2022, 10:33 PMThanks!
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Posted by ts19page | April 2, 2022, 9:40 AMThanks Lisa
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Posted by JeanMarie | April 1, 2022, 1:37 PMThanks! That’s a great idea for Black Women’s History Month.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | April 1, 2022, 10:22 PMI noticed it is also Month of the Miltary Child, which is already on my poetry things to do list. Muses are EVERYWHERE!
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Posted by Lisa Tomey | April 2, 2022, 1:24 PMThe Colonel’s Children
The quiet ones live
in literary neighborhoods
where the military planes rumble overhead,
but never on Sunday.
The public walk has a baby pacifier
on the electrical box that belongs to us all,
the pacifier that belonged once to all
and still belongs to the child
who salutes his Father and counts his Mother’s medals.
At present we live in the past
seeing suburbia
as a dreamscape that repeats,
the repetition is our comfort, it placates.
Only the child of war can speak
when all has been said;
he enforces the silence
of the mediocre mind.
If you want to find originality, go small,
Feldman said, before he died.
He was thinking of the quanta
who never thought of him.
Before he died he went on a journey
to Tuva to hear throat singing
and after that
anyone could die content.
Don’t remember this,
too fine a memory erases novelty
we need novelty more than chocolate
novel chocolate has already been provided,
Salted bacon chocolate bars mix
Mayans with pigs;
sounds like a barbecue
in the grass before the step pyramids.
We wish hard to express our thought
even when we see it amounts to very little,
a tinny sound in the pause
after the planes are gone.
In the literary neighborhood
we have learned not to covet fame,
with its demands for orthodoxy
in everything you may have on your mind.
How wild it could have been
had dearest Kierkegaard broken out
of goodness, in print.
If he were near
He would strangle on oneness, niceness,
and cooperation, the trinity.
The collective must have cooperation
yet life happens in depth, in the singular.
Is that fearsome?
Yes,
and
no.
In fiction lives the character you create
who thinks like you want to think,
he would have to be the villain,
and what is a story without him?
The planes that fly over the lost
pacifiers in the neighborhoods of poets
under large leafy trees,
are Life, objectively speaking.
LikeLike
Posted by ts19page | April 2, 2022, 4:30 PM