National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!

[Gyppo]

Napo 11 - 2019

Attack and Response

A step in the darkness behind me,
unfriendly hands grabbing.

Reach back, grasp,
drop a foot or so, 
legs spread for balance,
slam buttocks at attacker,
pull hard, feel them slide, 
(applied physics),
up and over the ramp of my spine
and slam into the ground.
Just in the right place to kick 
if it seems necessary.

All the above flows together.
A seamless response.

Sometimes it really is that easy.
That instinctive.

Sometimes.

Gyppo.

[Tracy Mitchell]

Marcel, I'm with you on not being able to figure out how to attach comments to a particular poem.

Tracy, HELP.

Von -- any post you make gets added at the end of the thread. You got the "quote" function right, so that is a good way. The other way is to just mention the poem you intend. That's all there is.

Cheers.

T

[lisaeagle65]

Letters

I trace my name
On a frosted window
And watch the letters
Fade into tiny drops
That dribble together
And run down the glass
Drawing lines
That look like sadness.

Love this lots...but not fond of Caps on every line 

Hi Colm, I'm glad you said something. We were taught that way in school which was aloooong time ago. Thanks, I agree. 

 

[lisaeagle65]

#9


Actuate

Collect semen from a dead guy?
The Church isn’t ready to talk.
His wife isn’t ready for a family.
His parents aren’t ready to let go.
No disrespect intended, but Darwin
would turn over in his casket
if he were alive today.

Tracy ~ you nailed it - love the ready repetition

I agree, Tracy you did nail it.. great
 

[Colm Roe]

30 ways to die.
#11

It drags its heels in his house,
next-door it tangos
through their many bedrooms, with
shoes of many sizes.

Shiny new boxes,
most, as yet, unopened, too busy 
to see how busy they are, or
know they've too many things
running out of places to be.

It will grow into a vague perception,
but for now
their frenetic energy just seeps through plaster walls
life and laughter sucked by reverse osmosis 
into his vacuum.

These dulled communications remnant a reminder
of being a rat in a maze
running blind,
where every junction had options,

and the absolute joy 
of being 
unaware.

[indar]

I still live in the middle ages

Oh Marcel,
Like everyone else I thought you'd abandoned your 30 triolets and taken up prose poetry when I read about your tech dilemma. I have to admit I am thankful every day I lived long enough to see the advent of the internet with its writing forums, youtube, Wikipedia, youtube, email, youtube… but I am highly geek squad dependant. My worst deficiency involves my cell phone which I never take with me thus defeating the point. My phone is supposed to be smart but it turns out they are no smarter than their owners. I feel you bro

Oh and love your writing 

[Colm Roe]

Letters

I trace my name
On a frosted window
And watch the letters
Fade into tiny drops
That dribble together
And run down the glass
Drawing lines
That look like sadness.

Love this lots...but not fond of Caps on every line 

Hi Colm, I'm glad you said something. We were taught that way in school which was aloooong time ago. Thanks, I agree. 

This place is better than school Lisa    With Caps on every line, I read a poem as if there's a full-stop before the Cap.
This place is better. Than school. With Caps. On every line. I read a poem. As if there's. A full-stop. Before the Cap. 
Very William Shatner 
I'm not a young man, and when I started posting online I used Caps. It was quickly pointed out that contemporary poetry is written without them.
Some people use form to create an extra dimension...

I trace my name on a frosted window
and watch the letters
fade
into
tiny
drops.

They dribble together

run
down
the
​​​​​​pane

drawing lines

that look like sadness.

Anywho, your poem is beautiful in its brevity and simplicity. 
 

[Deb]

Oh my goodness! There is so much I want to, have to say about these offerings... Wow! I'm too pressed for time today so it will have to wait.

You are right Gyppo, sometimes, "Mother" encapsulates everything. As I said, I was surprised by my own indignance.

 

[Deb]

My apologies to all of you real poets for subjecting you to my poetry in prose. 


White Out

White-knuckle-drive on an iced-over road.
Northern Montana in a February snowstorm.
White crosses placed every few miles
mark a place of someone's death 
with multiple cruciforms
garnishing more than a few sharp curves.


It's dark and late, my progress slow 
as four-wheel-drive trucks and cars bear down upon me.
I try their patience on this road I do not know
as I cautiously motor on
afraid of sliding into a ditch
or worse.


Each passing vehicle creates a blinding swirl of snow.
Commuters accustomed to these conditions hurry by
but I wonder, how many structures with a transverse beam
represent voracious drivers like these?
And how many represent drivers like me 
who got in the way and lost?


Scars of white crosses litter the landscape.
The only reminders someone else's text, time, or drink 
was more important than their own life or that of another.
Why should they care?
They are no longer
their crosses to bear. 


Deborah Manning-Galarza
April 10, 2019






 

[Colm Roe]

Absolutely no need to apologise Deb, this is a really excellent poem.
I enjoyed the read very much.