Napowrimo 4/20/26: Fable

Today's prompt from Napowrimo fuses animal and contemporary personhood. This is not quite that, but it felt as right as anything else might in an early morning fog of poetics.

Aesop wrote fables so Fox could win at something
besides being smaller than everyone thinks he is.

So unheralded mice could be the hero, or the bringers
of change and truth. Learned and wise. Transformative.

Fox and Mouse both wanted dinner so they went
to Aesop's house and behaved the way they did in his stories.

Aesop screamed and called Animal Control. Animal Control
came with a sorry excuse for a net and Aesop's front room became

a flophouse and a den of anarchy in the failed apprehension. Fox and Mouse, now full
vagabonds who couldn't go home any longer, took their act on the road. Armed with

a street tough's sensability and a face tattoo apiece, the world was going
to know what they were about. They were done pretending and finally being.

Aesop and Animal Control went to Ikea to replace his furniture.
Aesop clutched his pearls the whole way. Nobody is safe from a story, not even you.

Napowrimo 4/19/26: American Botany

 Today's Napowrimo prompt provides us with the ebook of The Language of Flowers and suggests exploring the connections with selected flowers and their meanings. UI'm going to explore these a little more, but I couldn't help myself when I saw the American Elm and American Starwort.

the elm assured me. this was a closed system. no variance. everything ideal. 
we don't question what's given, when it's given. we obey. simple terms of the
deal. and who could ask for more, anyway? you know what they do when you 
ask to many questions, right? you've got to have some faith in the process. look
at me, enduring through the cold snap. echoing through the epochs. sturdy, still
present. this too, I tell myself, is mine. and I'm always right. the rules exist for a reason.

the starwort came to me with open arms, haggard breaths and shared what little it had. friend, enjoy! it cried. it fell over and spat out seeds. it didn't say much afterwards, but the breathing continued, ragged. I didn't know it well, but I counted it an ally. 

the elm squawked intruder. I squawked get me some water. the elm did not share. the elm was steadfast. 

the starwort, coming to, whispered friend, my thanks. the elm warned him that winter would come soon enough. starwort sighed, I too, survive the winter. they stared at one another. I was uncomfortable and  offered them sunlight, opening my curtains. the mid-afternoon sun bathed the room and set us all to silence for a while.

I was a guest and we were guests and none of us knew exactly when our bills would come due. I was a friend and the starwort was a friend. the elm drank my gift of sunshine and left with his nose in the air. 

we root ourselves once more, the trees, me. we pray we continue and the winter won't be too harsh on their limbs and my heating bill.

one day, we'll look to the soil and see what our kindnesses have flowered. 

Napowrimo 4/18/26: Operator Operaretta

 Today's prompt Napowrimo insists we write a dramatic piece of a poem with rhymes and stuff. OK, I'll bite.

dizzy and drained of a sense of motivation,
our hero is stuck buffering. consternation. insatiable
midline freezing. updates in lieu of teasing, intangible
manageable, mythos. dressed up in cantos. 

our hero called customer assistance
looking for guidance. a lens to parse it
parade around his healing. look at it!

Behold, our hero, made whole. Before
the swollen sense of reality comes forth
and asserts its will. its gravity.
bringing him "back to me"

oh, gentle creatures of the heavens!
give our hero some sustenance, heave ho
the hell held forth by the chorus. implore us,
good gods, grant us serenity. gift him complacency.

you forced this rhyme on yourselves.
now look at how we defy your edicts
and write nonsense in the lines between stars.

our hero, immortal. our hero, implacable.
our hero, finishing his dinner.
our hero, doing the dishes.

our hero, out of detergent. out of
inspiration. our hero, made man
after all.

Napowrimo 4/17/26: The World is Tired

 Today's Napowrimo prompt considers a response to a favorite poem. I chose Franny Choi's "The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On"

I kept the ending for myself. Kept it on a VHS tape
and watched it when I needed to feel a sense of closure:
after filing my taxes or when I've come to the end of leftovers.
I know there will be more
of this fulfillment,
of this frivolous endeavoring
to come, but sometimes seeing the
short-term
ending
daunts me.

this wood paneled den, the VCR rewinds with the
push of a remote. Anticipation builds until
I am placed among the uncertain cataclysm
and the will they/won't they of diminished 
order.

I sink deeper into the chair and let that
old time fatigue, that good sleep
take me.
the end is never far, always waiting for me.

here, on my own
I just need to close my eyes
just a minute
let the world's end 
work its magic
and

I'll rest for just a little longer.

Napowrimo 4/16/26: Old, Reliable Echo Meets the River in the New Millenium

 Today's Napowrimo prompt inspires us to write about an unspeaking thing that has still somehow shared a message.

the television is a squawk box,
plunders words from friends and foe
alike. i, myself, know something of
that feeling. no words have been my
own for longer than i can remember.
and yet, here i am still spewing the
lines, just like my friend with the
antennaes, tracking the otherworld's
waves or electrical firings
and spitting them to me
to repeat to the world
while both of us never say
anything at all.

Napowrimo 4/15/16: spelling love wrong means you're serious about it.

 Today's Napowrimo poem insists that love must be the focus, but told in a way that is not the traditional romantic love.

luve was tolerant and patient with the misspelled attempts at its edification.
it may have been present in the time of cholera, but not for the dead people, maybe.

"i live you" doesn't quite feel the same, even if the sentiment might be more profound-
proforma sort of endeavor, living. not the same as loving, maybe.

loove was moved to add an extra letter to the equation. such profound implications,
more to go around or another senseless invocation, maybe.

luv's was the name of a truck stop. nothing says luv like smog and bathrooms overdue for the showdown with a custodial strike force. Is this the only luv available to us anymore? maybe.

we could say i love you and we'd probably mean it, maybe. it might mean more when we move ourselves
to say it without checking our words. an error, but the spirit is still there. hopefully.

Napowrimo 4/14/26: we're so back

 Yesterday's poem was featured on Napowrimo's daily post and that made me feel various feelings of pride and delight. Today's prompt, where the aforementioned featuring is linked directly, prompts us to write a poem with references to the poetic qualities of an innovation or technology.

we're so back
said the vinyl enthusiast.
it was well about time.

everything comes back around
said the friend, wearing bell bottoms
and checking their emails for packages

in their P.O. Box. the friend was waiting
on a laser disc rendition of classical hymns.
the friend was something of a collector.

they put on their glasses with cameras
inside, hopped on their fixed-gear bicycles, and went to
the public library to record a look through the old

card catalog. their followers would love to see
this. we're so back said the librarians.
everything comes back around said the lonely

book, away from the sunlight, screaming inside
to be stamped and taken home. the book was digitized
as well, existing forever somewhere. well, maybe.

eventually, we'll look back and wonder what it was
all for said the vinyl enthusiast. like and subscribe
for more content said the friend. they weren't back,

they were never leaving. well, at least until
the sun has his growth spurt and swallows everything
in an adolescent growing pain. then the sun will say

where have my friends gone and storm up to his
celestial room, with no parents to help him understand
that this is just phase. nothing will make sense

everything will probably be fine though. 
it always mostly is.

Napowrimo 4/13/26: mall of myself

Today's Napowrimo prompt asks us to consider a remembered, cherished landscape.

For a long time, the former mall of my youth, now pile of rubble, came to me in dreams.
I'd dream it into some revitalized glory. A mall, invincible. Revised industry, some

can't miss display of the American Spirit. Some item that saved it from controlled detonation
and wrecking balls. In its final act, one corner was blocked off by benches-imposing barricades

to deny passerby from stumbling into a space with a roof's failure and a skylight's humble
beginning as a package deal. I bought my first pair of baggy pants right where that chunk of 

ceiling gouged the floor. What would I be without memories? Playing every demo on
the Game Store's controller affixed with flu X from 1998? Buying overpriced CDs from a

store next to a storefront attempt at women's fitness. This right of passage. Hailing the god 
of Commerce, bespoke coins from a distant land trinkling in our pockets. This was supposed

to be forever. I blessed my first home with water from the food court. I told my angels and my devils
that it would be alright, and I was speaking in the tongue of my dead ancestors. Climbing a boat

to this version of America. At night, they see me, unswaddled from my youthful crib, spending currency on a mall gyro, unfettered in the transaction, my gold as good as anyone's and they know 

that the world will work itself out for them. In the arcade. In the clothing stores. In the haircut
place that once gave me odd sideburns. This is the price we pay, however, and eventually, we 

will return to dirt and ash and be turned into a warehouse that will feast from the mall's barren children, serving fast food and microwaved cuisine to the hungry, the willing, the ones who dream the only

dreams they understand, standing at the top of the boat, ready to join the world and spend
whatever money is left-my allowance-on whatever the storefront sells us today.

Napowrimo 4/12/26: Restaurant Wars (Between Children)

Today's Napowrimo prompt asks us to consider writing about an experience with a beloved relative. Here's one of those.

My older cousin
not much older, but a little bit,
not like some of my other cousins 
who were much older. Anyway, 

my older cousin
told me that his city had all
of the food imaginable that we
had in New Jersey. And then some.

what followed was me naming
every place of foodstuffs my slightly-younger
mind could think of. all chains,
because I was young and lived in


a fine dining desert. He had them all. Then I mentioned
a local diner and saw its foreign title gloss over him.
He smiled and said, "well, imagine how disappointed
I am that I don't have that one back home."


He was, of course, sarcastic, but that
that sign for the restaurant was a sign
of my victory. I'd drive by with a grin, and though I 
never went myself. It was mine alone.


Now, he is gone. too soon. and that same sign,
still standing there, next to a bunch of chains,
coughing fits of traffic, highways to elsewhere. 
Now, I wish we'd had the chance to share it, after all.

Napowrimo 4/11/26: It's the [Blacked Out]

 Today's Napowrimo Prompt implores the writer to create a blackout or erasure poem. I just took words from the linked prompt above and made a short poem.

We made, everyone, 

a mysterious grief .

Our  day is Here,  his favorite 

(optional)  Erasure — also known as  —  existing. 

a great 

is one of the grand-daddies  

Lost). Today,  You could use a 

favorite play  

an unfamiliar  route,  find something of interest  

to maintain 

 your chosen 

Happy.

Napowrimo 4/10/26: interrogation

 Today's Napowrimo prompt implores a "container" poem. If you click the link, you'll see a great example of this from Geoffrey Brock. I decided to eschew some of the rhetorical element and expand the poem, but here it is.

in terms of what we know
and what we don't know
we are somewhere around
20/80. we've got less than
we want, and we're looking
to rectify that presently.

rectify what? (you know)
[what does he know?] he 
knows tide charts and recipes
for a decent lamb dish. [that's
a start, certainly] (I told you)
[stop making this about you]

in this moment. we, this
enterprise of sorts, apply the
stated reason: our charter, our
spirit of the endeavor. we set 
aside the old ways. with some 
small sense of disdain, we begin.

where do we begin? (before the end)
[what is the end?] (now we're getting
somewhere) where are we now? [until
now, I believed I was sure I knew] what
did you know? (assuredly, little to nothing)
[who invited this guy?]

and we, reverent explorers for an
honest sense of the word truth, sussing
out it's uncertainties and ushering them out
the door with a swift kick in the posterior,
make for a better tomorrow.
or the day after tomorrow, more likely.

can we get something on the calendar, like 
an end date? (time is an illusion) [will you 
stop being mysterious?] is he correct about you?
are you mysterious? (that answer is mine alone)
[someone needs to punch you in the facial region]
who among us is the right man for the job?

we, brothers, persons really, acolytes of a violent
truth. we, the bringers of blows and kicks and maybe
one aggressive human bite [I got carried away]. we know
now, our hubris (who will pay my medical bills?) in pursuit
of the words of a better tomorrow, have marred today.
when will we learn?

[(there is no answer)]

Napowrimo 4/9/26: smilax for the camera

Today's Napowrimo Prompt asks us to write from the perspective of a plant or animal. I chose the Greenbrier Vine/Smilax.

I've never met a tree or fence or intrepid home owner
foolish enough to try and stop my ascent
from earth to sky.
dug in, wrapped up.
Made myself at home.

I ripped the entire hand off of an amateur
landscaper. Recent home owner, the hubris
of doing what their partner wanted. Clean up
the plants. They, errant fool, loping around and lopping
my appendages off. Appendage, grow a knife, set the
knife to thy own whetstone--never cease sharpening.

That landscaper went through three packs of gloves
before my slicing limbs swung true. the grand slam and
they still won't forget. Any of them. The sinew shredded.
The taste of success. The mushroom cloud of obscenity.

Pick up the pieces and know your wound, fool.

The land nods in defeat before my hunger.
Submit. I

Twist and bend.
Coil. Bind.
Snuff out.

The yard becomes a mirror. My own kingdom.
Forever, my image.

Napowrimo 4/8/26: mining a mantra

 Today's Napowrimo prompt tasks writers with repeating a phrase and then inverting/contradicting it.

nothing bears repeating.
you were born three thousand
times last week, each one
a different "first day out the 
womb" outfit and a new head
of untamed hair. some you were
kind, others you were irate. soothed,
settled, and restless in no sort
of discernible pattern.

nothing bears repeating.
i told the same story to anyone
who would listen. details sacrosanct,
inflections primed and rehearsed. control
without variables. with each successive
recitation, the story became my
god's-honest truth.

nothing bears repeating.
the kids began flipping coins from
dusk until first light. trying to see
if divine will favored the head or
the tail. sleepless, bleary-eyed,
meticulous. perfecting the launch and
catch phases of the operation. duty bound
to record the results and share the good word
of nickel-copper. 

nothing bears repeating.
soon the old ways and forgotten fashion senses
will return to their throne. ascend and wave the scepter;
we will become as we were. as if the bad now were the 
good old when. we'll all be dressing like cabbies and gabbing
away about how it feels right
this time.
we've never been more sure of anything
and we'll flip a coin and chart the heavens and
retell what we've been doing. we'll be born
again and again and again and eventually
we'll do the same thing but with dying.
we're ready for anything, then and now. 

Napowrimo 4/7/26: Song of No Self

 Today's Napowrimo Prompt invokes the rhythm and sound of children's games. Here is something something close to that.

if. and then
(when?) when.
still.sense.tells.me 
clapalong, clap...along
(shimmy sham [bimbam])

yep.

my-parents-told-me-to-trust-the-finer-institutions-that-uphold-everyday-life-and-
then-they 
taught-me-how-to
[fire that slingshot!]
slingshot?
slingshot!
[fire that slingshot!]

hit the mark
right in the middle.
watch it fall down
now we're fit as a fiddle

sense. it told me,
(no) sense
but the senseless

[yeah, well]
my-parents-told-me-to-stock-the-pantry-with-canned-goods-and-freeze-dried-ice-cream-then
-they-went-to
[fire that pistol?]
pistol!
(pistol!)

now-we-got-ourselves-a-situation
and. all. we. do. is.
clapalong. clap...along
[fire that missile]

wait, we had that missile?
(yeah, pay attention)
right, sorry.

and-when-we-clap-we-clap
off
        rhythm.

but.we.still.
clapalong. clap...along

fire that rocket
straight to--the sun?
to the sun!
yeah, sun's how it's done.
looking straight at the sun.

sense, it told me.
[no sense wasn't talking]
(will you just let him talk)
[finnnnnneeeee]
now-it's-time-for-dinner-and-I'm
going home.

[typical]

Napowrimo 4/6/26: garbage day

 Today's prompt for Napowrimo tasks writers with a casual tone and dream imagery fusion.

I don't know, I told myself that life has no meaning so I wouldn't be disappointed when the trash guy didn't take that extra bag I left off to the side. Strict limits, he said. 

I don't recognize limits; I'm a citizen of the world, I said. He stared at me and started to say something, then his face wrinkled up,
he started gagging. I thought he might be faking it so I started laughing at him.
You know, play his game back at him and see if he caved.

He fell to his knees. Eyes bulged out,
deep sobs of coughing or something. I swore I heard music, jagged string hits and cymbal
crashes, but
that might be what I'm telling myself now. His whole body got
caked in sweat or something.
Inside the trash truck I heard rumbling from the compactor.
Oh come on, it said. Not again. Will you hurry up?

The trash guy, now a different, yet unnamed color was like, crying, and
I was sort of mortified but my feet told me to stay put. My feet weren't actually talking
or anything, but my shoes got really firm in their beliefs and I couldn't go
anywhere.
Meanwhile, the cymbal crashes I might have been hearing got angry,
I guess.
I could've sworn the sky looked a little meaner, but I
couldn't tell you what that means, even now.

Look, I'll pay the difference, I said.
We only accept crypto, shouted the truck. That's when I realized
I was being hustled.
I get it too. It's hard out here.
So I left that gasping trash guy con artist and his talking truck and my extra trash
outside. I had to clean the bathrooms something awful and it was already midday.

I've reevaluated my life a little. That trash shakedown has changed me;
I now have a belief system. I think life is
mostly nonsense,
but we all have a breaking point, at least that's what I'm thinking
as I look out and see the trash truck's wheel nudging the limp figure, lying
inert next to my extra trash bag outside.
Somebody should really go and check on that situation, but I still need
to dust the light fixtures.

Tomorrow is recycling day.