Napo 4/24/24 Resolvency (is not a word and I know it)

Today's prompt is based on a line I stumbled upon in a perusal of Poetry Foundation's website. The poem is called "Transformocean" and it is by Samuel Gregoire and translated by Forrest Gander.

There is no way to end the story
without more words
more pages
the sentiment's quick dulling
with no whetstone in sight.

Little flecks of gold
all over the character arc,
careening towards
this impossible
resolution.

Beseech the muse?
How many sacrifices 
of livestock to quell 
the burning, to extinguish
this minor conflagration?

The chord resolves itself
in unclear harmony, 
followed by shuffling of feet
and coughs
from an audience left
unsatisfied

Napo 4/23/24 Hero's Journey (with fashion)

 Today's prompt features a hero that we all deserve and is totally made up.

From the sky, a whinny from an unsatisfied wood chipper.
Dropping to the ground, a spectacle, flailing man,
chartreuse cape, Bright yellow, form fitting, jumpsuit. Icarus in gaudy linens. The robin dropped 
too soon from the nest. A penny from the skyscraper that kisses
clouds. The missile that knows its time has come to a close.

This man, yelling for dear life, dropping from a point unknown
has forgotten his wings, again. Not for the first time.
Hoping for the bailout. The trees are growing larger. The ground's features 
more precise. His shouts more desperate. His cape, still chartreuse. The observers,
mostly hungry for a spectacle, something new, are licking their lips. Turning the phone towards
the inevitable meeting point between ground and our hero.

Our hero. No stranger to desperation. Now sobbing, pleading with some invisible ally. Shouldn't this already be over? Falling for what seems like hours. Time does not flow ordinarily when this affront to fashion descends from a point unclear to the firmament.

Accepting his fate, he stretches his arms, shouts some attempt at a catchphrase and closes his eyes.
Landing with a thunderclap thud that echoes like a dull roar from a bored jungle cat who has just woken up from an uninspired nap. The ground projects a sad mushroom cloud of unimpressive dirt. Quick to dissipate. 

"I'm OK." Comes a shout. The mixture of triumph and a sly grin.

He does this every time. When will we learn?

Napo 4/22/24 Slim Pickings

Today's prompt explores the disagreements between an Osage and Mandarin oranges.

Nature's barbed wire before the foreclosure. Lost in Merriweather's pocketbook. Left to wither with the other seedlings on an adventure that no one cares about except those interested in the deep cuts. The kids said you looked like a brain on the side of the road.

[Your ripeness repels me. Good for a salad, good for the gander. You're a top 40 hit, nothing more. They all know your songs and your words, but none of the feeling is really there. Background noise for the livestock to bleat to when something crosses their vision.] 

You're only here because your wood burns well. You're only here because they don't know what do with you. Wash out my eyes, I think. You leak the milk of human kindness, but that kindness is not your own. It is the weakness of the 1900s when it should have set your orchard ablaze to warm the cooler nights.

[Vapor as a smile. Cool eyes showing nothing, my how your citrus lights up the palate of the chain's patronage! Their tongues alight with the dash of flavor you provide. I am an oddity, but you are commodity. Flavor appropriation. Exotic. Palate cleans before the boiled potatoes return to the food rotation.]

A feast for the deer. Found later, mangled in the grill of the SUV that ended the deer's life. Seeds spread far and wide by American Automobile Ingenuity. There is blood all over your branches. Those thorns can't keep the truth away forever.

[What truth lies past my defenses? What knowledge lies beyond your skin? The ease of peeling a piece of you away. Remove the excess, enjoy what is left, discard it all. I knew you before you knew yourself. They were never surprised either. Mass consumed, fondly brayed about in passing, and forgotten soon after. Compliments to the chef.]

Napo 4/21/24 Also Ran

 Today's prompt is inspired by the color Smaragdine, which is number 7 on this list.

In a dull shadow to the luster of another,
whittling to pass the time.
The shavings accrue in molehills
turned mountainous.

A joy- oh, craftsman of the wild-
in the braying of the pack
in the whistle of the leaves
tussled by the breeze.

Dread knock of leaf crunch
the usurper has arrived
once more
to lay claim to the clearing.

Let it be another's,
be content as the tent is raised,
as the barking commences
as sun rises and casts itself to shadows once more.

you are something of a different
piece. Though this place, you are
much more than what will come from its lost reverie.
You are the deep sigh of the woods. Remaining.

Napo 4/20/24 Recital

Today's prompt. I had to resist the urge to write about one of the big inflection points in history and instead opted to go into "Deep Research" mode (aka Googling "Strange Historical Moments" and seeing what popped up). I found this.

Calling me, darkness burns
through the hole in my shoe, creeps

along my nerve endings. A twist
of hip, enterprising jazz hands

holds the feeling at bay.
settle the brushfire

jitterbugging on a
stage made for me. For you.

Bill's cousin's cover band
playing the hits, running through

numbers, eyes bloodshot, a
worried pallor. The fourteenth encore. This is

more than a gig. No more solos. Foxtrot.
Born to Die Hand Jiving. Paint-by-rhythm.

Even my prayers, a melody that
seeks relief. Take on the 1 and 2

of the bass-snare-bass-snare
and I genuflect on cue.

Up and down and up and down
bleed me in a waltz.

You make me want to shout.
I will never wait a minute again.

Choreography for the revelation.
The song begins again.

 

Napo 4/19/24 Tomorrow and Today and Subsequent Tomorrows

 Today's prompt

Act 1: Haunt Me
Slow motion hell wheel 
on a unicycle piloted by death's
best man. Deny it to them, those
cracked-lipped, moaning bags of
bones with sonorous waking snores
doubling as a plea for another.
What used to be dreamed about
from childhood. All the way up, even,
to now. Until the promise of no more
has reared its ugly head, wearing a Tex-Mex
chain restaurant's sombrero, no less. Blowing
on a noisemaker that makes baritone saxophone
whale calls. Calling you home. Calling you away

Act II: Hunting Season 
I've poached every today of mine
in the dead of night, snares and implements
of chaos all around my canopy. 
Tomorrow, he won't be no different.
I'll find him, drinking some lamentable,
overpriced mixed drink and ordering 
half price appetizers to make up for it,
holding court at the bar for anyone who
wants to listen. Nobody is listening, kid.
I'll take him by his scruffy novelty tee shirt
and look him straight in his eyes, my hand around
his gullet. I'm not blinking either. Go ahead, I'll say.
Now's your chance. Come and let me hear your 
timeshare pitch. Then when you think you've got me,
wrecked and sobbing, ready to hand you the keys and
let you walk me on out of here, I'm going to hoist you
into the air and wring you like a rug after an overdue
washing. You ain't taking anything, friend. Not today.
I'm not giving this to you. No chance. This is still mine.

Napo 4/18/24 Event Horizon Telegram

 Today's prompt. I gave this one a half-mulligan and this is what shouted out of the old brain cave.

From a sense of dread. Stop. To a sense of comfort. Stop. A simpler time. Stop. Where words mattered. Stop. The running of the words, like bulls chasing the courier. Stop. Essential transmissions. Stop. Text message would have saved Romeo and Juliet. Stop. Probably Oedipus too. Stop. Ruin all of "the classics." Stop. Tear down the walls of time and place to make everything The Flat Now. Stop. Loosely, an arrival, the space keeps collapsing in on itself from the weight of (stop shouted, in drone) no interruptions where everyone is happening at the same time across a single timeline that is not extending left or right but it is a dot where infinite multitudes squabble with one another at the same time no place (stooooopppp...) no time like the present as the present is the only time and another yapper yapping into the other yapper's serious yap about their relationship with yet another yapper as the yapping chorus swells in dissonance and beauty and perfection existing in a side by side shouting match between the whispers and general anecdotal greetings we are here and we are unable to STOP

it never stops

Napo 4/17/24 Playhouses

 Today's prompt is inspired by a TV on the Radio song.

Each moment is closer than we think to
an unraveling. Near catastrophe!
narrowing the river, sharpened rapids
and the current shifting from gentle
to demanding to controlling. Done 
in a blink of the camera eye, unmade
without mercy, a draft held by
aqueous interests. who will be selected?
taken under or kicked out
to the river bank, cast out
like a spent grape
to dry out in the midday heat.

Napo 4/16/24 Still Life

 Today’s prompt.

Out at the curb,
the can waits for the mothership
as lesser satellites pass in 
both directions to and fro
rolling between homes,
errands, occasional revelries, 
the like. Breeze, undecided in
its rhythm, playing cymbal splashes
or percussive thwaps meant to shake down
to the marrow. The can, patient in its vigil,
beneath another half-sunned afternoon,
waiting for a moment to be useful.

Napo 4/15/24 Postage Fee

 Today's prompt. Veered slightly in a different direction, but definitely enjoyed the oddities of postage.

letterbox empty again
what once was overflowing
[river after rainy season] is now
parched like dry earth's croaking
demand for water.

sliced oranges and almond bits
arranged on a platter
[behold, a feast] for you
my peace offering
on children's party plates.

a room untouched
austere and dust-settled
[monument in waiting] space
for the eventual 
point of return.

black cat mysteries
truth in shadow and light's 
[fooled you again] malfeasance
where I am left questioning
most of everything.

Napo 4/14/24 Anaphorafest is more exciting than your Balloon Festival

 Today's Prompt

We, given rise to the feeling of discontent, try a bold, new direction. Robust finery, loads of ribbon and flowing outerwear. Snappy, professional, a sense of control.

We, reacting to said discontent caused by bold, new initiatives, placed a large audio horn into the office. A hard plastic megaphone with pipework, terminating in a horn-like speaker in my office, designed tow help our colleagues speak truth to power, namely me, through this series of tubes as it travels to the management floor above them. 

We, and I'm talking about me here, have listened to said sounds and are happy with the decisions I have made for the group. The hand signals have really cleaned up the communication process. The mandatory trust falls in the breakroom have avoided major injury and lacerations, minus the one that happened in the aftermath of the "thrill of falling," though the lawyers tell me that this case will be dismissed in due course.

We, the organization, are a monolithic crab robot that has escaped from the Artic Ocean to seek revenge on those who have interrupted our crab robot reverie. Also the lawmakers who are claiming that this is a monopoly. Also the debt collectors looking to charge early interest on the crab robot's Bluetooth speaker system, which, if we're being honest, isn't as advertised; perhaps we'll take this argument to social media. Also, the people who criticized our new work attire. Also, the delivery man who stole a Boston Cream donut from the breakroom during the "thrill of falling" confusion. Also, our former CEO who absconded with a large settlement for saying that we, and I'm talking about me here again, are a power hungry robber baron with a vengeful streak that borders on the sadistic; in addition to the proof of my elicit dealings with various foreign nationals to get the audio horn at a reliable, read: cheaper, price; and, we admit this with transparency, my now-reformed view on several OSHA requirements.

We have known adversity. We know success. We will know perfection. We, and I am talking about all of us, will board this crab and march into the glory this company is due. 

  

Napo 4/13/24 A Study (with Rhymes)

 Today's prompt.

Abstract

Consider the world: Words with senses, read it like you're there, only you're not. FOMO in a syllable count. Sharp, Screech, Rainbow, Gassy, Bitter. Words are like, well, like words, but also like a dull shiver when someone might be talking about you. On the subject of the concrete, you have to think the hear and now, no ephemeral shivering necessary. Staple, Tree, Bug. We are all concrete, yes, even you, no matter how intransient you feel or how much water you drink. And as is true of all things, the action is the culminating event. Raise, Erase, Pace. 

A Poem about the World (with rhymes and some sense of Rhythm) by Leonard Walker

The message was found on a staple
The staple affixed to the tree, might be maple.
Gadzooks: sounds a screeching observer
What fools! they said, reaching in fervor.
Over the hills and beyond the rainbow,
Such wonderful thrills, the sharp and the painful.

Let me erase the previous notion.
I am at bay, set the pace,
allow for devotion.
Raise me from infancy, know me in constancy
Constantly bitter, worn down in erosion.

What reeked gassy, now free
crassly, this bug, empty, a fee,
sharpen this lug, flee to the 
greener pastures, a hug, under the rug,
this rhyme has gotten away from the writer
and the world has lost its rhythm on the axis 
and soon calamity will be a forethought and
we are all going down oh god we are all going 
down and ive made my piece with proofreading
and conducted the seven sacraments and ill just wait for

the end

Napo 4/12/24 Large Life

 Today's prompt

A soul is born in a factory.
An hour of need, near the finishing
line. No one observes, life
split open existence and air, like a tongue of fire, the 
country station's warbling lamentations
skip-return.
The workers show their dedication.
The product must be assembled.

Matter forged like clay. Borrowing specks of life, just enough to be useful,
nothing anyone would miss:
Dead skin cells, scabs, forgotten plans, broken promises, hair follicles, a fine globule of snot in some state of being between liquid and solid, spit, fantasies, aspirations, moves in a virtual chess game played against a coworker when the boss isn't looking, dirt brushed off of clothes, a fingernail, knowledge of elementary school mathematics, a snippet of a future.

The soul, not a baby, though fresh like one, 
sits exultant in a space between this world and that one,
visible to all. Ready to become washed in the wonder of the observer.
The workers show their dedication.
The product must be assembled.

The soul, a borrower of the life of others
to create itself, recognizes its future in the absence of
onlookers. Remembers
a past that is not its own
but is intimate.
"It's not quittin' time" sings the radio.
The soul knows it, too well.

The soul shows its dedication.
The product must be assembled.

Napo 4/11/24 Dramatis Personae

 Today's prompt, I opted to do 2 "Acts" to make this work.

ACT I

Hope dissolves itself into something permanent on the carpet.

ACT II

And so we celebrated the miracle of mistakes and slaughtered our finest goat in the dining room.

Napo 4/10/24 One Wet Smack

 Today's prompt.

Headline 1: Local Man Offers Water-based Retribution in Resolution of Dispute with Another Man

Hit me when we are underwater together
because you demand satisfaction, but I do not 
want pain.

I'll set the terms plainly:
You may smack my face, but
only if we are both submerged.

You may not use any
swimming aids, or additional
tools of war. Yes, never that.

You are hereby entitled to
one smack anywhere about the face,
chest, arms, or legs.

I will qualify fully submerged requires
us to be in at least 8 feet of water, as
you are quite tall.

You will, of course, remember,
that I sink like an old statue,
so I'll need to cling to you for dear life.

This may present a problem in the physics
and propulsive angles of your strike, preventing
you from "charging up" as it were.

I know this may 
not be to your liking, but these
are the terms. Take them or leave them.

Headline 2: Local Man Savagely Beaten After Presenting Terms of Aqueous Smacking

You have made a mockery of
the Code of Hammurabi
for that you will be punished.

You will be hit
about the face repeatedly,
and kicked in the stomach 3 times.

Each kick will double in severity.
There will be lots of yelling, some of it 
profanity-laced. Mild frothing of the mouth.

Let the authorities sort out
the truly innocent and the guilty,
I am firm in my beliefs.