Throwing in the Towel (NaPoWriMo/A-to-Z)

Ah, I hate to do it.  But I think it’s for the best.

I am proud to have made it to April 20th; given the momentous shift my life (our lives) has taken in the last month and a half, I am incredibly and sincerely proud of anyone who has continued to create, especially for themselves, for the sheer purpose of creating, and I include myself in that; I’ve not produced the greatest work of my life during the past twenty days, but I’ve created something every day, and I have a lot of raw material to work and rework and build off of.

All this to say, I’m dropping both challenges, both A-to-Z and NaPoWriMo.

I’m planning on continuing drawing, painting, and writing, but I’ve opted to also take on several other projects that, with the addition of parenting/homeschooling and maintaining a household, is making the challenges a burden rather than a fun creative exercise.  I still have several ideas I’d brainstormed for upcoming songs (from A-to-Z) that I want to follow through with — it just won’t be on the work-a-day schedule.

Good luck to those still seeing this through, and I wish you all a successful final ten days.

 

NaPoWriMo: Day 19

Left Behind

The night after the funeral, I walked
Still naked and damp from the shower
Through the hallways of my house.

I lingered in the doorways like a ghost,
Shadows settling like dust in the corners
And crevices of each room.

I moved through darkened rooms by touch,
Trailing my fingers along planes and angles,
The familiar geometry of my life,

Stopping to trace the curves
of my mother’s mantel clock,
The strange organic prickle of succulents,

The skin-soft leather of our old loveseat
Where she sat, heartbeat-warm, alive,
Less than a week ago;

The sweet peach note of her perfume
Lingers like a sharp exhale
Every time I fluff the pillows.

My fingers twitch instinctively
Against the cool ivory keys of the piano,
Striking one lingering, discordant note.

It’s strange how much the same
This world remains, I think,
Without her in it.

Her fingerprints still mark the edge
Of the glass-topped coffee table;
Her slippers tucked under her chair.

These are the remnants of a life,
This is what we leave behind. I wander,
A ghost. An orphan in my own home.


Prompt Day Nineteen:  Based loosely on the idea given by the prompt of a “walking archive.”

NaPoWriMo: Day 18

Coffee

It was ritual;
Rising long before the sun,
Winter sky still dark;

Color diffusing
(Black to purple to pink)
Until golden light

Flooded the kitchen.
There was magic in the first sip,
Sitting cross-legged

On the kitchen bench,
The newsprint, dark and pungent,
Staining my fingers black.

The smell of coffee
Like a promise to myself;
“Today will be okay.”


Prompt Day Eighteen:  As ode to something mundane; an example given was a cup of coffee, so here we are.

NaPoWriMo: Day 17

Heart Flowers

Inside your heart, he says
Are flowers, one for each person
You love.

I imagine his heart is a grove
Alight with blossoms;
Every stranger on the street
A seedling.
I have never known someone
So eager to love,
His soul a fertile landscape,
Thriving.

Sometimes I think the soil
Of my heart is deficient;
How many buds, drooping,
How many leaves curling in
Upon themselves.

But somewhere in my heart
rooted deep and stretching
It’s magnificent inflorescence
To be warmed by the sun
Is a flower the exact shade of aster
As my son’s eyes.

I think no flower
Has ever known a more attentive gardener,
Has ever been more well-loved,
More well-tended,
Or more beautiful.


Day Seventeen:  I asked my son, again, what I should write about.

“LOVE!”
“That’s broad.  What kind of love?”
“FAMILY LOVE!!”

The idea of heart flowers is actually something he came up with when he was four; I absolutely love the idea, and this is not really a worthy use of the concept, I don’t think, but I hope to return to it sometime.

NaPoWriMo: Day 16

Poetry

The blank page beckons
(By turns taunting and tempting)
Urging idle hands

To work in earnest.
I pick up pen, put it down;
Flip to a fresh page

For a new fresh start;
How my mind loathes a blank page,
How its purity

Intimidates me:
How shameful to sully it
With imperfection.

I pick up the pen,
And, by and by, the words come.
Are they the right words?

Maybe the right words
Are nothing more or less than
The ones that you write


Day Sixteen:  Off-prompt.  I asked my son what i should write about, and his answer was “poetry.”

NaPoWriMo: Day 15

Strange

Strangeness on strangeness;
Why should his life make sense now
Amidst such chaos?

And if he’s honest
(Which is how he prides himself)
It’s not unwelcome

Not entirely.
There’s a comfort in his warmth,
In the way his hands

Gently graze his knee,
Settle on his back to sooth,
Brush back errant hair.

And there’s a comfort
Knowing nothing could shake him
Like their lips meeting.

Life is so damn strange.
(But thrilling in it’s strangeness).
He closes his eyes.

Lips soft against his,
The scent of wood smoke and pine
And warmth inside him.

Life’s so goddamned strange.
Or, his life.  Their lives. (Their life?)
He can live with that.


Day Fifteen Prompt:  Off-prompt ’cause I’ve got a new OTP and I’m bad at traditional fanfic but great at channeling schmoop into gen poetry that makes people feel like they are definitely not quite in on the joke.  Literally all I’m gonna say about that for now.

Also:
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NaPoWriMo: Day 14

Tending

Swathes of verdant green
The rich brown-earth smell of soil
Turned by practiced hands

How my mother stooped
Spade and trowel at the ready
Knees stained from damp earth

How she held the bulbs
(mother affirming mother)
Reverent as a prayer

And the way she pulled
Fragrant soil around them
Gathered like family

We’d watch mid-day skies
For the tell-tall darkening
Harkening the rain

How my mother stood
Silhouetted in the door
Watching as it fell


Day Fourteen Prompt:  I believe it was about theft??  Off-prompt, either way.  I have semi-sub-consciously (and now consciously) written most of my poems this month in haiku stanzas, which works well for the time constraints I’m under, but also I’m considering keeping it up, with more care and consideration, once the challenge is officially over.

NaPoWriMo: Day 13

Windows Open

With windows open
The breathless whisper of leaves
Carries through cool air

The porch light beckons
Sallow moths, beating pale wings
To rattle the screen


Day Thirteen Prompt:  Off-prompt.  Thought about waking up at my sister’s house in the middle of the night after a drunken night out.  This was pre-kids for both of us, so the house was generally quiet except for one or two familiar sounds.

NaPoWriMo: Day 12

In Quarantine

“I can’t,” my son says.
“I can’t. We’re in quarantine.”
The girl blinks, eyes blank.

“It means we can’t play.”
He fiddles with the doorknob.
“Not until later.”

He closes the door,
But peeks through the hanging shade.
“I wish this would stop.”

In the yard next door,
The girl plays with her cousins.
My son watches her.


Day Twelve Prompt:  The suggestion was to write a triolet, but I’ll be honest, I fucking hate triolets.  This was something that happened today between my five-year-old son and his next door friend.

NaPoWriMo: Day 11

Easter

Warring on my tongue,
The sharp tang of vinegar
And sweet chocolate

Back of my throat thick
With cheap chocolate bunnies
From the dollar store

Saliva pooling
From the tang of salvaged eggs,
White flesh stained rainbow

Gorging ourselves sick
(As was Easter tradition)
On eggs and chocolate


Day Eleven Prompt:  Um… honestly don’t remember, ha ha.  Did this one a day late and definitely went off prompt.