#napowrimo 2023

[dobaara]

questions to ask the other me by S.R.

napowrimo day 3 using @mercuriian 's prompts (x): ‘the other me’ (description in alt)

[schuylerpeck]

27/30: write a poem risky enough to make you blush

schuylerpeck / instagram: hiitssky

[torrentialmonsoon]

we converge like the teals and turquoises of the caribbean sea; we rise and fall like the tsunamis inside me.

[salovie]

“Sleep” is the thing with thorns -

That blooms along the path -

And sways away when I reach and pray -

To pluck it in my grasp -

And when at last - I touch it - pricks

And stings along my palm -

Is such a rest worth all these tricks -

Should I keep furthering Along?

I’ve heard it is Important -

But so hard to obtain -

And tougher yet - to hold on tight,

Without fight - to Dream again.

[wheatfieldspoet]

grief, in doses

denial

i think we could have saved you.

anger

they said you hadn’t had an appetite for ten days. ten days. and they didn’t think to call, didn’t think that their pride and stubborn belief in conspiracy should be immaterial in this moment. they just let you sit in your chair and let you fade. i gritted my teeth through the revelation of this sorrowful mystery, biting back the urge to tell them they don’t deserve to cry. they let this happen. they can keep their fucking ivermectin, i want my Lola back.

bargaining

can we go back? please, i had no idea how short the time was. i’m not asking for much, only one more walk—you don’t even have to say anything. just let me lead you down the stairs, one hand on the rail and the other in mine; let me feel the shifting weight of your aliveness before you step foot into your black car. let me have one more embrace to breathe in the scent of your perfume. let me keep your lipstick stain on my cheek. let me say goodbye, but not before giving me the chance to plead for Him not to take you yet. not yet. i’d ask for not ever, but i know that’s impossible, so please—not yet.

depression

when the weight of remembering comes, all i can do is cry. but i’ll choose to overdose on memory any day, to carry everything with me because i’m afraid i’ll forget where i put them down. the color purple, violet, but also garnet. butterflies. poker chips. the queen of hearts. banana rebosado. chocolate cake. ube. durian. a tin can of crackers, a letter opener next to it. the sound of a grandfather clock. “bésame mucho” on the magicsing. rings with large stones that never fit my fingers right but you let me play with them anyway. your hands, always soft. an eyebrow pencil for that time you realized you filled only one brow in, but not until after we were walking around the mall, one of your arches brown and the other grayed. you were graceful in your embarrassment—even if you could never look less than beautiful. i laughed about this with mom recently, and we both burst into tears after the first ha.

anger

i’m ashamed to share a bloodline with some of the men in our family. they survived wars and revolutions but couldn’t bear to plan your memorial. so they left it all to your youngest daughter and i had to be the one to tell my own mother she didn’t have to be strong. i had to feel her break in my arms.

denial

things that don’t make sense: to talk about you in the past tense; to say only Lolo and not Lolo-and-Lola; to see you in pictures and realize we can never take another; that your jewelry and perfume bottles and makeup are exactly as you left them on your dresser; that your perfectly paired blouses and satin camisoles are still hanging in your closet; that one day your things will no longer smell like you.

depression

i remember how it brought you joy to watch me sing and dance; there’s plenty documentation of this on old film, your laughter and applause underscoring the britney spears. you never knew it, but there was a time i was terrified to sing at family events—but i would for you. “moon river” was a song i learned from you. dad played the guitar and i sang to you the whole time. you kept your eyes on me, smiling as you sang the words back. just for me. that night, i made a playlist of songs i could sing with you the next time i got a chance. i didn’t get one. but somewhere in between your novena days, i found the garageband file where you, Lolo, mom, and i sang “somethin’ stupid” for one of your anniversaries. i isolated our vocals together and wept for an hour.

bargaining

can i visit you past the veil and keep no promises? if i am told to walk ahead and not look back, i will give a non-committal nod, knowing full well i love you too much to lose that chance. i’m sorry for all the time i took for granted. i hadn’t even thought there would be a last one.

denial

i am a child again and i am walking with you hand in hand in a field of butterflies. they float above our heads, creating a halo around yours. i giggle in wonder—so pretty!—and name every color i see and can feel the fondness through the warmth of your squeeze. you loosen your hold and nudge me forward gently, telling me to chase them. my delight rings through the air as i skip through the grass. then i think: this is a moment i should be sharing with you. i turn around, only to find a flock of purplewings where you once stood. i reach out my hands to catch one, but they flutter away in a burst.

acceptance

i wake up.

— jade a.

escapril day 10: drug of choice

bonus prompt - @darlingwendy: The Kubler-Ross model, or the five stages of grief, is often thought of as a linear experience. The reality is much different. Playing with a non-linear narrative, write a poem that grieves.

[lavenderlhymes]

danger whispers

from west of the hills

along a small lakeside village

the air hangs heavy

with earth and moss and

petrichor, promising a spillage

verdant summits blaze

amber and maroon as shadows

creep close enough to pillage

—april 24. western // @nosebleedclub

[lipstickonmugs]

I can't wait till morning

The sun behind the curtains

Our quiet breathing

A boiling kettle

Hot water hitting ceramic

That first taste

And it's not even noon

The day is still just beginning

Monday is out of reach

The first cool breeze

It's gentle

soft

so

fragile

Noon comes

And goes

And you enjoy

What the afternoon has to offer

Cherish the stars

But also

Just waiting

For morning

...

b.t.a. Napowrimo 2023, Day #12

[acelessthan3]

It wouldn't be April

without a poem about

that Itch

circular hands

red rice balls at the intersection

a trio of spring robins in hand

It wouldn't be spring

without tired forearms,

a Bend and Snap™ that would make

Jennifer Coolidge proud,

dirt from the sidewalk

underneath my fingernails.

Every year like the cherry blossoms

and daffodils

like a ball finally caught

after hanging at the apex

the perfect projectile arch

where forces reach their equilibrium

and gravity reasserts it's dominance

[asthadwivedi]

[aielylois]

Prompts: vision of the future - letsescapril on ig // write a poem where the last word of every line combines to create its own 'secret' line - @cgcpoems // divine intervention - little_indigocloud on ig // to be a person - amykaypoetry on ig

[alt id under the cut]

human, err(or)

They say to err is to be human and I cannot help but think that it is all I have. to stray off the beaten path to seek what cannot be seen- to err is to be skewed to be slightly off the pace because life isn’t straight or narrow and the future isn’t actually in front of you. You pull it from the aether and spin it with your own hands, hold on as it sinks in and pray to your deity of choice that They stay out of it. For this life is about believing you can conjure control out of chaos and I cannot help but think that unexpected is all that I am for what is the most unexpected thing in this irrational world than to be alive

-ylm

[dobaara]

I once fell in love with a boy from Paris, who worked in a funeral parlor, selling sad flowers by S.R.

napowrimo day 12 using @mercuriian 's prompts (x): ‘(city flowers)’ (title inspired by the painting of faye wei wei with the same name)

[schuylerpeck]

15/30: write a poem from the perspective of a ghost.

schuylerpeck / instagram: hiitssky

[torrentialmonsoon]

i love the way your scent always fills the entirety of a room; sprinkle of pomegranate tea with a hint of smoked honey woods. i love the way your scent blankets me softly, so now i burn candles named after you. - i love naming things after you.

[salovie]

The robins in the rain rejoice

At flooded lawns and thunder’s voice

That drove the worms to open air:

A feast laid out on sidewalk’s snare.

With careful steps I jog the path,

Avoid the storm’s squirmy aftermath;

I leap and prance, a laugh slips free

As my run becomes choreography.

I’m sorry, worms, for your sad plight,

But I’m sure my jig is quite the sight.

[rustbeltjessie]

Name me. I’ll open. My chest, the wind—easterly. Call me skirt and fly-trap, poison lilac. Polluted riverbank. Call me river, Kinnickinnic. Trash-fish. Gathering-place. I’ll show you. The freights, the tracks. The androgyne. Dark beneath. Girl sailor. Ghost river. Bandit boy. Who played pirate? I’ll show you this—mermaid. This river-dark. This wind.

Jessie Lynn McMains, from an as-yet-untitled poem (NaPoWriMo 2023, Day 17)

[wheatfieldspoet]

good girl syndrome

the thing about growing up a good girl is that i don’t know how to be anything else without knowing who i should impress.

i might as well make an audience out of everyone, but it is impossible to please them all even as i exhaust myself juggling my scripts and roles.

sometimes i feel like existence is attention and the approval of others is proof i am doing something good enough with my life.

but in a discord room on that first lockdown halloween, strangers cheered for “never have i ever” and this poor little good girl had an anxiety attack.

they never tell you how effortless it is: sinking into shame. what do i have to show for being good? the admission that i was 25 and had never really lived?

sometimes i wish i had given into a little more peer pressure, so i too could laugh about mistakes like they were scars from youth with stories to tell.

but despite the time that has passed, it is not too late for a coming-of-age; to define my own right and wrong with a little less fear, needing no one else’s applause.

slowly, i am learning that existence is not performance, and that maybe not everything has to be a story, and that a good life is the one i am living for me.

— jade a.

escapril day 4: attention