NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 17

Image

Thank you and shoutout to Tamas Pap for making this photo available for free on Unsplash. This photo isn’t exactly the way that Carmen looked, but she had a similar coloring. She was really a sweet girl.

The daily prompt was different today. It was a prompt developed by the comic artist Lynda Barry, and it asked us to think about dogs you have known, seen, or heard about, and then use them as a springboard into wherever they take you.

I made Trace do it with me because I think it’s always good to write. Also, this prompt was so specific and timed that even those who don’t love writing (is that even a thing?!) could do it. I’d love to read your dog writings.

Don’t be off put by the time. You can half the time and get just as good a result. In fact, this is what I did with Trace. Here is your chance to experience NaPoWriMo for yourself and to do something more than scrolling on your phone.

Here are the instructions:

Set up a a 5-10-minute timer and briefly list as many dogs as you can think of. These can be childhood pets and just dogs you came across one day and never saw again. List as many dogs as you can, but try to get to at least ten.

Underline the one dog you're not surprised to see in the list—the obvious dog (because the dog was your first pet, or a family favorite, or one you just saw right before you began the exercise).

Circle the dog that surprised you--the one you didn't remember until you began the exercise.

Set up a 10-15-minute timer and write, to begin with, about that dog. Don't stop writing. Tell where you were, what you were doing.

Write about the dog but also around the dog. What else was going on? Let the writing take you where it wants to take you.

I hope you give it a try. Mine is below, and I post it with a Trigger Warning.

A Tragic Tale in Three Parts

I. The Prologue

Sometimes the ones
we love the most
get hurt the worst
by our own foolishness.

Carmen was such a pretty girl.
Caramel colored little pup—Vizsla-like(no wonder I loved her)
We all loved her, even mom,
and she never loved any dog
after our perfect Pepper passed.
But Carmen wasn’t our dog,
she was yours, and I think
you loved her most of all.

II. The Story

The night was dark and rainy
(Don’t most tragedies begin here?)
The street was mostly deserted.

Most would say
being downtown Detroit
at 2 am
in a souped up car
on deserted streets
is foolishness,
pure and simple.
Every one knows
the underworld
comes alive
at 2 am.

The gall
and puffed up pride
it takes
to believe you’ll be fine
where others weren’t
is enough to blind
or to get you blinded
or to get you blindsided.

You never saw them coming.

How could you not see them coming?

When you saw the car
with darkened windows
pull up behind you,
what did you think?

Hit the gas!
Drive away!

But, no.

Six guys got out
and you thought
you would be ok.
How could you?

III. The Epilogue

In the end, your face was unrecognizable,
but Carmen,
Poor Carmen—
She paid with her life.

—cjpjordan

Falling Stars

Thanks to Nick Iliasov @nikwes for making this photo available freely on Unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/r6lFPDFiqGs

Every year I love to lie beneath the stars in the summer. Especially when we are camping or up north at my folks’ cottage, I love to look up in wonder.

One of the highlights of visiting The Badlands was the Night Sky Program they offered. There in this amazing setting, a Park Ranger pointed out all the different stars, planets, and satellites blinking down at us.

We saw Jupiter and Mars and Saturn through high powered telescopes. We bonded with total strangers in the inky blackness, sharing stories of all the magic that happened under stars in our own lives.

I tried to capture a bit of the wonder and magic of falling stars in this poem.

falling stars

balls of fire, dancing
like fireflies suspended on string.
oh how they careened down
with a nod and a wink.

how many wishes
were granted that night?
how many starstruck lovers
closed their eyes and hoped?

sometimes it is hard to imagine
that the death of a single star
lingers long into the future,
touching all who see it.

lying beneath the fireworks,
wishing and hoping for more,
praying not to be burned
by the smoldering embers.


—a draft by cjpjordan

What wish would you make?

NaPoWriMo2021 Day 13

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Credit: contains modified Copernicus Sentinel data (2019), processed by ESA, CC BY-SA 3.0 IGO

https://phys.org/news/2020-01-image-japanese-archipelago-western-pacific.html

Today’s prompt was to write a poem in the form of a newspaper article you wish would come out tomorrow.

I’m not sure this was the idea they had in mind, but I wrote a poem from an NPR news report that came out this morning.

Let’s just say it’s my twist on the subject. ☺️

Open Your Eyes

The quake and tsunami
contaminated water,
crippled plants.
next summer, they
will run out of space
for wastewater.

Environmental groups
remain skeptical
of broken promises,
of 20,000 dead or missing,
of empty assurances
of safety.

The danger is real;
oceanic release imminent.
Protestors rally
on uninhabitable land.
The black rockfish
tells the story in its flesh.

Don’t worry,
the diluting effects
of the vast ocean
will neutralize toxins.
Don’t worry,
poison won’t seep

into our shores.
Anyway, tritium only
slightly increases
the risk of cancer—
just a tiny little plop
of poop in your dinner.

Go ahead, eat up!
Enjoy! Who cares
if it poisons someone
else’s fish? I guess
that life and water
don’t matter to everyone.

Some express
deep regret—
so sorry
your life
is threatened
by our greed.

We are so sorry,
but we...
we don’t see
any other way,
we just don’t.
see.

-A Draft by Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan

Let me know what you think in the comments below. Share the love, write a poem, appreciate a good friend. Each moment is a new beginning.

NaPoWriMo 2016 Day Four

NaPoWriMo 2016The prompt for today is to write a poem in which I explore what I think is the cruelest month, and why. So here it is…  

fall from grace

all due respect to the poet,
september is the cruelest month.
our children and our harvest, whisking away;
silence and dying leaves, singing melancholy in their place.
my sorrow complete by empty playgrounds reminding
of joy, but stark and barren like my arms.
i rode my bike to town, to the library, to the gym, and took myself out to breakfast.
george from the diner singing
the blues about the breakfast club dwindling down
to a few elderly patrons chewing–
a symphony of gums smacking against dentures.
an occasional heatwave bursting through,
dismal grey looming,
a goodweatherahead omen lying through the teeth of pre-winter storms.
ah september you wicked,wicked man!
your seductive sunshine belying
a heart of pure winter ice.

Day #29

National Poetry Month: Day #29

The prompt for today was called the “Twenty Little Poetry Projects,” and was originally developed by Jim Simmerman. There were twenty little projects themselves — the challenge is to use them all in one poem. I used ten because my day was too full to work all twenty into my poem.

the new road

i wonder…

emily says dying is a wild night and a new road.
i say dying is sort of like walking too close to the rails when the chicago el whizzes by: whooosh!
nowyouseeme nowyoudon’t!
dying tastes like a quiet color
in explosive rainbow proportions.
i hear the clacking coming;
i feel the rush of wind
and touch the steamy air
just before that silver bullet train starts whizzing toward me.

i wonder if the actual moment of death feels like being a rider on the train watching the people stare as i pass by them.

i wonder if death feels like new life.

i wonder if becalmanddie would make a good slogan on a billboard advertising dying.

perhaps emily is right after all;
perhaps the billboard sign should be lit in blinking neon lights
guiding the way home on the new road (which just happens to pass a tad too close to the el train tracks).

…whooosh!