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04-02-2019, 08:14 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-02-2019, 02:40 PM by RiverNotch.)
if you miss any days you can always do them today 
To set up a new thread for each day of April; First off, make sure no one else has already posted for that date. If not then copy and paste this post into a new thread and fill in the necessary information.
Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
NaPM April 2nd 2019
Topic: A poem about falling feathers,
Form: must include at least one color which is neither black, white, nor gray
Line Requirement: minimum 8 lines,
Nom Nom
This is a poem, a short one mind
about a cat and canary-yellow
coloured feathers, falling, left behind.
It were Granny's bird, a sallow fellow
with ne'er a tweet or warbled whistle;
shallow arcs swung over furry feline.
the open door to cage. Tom bristled.
Feasted; all the fatter without a sign
save a few canary-yellow feathers...
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Best Forgotten
Autumn breeze hums “Alouette,”
golden leaves light as feathers
pass by faces too serious
to sing the refrain.
Words, who thought them safe
beneath flat caps,
are plucked from childhood memories
only to fill in the silence until the jealous sun,
already naked like a butcher shop turkey,
reminds the world of inevitable twilight.
Time is the best editor.
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Molting Up
Feathers fall up, insubstantial, pink,
soft spines hollow, fairy-tinted
by lean reddish brine shrimp blood;
falling bubbles met at mirror-boundary
stick, floating just below eye-level.
Point of view is everything–
looking at one’s own feet planted
up above in sandy overhead,
as one sucks sapphire ocean in
through whalebone-whisker teeth.
Ostriches hide heads in sand
for fear of seeing or of being seen;
pink flamingoes headstand in the Keys,
straining shrimp, pink feathers floating
seaward, falling up to waiting waves.
 Non-practicing atheist
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This is How
Afore sunrise I ate cold beans
drank black coffee from yesterday,
and packed a sammich.
Dog cocked a leery eye, then stirred,
took a crap by the barn and bounded
toward pickup - he wasn’t going to get left.
I ducked into Jr’s room to pinch his .22
and a heaped handful of buckshot load,
then joined up with dog and we was gone.
Paws on the dash, dog scanned the route
to John Clark Canyon, and the plum busiest
turkey buzzard haunt in this part of the township.
Dog wandered off, I laid on my back until
the buzzards took to circling in force above me.
Twelve of ‘em I counted, before I opened fire.
Then dapple browns, goat-placenta browns,
badger-stomach browns, feathers of skull bone tan,
pie crust tan, tans and browns all falling to me
like prayed-for snow at Christmas.
End of March already, but I got me thirty quills
and ink enough for writing thirty poems in April.
Idiots know these are the best quills for writing.
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Good to see you back, Teagan. Best poem I’ve read in a while
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Silver and gold feathers hang on the wall,
regifted to Susan who isn't here.
Susan whose parents are antiquate WASPs.
Susan, who believed I needed to heal.
Blue and white feathers shoot from their boa,
The one thing of hers I stole when we split.
What does it mean, when we say, '''were born as -"
She says I'm a man; I need to explore.
Red and black feathers cling to my forehead,
where they landed, stained already by blood
the validation I needed at heart.
I finally choose to be myself, blessed.
Purple and gray feathers are my favorites.
I don't want to live without them, for real...
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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Whimsy
Red feathers on the mantle,
blue feathers on the ground,
green feathers on the table top,
orange feathers floating down,
and sitting in the midst of them
a beautiful fairy child,
with bright blue eyes and rainbow wings
and hair all tangled and wild.
She laughed a tinkling little laugh
and stole a piece of candy
then shook out so much pixie dust
the floor beneath looked sandy.
Then suddenly she flew away
laughing into the night.
I couldn't discover why she came
but will never forget the sight.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara
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First Flight
Your parents know best
said every parent. Why
should I take advice you never followed
at my age? I should have
paid more attention to candles,
but then I’d be like you bent over
a book. Wings are not fins to skim
the waves’ surface. I was the one who leapt
from the ledge first. They all know
my story now. Everyone imagines
golden feathers falling like rain.
They warn children not to reach too high.
At least I tried to touch the sun.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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They wrapped his body with a pale linen shroud.
He was carried on a wooden stretcher across the field
to a pit dug open at the break of dawn. He was lowered
gently for the first four feet, but dropped when one
of the pallbearers slipped. The dirt was less demanding.
No one cared when the mound was tamped down
by the groundskeeper that afternoon,
nor when the worms began their hungry work
tunneling from the open through the earth
and the pale linen shroud and his skin.
His body bloated like from an excess of meat.
The whites of his eyes turned blue then black.
The pores of his skin widened into wounds,
only the blood that oozed out was green.
His nails, now purple, popped out of his digits.
What mercy it is, that when we die,
our bodies do not float high into heaven
like our souls -- that the sun is not fuelled
by spilled yellow bile, that the rainbow is mere light,
and that snow is feathers, not falling worms.
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Must join in praise of @Teagan's entry. Nicely constructed, with a relevant ending.
Non-practicing atheist
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The earth is round
and goes around the sun
in nothingness, the fifth element
like zero, also a number.
A line has zero breadth
(though fools believe in an indivisible particle),
a circle cannot be unmade into a line.
A pendulum keeps time,
iron balls and feathers fall as fast.
Apples fall to the ground and the moon is always falling.
Jupiter has moons too.
More to it: an infinite number of infinitely small changes
is motion, is time, is everything.
We exist in a continuum,
and in the heart of a giant clock.
If we know where, how fast the levers move,
we'd know the mind of god.
Nature is composed of building blocks,
More than 50, there are gaps.
These blocks cannot be made from others,
only from indivisible particles,
and therefore lead cannot be made gold.
More to it: point charges exist,
not point magnets. A moving magnet
generates current, a moving charge creates a magnet,
and most strangely, a capacitor charging
creates vortices around the nothingness
between the plates.
And every loop, at every point, creates a loop around it, and these propagate
at the speed of light.
The speed of light is constant.
It is the only constant thing.
Time is fluid because of it,
and length is fluid because of it,
and apples don't always fall like the moon.
And the atom is split,
lead made from gold,
and nucleons are split,
but we'll never know where everything is
and if we do, we'll never know the mind of god.
The mind of god spans 27 dimensions
or does it?
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