2023 NaPM 27 April

[RiverNotch]

The most popular 2021 prompt was also its inaugural prompt, which was the same as the one for 2020 -- here is that year's second most popular prompt, the one for 27 April, by CRNDLSM:

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 27, 2021

Topic: write a poem of 10 lines or more incorporating at least 4 senses

Form: any

Line Requirement: at least 10

[Mark A Becker]

Senses of Direction

Start out walkin right on Pine fer half a mile or so. You’ll see
at red, white, ‘n blue house fer the star spangle trim, ‘n at thirty
foot tall flag pole guarded by c'ramic angels, ‘n a lifesize, plastic
Jesus on a lawn. at Bible beatin balloon butt, Roxie Rollins’ll
probly be out ‘ere jawin at Jesus, in’er holey slippers, pink spandix shorts,’n
triple large raslin t-shirt.  If ya slip by unnoticed, consider yerself blessed.

Jus act natchal like, whistle a little, ‘n bear lef on Poplar, keepin yer hands
out yer pockets, 'cause at sidewalk's uneven. At a loost up, clangin stop sign,
'cross fom Public Works, yer ears may get to twitchin fom the warblin
of a sweetest soundin songbird ya ever did hear.  But 'at ain't no bird-
it's em honey tone pipes of 'at ever joyful Eva Jones. Next door, dat Perkins’
bitch oughta be shot fer barkin whenever Eva gits on to a tune real hot ‘n soulful.

Where we at? Oh yeah- at thend 'a Poplar ya can't help but ta smell sumpin
real fishy. 'At nasty stench means yer nearin sniffin distance o’ Murky Bottom Run
where 'at reekin redneck Earl flops 'is rotten fish ta fester on a bank, ‘n plops
eye wat'rin dumps right off a path. Eben if he ain’t ‘ere I’m sure dat smell'll be.
I can’t hardly believe dey made dat rat breath, sweat stain, skank 'o puke
a depadee. Anywho... watcha step on 'a path ‘n head on up ta the tracks.

Trundle longst the train tracks a bit steerin clear of them sticker bushas
‘n poison oak (itchin for like ever if ya brush agin it).  Comin up’ll be
a burnt out lil shack where them kids useta go ta make out til dat Horton
girl got bangt up by them Bowers boys.  Man, dat was...well never yoo mind.
Up a piece ere’s 'is gnarly oak what’s got ‘n old, frait rope swing on 'er.
Getcha a good feel righta ‘bove da big knot ‘n swing ‘er on out 'cross a crick.

On n‘other side ere’s this small clearin, ‘n a bit beyon ere’s a mouth
wat'rin red deelicious patch, so thick ‘n sweet wit ripe’uns ya can almos
tatse em on a breeze. But don’t be thinkin bout pluckin yoo no juicy one,
either fom a branch, nor off ‘a ground, cause that salty little somabitch
P.R. Johnson hides out in 'is pick up, jus waitin, ‘n fer sure he ain’t no type
ta hole back on givin ya a good tase 'a some buckshot. Blam! right’n ‘a snoot.

Now yer on ta the tricky part- foller the bobwire fence til ya spot ‘n openin
where P.R.'s truck crashed through it a bit back.  By a big bend in the crick
ere’s dis flat, smooth outcroppin where them idenical Dickson twins
uselee go sunnin of a day like this'un. If CindyandSusy are thar ‘n wavin ya over,
don’ be shy. They gon gitcha forgittin if yer comin or goin when 'ey show off
'em tans, but hey, from 'ere on out- yer happy fer sure an in mighty good hans.

Ya want I oughta write dat down fer ya young feller?

[TranquillityBase]

Cadaveri Excellenti*



Oddly there’s no smell
but that of ancient stone and cold dust.
A string of bulbs lights
the hung cadavers, still in their robes
along the carved passage
grimacing, mannikins of the dead
though no artisan could form
those shriveled limbs 
skin like bark, with all its
twists and turns, dried leather,
eyes only slits torn in the mummified skin
jaws agape, swallowing the unaccustomed light.
Silent, yes, but to look one in the face
you cannot help but hear voices
still echoing in their darkness.




*Basically an ekphrastic poem, based on the first 4 minutes of the film by that title by Francesco Rosi (1976)



[Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4lQhEZmpp8]

Just edited because I saw I'd only done three senses, but I'm glad I did.  I am slavish to the prompt.

[dukealien]

Heroic Senses


A poem cannot smell, but it may stink
or show good taste, yet it can never drink.
Its poet may touch earth or grass or stone;
his work can touch his readers’ thoughts alone.
Nor can a writer see what he has wrought
in hearts he cannot view: love, grief, or nought.
So reader, think upon your author’s bind–
blind to his work’s effect on you.  Be kind.
And if malapropisms make you smile,
think him a fool quite innocent of guile.

[CRNDLSM]

I stood up on my tip toes
For what draft took by my nose
I couldn't see but maybe nearby
Someone's grilling and that's
A good idea
Or a restaurants just opened
But I hear a lawnmower now
And I know those burgers will
Taste like I got everything 
done today

[RiverNotch]

love is just memory
playing a sensation
over and over again
until all it is to you
is just a simulation:

candle flames passed by your soles,
a cold wind blowing between your knees,
ocean waves battering what lies between your hips,
your guts the Richat Boutonniere,
your chest heavier than lead,
your head light:

and all that you eat tastes like unbuttered bread,
all that you hear sounds like Lou Reed,
all that you watch is old Italian films,
all that you breathe smells like coffee:

love is just the way
you're forced to put your words
like you wish you were with her.

[Wjames]

The smell of rotting garbage
delights a raccoon, they see
me take the bag out at midnight
in my underwear, and drool at the taste
of the michelin combination
of banana peel and coffee grinds
with the five star decor
and sharp gravel floor
of a dank city lane
in humid August night.

[brynmawr1]

Walking over grass and clover
in gridded suburban meditation
heady smell of grass and fume
my mind lulled to numb
lost in the vernal hum
of my mower, while Penny darts
just ahead yipping and nipping
at its heels, a primal brainstem
reaction to the infernal rotation
of the wheels.

When done, I will dream
of CRNDSLM's burgers
freshly grilled on a soft
potato bun, double cheddar
slowly melting, a dribble
of grease spilling down my chin.