“For better or worse, the moon seems to exert a powerful hold on poets, as this large collection of moon-themed poems suggests. Today, I’d like to challenge you to stop fighting the moon. Lean in. Accept the moon. The moon just wants what’s best for you and your poems. So yes – write a poem that is about, or that involves, the moon.”
I do find myself writing about the moon a lot. This time I want with a deconstruction of sorts.
*Writer’s note: In the past I would have tried to make up the lost days, but this time I decided to let depression have its pound of flesh and just move on. Thanks for understanding.
Gaelic in origin, Barry probably means good enough, if not boring, dull, or quick to bail on patriarchal pursuits, as I gave up on reading the bone-dry etymology four sentences in.
That’s a half-truth, but even patrons who came up with it felt it was good enough, surrendering midway, saying it might mean “fair-headed, or maybe an Irish spear? Hell’s bells, I dunno; why ask me? Fuck you.”
Ask momma and she’d tell you that it means sweetie; ask grandma and she’d reply with stanka; ask anyone else and you’ll get other truthy-sounding observations.
The only important part is that I’m the fourth of my name, third to serve in the armed forces, second known to wildly wield sarcasm as a melee weapon, and first to clearly see the maze as well as my iron-clad limitations within.
Dawson means son of David, and David means beloved; loved by God, amen. Therefore, biblically-speaking, I guess that makes me a bit of a legacy kid, amen.
Favor onto me, descendent of slave and master, origin muddied, traced back to great divide, to Mississippi riverbed and no further, no deeper shall we tread.
In truth, all that can be gleaned from the name means it is unique enough to be known and when spoken in general earshot, I will know it is me you are seeking.
‘I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name. Looking for inspiration? Take a look at this poem by Mark Wunderlich, appropriately titled “Wunderlich.”’
While I like this prompt, I feel like I’ve done it many times from the patriarchal angle, only to be frustrated that I can’t (or won’t) really go any deeper …
“Today’s prompt comes from the Instagram account of Sundress Publications, which posts a writing prompt every day, all year long. This one is short and sweet: write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.”
Another wait-n-see casualty epitaph-inscribed ellipses waking-sleep at the wheel watching his own eclipse from hermetically-sealed airlock objects in motion retain commotion unless acted upon by aging’s gravest drag and gravity fills complacency’s cavity feeble Van-Winkle-eyes strain and fail to read a copious account of all the proper names speeding past his bleeding orbit of last gasps and fading oxygen until there’s null
“I’m calling this one “Past and Future.” This prompt challenges you to write a poem using at least one word/concept/idea from each of two specialty dictionaries: Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary and the Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction. A hat tip to Cathy Park Hong for a tweet that pointed me to the science fiction dictionary and to Hoa Nguyen for introducing me to the Classical Dictionary.”
“This is a twist on a prompt offered by Kay Gabriel during a meeting she facilitated at the Poetry Project last year. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a two-part poem, in the form of an exchange of letters. The first stanza (or part) should be in the form of a letter that you write either to yourself or to a famous fictional or historical person. The second part should be the letter you receive in response. These can be as short or long as you like, in the form of prose poems, or with line breaks – and of course, the subject matter of the letters is totally up to you.”
(You’ll have to click on the prompt link for the description.)
*Writer’s note: WordPress editor just ate my biting criticism of it, so just know that I am most displeased with it and I will be going back to my other site after NaPoWriMo ends.
“Cheating is a sin, but honest cunning is simply prudence. It is a virtue. To be sure, it has a likeness to roguery, but that cannot be helped. He who has not learned to practice it is a fool.”
― Giacomo Casanova
do study Theology do give thyself to God learning the ways of the cloth
do meet the sisters do give myself to the sisters vigorously
no, not nuns (never nuns) such sacrilege!
but yes, actual birth sisters simultaneously, generously
do cast off the cloth; theology can wait
do attend concerto do listen to the male soprano becoming captivated, by him?
must learn more- and -ah, there it is; an imposter, a woman
do give myself into her womb for certainty leaving my seed for her to harvest our bastard
do attend carnival saving nobleman from certain death do get that bread (receive reward)
do go gambling meeting bewitching courtesan try not to get seduced and swindled
having failed that duel one of courtesan’s many lovers do for money, honor, to save face or whatever
do prevail, wounding the scallywag do look over my shoulder continue doing this forever
do visit France do learn French do the French landlady’s daughter
do confuse and seduce fourteen-year-old girl trailing her to convent while she carries my seed
do not contemplate if this is the vilest task I have ever completed
having failed at not contemplating this atrocity do hold my ale
do meat the sisters (not a typo) yes, nuns, hun, has to be nuns to ignore them is sacrilege!
do solicit coitus-ravaged nuns’ help in wooing underage lover and maybe do give myself to one or two more
I dunno maybe let a monk or pastor watch a few times?
(try not get arrested for indecency)
having failed this do escape from prison with a monk accomplice
do change name, do change game get that bread, get new threads
try not to squander wealth again on actresses, debutantes, indiscriminate common strumpets
having failed this (again) try not to fall into debt
do change name again after falling into debt again
do save friend’s debutante wife from unwanted pregnancy with him via unlawful, dangerous abortion
or, having failed to abort do try ending pregnancy via my mystic doggy-style
failing this as well just say “oh well” leaving them to their fate what’s done is done
but do refuse on principal to become a son’s dad and granddad, by refusing to impregnate one of my countless illegitimate daughters
I do have my limits, sir! I may be a lecherous cheat but I am no monster!
after careful consideration do agree to become my son’s dad and granddad by- well
(probably see where this is going)
do lean into becoming a mystic becoming a cultist, claiming to resurrect the dead
do go ahead and get that bread from true-believers who still pray
never overstay
let’s see, what else? oh, I dunno become a librarian, I guess?
do brag about all the shagging do write it all down do name names
do set aside enough time to regret and learn absolutely nothing
The video I chose is completely unrelated to the poem. Rest easy, DMX. 1970-2021
“The fun of this prompt is to make it the “to-do list” of an unusual person or character. For example, what’s on the Tooth Fairy’s to-do list? Or on the to-do list of Genghis Khan? Of a housefly? Your list can be a mix of extremely boring things and wild things. For example, maybe Santa Claus needs to order his elves to make 7 million animatronic Baby Yoda dolls, to have his hat dry-cleaned to get off all the soot it picked up last December, and to get his head electrician to change out the sparkplugs on Rudolph’s nose.”
a peace profile in sepia tones and cotton candy dreams.
She is of crescent moons golden curves and star shine reflected in half-open eyes of REM sleep digesting another day on the apex of praise attention, and even parody;
a knowing eye-twinkle at rest;
grace under any light lunar or lampoon; luminous even among blackened new moon night;
She is earthshine; a crest of coral ocean foam only hinting at the volume of her riches within;
of permanent afterglow guiding her acolyte home.
She is of resting face, lines curving down at the corners;
not a frown, but layered determined peace; a portrait of meditative resolve smoothed upon a capricious landscape.
She is a cosmos unto herself but even she has her breaking point;
she greets me at her center, with shoulders slumped; her horizon curves back onto me,
and I learn of the depths of my own strength holding heaven aloft with only my two frail arms and everything I am
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 