There are no old buildings
left in this town.
Every one of them
burnt down.
By the Fire Marshall's son. 30 prompt strange or fascinating fact or story.
I am the Querent
seeking refuge in the cards,
in holy scripture,
in any book of changes.

All my cards are fives.
(constantly striving for balance)
The esoteric Hierophant, the mystic,
does not open the channel of grace I seek.

Uninvited guests arrive,
I honor them while I wait,
holding on to lasting things.
Perhaps acceptance is the key. 27 Tarot: pick a card (any card) and then to write a poem inspired either by the card or by the images or ideas that are associated with it.
High up in a tree
a lone crow is calling, calling
He's not going anywhere
watching, waiting
between calls
he's clearly hungry
breaking foliage with his
worried beak (the aromatic scent of cedar drifts down to me
on the ground worrying my coffee and my cigarette)
The crow resumes his plaintive call,
all we hear is an echo. 26 prompt use all five senses. A coffee break with a crow, apparently anything goes.
I listened to a song
to shut out Sunday sounds
My neighbor hammering
on fence six feet away
song played and played...
6 a.m. Monday now,
wishing retired neighbor
would have fixed the fence
today, while I'm away.
my peaceful Sunday 23 prompt: it reads like spoken language sounds.From the Na/GloPoWriMo Interview with Kate Greenstreet:
4. Is there a generative prompt, practice or ritual that you find particularly helpful, or that you would recommend to students, friends, or other poets?
One time I heard Stanley Kunitz say, “Poets listen for their poems.” For me, that’s the most obvious true thing about writing poetry: you listen for it, and when you hear it, you write it down.
I woke up on the twelfth of never,
I was missing the earth
Hadn't been home since we started
developing our little property
on the Moon.
When we cleaned the barn
today we had to take down
the gravitational field.
It was so much fun to watch
the pigs fly!

PS: I miss the earth so much, I miss my stuff... 22 prompt
take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens:
The sun can’t rise in the west.
A circle can’t have corners.
Pigs can’t fly.
The clock can’t strike thirteen.
The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
A mouse can’t eat an elephant.
N a t u r a l l y           
A t t r a c t e d                                                                ­                          
R e s p l e n d e n t          
C o u n t e n a n c e
I d o l i z e d
S e d u c e d
S u r r e n d e r i n g
U l t i m a t e l y
S m i t t e n . day21 prompt the myth of narcissus.
As the story goes, the beautiful, arrogant, cursed youth Narkissos fell in love with his own reflection in a pool. Gazing endlessly at the image, he slowly pined away and was transformed into a narcissus flower.
*note this is my first acrostic poem ever
No! I say
I'm not writing today  
day 20 rebellion
Left brain is bossy
right brain is dreaming
left brain is paying the rent
right brain is falling in love
left brain is analyzing everything
right brain is imagining
left brain is making plans
right brain is free as a bird.

Linear versus intuitive
It's an awkward dance.
Who leads? day 19 erasure
It was so exciting, the whole town was on the dock.
Bing Crosby's boat was in, a yacht!
It was tied up to the end of the wharf.
Everyone crowding down to see him.
He was flying up at eleven to see our little bit of heaven.
And maybe catch a fish.
Our Dad drove the limousine to pick him up at the airport.
Still have the photographs, wonder if they are worth anything?
I was at the front, peering over the edge.
And fell in. Which is where this story begins.
The whole town was watching, as they fished me out.
I was rather quiet, apparently didn't even shout.
They say the first mate hit the water even before I did.
A rope was thrown, a winch engaged, to retrieve me.
And I was wrapped up in a towel aboard the boat so dreamy.
Bing Crosby held me in his arms.
Whose child is this? he asked the crowd.
And I was quickly retrieved.
Years later it is still a joke, I was the only one to board the boat.
And I ruined the fishing trip too. Day 17 prompt: write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time.
It was him, and the net
a stick, and a puck
every day after school
in the gravel parking lot.
His Dad and Mom
chilling on the deck,
Fast forward 10 years,
Son is an enforcer in the
highest tiers, of hockey. Day 16 Games people play
On day sixteen I'm in between giving it a spin or just tossing it in. The prompt is games. OK I'll give it a spin.
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