In the world of poetry, the fourth month of the year is important as April is designated National Poetry Month.
For some poets, the month is also a time to challenge themselves to write 30 different poems, one for each day of the month. Shortened to NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month), this is similar to prose’s National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), held each November, in which authors attempt to write 50,000 words over the course of 30 days.
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Each has its own challenges; I have successfully completed NaNoWriMo three times, and attempted NaPoWriMo once before, in 2018. I didn’t do too well: only six poems, none of them super exciting.
But with some renewed interest in poetry and the statewide quarantine due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve dedicated myself to writing 30 poems over 30 days. Considering I’ve only written about 70 poems that I consider ready enough for publication, this is a big undertaking.
Through April 10th, I’ve been able to complete my goal each day, with a handful of poems being inspired by the current health crisis. I’ve included those poems below. Let me know what you think in the comments!
Pandemic
They say it’s unlikely you’ll be unscathed.
If you don’t die, you’ll probably suffer.
Aching legs. Throbbing pulse. Venus-hot skin.
Sandpaper cough. A barrel chest full of them.
If you’re lucky enough to hide away or not
run into its kingdom while scurrying home—
you’ll probably know someone who does.
Not all that long ago we acted as if nothing
was the matter—stay home if you feel like
turned to stay home if you don’t feel like
risking your life. Gone are the days of chasing
fame and fortune; going viral has a different
meaning now, your fifteen minutes
the difference between breathing life-giving
air on your own or from a PVC pipe.
This is the first time I can remember when
there were no answers at all—nothing
to do or say or look forward to because
no actions or words or cure were present.
But then the tide started to turn; hands
that once wrung themselves learned
to wash. Wide mouths with no words
became socially savvy with wide berths.
And while a cure is still out of our grasp
those hands and mouths are working
together, building blocks of humanity
maybe forgotten for a time when everything
was falling apart. Small is powerful. You see,
just like the design of whatever it is that will save us,
the foundation must be solid. You have to hit
rock bottom before you could build upward.
In December we began our long fall, but
the new decade is rife with possibility.
Let us use these times of solitude to do
the same things those on the outside
are accomplishing—learn to accept ourselves
with love for who we are, and use that empathy
to make the world a better place for all
who will wander across our paths the day
the walls can be torn down.
Nativity Story (Circle of Life)
There’s a baby being born today that
will never know a world that doesn’t
wear the devilish crown on its head.
Mother Nature never wished for this,
never wanted this responsibility thrust
upon her; she’s eons old but restrained
from her birthright by a regent of death.
She’s faced many before and knows
how to win—but the losses will be great.
There’s a mother giving birth today
in a makeshift hospital room, once
a college dormitory, a sporting arena,
a floating field of steel—because to go
to the place she’d planned would be
tempting fate. A modern Madonna
turned away from the inpatient ward.
It doesn’t have to be bad—we all
know what that little babe became.
A nurse participating in this miracle today
will celebrate the life she touched while
unknowingly carrying the crown that’s kept
her from falling asleep next to her love
for the past four weeks. It’s not fair:
The wicked rest comfortably as things break
down inside bodies. It’s heroes who don’t sleep
because there is so much to do and say.
Things like “It’s a boy, get some rest, goodbye.”
Dreamworld
In dreamworld I live fully.
I take risks. I find love.
I branch out. I run on rooftops
with the girl I like, not concerned
that our feet are pushing shingles
inward and leaving a wake
of destruction behind.
In dreamworld I live boldly.
I take risks. I help others.
I leave home. I deliver cardboard
coffins to the Las Vegas Strip
so those anointed with the crown
have someplace to rest in peace
when their short reign is over.
In dreamworld I live happily.
I take risks. I shun anxiety.
I let myself be seen. I enter
competitions on a whim just
because I can, and play to win
because what other way is there
to play when you’re enchanted?
In dreamworld I live loudly.
I take risks. I invent games.
I don’t worry about failing.
I fly through the hallways on
foot, on a hoverboard—collecting
stares as points and chatting
with old friends not seen in years.