Monday, April 9, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018 Catch-Up Day 7,8

Whoops missed a couple days there. April 7th I went to a wedding; April 8th I guess I just was out of the habit.

April 7th

The prompt was to create a list of your identities then split them into identities you are secure in and ones you are vulnerable in. Then choose one from each list and make a poem where the two identities talk to each other.

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride
When will I find someone to stand by my side?
You are strong and independent
You don't need anyone's help
It isn't about help; I don't want to be alone
When I'm with couples, I just want to go home.
When you're at weddings you don't even try
To catch the bouquet; you practically hide.
Catching the bouquet is just superstition
But you always look for stars to wish on.
Admit that you want a companion for life
But so many marriages are wrought with strife.
Your strength is false bravado
Deep down you really don't want to be alone.



The prompt was to write a poem "in which mysterious and magical things occur."


There once was a large beautiful bird
Adorned with feathers of red and gold
Time went by and eventually it grew old.
It built itself a nest
And rested there at night.
I saw an odd glow in the bird's grow
The bird and nest were afire
I watched in sadness, I shed a tear
Because I knew the birds' end was near.
Soon the glow dimmed
The fire consumed from within
All that remained was ash.
Then I watched in awe
As beak
Then eye
Then neck
and wing
Climbed out of the ash.
A bird young and healthy
Stared back at me!
It rose and stretched out its gold and red wings
Preened its feather with its gleaming beak,
I realized this bird could live infinitely.

There once was a beautiful forest grove
The trees mighty and strong
The branches wide, the leaves so green
It was the prettiest place I'd seen.
A lightning strike struck a tree
And soon the forest did ignite in entirety.
The trees became ashy and black
They fell and covered every path.
What once was majestic and green
Looked like the aftermath of a nuclear scene
Vacant and desolate an ashy wasteland,
Not the beautiful woodland.
As the years past
Hope emerged
In the form of the smallest green
Baby pine trees.
Those trees grew up to saplings and then
Eventually that forest was again.

Sad and hard as it seems
Life yields to death
And death makes way for life again.
Death allows the world to thrive
It isn't magic, it isn't mystic
It is the way of nature: cyclic.



Keep writing!
Sharon



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