NaPoWriMo #28: Send In

Greatest Show on Earth
Plunged over the past decade
Declining interest
Send in the clowns — please!

On the horizon
A national clown shortage
Old age
Higher standards
Employers align against Krusty
Bozo
And their crimson-nosed colleagues
Send in the clowns — please!

Clowning isn’t
Cool anymore
Clowning is
Then put on the back burner
Kids these days
Thinking about everything other than clowning.
Send in the clowns — please!

The older clowns are passing away
Difficult getting younger people
Is it no longer good enough?
Clowns — please
Clowns — please
Send in the clowns — please!

A poem made of words from a newspaper article! This was culled from a NY Daily News article about a “National Clown Shortage.”

NaPoWriMo #26: The Hipster

Bright red jacket and red bow tie
A face known all around the world
With big red shoes and big red smile
They say you are a hipster guy
An accusation that’s absurd
Don’t let those joykills get you riled

With snazzy fit, embroidered gold
And big large cuffs playfully curled
Those pundits and their lazy bile
Are wrong at calling you too old
All I see’s style.

I missed yesterday’s NaPoWriMo cuz I was traveling again. Anyway, this is a rhyme done in curtal sonnet as mentioned in the challenge. It’s also a response to this story that claims Ronald McDonald’s new style makes him a “hipster.” Seriously… how is that look even close to being hipster? I thought hipsters were all about ironic 80′s stuff.

NaPoWriMo #25: I was there

Since the beginning of time, I was there.
Before Man uttered its first word, I was there.
I was there in the trees with the tweeting birds
In the ponds with the croaking frogs
In the very soft stillness of the wind
Through the soft rustling of the leaves.

In the fields of Africa among banging shields, I was there.
On the plains of Kansas around a crackling fire, I was there.
I was there in the cold halls of Europe
Where robed men lift their eyes to remember,
I was there on the streets of India
Staying the venomous fangs of snakes.

I was there when they forced me to give up my magic
Stripped to flat staccato, ripped from melody.
I was there when logic turned the people away
By forcing me into hard unfeeling code.

They say I am just entertainment
A plaything of the pretty
As disposable as a dime-store novel
A footnote for the real accomplishments

But I am still there
Worming into your ears
Igniting primal instincts
Bypassing grammar lessons
And returning to the language
Spoken by the very Earth itself

I was there in the vocal chords of the alto
I was there in the electric guitar chords
I was there in the wind of the pipe organs
I was there in your idols
There in your ringtones
There in your recitals
There in your satellite radio
I was there, and I am here.
I am song.

Today’s challenge is an anaphora.

NaPoWriMo #24: Stone Tightrope

Light gray stones, all flat and round
Rises ten inches from the ground
And barely just a palm’s width wide
Bisects the verdant country side.

On one side’s a grassy hill
With dandelions and bluebells.
The other side of this low wall
The border of suburban sprawl.

All I see: a stone tightrope
Suspended ‘bove the world below
One foot behind the other’s sole
Arms splayed out like a balance pole

Inching slowly forward now
As much as the wall will allow;
Arching left, then quickly — right!
Bracing till the end’s in sight.

But if somehow I am offset
I fall to the ground’s safety net
And then I raise my arms because
Imagined crowds break in applause.

From this week’s challenge: a poem about masonry! This was inspired by one of my favorite NaPoWriMo sites: Peter Roberts’ Masonry Design, where every year he writes poems about bricks, walls, and other masonry tidbits.

NaPoWriMo #23: Evohe

Hello, dear Evohe. How do you do?
You arrive too late! As your eyes are soft
Tonight! two lakes from the sky! and the dress is divine.
What case! you like Diaz, one suspects.
Your wrists thinned out like flowers
This muslin folds quarrelsome;
This simple collar is charming, this plush hat
White, this round head with his humble beehive
Give you, my goddess, all virginal air,
And you Gavarni complete Juvenal.
You would walk quietly among the dry leaves,
And if the child Eros lack of arrows,
He will ask the eyelashes of this black eye.
What a pity it is already Saturday night
And we should sing, O my Muse sports!
Because I would have said: “The fire burns in the fireplace,
The green salamander hops are dreaming;
Let the rain fall and the wind sighing,
As far Sophas are sweet looks bleak,
And our wine glasses are full of pink rays.”

The challenge today is to translate a poem from a language you don’t know. This is translated from “Les Théâtres d’enfants” from Théodore de Banville.