Poem A Day Challenge For April 5

April 5—For today's prompt, do one of the following:

1. Write a goofy poem.
2. Write a serious poem.

(Note: This one could go either way---you choose.)

Lament To My Absent Muse
By Bill Kirk

It’s dark and cold at 4 a.m.
Yet I can hardly sleep.
Instead of writing poetry
I should be counting sheep.

For truth be told, this rhyme’s gone cold—
My poem is a flop.
No matter what I try to write,
My brain keeps yelling “Stop!”

Oh! What the heck. I think I’ll quit,
And leave my letters lost.
This search for words is getting old
It’s time this tome is tossed.

So, wrinkling up this scribbly page,
I’ll turn off every light.
If dribbly doodle’s all I’ve got,
It’s time to say good night.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 4

April 4—pick a type of person and write a poem about him or her. To help set the scene, you may want to title your poem as who the type of person is. For instance, you could write a poem titled "Firefighter," "Cynic," "Optimist," "Teacher," "2-year-old," etc. The list is endless.

The Drummer
By Bill Kirk

The drummer stands alone, waiting.
Poised and ready, his sticks hover above skins
Stretched taught over their frames—
Simple implements await his bidding.
Then, as if some solitary nuclear clock
Finally emits its primordial pulse,
The first strike of stick against skin
Signals life through action.

Tak! Tak! Tak! Tak!
Vibrations scream a one-note staccato—
R-r-r-racketa! T-t-t-tacketa! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Ripples push the sound barrier,
Seemingly broken in an instant
On the surface of the drum’s head—
Its micrometric amplitude
Hardly perceptible to the human eye.

The drummer calls his cadence without speaking
Save for the insistent sound spreading in ripples
From his drum’s core—through the rest of the
Drum corps on the floor around him.
His fellow drummers respond in kind with their first step,
And another and another still—
They answer the incessant urge to move.
Then in quick succession, they pick up the beat—
Accepting it as their own, completely owning the next strike,
And the next,
And the next,
And the next.
Crisp. Clear. United.

The very essence of integrity—One cadence. One team. One line.

The drummer carries the corporal beat—the rhythm of life.
Yet where does it come from and what does it mean?
Certainly the merging of rhythm, sound and intensity
Is more than mere technique.
Might there not be a subtle nuance
That defines the drummer’s very nature?
Could it be the soul’s search for perfect resonance?
And how does one discern such things?
Indeed, might drumming not be considered a metaphor for life?
The call of the distant drummer
Tapping out his cadence
And hoping it will be heard, headed and followed.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The pulse of life beckons loudly—
Not wanting to end but having to.
In one beat, the performance is over.
Rejoice and be glad in it.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 3

April 3—Write a poem in which you imagine the world without you. The world could be a much worse place, pretty much the same, or even better. Anyway, it's interesting to contemplate our individual contributions to this planet in ways small and large. 

Were I Not Here 

By Bill Kirk 

Were I not here, 

The lawn might be mowed, 

The weeds would be whacked and 

The bare window sill would already be primed and painted. 

Were I not here, 

The blown down back fence would be replaced, 

The crack in the driveway would be patched and 

The front door latch would work and not stick. 

Were I not here, 

The ivy would not have overtaken the side yard, 

There’d be no birds nesting in the attic and 

The perilously leaning pine would be long gone. 

Were I not here, 

The taxes would be done before April 14, 

There might be more money for vacations and 

There’d be less money needed for life insurance, 

But were I not here, there would also be 

Fewer cups of coffee at bedside each morning, 

Fewer lunches made each work day, 

Fewer omelets cooked each Sunday after church, 

Fewer miles run for the pure pleasure of it, 

Fewer pick-ups after school, 

Fewer haircuts at Grandpa’s house, 

Fewer children’s rhymes written and read, 

Fewer reminders about Scout meetings, 

Fewer camping trips with the old man, 

Fewer holiday turkeys cooked and carved, 

Fewer New Year’s Day black eye peas for good luck and 

Fewer kisses goodnight. 

So, all things considered, 

Consider me here.

Poem A Day Challenge For April 2

April 2—The prompt for day 2 is to write a postcard poem. Make it brief and communicate what it is like where you are. Also, make it personal. 

Postcard Wishes 

By Bill Kirk 

Just got to my “room”. 

There are windows galore— 

On all sides, in fact, 

From ceiling to floor. 

A post at each corner, 

In the middle, a mast; 

We’ll tie off our hammocks 

Oh, wow! What a blast! 

We’ll sleep in “plein aire”— 

A canopy above. 

We four happy strangers— 

Hey! What's up with the shove!? 

What do you mean, 

Those "shoves" are a gale 

And our very large tent 

Is now a large sail? 

You’ve got to be kidding! 

Pack up my gear? 

Vacation is over? 

Wish I weren’t here....

Poem A Day Challenge for April 1

I suppose I might have written an April Fool's Day poem. But alas, I didn't. This is the first day of the Poem A Day Challenge. Based on it's ending mood, I hope it's not my last. But it is what it is.... 

What Got Me Here

by Bill Kirk 

Certainly it's true, 

Some goals and objectives 

We reach by design. 

You know---the planned ones, 

For which we set our destinations, 

Whether figurative or literal, ahead of time; 

Then plot our path, 

Pack our provisions, 

And strike out, 

Relatively secure in the knowledge 

We will get there--- 

By our own two hands. 

Other times, pure serendipity wins the prize 

For getting us to where we are--- 

Landing us square in the middle of 

Good fortune or not, 

Where we are left 

To take advantage of unanticipated 

Targets of opportunity. 

And quick thinking alone 

Makes the outcome our own, 

As if we are the ones responsible somehow 

For being where we are, 

For better or worse. 

Yet, on occasion isn't it simply 

The passage of time 

That allows us simply to be, 

Never mind how we got to the spot? 

Mightn't such unplanned "while you wait" moments, 

Be the sum of the what and the how of where we are--- 

Like the instant between breaths 

When there is neither ebb nor flow? 

During those times, 

We sit in the midst of quiet or turbulence, 

Doing nothing in particular 

And certainly nothing of special value 

Or personal advantage in mind. 

Such circumstances of time and place 

Neither sought nor pursued 

Are gifts of a sort---wanted or not, 

For which there is nothing to do 

Beyond acknowledging the 

Unexpected blessing of another moment 

In hopes of a much delayed, 

Yet inevitable... 

End.