Today’s (optional) prompt challenges you to write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place.
Spring facial, after friend’s directions
“You’ll love the beautician’s new center,” she said.
Striking, brand new, at the end of town, right where the cobblestones stop,
after roundabout, crossroads, traffic lights,
block of buildings, mushroomed overnight,
where caramel-colored cows once grazed
and plum trees quietly bloomed,
erasure made way for macadam boom,
relentless advance, no chance of respite,
busy barricades across no-name street.
Straight thru, she said, then sharp right,
can’t miss, grey cement, clear glass face,
center at number 4, Orchid the name.
Where to park? Trapped by roadwork, dazed by intrepid renewal game, or
head into setting sun, eyes blind,
when center gleams. Owner unfazed,
had sensed mainstream dream,
moved, modernized, determined to find
radical remake, fancy inventories,
for tweaking selves into shining shape,
no lurching back to plum memories.
* * *
And now for our final (still optional!) prompt. Today’s prompt is based on a prompt written by Jacqueline Saphra, and featured in this group of prompts published back in 2015 by The Poetry Society of the U.K. This prompt challenges you to write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place. It could be a real place, like your local park, or an imaginary or unreal place, like “the bottom of your heart,” or “where missing socks go.” Fill your poem with sensory details, and make them as wild or intimate as you like.
Our prompt (optional, as always). Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a humorous rant. In this poem, you may excoriate to your heart’s content all the things that get on your nerves. Perhaps it’s people who tailgate when driving, or don’t put the caps back on pens after they use them. Or the raccoons who get into your garbage cans. For inspiration, perhaps you might look to this list of Shakespearean insults. Or, for all of you who grew up on cartoons from the 1980s, perhaps this compendium of Skeletor’s Best Insults might provide some insight.
Woke up with: “Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam”.
(“Furthermore, I consider that Carthage must be destroyed”)
Weird, I thought, did Latin ages ago, then: aha! caught by NaPoWriMo’s
Prompt to Rant!
A historic sample of a rant,
scant examples of wilful iteration
so swiftly sealed the doom
of a neighboring civilization.
“Ceterum censeo”: a repeat,
by-the-way expression, inculcates
intended aggression, irate mantra
succeeds, leads awareness astray.
Right now, too, there’s
little repose, rare rejoice,
brain transmits monkey confab,
broadcasts tidbits of voice,
loose morsels of junk
picked up anyplace,
sediments, senseless funk,
shuttled along synapses,
like apses in a church
sacred pathways, meant
to spell silence, consecrate space
to spirit, wisdom’s intent,
like a birch, softly bent to the breeze,
whispers of an invisible might,
slow frequencies’ realm of ease
rather than overwhelm, peace, delight,
where the eagle of consciousness
soars above conflict and strife
and compassionately watches
over all life.
A soon forgotten, distant reign,
we quickly fall back again,
let the wild-goose chase rage on,
perennial noise, rat-race refrain.
The choice of
falls prey again