“Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem. It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory or another significant space from your life.”

NaPoWriMo

There are clothes spread out on the hardwood
floor, messy but thoughtful.
They surround the bed in a sea of the t-shirts
and mismatched socks of the day.
The bed is tucked-in with printed sheets that
come from his home in India
and layered on top like a cake is Superman,
a thick blanket for the chillier nights. 
It is the only bed I can sleep in lying 
on my stomach:
bad for the back, but good for the heart.
I am safe here with him
among the outside noises of frat boys
breaking glass or screaming loud
with the charm of drunken whales. 

It is all one big room
with a doorway leading to the kitchen that contains
only the minimum: a package of cumin, a bag of rice,
carton of milk. 
A light breeze is an invisible blessing on late summer nights, 
a wafting of air that somehow carries cravings for 
ice cream or samosa chaat or rice pudding or tikka masala.
Half asleep and fully hungry
I tug at your sleeve and tell you what I want.
You get it--of course you do--
and you feed me spoonfuls with
droplets of sauce staining our sheets,
coloring the bed with flavor.
I pull you towards me and we soak
it all up in one big gulp.

“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the form of a review. But not a review of a book or a movie of a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed.”

NaPoWriMo

Mornings filled with harsh sunlight or gray skies
Are not so bad
But when coffee has yet to course through my veins and
My oatmeal is still dry and cold
I cannot hold even the remote-est form of conversation
In the kitchen with you, where you seem to always be
Hovering
Or chewing loudly.
Please stay 6-feet away from me (for many reasons). 
4.5 stars

It’s true I don’t pay rent and rarely buy bread or eggs,
I am lucky that way.
But please take the dog out so the living room 
Isn’t a graveyard of shit.
At least it is only one corner--that, I can be grateful for. 
4 stars

I like the way I ache from baking cookies
Because it all goes away when I bite into doughy, sugary
Chocolate goodness
But that can only happen when you don’t eat them all, dear 
Adults.
3.5 stars 

When the more tolerable one talks of plants--
How the arugula comes in different shapes
How aggressive and persistent the perennial mint already is 
How the sorrel has magically grown in two spots of soil
How you planted more of my favorite (lavender)--
I remind myself that there could be worse ways
To live in quarantine. 
4 stars

“For this prompt, you will need to fill out, in five minutes or less, the following “Almanac Questionnaire.” Then, use your responses as to basis for a poem.

Weather:

Flora:

Architecture:

Customs:

Mammals/reptiles/fish:

Childhood dream:

Found on the Street:

Export:

Graffiti:

Lover:

Conspiracy:

Dress:

Hometown memory:

Notable person:

Outside your window, you find:

Today’s news headline:

Scrap from a letter:

Animal from a myth:

Story read to children at night:

You walk three minutes down an alley and you find:

You walk to the border and hear:

What you fear:

Picture on your city’s postcard”

NaPoWriMo

Rain drizzles on the triangular skylight,
Teasing the thirsty, dying daffodils. 
We walk around barefoot on marbled tile
In loose cardigans,
Speaking pleasantries to the border collie
And the newborn, orange koi in the courtyard pond. 
The air smells dizzyingly of saffron
And we wish we were Aphrodite with a spear in hand,
Target on a new lover
Aim missed, arrowhead tickling instead towards the asteroid’s tail. 
Don’t be fooled, says Anansi
Weaving his silken web,
For The Giving Tree can only give for so 
Long before it requires water
You can’t feed it garbage and silence
And let it die alone 
Left among the yellow bridges, darkened skyline,
And a graveyard of tree stumps.

“Today’s prompt is a fairly simple one: to write about a particular fruit – your choice. But I’d like you to describe this fruit as closely as possible.”

NaPoWriMo

The best of the best are the ones from the garden
in summertime. 
There’s only a handful of them 
in the scrawny bushes, planted
seemingly as an afterthought to the thorny blackberries. 
Some branches dip down so low
that for awhile they are hidden by the grass
before impatient desire forces me to search 
with eyes of a hawk, 
hunting low like a feline.

I press one: too firm;
inspect another, too pale;
finger one more, mushy and invaded by an ant.
Ah ha! 
Spotted: a ruby jewel,
plump and brimming with small white hairs
glistening in the sun with freshness
Ready for plucking. 
And pluck I do, but with 
a delicacy so as to to respect the form,
maintain the nectar. 

On my tongue I can feel the hundred 
druplets of red flesh coming home
to eager tastebuds.
One by one
I caress every last berry from my palm
to my lips
winking at the jealous birds
who soar above. 

“Today’s prompt (optional, as always) asks you to write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or perhaps, the letters that form a short word.“

NaPoWriMo

You are a listless, lazy,
lackadaisical creature.
You sit with your straight hat
and your toes pointing to the sky like a witch. 
Don’t think I can’t see your tail, too. 
Are you just going to see there all day
like that? 
So laissez-faire when you could
be lovely
or lustful.
Hop off those feet and join I.
Let’s take a sinful walk with our 
neighbor K, known for her kiss-worthy
strut and who will undoubtedly drag along
the umbrella-shaped brother
she hooks under her kitten-arm, ready 
for a jovial day.

“Today, I’d like to challenge you to find an idiomatic phrase from a different language or culture, and use it as the jumping-off point for your poem.”

NaPoWriMo

On a day like today, the turtle is shrouded*
but I can feel you close by.
You told me to go pick mushrooms* that day, 
So I did
And now, it’s been weeks
Years perhaps. 
My belly is both full and aching,
like it's been stuffed with immortal butterflies. 
I am at the end of the world and my
Body is veering left.*
I didn’t know I could be so lost without you. 
You hated the way I pushed our love with my belly*
You said I never truly loved you because I couldn’t see you, 
feel you. 
I told you darling, you taste of lemons, you smell of lavender! 
You said I was blind. 

The fog lifts and I am losing all of my body parts.*
I fear the day I see you next will be
When a lobster whistles on the top of a mountain.*

There’s not a cloud in the sky,
Nor a cow on the ice*. 
My eyes begin to go with me* as I drift
And in this state, 
I see the sun on your back*
And wonder if I am dead
As I walk towards the sound of
Whistling
That is not so far away. 
----

*
The turtle is shrouded = it's foggy (Cheyenne) 
Go pick mushrooms =go away and/or leave me alone (Latvian) 
At the end of the world, turn left - It's in the middle of nowhere (Hebrew)
To push something with your belly =to keep postponing (Portuguese)  
losing of all body parts = to get very tired (Hindi) 
When a lobster whistles on top of a mountain =it’s never going to happen (Russian) 
There’s no cow on the ice =no need to worry (Swedish)
My eye went with me = I fell asleep (Maltese) 
I see the sun on your back = “Thank you for being you. I am alive because of your help.” (Kazakh)

“Today, in gratitude for making it to Day 20, our (optional) prompt asks you to write a poem about a handmade or homemade gift that you have received.”

NaPoWriMo

I was given a jar filled with notes
about what he loves, what he’ll miss:
the sound I make when cuddled right, 
the brownies and sweets I’ve baked over
the years, 
my hazel eyes, my smile. 
Spontaneously grabbing my hand and
running...across the street, 
across a room,
through a building
or any space at all.
We would run run run, 
giggling and going nowhere.

I remember how he complimented 
the way my cheeks would turn red--in both
physical and emotional heat --
He liked the way my fair skin changed 
color like autumn leaves.
He never called me pale or held my skin
against his own brown complexion
to shame.
Comparisons to nature have a way of 
healing the soul.

He made this for me at a time when
We knew the expiration date,
We knew when we’d be in each other's arms again.
We knew what we were surviving, 
We had the future. It was ours. 

Now, in quarantine and 8,000 miles away 
I outstretch my arms at night in 
anticipation of a touch that has long since 
left my bed.
I crave your laughter and smile as you sleep 
and I scroll through screens to tame the loneliness.
I savor these scraps of folded paper, 
and stuff them away for another day
soon.

“Our optional prompt for the day also honors the idea of Saturday (the Saturdays of the soul, perhaps?), by challenging you to write an ode to life’s small pleasures”

NaPoWriMo

Saturday is full of: 
lemony bites of the first sorrel from the garden
the scent of basil so strong 
I close my eyes to make it a memory.
Full-body stretches. 
Plump waffles draped in maple syrup.
Unbrushed hair tossed into a messy bun,
a deodorant-free girl on a leather couch
with a book in lap but a mind on 
the groundhog family munching
on small violets and dandelions.
These eyes travel from words on a page
to the pink blossoms on the branches of peach trees,
the lonely cherry tree so tall only the luckiest birds may enjoy.
Arches of bamboo planted by a son for the memory of his father. 

Today: kale, brussel sprouts, and laughter planted
Tomorrow: radishes, peas, and hopefully something enchanted

“Today, I challenge you to write a poem that features forgotten technology. Maybe it’s a VCR, or a rotary phone. A cassette player or even a radio”

NaPoWriMo

Was there really a time before binge-watching? 
A time of patience? 
Each week awaiting the single show to arrive in the
magical box,
everyone gathered round, eyes glued to a screen for the first time 
since last week
Pre-prepared salty and sweet snacks, 
pee breaks during commercials.
The quick-catch-up if it was number 2
so everyone would be on the same page.
The chatter afterwards about the cliffhangers that
would have to wait yet another week .

How could anyone have ever survived 
such agony?
Terrestrial television they called it. 
If we are so earthbound, how will we ever escape? 
Cable? Satellite? 
These are words of distance
Of later. 
I want it now.
I need it now.
My dopamine rush will spiral if 
I don’t know what happens to so-and-so
And is whats-her-face really dead?! 
They can’t do this to us. 
I need to be fed drama like a hungry paper shredder
I need horror and romance oscillating in my personal
cosmos 
I need mystery and suspense streaming into
my blood system like oxygen 

“Today we challenge you to write a poem of over-the-top compliments. Pick a person, place, or thing you love, and praise it in the most effusive way you can.”

NaPoWriMo

You’ve got slick black fur 
fit for a queen
By god you are a queen ! 
Crown-less you are not
for your paper-thin ears tickle my fingertips
with pleasure only a faithful servant could know

Every mew is a fountain of poetry
Every blink of those emerald eyes is
a kiss on my cheek

You stretch like a never ending slinky, long-bellied 
to reveal a tummy 
so        s o f t & f r e s h
I can’t *stand* not rubbing its velvet undertones 
as it hums its purring melodies

If I am lucky 
you lay your warm royal body on
my lap
piercing my bare thighs with claws 
that in your majestic sphinx mercy
are as delicate as rose petals