Did this last year. Nice to have a recap.
- Days in the month: 30
- Poems written: 31!
- Days I wrote/posted a poem after midnight: 20+ (oops)
- Days I had to write two poems in a day to make up for straight-up not writing one the day before: 4 (double oops)
- Amount the above two counts matter: 0 (suck it, rules!)
- Free verse: 26
- Spoken word (not posted): 1
- Higgledy piggledies: 3
- Higgledy piggledies about Game of Thrones: 2
- Blackouts: 1 (far less than expected, actually)
- Poems with titles: 11 (big step forward!)
- Days I phoned it in: probably around 3?
- Times liked/reblogged: 8 (apparently putting the word “dinosaurs" into your poem is a sure thing)
- Ideas generated for a full chapbook of poetry: 1
- Satisfaction: 100 (%)
Already, I’m feeling phantom vibrations
from the smartphone in my pocket,
mere minutes between disembarking
the airplane, and disengaging
airplane mode. Already, we’re jacked back in,
glued to screens, obsessing over Tony noms,
and saying “no” over and over to would-be cabbies.
Right here, right now, let me say:
I will continue wearing flip flops.
I will continue strolling, not racing.
I will continue living in gratitude.
What more could we ask for—
dinner around a single table
expressions of love, poetry and song,
and a bonfire on the beach.
Invocations, and rum, and our hearts,
wide open and grinning.
It was only after hours of searching
that I remembered that trivial moment.
Before I’d gotten too drunk to stand,
before Agamemnon, breath hot with wine,
had bellowed for a dance with the bride,
before I’d received too many congratulations
to count, there was that moment—
the musicians paused
mumbled, perhaps (did you even say goodbye?)
and slipped away.
There was no chill in the air,
a cloud never passed over your eyes,
no one remembers any strange, unwelcome guest.
And yet just like that,
you were gone.
For thousands of years, here,
there have been iguanas,
and for thousands of thousands,
something like them.
I wonder—did the dinosaurs
plotz around, awkward
and lazy, sunning themselves
and eating flowers?
Feed your soul
what it loves—
do whatever it takes
flip-flops in hand
and the full moon, turned
on his side, but still familiar