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#NaPoWriMo 2021
blackinkmess · 3 hours ago
NaPoWriMo 2021 - Day 19
Plagued by the demons the monsters born from the brokenness. Pain popping up little reminders on our phones one after another. Every day headlines smeared with blood, read between the lines and you'll find that we are to blame. The violence the brutal crimes the shameful enabling of this scathing injustice cannot continue. The cycle has been endless. Over and over we suffer. So how do we find our way out?
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schuylerpeck · 4 hours ago
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19/30: pick a book close to you. find a word on the 9th page, 7th line to write about or incorporate in your poem.
instagram: hiitssky
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kevinjoconner · 7 hours ago
National Poetry Writing Month 2021, Day 19: I'll just have to try to get a few thousand more miles out of the existing parts
National Poetry Writing Month 2021, Day 19: I’ll just have to try to get a few thousand more miles out of the existing parts
My Day 19 poem is my response to the prompt, which is to write a humorous rant. (more…)
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vidhiashar · 8 hours ago
April 18th - String
𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆,
𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.
Source : An erasure poem made from P. 159 of the Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris.
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mortalghost · 10 hours ago
Never has the moon refused to shine.
Never have you left me behind.
Never is a word you speak.
Never will you break me.
Never can I cry.
Never goodbye.
Never I
-H. Murcia 4/18/2021 10:44 PM
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writinginnorthnorfolk · 18 hours ago
It’s all Rubbish
I walk along flowering lanesflanked by hawthorn and gorse,and a car roars by at break-neck speedleaving a cloud of exhaust,and in the ditch they’ve chucked a pileof cigarette butts and, even worse,the remains of fast-food breakfast,plastic packaging and a dirty nappy;obviously, the child’s meal with plastictoy didn’t make it happy.It’s all rubbish, human detritusdumped by the side of the…
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enzymedevice · 21 hours ago
NaPoWriMo Day 18 - Wake Up and Dream
Fibre-optic, my
third eye awakes. Magenta
beams shine radiant
and light up every street whose
alleyways are dim.
Mouselike threads run red
beneath the vials of this
ruptured city. Grieve
for me, my astral form is
all too powerful.
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urdumbstruckbaby · 21 hours ago
day 18: the center of the house
Track it back. Here, storage. Last place, the foot of the bed. Before that, vertical electric wall furnace. Before that, the crossroads of hallways. Before that, it stretched from the kitchen to the back corner of the garage. Before that, the landing. Before that, another landing. Before that, in between two extra-long twin beds. Before that, the laundry room my mom designed herself. Take it back. First, it was wherever my dog slept, and whatever spot of summer sun my cat could find, the raspberries in full stock in July, the view over the back fence to the gorge foothills to the south, the hometree outside my window. Then, the rooftop next door. Then, half the second floor. Then, my bed. Then, my other bed. Then, the whole place, to ourselves. Ours. Then, our room. Then, the living room. Another ours. Then, three-hundred square feet of mine. Now, it's every west-facing window. Back. Rinsing raspberries in the sink. Wisteria hanging over the front porch. Chirps from the birdfeeder. Love across the hall. Your sigh against my collarbone. A balance between two. Blossoms on a tree in the front. The greenery all around. Walking to rehearsal because we could. My own, I could breathe. It smelled like tall ceilings could allow for more dust to float around. Now, the rose gold bulb, and the promise of shining blues and open doors leading to who knows where. In it all, the sun the sun the sun my love, the sun
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disheveledfemme · 22 hours ago
All I want is to tell him
he will get to see his grandma again
without the fear of becoming a liar.
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theotherpages · 23 hours ago
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National Poetry Month Number 17 - Melissa Balmain - Love Poem
You can listen to the podcast version of today’s article on Spotify, ITunes, Anchor, Breaker, or Google Podcasts. Click Here to access links. ( Look for the podcast titled National Poetry Month at the Other Pages.
Welcome to National Poetry Month at The Other Pages. My name is Steve Spanoudis and I curate the series each year, with help and contributions from Bob Blair, Kashiana Singh, and (Nelson) Howard Miller. I’m coming to you from Coral Springs, Florida, on the eastern edge of the Everglades.
Did I mention that we haven’t talked about love poems much in this series? We still aren’t there, but at least we have the title this time. Love Poem by Melissa Balmain is light verse-ish. What is light verse? Great question. There is no real definition. In general, it's an ironic, sometimes humorous treatment of a subject or a person, written more to entertain than to probe deeply into a concept. It’s often observational, and as with today’s poem, slightly skewed logic and comparisons are common. In some cases, it might be thought of as what a meme might have sounded like before the internet.
First, a quick comment about the poet. Melissa Balmain is a poet, journalist, humorist and teacher. She’s the editor of a journal of light verse, titled, logically enough, Light ( and teaches at the University of Rochester.
Getting back to the poem, what struck me was not the poetic techniques, or novel vocabulary, or unusual insight, but the fact that light verse, and the ironic or sardonic or sarcastic tone it often takes, is a wonderful vehicle for stating the obvious. Or at least, what should be obvious.
I am an Engineer by day (novelist and editor by night) so my normal inclination when anything isn't working, is to fix it. My wife gets annoyed with me sometimes, for taking something the neighbors threw out, lugging it home, and making it look like new again, or making it into something completely different, but useful. I was always a fan of Charles Dutton as garbage collector Roc Emerson, turning castaway items into a well-equipped, if miss-matched home.
Melissa Balmain looks into this idea, with the view that, if we can make something look so good, why give it up?
Her Love Poem starts out:
The afternoon we left our first apartment,
we scrubbed it down from ceiling to parquet.
Who knew the place could smell like lemon muffins?
It suddenly seemed nuts to move away.
She takes that idea, and revisits the logic through several examples - a common technique in light verse - including fixing up a car, and tuning a piano, and then focuses her attention on human relationships:
So if, God help us, we are ever tempted
to ditch our marriage when it’s lost its glow,
let’s give the thing our finest spit and polish—
and, having learned our lesson, not let go.
A person after my own heart in many respects. So that is a quick walk through light verse by a master of the art. You can learn more about Melissa Balmain at her website,, and follow her on facebook, The full text of this poem is available at the Poetry Foundation:
Once again this is Steve Spanoudis for
Thank you for Listening. If you’re enjoying these commentaries, and the poem selections, please share them - either the text versions or the podcasts - on social media.
You can find more at, or at The Other Pages on Facebook or Tumblr.
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aghostamongus · a day ago
The sun struck perfectly from behind you, lighting you up like one of the ancients
You took my breath away, and all I could see was stars
Before I opened my eyes to the asphalt
When my rage wanted to make its appearance, when my white-hot tongue wanted to strike
Your light blinded me, your beauty humbled me
I heard music when I looked at you, music that I knew already
Music that meant home
Truly, I’ve never believed in love at first sight
Truly, I’ve barely believed in love at all
There’s just, something about you, something wonderful
Something calm
You took me to an empty museum, we screamed ourselves raw of our anger
In a hall of gorgeous art, beautiful statues, virtually priceless antiquities
And yet, my love, I have eyes only for you
And there, your hand gripped in mine, is when I knew
Something troubles you, darling
Something’s aching at your soul
Something wicked, something evil has a hold
I’ll give you the key, guide you from the afterlife
I am not Orpheus, you have my every faith
I promise not to look back, Eurydice
And, when we reach the land of the living once again, I promise to take you home
NaPoWriMo, 18/04/2021
Prompt: Asphalt
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prasannawrites · a day ago
something saccharine.
you are laden with light – lambent like morning skies. your words pour over me like a ladleful of honey; a poor man’s straitjacket. i marinate in your verses thinking of the world we know and the words we have come to know –
like y/our name as agathokakological it is, spurs something otherworldly in me.  
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manyasaxenawrites · a day ago
19. Questions unanswered
In the quest of knowing and not
knowing, the remembering is
what baffles me profusely.
For I shall never know
what it holds for me
and what it holds
my solemn
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A Chance Meeting
fandoms: supernatural and good omens
pairings: destiel and ineffable husbands
One sip of tea poured from Aziraphale’s china teapot and Cas feels… lighter. He looks at the other angel, narrowing his eyes.
Did you–
Oh, just a little… Aziraphale waggles his fingers. You’ve given a lot for your human there. Just thought you could use a little pick-me-up. His nose crinkles when he smiles.
He’s given a lot for me. And anything I’ve lost… well, he’s always been worth it. Cas watches Dean through the rose-colored glass of the bookshop window.
Aziraphale smiles again. I can see it, he says. You’re connected. It’s rather lovely.
Cas gestures through the window. And your… He lets the sentence trail off, unsure.
My demon? Aziraphale’s laugh is like a bell. Yes, well, it doesn’t make much sense, does it. But Crowley and I have been friends since the Garden, and over the millenia love just… bloomed. And also we saved the world together, which, ah, fuels a relationship.
Sounds vaguely familiar. Cas doesn’t even try to hide his smile.
They sit quietly for a time, sipping tea, watching Dean and Crowley bluster and swagger about their automobiles.
He seems like a nice enough demon.
Aziraphale nearly chokes on his tea. Oh he is! But don’t let him hear you say that. He’s rather touchy, thinks it’s bad for his reputation.
So Cas just watches Dean try (and fail) to not flirt with the demon, enjoys being in the presence of an actually pleasant angel, drinks the miracle tea that seems to be healing his wings.
NaPoWriMo day 16 || destiel and ineffable husbands and "castiel and aziraphale discuss their love of certain bad boys over a lovely cup of tea"
for @tanstaaflz
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prasannawrites · a day ago
thoughts stripped bare by a callous salt-wind break the resin i casted your elegy in –
with you, the line between dream and nightmare is blurred.
there are a thicket of words i've planted on pages in your honour but they are better left unsaid – the swirling winds do not know this.
i do not know how to balm this storm of deep yearning –
i don’t know how. i don’t.
all i know is you, in your entirety,
and that’s enough.
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mortalghost · a day ago
We can dance around the fantasies
That the moon will light the way.
Living our own eulogies
As mirrored light shines upon our bodies.
Fairy tales give writhing swells
To nurtured hearts swimming in a midnight melody.
While a witch's spell casts the scene
Of moonlit stories sung for lovers by wanting fools.
Some pray for darkness.
Some wait for dawn.
But love is not lost on lovelorn lovers lovingly loved by loving lovely tones.
While different phases bring the faces of prying places to enamore the soul.
Heartbeats soar, forevermore, while craving scores of undying dreams and tranquility.
The sun will rise, the wind will call, sing your songs, and let the moon glisten down its praise.
Get lost in the rhythm of the ticking clock while the madness of your lips is highlighted by majesty.
Hold each other through the years, as you live your life through this magic memory.
-H. Murcia 3:58 PM 4/18/2021
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prasannawrites · a day ago
another take on april.
spring is in mid-blossom, taking its time to gather the strength to unfurl its leaves and flowers and i am left, each day – scouring the ground for new hope, lamenting the dying of light that abates the new growth, maybe i took the clippings too early, before they had their turn in their sun, it’ll explain us –
something half-alive, searching for water and warmth and coming up with the bare minimum -
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