- Author
- 04/30/2018
- 361 Words
- 986 Views
- 14 Comments
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
April Weather: NaPoWriMo2018 - 5. April 29 through April 31
April 29
Are there
too few hewn stones,
not enough acreage
devoted to burial and
mourning?
Is rage
assuaged adding to the total,
or injustice righted
by the thrill of
killing?
Join hands
with your neighbor,
bind brother and sister
together to withstand deadly
discord;
recall
the voices raised in harmony,
each in its own part, yet
singing one song
of love.
April 30
I can’t wear red,
not while the daffodils bloom bright
and ducks are led
in ever smaller circles tight
to avian discreet delight.
Yet they take flight
when unknown footsteps stray too near
to passion blight,
while they their winged paths will veer
to other waters wild and clear.
Not blue, my dear,
for only those whose breath must fail
wear that, I fear;
and just once more would I inhale
the scent of lilacs in the vale;
Still I must quail,
for every heart against me turns
to tell a tale
which sets my face aflame and burns
dark shame which my seared spirit learns.
So white it spurns
as artificial, falsely pure,
for one who yearns
to taste forbidden love’s allure
and customary rules abjure.
I must unmoor
and sail another sea instead,
unclothed, unsure,
with every color ‘neath me spread,
confronting my most secret dread.
April 31
What could be better
than morsels of cheddar?
Possibly free
samples of Brie.
Surely Manchego
made Verdi say “prego;”
though nibbling on stilton
was good for John Milton,
and Toulouse Lautrec
gormandized Pont l’Évêque.
I heard that Zhivago
enjoyed Asiago;
Tchaikovsky liked chevre
consumed alla breve,
while both brothers Mehta
like dishes with Feta.
Monet was in thrall
to well aged Emmental;
baroque Buxtehude
was fond of smoked Gouda,
but Elgar went pale
at fine Wensleydale.
Now Beat Kerouac
needed Monterey Jack;
surprising Vermeer
took to eating Paneer,
as Charles Baudelaire
supped on ripe Camembert.
They say Thomas Hardy
relished Havarti,
and Parmesan cheese
brought Proust to his knees,
but Danish blue Saga
made ladies go gaga.
But you are far sweeter
than squares of Velveeta,
for you make me moan
more than aged Provolone.
To you, dear reader, I bow low; for by now you surely know just how cheesy I can be in my lines of poetry. Leave a comment if you like, and hope you enjoyed a bonus day of April.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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