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National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 30 and last: Imping Along

April 30, 2026
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The Good Guys have Jiminy Crickets

The Bad have Imps of the Perverse

And have us subverting

Binge-eating and blurting

Some filterless joke or a curse

The Imp on my shoulder suggested

I make fun of Andy Devine

So straight to the Kremlin

Went Froggy the Gremlin

And gave Comrade Khrushchev a spine

The Imp trips me up on the sidewalk

With a crack of an eighth of an inch

When my saddle fell off

With the modestest cough

The Imp told me “That was a Cinch”

And now Imps sit pretty in Congress

And havoc is wreaked in the Senate

The Head Imp and Pesk

At the Resolute Desk

Flips my swi

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 29: unsame arm

April 29, 2026
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Author’s arm, 29 April 2026

unsame arm

at 8 years of age

it lay on the slanted top of a 3rd-grade desk

and its owner stared at it

wanted to remember it for the future

it was hairless satiny smooth

had a hand with stubby fingers

at 12 an allergist’s nurse made tiny wounds on it

in two rows

and painted the wounds with different stuffs

to test his allergic reactions

and strawberries cat dander and brazil nuts blazed

at 26 he did industrial deliveries

in a beat-up blue ford pickup truck

and he liked to drive with the window down

and rest his arm on the window ledge

and let it fry in the desert sun

in the days before sunscreen

at 53 he pedaled his bicycle at high speed

east on the sidewalk and cobblestones

by camelback road

when at once a jeep cherokee sprang from an alley

and he squeezed the front brake before the back

sending him over the handlebars

and into s l o w m o t I o n

and in that protracted split second

he watched his forearm kiss cobblestones

and slide on them

burning off epidermis

before he could react

here and now and four months and a day

before his seventy-second birthday

the old man looks at his old arm

which like he is battered but serviceable

the road rash has slowly healed over sixteen years

with scar tissue now comprising only 20%

of the original wound

and in the 63 years since the 3rd grade

his left arm and hand has thrown hardballs and darts

embraced hundreds of friends and a dozen lovers

combed his hair from shoepolish brown

to silver-glinted grey

and molded and vesselized tons of clay

and let the clay and the lovers and friends and sun

mold him as well

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 27: Instructions to the Reader

April 27, 2026
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Instructions to the Reader

1: Prepare Your Mind

Reader, this set of stanzas will do you the most good

If you begin just having had something good

Happen. Kiss and caress a loved one, furry or smooth,

Or have a beloved snack, or remember

And tell yourself

Your favorite

Joke.

..

2: Affirm Your Worth

Read the next, italicized line out loud.

Today I am a powerful force for Good.

And, reader, you are powerful enough

To

Make

That

True!

..

3: Get Your Blood Moving

Your circulatory system saves your life daily.

It delivers oxygen; it feeds the kidneys and liver

So they can do their cleanups; it gives your brain

The lubricant of thought.

In the zone of 60 to 85 percent of your max HR

It does what it does best, and makes you better.

Make your vessels zing!

..

4: Ignite

There is something you know that I don’t,

And that is the Something in your life

That needs to be fixed or initiated or removed.

There is a baby step you can take

That may well act as spark to kindling

And flame up your involvement to make it happen.

TAKE that baby step, my friend!!

..

5: Talk To Me

I am here because I want to be a better poet.

You can help me with your criticism of my poetry

Delivered via comment

And I am eager to hear from you. I may not

Take your advice, but I will learn from it,

And, when I look at your own postings,

I will learn more about who you are.

National Poetry Month 2026, day 26: Parsing Ars Poetica

April 26, 2026
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Parsing Ars Poetica

To Rosemarie Dombrowski

Horace

Rhymes with chorus

A crowd

Thinking or singing out loud.

There are ridiculous and sublime

Ways to rhyme,

To codify oceans

Of notions,

Tracts

Of a mix of fancy and facts.

A poem need not rhyme

With every pair of lines

Or even ever

But in order to be a poem it needs to roam

Realms of thought

Skylines of rippling emotions

To yield a encrypted description

Or a wearable narrative

Or a profound or slight insight

That brightens

Or darkens

What has come before.

You want to know more?

Grow some of your own;

That will teach you.

..

Afterword: Rosemarie, first Poetry Laureate of Phoenix, once had a spoken-word event at the now-defunct Urban Beans in which she discussed the Art of Poetry.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 24: Quiet Blanket

April 24, 2026
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The quality of Quiet

Increases some places, some nights

And a nearly invisible woman found

That it could be harvested

Without being lessened. Like a seed crystal

Some of the Quiet she took in this night

As she wove her paths through the downtown

Imposed its calm pattern on her psyche

Without her taking it away.

And when, later, the punks itching for action

Saw through her invisibity and descended on her

With their Hey Baby and their Whey Ya Goin Cutie?

She took the blanket of Quiet she had grown

In her perseverant soul

And dropped it over them

And they gently crumpled to the sidewalk

And fell to sleep,

Slight smiles on their faces.

She took a knife from one, guns from two others,

And walked them to the river and dropped them in

After drawing a shallow red line across the throat

Of the knife’s former owner

To give him and his associates

Something to think about.

Then she left to find more quiet

And perhaps more disarmament.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 23: Villa Null

April 23, 2026
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Villa Null

“Those damn realtors would even try to sell you a Port-A-Potty. ‘Look, vaulted ceilings!'” Comedian, 20th Century

The car hit potholes here and there but rolled

Relentlessly beyond the edge of town

And let the landscape crinkle and unfold.

The hacienda in the distance, sold

For “pennies on the dollar,” housed a clown.

Toward that villa our conveyance rolled.

The landscape, now uncrinkled, free of fold,

Made hills on which the villa was one crown.

Since it was Sunday noon, the church bell tolled.

We topped the hill and braked. The clown unrolled

A once-red carpet, mostly gray and brown.

“Come in and welcome. You’ll be fed and skålled.”

The meal was wretched, bread unfree of mold;

The wine came from a box of no renown.

“And now to business. Have you brought the gold?”

“I have a bagful,” said my wife, “But hold

The phone. You have insulted us. I frown.

We came to buy this place, and you make bold

To act as if the deal is done. You’re cold

“Of blood and buff of oon. Annulled

We make of sketchy dealings such as this.

Reality unravels, as does bliss.

“So take your Villa Null, your spider’s kiss

And wrap it in your smile. We’re out of here.”

The clown was unperturbed. “It’s hit or miss

In this profession. How about some beer?”

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 22: Younger Self

April 22, 2026
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Right after I pulled on my underwear

And before I pulled on my undershirt

A hand came out of my chest

And another out of my back

..

And when their arms were out past the elbows

The hands grabbed my head and pushed away

And out of me came the me of 1970,

Clad in hip-hugging bell-bottoms

And a “Mr. Muscle” form-fitting T-Shirt

And rubber-soled sandals.

..

The popped-out fifteen-year-old looked at me

And yelled “AAAA!!!” in horrified surprise

“HOLY CRAP, Future Me, you are GROTESQUE!

You are so FAT! And your skin is like crepe paper!”

..

“I am 71 years old, Young Me.

I don’t like the way I look any more than you do.

But you look ridiculous yourself.

Lank, straight hair growing past your shoulders–ugh!

And LOOK at all that acne. You look diseased!”

..

He recoiled. I’d forgotten how self-conscious

And easily bruised he could be. Quickly I said, “Sorry,

Kid. On the plus side, you’re in great physical shape,

And you have your whole life ahead of you.

And that’s why I wished upon a star

That I could have a talk with you.”

..

“Aha,” said the sullen punk.

He stared at me keenly.

“Let me guess.

..

“You’ve been brooding

About all the mistakes you’ve made,

All the head-shakingly stupid choices,

And you want to do a do-over.

You want to tell me not to do those stupid things

And you want to tell me HOW

To not do those stupid things.

..

“Well, forget it. I already know.

Just a few minutes ago, when I co-occupied

Your brain, I got the straight scoop.

Failures galore! What were you THINKING?!

..

“But you do not get a do-over, Old Man.

..

“First let me tell you something you’ve forgotten.

Regrets are nothing new to us. We started regretting

When we were five years old. And we ALWAYS

Tell ourself ‘Never again!’ and we RARELY obey.

..

“Second and foremost, I am not going back

To 1970. I am not FROM 1970. I am from here and now.

I will sink right back into you when we’re done.

I am memory, wished into clarity.

..

“Third and incidentally, suppose

You did get your wish and I did go back?

You, THIS you, would CEASE TO EXIST. Because

Everything you have ever done

..

“Is essential to your existence.

Do you REALLY want your daughter

Never to have been born?”

..

I shuddered, but before I could say “No way”

Young Me stepped back into my flesh,

But before he suffused he said, firmly,

“You still have time to make all

..

“Of your most important dreams

Come true. Build. Become.”

Then he melted back, and old wisdom told me

That that child IS father to the man.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 21: Mr. Late-for-Lunch

April 21, 2026
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My birth name is Gary Wright Bowers

So when we lived on a block where another kid named Gary Turner also lived, my dad called him Gary Wrong Turner (Dad fancied himself a wag)

Family legend has it that my older brother couldn’t pronounce Gary so instead he called me Ghee-Bo (oddly, nowadays that might work the same way Scarlett Johanson is sometimes called Scar-Jo)

My mom called me “GB” all my adult life

Many of my online friends call me Clay because of a name I chose for myself on one of the early social websites (my WordPress blog is called “One with Clay, Image and Text”)

There’s a lady from work from Ethiopia who makes me feel like a multimillionaire because she calls me “Getty”

And Marty K, my friend since 1963, has an odd blend of Tourette’s and glossolalia that has compelled him to call me at least a thousand names in the course of our  62-year friendship, “Bowsie” in the early days, “Zeb” and “Bigby” and “Bongo” and “Nahblotz” more recently

Thanks to him a few of our inner circle of friends call me The Bow (rhymes with How)

And that’s fine, if inconsequential, with me

Even Mr. Late-for-Lunch would be OK–who cares?

As long as the intent is benign,

And no disrespect is intended,

We are good.

National Poetry Writing Month 2026, day 20: Unicornucopia

April 20, 2026
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Unicornucopia

I had the horn one frisky day

And risked a kiss with my brisk love

And she freed passion-fashioned play

Of magma deep and stars above.

..

A Unicorn appeared before us

And, rearing up, said “Call me Spike.

Because of you, my ten-voice chorus

Hallelujahs. Lust–they like!”

..

I blushed, but what with melanin

My flushedness was undetected;

My lass said, “Spike, you’ll do my felon in;

His privacy must be respected.”

..

“Well,  heat my hooves and call me Skippy.

Where I come from, we celebrate

Our passion. Sorry! Must be trippy

Having Spike-dude crash your gate.”

..

He bowed and from his horn came gushing

Parting gifts by baker’s dozen,

Then, pioof, was gone, and I, still blushing,

Said, “Do you know him??” “Distant cousin.”