April Fourteenth: NaPoWriMo: Suspended In

Today’s (optional) prompt asks you to write a poem of at least ten lines in which each line begins with the same word (e.g., “Because,” “Forget,” “Not,” “If”). This technique of beginning multiple lines with the same word or phrase is called anaphora, and has long been used to give poems a driving rhythm and/or a sense of puzzlebox mystery. To give you more context, here’s an essay by Rebecca Hazelton on her students’ “adventures in anaphora,” and a contemporary poem that uses anaphora to great effect: Layli Long Soldier’s “Whereas.”

Suspended in time, a moment escaped,
Suspended in space, a dream folded,
Suspended in thoughts, a journey concluded,
Suspended in whispers, secrets concealed,
Suspended in laughter, echoes hushed,
Suspended in tears, emotions retained,
Suspended in silence, truths recoiled,
Suspended in hope, a future ignored,
Suspended in love, hearts disentangled,
Suspended in grace, a universe forgotten.

- Oizys.

April Thirteenth: NaPoWriMo: World of Wonder

Finally, our optional prompt for the day asks you to play with rhyme. Start by creating a “word bank” of ten simple words. They should only have one or two syllables apiece. Five should correspond to each of the five senses (i.e., one word that is a thing you can see, one word that is a type of sound, one word that is a thing you can taste, etc). Three more should be concrete nouns of whatever character you choose (i.e., “bridge,” “sun,” “airplane,” “cat”), and the last two should be verbs. Now, come up with rhymes for each of your ten words. (If you’re having trouble coming up with rhymes, the wonderful Rhymezone is at your service). Use your expanded word-bank, with rhymes, as the seeds for your poem. Your effort doesn’t actually have to rhyme in the sense of having each line end with a rhymed word, but try to use as much soundplay in your poem as possible.

1. Word Bank:

See: hole (in flour)
Sound: creak (slow heavy footsteps on cracking wood)
Taste: luscious (figs)
Touch: bed
Smell: acrid (burning dust)
Noun: book
Noun: ticker
Noun: chair
Verb: peel
Verb: sniff

2. Rhymes:

Hole: pole, stroll (pole in shower, stroll in bower)
Creak: peak, leek
Luscious: piceous,
Bed: bread, red
Acrid: kid, vivid
Book: look, hook
Ticker: liquor, bicker
Chair: bear, mare
Peel: conceal, reveal
Sniff: cliff, adrift

3. Seed Poem:

In a quaint old cottage nestled in the woods,
A hole in the flour, a sight for the scullery absurd,
The sound of slow heavy footsteps creaking on cracking wood,
understood, undeterred?

The taste of luscious figs, a delight to savor,
The touch of a soft bed, inviting and warm,
The acrid smell of burning dust, no favor
But still, in this place, there’s a certain flavour.

A book on the shelf, waiting to be read,
A ticker that ticks with a steady beat,
A chair by the fire, where thoughts are fed,
Peeling away layers, revealing something dread.

I sit and I sniff the air so unclear,
Wisting place of peace, with nothing to fear.

As I stroll through the bower, with a pole in hand,
I hear the creak of the trees, like a grind band,
The earthy scent of pine, like piceous and truth,
I reach for a moment, and gaseous, a muse come to.

On a bed of soft red, I rest my weary head,
The acrid smell of the fire, like a mare's comfort in dread,
I pick up the book, to escape from the din,
And lose myself in words, a world within.

The ticker on the wall, keeping time steady,
As I sit in my chair, thoughts running ready,
I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s inside,
A world of wonder, where hearts can confide.

I sniff the air, so sweet and divine,
In this place of solace, where all is fine.

The peak of the mountain, so high and steep,
A creak from the branches, where secrets keep,
The juicy dream of victory, so vivid and psyche,
I reach for the stars, in the dead of the night.

On a bread of today, I lay my tired soul,
The acrid smell of success, making me toll,
I look to the future, with hope and with sneer,
And relent the unknown, even with so fear.

The liquor in the glass, a taste of good plight,
As I sit in my chair, surrounded by piceous light,
I bicker and banter, with figments so dear,
As we laugh and we love, with nothing to fear.

I peel back the layers, and reveal what’s within,
A heart full of love, a soul free from sin.

In some world of wonder, where dreams take flight,
I sit by the cliff, staring into the night,
The sweet scent of freedom, so clear and adrift,
I close my eyes, and let my spirits lift.

So let me go on with all that's pure and right,
While dreams fall from sight, in the dead of night.

- Oizys.

April Twelfth: NaPoWriMo: The Tall Tale Teller

And last but not least, our optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that plays with the idea of a “tall tale.” American tall tales feature larger-than-life characters like Paul Bunyan (who is literally larger than life), Bulltop Stormalong (also gigantic), and Pecos Bill (apparently normal-sized, but he doesn’t let it slow him down). If you’d like to see a modern poetic take on the tall tale, try Jennifer L. Knox’s hilarious poem, “Burt Reynolds FAQ.” Your poem can revolve around a mythical character, one you make up entirely, or add fantastical elements into a real person’s biography.

In the cusp of a forgotten woods,
Where the shadows leered ancient secrets,
There lived a man of colossal stature,
Known far and wide as the Tall Tale Teller.

His origins shrouded in mystery,
Some said he was born from the murmurs of the wind,
Others claimed he was a lost prince turned hermit,
But all agreed he was a figure of wonder and wrath.

His limbs stretched like ancient trees,
His voice a deep rumble like thunder in the night,
And his eyes, oh his eyes, held the wisdom of ages past,
Glistening like ancient treasurebox in the darkness.

The Tall Tale Teller wandered the land,
Spreading his stories like seeds in fertile soil,
Each tale more fantastical than the last,
Each word a spell that captivated the listener's soul.

He spoke of dragons that danced in the sky,
Of mermaids who sang siren songs to lost sailors,
Of forests that whispered secrets to those who dared listen,
And of a world beyond our own, where magic and wonder reign supreme.

But beneath the grandeur of his tales,
Lurked a sadness that clung like mist to his every word,
For the Tall Tale Teller knew the weight of solitude,
The burden of being a myth in a world of cold reality.

He longed for connection, for a kindred spirit,
Someone who would listen not just to his stories,
But to the cries of his heart that whispered in the night,
A companion to share the burden of his loneliness.

And so he wandered, ever searching,
Through valleys and mountains, forests and seas,
Hoping to find that elusive soul who would see beyond the tall tales,
And into the heart of the man who spun them.

But as the years passed and the seasons changed,
The Tall Tale Teller's steps grew weary,
His voice grew hoarse from the weight of his stories,
And his eyes dimmed with the sorrow of unfulfilled longing.

Yet still he wandered, for to stop would be to lose himself,
To forget the magic that danced in his words,
To silence the stories that were his only solace,
And so he walked, a solitary figure in a world of noise and chaos.

And though his heart may ache with the weight of his solitude,
The Tall Tale Teller never gave in to despair,
For in his stories he found an affirmation to survive,
A connection to something greater than himself.

And so he roamed the land until the end of days,
A living legend, a myth made flesh,
A reminder that even in the darkest of nights,
A single voice can light the way to a brighter tomorrow.

- Oizys.

April Eleventh: NaPoWriMo: One-Liners

Finally, our optional prompt for the day honors the “ones” in the number 11. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write either a monostich, which is a one-line poem, or a poem made up of one-liner style jokes/sentiments. Need inspiration? Take a look at Joe Brainard’s poem “30 One-Liners” or Frank O’Hara’s “Lines for the Fortune Cookies.”

One-liners and poetry. Wow. Normally, I am an extremist when it comes to words. It's either throttling silence or a logorrheic dumpyard. I will use this ricocheting behavior to further this prompt.

Finding the balance between silence and speech,
A tightrope walk on the edge of expression's reach.

- Oizys.

I think I will use this post as a junkyard to post all one-liners that crosses my mind or I come across. I feel like it's a fun idea! A digital scrapyard of wit and whimsy.

April Ninth: NaPoWriMo: An Ode to My Kitchen Knife: The Blunted Blade

Our prompt for today (optional, as always) takes its inspiration from Pablo Neruda, the Chilean-born poet and Nobel Prize Winner. While he is most famous in the English-speaking world for his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, he also wrote more than two hundred odes, and had a penchant for writing sometimes-long poems of appreciation for very common or mundane things. You can read English translations of “Ode to the Dictionary” at the bottom of this page, “Ode to My Socks” here, and “Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market” here.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own ode celebrating an everyday object.

I pick: Kitchen Knife.

In the quiet hum of everyday life's refrain,
We find solace in the mundane's gentle reign,
A kitchen knife, once sharp and keen,
Now dulled by time, yet steadfast, serene.

Within my kitchen's heart, it resides,
A loyal companion, where memories abide.
Each day it dances, slicing with grace,
An unspoken artist in its sacred space.

But as the years weave their silent song,
Its edge, once sharp, starts to belong
To a realm of weariness, a journey trod,
Like a traveler weathered by time's façade.

Oh, kitchen knife, bearer of tales untold,
Your bluntness echoes life's stories, bold.
With every cut, a piece of edge lost,
A reflection of the paths we've crossed.

Your worn handle, a testament true,
To the hands that wield, the tasks they pursue.
Each scar on your blade, a narrative unfurled,
Of flavors savored, of a world twirled.

Let's raise a toast to this humble guide,
Nurturer of flavors, in you we confide.
Though your edge may wane, your spirit's song,
Like poetry, timeless, forever strong.

O kitchen knife, dulled yet bright,
A symbol of resilience in fading light,
Your bluntness mirrors life's refrain,
A reminder of strength amidst the mundane.

In your sheath, you rest, serene and still,
Awaiting the touch that ignites the thrill,
Of slicing through doubts, fears, and woe,
To find solace in the ebb and flow.

So here's to you, companion dear,
In your bluntness, life's echoes clear.
For in your dulled edge, we find our own,
A testament to how we've grown.

- Oizys.

April Eight: NaPoWriMo: Forbidden Encounter — Lovemoth

Finally, our (optional) prompt for the day takes its inspiration from Laura Foley’s poem “Year End.” Today, we challenge you to write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.

In the tapestry of fate’s cruel design,
A love story shrouded in darkness and dread,
In the depths of a forsaken land,
Where shadows dance in wicked delight,
Two souls entwined where none should align,
A tragic tale that Fatewrathius had silently led,
An impossible union in the dead of night.

Through hatred's veil and heartache's coughs,
They journeyed together on paths mostly known to woe,
Their worlds collide with a deafening clash,
Adulthood facing off against innocence pure,
In a world where love was forbidden to grow,
Their essence intertwined in a cruel, dark flash,
Their bond tested by Chaosmorpher's icy throne.

But even amidst the darkness deep,
A flicker of hope began to ignite,
One bore the mark of chaos and despair,
Other radiated shiny cun untouched by time,
In their arms, secrets found their keep,
As they embraced in defiance of night.

So let them whisper tales untold,
Of a love that defied all laws set by man,
One pair eyes held the depth of human pain,
While the other sparkled with untold mare's nest bright,
In a realm where darkness controlled,
Their forbidden encounter forever began.

The air crackled with tension as they drew near,
A collision of desires echoing through the void,
In this twisted waltz, where danger was clear,
Their hearts intertwined but forever annoyed.

- Oizys.

After writing this, I remembered this quote I had saved long time ago:   

I write about love like I know it so well, but to be honest, love and I have never officially met. (source: secretlywanderlust)

April Seventh: NaPoWriMo: Wish You Were Here

And last but not least, we’re taking it easy with today’s (optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem titled “Wish You Were Here” that takes its inspiration from the idea of a postcard. Consistent with the abbreviated format of a postcard, your poem should be short, and should play with the idea of travel, distance, or sightseeing. If you’re having trouble getting started, perhaps you’ll find some inspiration in these images of vintage postcards.

Wish you were here,
Amidst this tranquil scene.

The air is crisp and fresh,
Filled with the sweet scent of pine,
And the sound of birdsong.

The lake, so secluded,
Its glassy surface, reflective,
Shimmering in the sunlight.

The surrounding woods,
The canopy cradling heaven,
Casting long shadows across the water.

The verdant valley,
Grabs your neck to take a pause,
And inhale the moment.

The lush greenery,
Washing over peace and serenity,
Cleansing itself all over you.

The mountains stand tall,
Jagged peaks piercing the sky,
Sheltering serenity upon your soul.

The crystal-clear rivers with gentle currents,
Meander through your feet,
While reflecting the azure sky above.

The warmth of the sunlight,
Filtering through the leaves,
Deepening the stirrings in the soul.

The gentle rustle of the breeze,
Slapping your face,
As the evening blurs.

I write to you from a distant shore,
Where nature's embrace feels like a dream.

And, with each passing vista,
I find myself missing you, more than you know.

Do you remember the days of yore?
When we'd yearn for adventure under the sky?

Now as I wander, my heart holds dear,
The memories of us, together, near.

Yet as I scribble these lines so clear,
I realize it's not just you I hold dear.

For in every journey, in each unknown place,
I'm writing to the person I used to chase.

I randomly came across this post where this person suggests they write a letter to themselves, from every where they travel to! And, this inspired me to craft this poem. Also, here's another postcard treat for any reader here.

I made a postcard on Canva and the last four couplets to it. Let me know if you all like it.

- Oizys.

An edited version where the above piece is broken into two separated poems as suggested by Elizabeth Boquet (use the 9 tercets as a poem alone, and use the rest in a separate poem.)

Part 1: Premise - Prelude to Paradise

The air is crisp and fresh,
Filled with the sweet scent of pine,
And the sound of birdsong.

The lake, so secluded,
Its glassy surface, reflective,
Shimmering in the sunlight.

The surrounding woods,
The canopy cradling heaven,
Casting long shadows across the water.

The verdant valley,
Grabs your neck to take a pause,
And inhale the moment.

The lush greenery,
Washing over peace and serenity,
Cleansing itself all over you.

The mountains stand tall,
Jagged peaks piercing the sky,
Sheltering serenity upon your soul.

The crystal-clear rivers with gentle currents,
Meander through your feet,
While reflecting the azure sky above.

The warmth of the sunlight,
Filtering through the leaves,
Deepening the stirrings in the soul.

The gentle rustle of the breeze,
Slapping your face,
As the evening blurs.

Part 2: Postcard - Ponderings to P.

I write to you from a distant shore,
Where nature's embrace feels like a dream.

And, with each passing vista,
I find myself missing you, more than you know.

Do you remember the days of yore?
When we'd yearn for adventure under the sky?

Now as I wander, my heart holds dear,
The memories of us, together, near.

Yet as I scribble these lines so clear,
I realize it's not just you I hold dear.

For in every journey, in each unknown place,
I'm writing to the person I used to chase.

- Oizys.

April Sixth: NaPoWriMo: Wisdom in the Weird?

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today’s we’d like to challenge you to write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” by which we mean something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since. Need an example? Check out Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Making a Fist.”

Moments of failure feel
Like reality stumbling onto me,
While the world moves forward
And I shuffle into my past.
They creep into my hands slowly,
And burst inside my mouth suddenly.
My fingers shiver and cramp,
My mouth foaming with desperation.
My knuckles cringe,
My throat shuts.
Ungrappled opportunities slip from my shaking hand,
Self-doubt and the weight of will melt bitterly on my tongue.
Weak fingers stroke a weak throat.
I try to remember the prayer, but it is too foggy.
I try to recall the words of wisdom, but they are too woolly.
What was it..?
Ignorance is bliss?

- Oizys.

April Fifth: NaPoWriMo: The Lament of the Spatula, the Notebook, the Ice Pick

Now, let’s get to our optional prompt! Today we’d like you to start by taking a look at Alicia Ostriker’s poem, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog.” Now try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio very different things would perceive of a blessing or, alternatively, how these very different things would think of something else (luck, grief, happiness, etc).

Today's prompt's inspiration was taken from my kitchen. Three objects I saw. Stirring tale of kitchen mementos.

In the dimly lit kitchen,
Where shadows scratch walls
Like memories seeking solace of past,
A lone figure stands amidst the remnants of fading will.

The spatula rests awkwardly against the worn countertop,
Its once gleaming surface,
Now dulled by the weight of countless meals prepared with obligation and desperation.
Its edges, once sharp and precise,
Now bear the scars of battles fought
And lost in the relentless war against time and helplessness.

Beside it lies the notebook,
Its pages yellowed with age and turmeric,
And fragile with the weight of recurrent stories and forgotten dreams.
Each scribble upon its surface whispers of hopes dashed and aspirations undone,
A silent evidence to the cruelty of time and the frailty of human existence.
Within its weathered confines lie the echoes of a soul laid bare,
Seeking solace amidst the chaos of life's relentless march.

And then there is the ice pick,
A cruel reminder of the chill that grips the heart in moments of despair.
Its jagged edges glint in the faint light,
A stark contrast to the warmth that once filled this sacred space.
In its cold embrace lies the promise of oblivion, 
A fleeting respite from the pain that threatens to consume all that remains.

As she stands amidst these relics of a kichten left behind, 
A sense of longing washes over her like a wave crashing upon the shore.
Memories swirl around her like ghosts in the night,
Whispering secrets long forgotten and truths carved open.
In this quiet moment of reflection,
She finds herself lost amidst the fragments of a past she can never transpose,
Yearning for a sense that now eludes her grasp.

And so she sits down,
Trapped between the echoes of what once was
And the harsh reality of what is to come,
her heart heavy with the weight of a hundred sorrows.
In this fleeting moment of rotting sadness and choking nostalgia,
She finds herself longing for the warmth of the sun upon her skin,
And the promise of a different dawn on the horizon.

But for now,
She remains rooted in the darkness,
Haunted by the ghosts of past inactions and piercing regret,
The vivid banality and throttling certainty of what lies ahead.

- Oizys.

April Fourth: NaPoWriMo: The Whisper of the Dancing Forest

Our (optional) prompt for the day challenges you to write a poem in which you take your title or some language/ideas from The Strangest Things in the World. First published in 1958, the book gives shortish descriptions of odd natural phenomena, and is notable for both its author’s turn of phrase and intermittently dubious facts. Perhaps you will be inspired by the “The Self-Perpetuating Sponge” or “The World’s Biggest Sneeze.” Or maybe the quirky descriptions of luminous plants, monstrous bears, or the language of ravens will give you inspiration.

In the depths of Russia, where whispers roam,
Where trees sway and spirits find their home,
There lies a place of mystic lore,
Where the dance of the forest does adore.

A phenomenon, strange and true,
Where trees waltz in a mystical brew,
Their roots intertwined in a rhythmic trance,
In a dance that defies all earthly stance.

The Dancing Forest, they call it so,
Where the ground beneath seems to glow,
As if the earth itself joins the fray,
In this waltz that lasts night and day.

No one knows why they dance so grand,
In a land where nature's hand
Paints wonders beyond human ken,
In the secret glades of this hidden den.

Some say it's the spirits of old,
Tales from folklore, mysteries untold,
Guiding the trees in their graceful glide,
As they dance with the wind, side by side.

Others claim it's the earth's own song,
A melody ancient, profound, and long,
Echoing through the roots and leaves,
As the forest whirls and weaves.

But whatever the reason, it remains unknown,
In the heart of the forest, where secrets are sown,
Where the dance of the Dancing Forest unfurls,
In a symphony of nature, for the world to behold.

The idea I took from "The Strangest Things in the World" is the phenomenon known as the Dancing Forest, which is said to exist in Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia. This strange natural occurrence involves a forest where the trees appear to be dancing due to their uniquely twisted and contorted shapes. While the exact cause of this phenomenon remains unknown, it is believed to be a combination of environmental factors such as wind patterns, soil composition, and possibly even the presence of underlying permafrost.

I chose this idea because it intrigued me about the mysterious and enchanting qualities often found in nature's oddities. The notion of a forest where trees seem to come alive and dance captured my imagination and created a huge scope of speculation about the hidden forces at play in the natural world. A great playground to fool around with imagery, metaphor and symbolism that lends itself well to my poetic exploration.

- Oizys.

April Third: NaPoWriMo: Liminal Labyrinth

Last but not least, here’s our prompt for the day – optional, as always. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a surreal prose poem. For inspiration, check out Franz Kafka’s collection of short parables (my favorite is “The Green Dragon”).

In the murky depths of twilight, where shadows dance with whispers, there exists a place unseen by mortal eyes. Here, in the realm of surreal whimsy, reality takes a curious turn, twisting and contorting like vines in a forgotten garden.

In this ethereal landscape, the moon hangs low, casting a pale glow upon the shifting sands of time. Creatures of myth and madness frolic in the moonlight, their forms ever-shifting and elusive to the grasp of understanding.

Behold, the sky is a canvas painted with dreams, where stars streak and swirl in intricate patterns known only to the cosmic weavers. Constellations morph and merge, telling tales of ancient gods and long-forgotten destinies.

Amidst the chaos, a lone figure wanders, a pilgrim in this land of phantoms. Their footsteps echo softly against the fabric of reality, leaving behind a trail of echoes that fade into the ether.

They traverse through forests of whispers, where trees murmur secrets in a language long forgotten by mortal tongues. Each leaf rustles with the breath of forgotten memories, a symphony of echoes from distant realms.

As the journey unfolds, the boundaries of time and space blur, merging into a singular, kaleidoscopic tapestry of existence. Past, present, and future converge in a cosmic dance, swirling together in an infinite loop of creation and destruction.

And so, in this surreal symphony of chaos and wonder, the pilgrim wanders on, ever-seeking, ever-searching for meaning amidst the madness. For in this realm of dreams and shadows, truth lies not in the answers, but in the questions that linger, unanswered, in the depths of the soul.

- Oizys.

April Second: NaPoWriMo: Echoes of Shared Laughter Across Life's Distance

Finally, here’s today’s optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a platonic love poem. In other words, a poem not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love – your love for your sister, or a friend, or even your love for a really good Chicago deep dish pizza. The poem should be written directly to the object of your affections (like a letter is written to “you”), and should describe at least three memories of you engaging with that person/thing.

Remember how we'd laugh until tears streamed down our faces?
In the library, stifling giggles as we tried to study.
Late-night messages turned into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

You were my rock during those before-exam study-session jitters.
Your encouraging words pulling me through some of my toughest days.
That time you stayed up with me, helping me mend my will to continue.

Exploring the city streets, getting lost but finding our way back together.
All those music, all the talks about life under the glow of streetlights.
Walking that long path, pushing each other to keep going, reaching the summit together.

But life split us into different paths,
And now the echoes of our laughter seem distant,
Yet, your friendship remains etched in my heart,
Lingering nostalgia of our inseparable times has grown into a new organ in me.

- Oizys.
 

April First: NaPoWriMo: Lost in Vine's Lament

And now for our daily (and totally optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.

In the shadow of the withering leaves of castor,
He sat with the grief of his father,
But for the city of God, he had a pit in his heart,
Indifferent to its fate, he chose to depart.

A worm creeps in slowly,
Attracted to the rot inside his heart,
Feasting on his bitterness and disdain,
As his indifference splits apart.

The loss of the sheltering vine,
And the anger of his father for his loss,
Yet, there was no sting of remorse,
But, only a distant look for the withering plant.

For in the crumbling of his indifference,
As the worm gnaws at his calloused soul,
Scavenging the possibility of making whole.
But all that seeped out was the wish to flee.

I read this book long time ago and it stayed with me. Recently, while reading a poem, it ignited the memories of the former book and that made me pen this poem to honor it. Can you guess which beloved book inspired this poetic retelling? Let your imagination wander through the verses and see if you can uncover the title hidden within the lines.

- Oizys.

March Thirty-First: NaPoWriMo: Cage — Behind the Bars of Time

We’ll be back tomorrow with our first daily featured participant and resource, along with a prompt. But for now, and to help out all of you for whom April 1 comes a bit earlier than it does to Na/GloPoWriMo’s secret headquarters (yes, our lair is built into a volcano), here’s an early-bird prompt: Pick a word from the list below. Then write a poem titled either “A [your word]” or “The [your word]” in which you explore the meaning of the word, or some memory you have of it, as if you were writing an illustrative/alternative definition.

Cage, Ocean, Time, Cedar, Window, Sword, Flute.

I cannot believe I am doing this again this year. After last year's miserable attempt and getting my site removed from the Participants’ Sites due to sheer embarrassment, and then getting it added again this year moments before starting the response for this early-bird prompt for reasons I cannot psychologically concoct right now:

I will probably not post this link in the comments. So, I am choosing the word "Cage." Could it be any more obvious? (I mean, I highlighted it above; that's why...)

In a world where time dances with shadows.
There dwells a bird in a cage of illusion.
Trapped in a cycle of self-doubt's spell within the bars of fate.
Marinated in procrastination's fear,
Its wings, once vibrant with the colors of dawn,
Now wilted, tangled by the ego's sneer.

Each day, the sun rises in a golden blaze.
But for this bird, the dawn is but a distant memory.
It believes it has all the time to spare,
Confident it can step out whenever it dare.
Its cage a prison of perpetual lateness,
A cruel symphony of missed opportunities and regret.

Crispy wind blurries the day into evenings.
Oh, how the bird longs to soar through the skies.
To feel the wind beneath its weary wings,
To embrace the freedom that beckons from beyond.
As it finally moves to take flight,
Reality's wind slaps with all its might.

The world outside moves with purpose and grace.
For time waits for no feathered friend,
While the bird languishes in the sauce of its own making.
Its cage, a silent witness to the passage of time,
a reminder of all that could have been, but never was.
And the moment of freedom finds its end.

The world spins on without it.
Late to emerge from its self-made prison,
The bird learns the hard lesson of time's precision.
As it mourns what could have been fair,
A symphony of regret fills the air.
Soaring dreams now shattered on the ground.

Forever late to the dance of life,
In the cage of hindsight, the bird is bound.

- Oizys.

April 8th, UPDATE: After marinating this piece with self-doubt, procrastination and ego of having all the time in the world, I am posting the link to my response to this early (but, actually, super late..) prompt hoping no one will discover this humiliating chronicle of tardiness.