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.