NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 6th): Cinnamon

From NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Six: Hello all! We’re now up to six whole days of National/Global Poetry Writing Month. We hope you’re feeling satisfied with your work so far, and looking forward to what’s yet to come.

Our featured participant for today is Gloria Gonsalves, who brings us a death-metal skirt poem in response to Day 5’s notation prompt.

Today’s daily resource is the online tour section of the Louvre. Not in Paris? No problem! You can still stroll – albeit virtually – through the hallowed corridors of France’s most famous museum, checking out exhibitions on dance, puppetry, royal portraits, and more!

Today’s prompt (optional, as always) veers slightly away from our ekphrastic theme. To get started, pick a number between 1 and 10. Got your number? Okay! Now scroll down until you come to a chart. Find the row with your number. Then, write a poem describing the taste of the item in Column A, using the words that appear in that row in Column B and C. For bonus points, give your poem the title of the word that appears in Column A for your row, but don’t use that word in the poem itself.

(You can find the table in NaPoWriMo's post.)

Cinnamon

Wheeze.
it begins in the corners of memory,
where the sun once folded itself into
a brittle, golden ache.
Tongues curl like burnt paper —
heat not of flame
but the slow smirk of time.

Here:
revolutions start not with gunfire
but the hush after spice—
the tremble of a forbidden flavor
smeared across the mouths of the poor.

Wheeze.
says the child with fire in her belly.
Wheeze.
says the preacher drunk on justice.
Wheeze.
says the mural, half-banned but fully breathing
across a riot-worn wall.

Golden is not opulence—
it is defiance.
It is warmth forged from ash and aftermath,
a hunger that swells
even when the feast is gone.

Inhale it.
Burn your lungs with memory.
Sing in wheeze,
for the flavor of revolt
is never sweet,
but it lingers.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 5th): "with contempt for imported convertible sports cars" // "gradually becoming a disaster"

From NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Five: Happy Saturday, all, and Happy Day Five of Na/GloPoWrimo.

Today’s featured participant is Moonworld, where the response to Day Four’s “living with a painting” prompt brings us humor and insight in equal measure.

Our featured resource for the day is the online collection of Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. There’s much to explore here, but just to get you started, why not peruse their images of beautifully designed and varied musical instruments, ranging from a guitar shaped like the moon to a rattle in the form of a bird that is peering suspiciously at any potential wielder?

Finally, today’s (optional) prompt is inspired by musical notation, and particularly those little italicized –and often Italian – instructions you’ll find over the staves in sheet music, like con allegro or andante. First, pick a notation from the first column below. Then, pick a musical genre from the second column. Finally, pick at least one word from the third column. Now write a poem that takes inspiration from your musical genre and notation, and uses the word or words you picked from the third column.

[You can find the table of words & phrases in the post.]

"with contempt for imported convertible sports cars"
rumba – shadow

I, with contempt, turn away from you—
your polished leather seats and roaring engines.
I see no romance in the speed,
no freedom in your gloss and chrome,
just the hum of plastic pretension.
You, strutting like a peacock through the streets,
careless in your vintage pride,
cutting through the city like a butcher
slicing through bones.

But beneath the surface, there's something more—
a shadow, cast long and deep in the curves
of this dancing world.
A rumba of protest,
our feet do not tap to the rhythm of wealth,
but instead, to the sound of resistance,
to the pulse of streets untouched by vanity,
where the grass grows wild
and the world is not for sale.

The shadows we cast are real—
not as elegant as your polished toy,
but honest and stubborn,
swaying like the hips of ancestors
dancing through fire.

“gradually becoming a disaster”

yacht rock – hollyhocks

There’s a slow shift in the air,
like the tide creeping up on an idle boat—
no rush, just a pull,
silent but relentless.
A breeze that feels lighter
than it is,
carrying the scent of something sweet,
but the sweetness is fading
with each wave,
as if it was always meant to fade.

Hollyhocks bloom in the distance,
their petals turning too quickly,
colors softening into the background.
The world is moving,
but not fast enough
to notice how much of it slips through
without a sound.

We’re floating here,
but the hull beneath us cracks just enough
to let the water seep in,
quietly, with no ceremony.
It doesn’t shout—
it just keeps coming.
It is easy to pretend the leak isn’t there,
as easy as forgetting the voices
that begged us to listen
long before the cracks appeared.

This isn’t disaster,
not yet.
Just the slow, inevitable tilt of things,
like a boat drifting further
from where it once meant to be.
The song plays on,
smooth and steady,
but even the melody can’t ignore
how the edges blur
when the line between what is right
and what is accepted
becomes indistinct.

A soft hum in the distance,
the feel of a day that should last longer,
but it won’t.
It never does.
The wind picks up,
but it doesn’t seem to matter.

We’re drifting—
and it’s too easy
to let the drift take over,
too easy to float past
the moments that once demanded
we change course.

- Oizys.