#NaPoWriMo: Days 1-11

Hello, everyone! I’ve been writing a poem every day this month for National Poetry Month & I’m going to share what I’ve written so far with you here. New poems will be added in separate posts starting later today.

#NaPoWriMo 2020

Day 1:


The clocks scream through the emptied streets.
of my ghost town dreams.
An echo is a feeling
of never being alone.
Where has the light pollution
gone? The stars shine
brighter. Friendly reminders
that there are always
eyes on us. Beyond each
domestic window pane
serenade. Mothers mumbling,
“O God, have mercy on us.”

Death turns pages. Wet
ink smears our names
and faces. The fatality
bell tolls, rattles fear cages,
those fragile protectors
of brittle hearts shudder.
We’re shuttered.
In places we refuse to
lay claim to. “Stay
Most hate to.

Paper cuts from counting
bills over and over,
like that fabric matters
to an invisible destroyer.
We know shattered.
We know preparedness.
We know wise. And the
sun will still rise. We all
will. Like resurrected ashes,
we will rise.

Day 2:


I awake into a fog of
misinformation, and even
the fearful facts are
unwanted. I question
your love for me due to
the tone of your incessant
messaging. Define
oversharing. The act
of wanting to disable,
to throw the mini-
conformity machine
out the window. To end
this dependency,
to hear what a voice
over a line sounds like

I am tired of being
notified. I am saying goodbye.

I sleep easier beneath
the absence of a blue
light glare.
Glowing faces in the dark,
all scared.
I practice silence
by a lack of response
for I am no void
or sounding board,
no screen,
no text
taken out of context.
I am a hurting human
finding herself again.

Day 3:


Daylight is a murderer
slicing through a dream

I want to stay in.
Mother raised a final girl,

so I carry bloodstains
like talismans,

put my favorite words
into the mouths of my

memories and toss
like an ocean

in an attempt to reclaim
some fantastical past.

That shoulda, coulda,
woulda reality…

This is juvenile mentality,
Mother’s voice creeps

like the vining headache
crawling up my skull.

The last vision of her
walking away from me

is the weakest heartstring,
yet the one I am addicted to pulling.

They’re all fading now:
pain, the rain, my old sleepmates.

The sun wipes its knife of me
and all night I’ll nurse this festering wound.

Day 4:


and uneventful
A night’s sleep
to life,
a painful prison sentence
Cord cutting,
idols smashed,
a bite of more
than you can chew
The coffee shop boy
eyeing you in the corner,
and there will
forever be
too many heartbeats
in this race
Each shuffled step
hesitant, ground
shaking, black
ice steady
This is you
This is you
This is you
giving up,
turning back,
knees pillars
of salt
a muted tongue,
a bitter blow
You remain the
wind, fierce
and invisible,
wearing a smile
like a masquerade
Blinking away
the bad thoughts,
opening your
mouth to let
the captured
hummingbirds out
The foreign taste
of freedom
always inches
from your grasp

Day 5:


She’s silhouetted
against that 70s polyester orange sky,
arms raised, flying high
Hair like fire, scorching
my memory,
the grace of my living,
my learning
in the absence
of absolute magic

Eyes like the gulf
when it was clear
and turbulent turquoise
and I’m swimming
behind them,
that pulse in her temple
is me, kicking
and imprinting

She howls into
the mauve twilight,
welcoming our last night,
crying a goodbye
to the canyon winds
(They’ll haunt me
with answers I’ll
never comprehend)

The city lights signal
the star field,
that twinkling torture,
that quiet glow
as she twirls around
before she goes
to half smile at me, but
I don’t see it,
my eyes are closed
so I’ll never have to
remember being left there

She flew home,
migration heart flow,
so I trapped summer,
it’s etched into my skull,
burning my skin
when it’s cold,
where I can still feel her
in these arms even though
her reckless tide
returns no more

Through tears the sky
looks paisley
so I can’t help but paint
the whole scene again,
a Phoenix in flight,
vanishing, shattering hematite
becoming someone
I won’t recognize once again,
and it’s alright

Day 6:


A pierced heart
answers with silent weeping
A portrait of despair
or strength dependent
upon which eyes are looking
or hopeful, blood frozen
on the way to warming
busy hands
The numbing emptiness
of exhausted feet
after miles of Calvary,
bearing a plethora
of crosses,
falling beneath
the weight of over-caring
Mother, I’m sorry
I abandoned you
I was returning a
lost favor,
a lesson in temperance
after we have been drunk dry
of each other
Do you hear angels calling?
Do you hear anything
over the ringing
in the bell tower
that still haunts your ears?
Who will answer now,
Our prayers, our panicked
phone calls,
our practiced fearful
whistling in the dark?
Who will hear from within
the deafness of distance?
who will be saved?

Day 7:


Watching you part your
auburn sea, a
curtain of aubergine,
silk amber waves
cascade, spun gold
in the low light

Your raiment, your
sainted halo —
I discover envy,
flirt with longing,
dance around
the overwhelming
need to feel,
to touch with my
frail twig fingers,
your softness

There, in the violet
hues of sundown,
shadows only highlight
the grey flash of your eyes,
the twinkling smile
after reading my
honoring thoughts

We’ll sing together
until dawn,
after you’ve wrapped me
in an intellectual web,
trapped within strands
of red,
willing prey
for a reluctant huntress

I am captured,
drowning in crimson
You’re crowned,
my queen,
I am your dominion

Day 8:


I am not like those
fearless poets. Walled
in tight by manuscripts.
I hide under the sky blue
bulb, stack up their hard-
bounds, use them as
pillows. Their mania
is infectious, but it
drains me. I’m a hunk
of sponge. I absorb
too much. I try
too hard.

My hands are rashy,
scarred from the scrubbing.
Safer than sorry. Now
is not the time to criticize
the excessive.
I want to pierce my
own surface, tear it open,
bleed so profoundly,
with no concern about the
stains. How each line
could kill someone,
damage a heart
irreparably, stir
some pot, be salt
in another’s festering wound.
I worry about this.

So I hold back
Or else I’d babble for hours,
confound you,
cry too much
to be understood.
I am a cowardly poet.
I am fraudulent.
But it’s only protective armor.
Unintended to be deceit.
When I wake up, I’ll
try harder. I’ll give
you a little more me.

Day 9:


Having a rickety evening,
where every step
could be a firecracker,
each nerve pulse
is a jagged edge.
Before my heart freezes,
I hear the sound
of jangling keys.
“I am the flame!”,
the poet screams
from the stage.
I combust,
a small fire
in this not so
crowded theater.
I cower at
the sound
of distant
That haze
can’t be
smoke, yet my ghost
chokes on it anyway.
Floating above,
I become the
eclipse she’s lamenting
over. I reflect
the light of the sun
and bury it
in shadow.
It’ll be a black shade
day come sunrise.
The bolts inside
my head will
flash, like the
spark I gave
my last breath for.
My eyes won’t close
or I’ll miss the climax.
I and the silence
are dead. To
the poet we’re reborn.
Pure illumination.
Blinding the audience.
The last drop of blood
is neon. Lava.
A quaking hand
from the rubble
touches the blaze.

Day 10:

Cup – Haiku

Overflow for me
Of this cup, I’m unworthy
For me, You drank all

Day 11:


The tickle in my nose
signals spring.
The wildflower meadow
we snuck off to.
After midnight strolls
where the streetlamps
hummed. Light
heard through
a distortion pedal.
The faded flickering
of the fireflies.
Your declaration was their
decoded message.
I had no choice
but to say yes.
And then I’m
valley-low again.
In an underdeveloped
reliving a sapling
of another’s fantasy
that blooms nothing
but rotting fruit.
Yes, it’s spring,
and there are
fingerprint bruises
on my heart,
molding me into
something that
maybe summertime
won’t recognize.
I’ll be opened,
thawed out
and exposed
until winter snow
brings protective
covering the buds
of new life.
Until I can
bury this past
for good.
Until I can
forget you,
cast your
overwhelming pollens
to scatter in the wind.

Published by Jennifer Patino