Poem A Day: Week 2

Lots of feelings this week on and off the page. I got a little worn out on poetry writing but I’m also halfway through! Thanks again to @amykaypoetry for providing the prompts. And if you aren’t following me on Instagram, you’re missing some of my content! Find me @michelledwhipple 🙂

Day 8: Mildly Interesting

As in the photos on Reddit’s mildly interesting feed. I found this photo of a pigeon nest made out of mostly nails, found on an active construction site and wrote two poems that might actually work together.


I used what I had! 
Said the bird who parked 
Two eggs in a 
Nest of splinters and nails 
On a Tuesday
While the workers 
Drank lemonade 
From sweaty glasses
In the hot sun. 

If you are a hammer, everything is a nail. 
If you are a nail, everything is a two by four.
If you are a two by four, everything is a wall.
If you are a wall, everything is a house. 
If you are a house, everything is home.
If you are home, everything is rest. 
If you are rest, everything is comfortable.
If you are comfortable, you can rest 
in a nest 
of nails. 

Day 9: Write a Nonet

Per @amykaypoetry, a nonet is a nine-line poem. The first line contains nine syllables, the second line contains eight, the third line contains seven, and so on. The last line of none poetry contains one syllable.

This is my narcissistic nonet.


When I take purse dog to the playground, 
I accumulate a crowd of 
little girls that follow me 
around like ducks fighting 
over bits of bread. 
Feels like being  
Zac Efron’s
plus one.

Day 10: Write a Poem Beginning with a Retweet

The title is the retweet I based this poem on…and reinvigorated my search for a correct mom jean.

How High Can High-Waisted Pants Go?

(Retweet from a New Yorker article.) 

I have been steadily 
working on finding 
an acceptable alternative 
to skinny jeans, 
because I’m no dummy. 

I examine the girls
At the mall
With their Levis 
Extending above the naval. 
And when I put them on,
I feel equally supported
And lost
In the yards and yards of denim.

So far I have returned 
every attempt 
at not-skinny jeans, 

except for one pair 
of corduroy bell bottoms.

One Saturday morning, 
I wore them to buy lightbulbs 
and a tall, black man 
who was decidedly cooler than I 
said to me, 
“I haven’t seen bell bottoms in a long time 
but, girl, you are rockin’ those.”

I will keep forever.

Day 11: Things I’ve Done to Avoid Boredom

Pretty self explanatory.

Day 12: Forgive yourself.

I have lots of practice on this topic.

A Life Sentence.

I spent my 20s being willing to die, 
even wanting it 
a little. 
But instead of suicide, 
I went to grad school 
while I lived in the basement. 
A basement, like a coffin. 

I ran once, 
when I first noticed the chains. 
I was suddenly frightened 
by the rattle 
but it got louder. Loud as the rattle in my chest. 
So I stopped. 

I have to forgive myself for that. 

I got used to the idea that my error 
was loving you too long. 
Hope can fuel a thousand days 
even when you want to die, 
even when you are already half dead, 
make that three quarters. 

Hope can make you limp along, 
quietly dragging the boat anchor 
through the desiccated lake bed, 
the heavy metal grasping each grain of sand 
like the doorway of a prison cell. 

I have to forgive myself for that.

Day 13: Write a Blessing

The temple.

With peppermint oil 
on my forehead 
for the feeling of cool water, 
I pronounce myself clean. 

In the morning,
I am anointed by daylight 
pressing through drapes and 
I stretch from the tips of my toes 
to the tips of my fingers
to feel how I have grown. 

When I listen to the fountain 
dribbling blessings on the 
humming bird beaks 
and the hum of bees 
on the orange blossoms. 

In the hot bath 
with the water around my collar bones 
I hum to myself, 
Waheguru, waheguru,
wahe jio.

On the dark night 
that creeps on without sleep,
I am the only one there 
to hold back my hair
as I purge the toxic patriarch. 

I remember Mary’s words, 
I need only 
to stand 
wherever I am 
to be blessed.

Day 14: When There Aren’t Words

This is after Tony Hoagland’s poem, “Special Problems in Vocabulary.”

Special Problems in Vocabulary

The energy of a brunching cafe full of 
	twenty-somethings in bright dresses.

The way the bucket hat on the man 
	sitting next to me at the 
	community table reassures me.

How something I wanted forever, 
	something so intrinsic, 
	can gently release its hold.