One Vampire’s Way Of Feeding

He caresses neck gently with pale fingers
His victim is held in dreamy trance
He speaks words so smoothing
Before he takes his nightly meal
He tilt her head to one side
As delicately not to ruin blood flow
He brings his mouth upon her bare skin
He inhales her sent of blood
He kisses gently before he begins
Opens his mouth; pointed fangs spring to life
Sharp as nails when stabbed, they puncture skin
He sucks and sucks as much as he needs
Until he hears the heart goes faint
He stops; gently lays his victim down
Speaks hypnotizing words in her ears
She will not remember this night
He wipes blood from his mouth
Looks around the still dark night
He melts back into shadows from where he came

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Letter From Walt Whitman

You say I don’t write my poems in the conventional way
Of poets that have gone before me.
That my first work of twelve poems, Leaves of Grass, was in a jumble.
That there was nothing poetic about them
Except each line began with a capital letter.
You saw that there was no rhyming or meter.
My lines varied with wildly uneven length.
I wanted to free my lines from strict verses that had become archaic.
I experimented with the art of writing from the normal way that I saw around me.
I used my line breaks based on the way it would be printed.
You still say it is not poetry at all.
My poems having no pattern in their sights.
But, did you take the time to read them?
Did you ponder what was there at all?
Do you see the energy and individualism that I write my poems?
I wrote about the working classes.
The major events that shaped our time.
I talked about things you dared to talk about in public.
You critics of my time won’t understand the way I write my works of poems.
I hope our future will read and understand what I wrote.

April 28th Prompt: Write a poem in the form of a letter from a famous poet, explaining something everyone has gotten wrong about a poem or some aspect of his or her work.

Elegy of Grandpa

I never knew you well
Taken away on death’s wings
When I was only four
You would never watch me grow-up
I would never get to hear your stories
Or continue to seeing the grinning smile
You never got a chance to help shape me
As I grew from child to adult

I was not sure how to take your death
I was young and didn’t understand
With what my little brain could process
I clung to grandma like glue after funeral
Not wanting to let her go
Afraid she would disappear too
Everyone among our small family then
Was in grief and very sad
To have someone die at age sixty

From you and grandma now
A large growing family we have
Your three children to seven grands
That now have given ten great-grands
They abound grandmas house
Filling the walls with laughter
She said she is blessed to still be here
To watch her and your grands and greats grow
Who knows how big our family will continue to grow

April 24 prompt from this site http://www.napowrimo.net/

Clerihew Alexander The Great

Alexander The Great
Went off to dominate
But in Persia came down sick
Died at thirty-two too quick

April 23rd Prompt: Write a clerihew, a rhymed four-line poem about a person. The rhyme scheme is AABB, and often the rhymes are ridiculous. The first line is the person’s name, and clarihews are often humorous, but the best are also true.

Slow Eater

Grandma would tell the story
of a time when she was in college
during meal time.

They had a house mother
for each dormitory assigned to them.

During meal time girl students
would eat in the dining area
chatting and eating.

She told us there was rule
during eating meal time:
All girls must wait until
everyone was done eating
before leaving the table.

She would sit down to eat
and friends would not sit
with her.

“Sorry, Betty, I have class
and can’t stay long til
you are finished.”

Or

“Sorry, Betty, I have to
eat quickly because I have
to be somewhere.”

So, they would at another table
well, Grandma sat with only few
other girls at the table,
who didn’t mind waiting for
my Grandma to be finished eating.

“You, eat to slow Betty”,
they would say.

She still is a slower eater
til this day as at every
meal she is the last to finish.

April 17 prompt from this site http://www.napowrimo.net/

A Fur Friend’s Job

My friend unfortunately doesn’t have job.
She has been unemployed all her life.
She stays at home;
Sleeping every chance, she gets.
To say she has a profession;
Would be to underscore the meaning.
For she windows watches and play,
When she is not involved in sleeping.
But, her job is to love unconditionally her owner.
She smiles, softens the bad days.
She licks her encouragement.
She brings enjoyment in the home
With her sometimes-crazy ways.
I realize she is lucky to not to work
But, days can be boredom with nothing to do.
For a dog’s life is simple at its best,
Just relaxing at home and doing things on at your own pace.

April 12th Prompt: Write a poem about a friend’s profession or job. What have you realized about the job through this person that you might not otherwise have known.