Are you ready? If not, check out the daily prompt offered at the NaPoWriMo site.
If not, check out the NaPro website for daily prompts.
Me, I’ve got my own prompts ready – based on my theme. This should come as no surprise: Dancing in the Shadows of the Moon. For those who’ve followed me for a while, some characters in this month’s poems will be familiar.
And despite my conviction to slow down, I’ve signed up for CampNaNo, but I’m following the NaNoFinMo path – National Novel Finish Month. I will complete Midnight Bites in April. I must.
Enough chit-chat. Here’s my first NaPo entry.
When the summers bloom melts away Young and old laugh to see, The Harvest moon yawn awake. Tucked in her bed with kisses warm, The little girl sneaks to see Beyond the window, beyond the hedge. Moonlight rippling through the trees, Dancing fingers of silver light And the moon laughing with delight, To give sweet dreams to all girls and boys. But just over there, beneath the Live Oak tree, Between the silver fingers, Where the moon, she cannot see, Figures dancing, reaching high. Spinning with the joy the living cannot see. The little girl calls out, ‘“Mommy, you must come see.” The dancers stop their spinning, The moon forgets to laugh. “It’s only shadows,” mother says. “Of this I have no doubt. Good little children sleep at night. There are no frights but those they make. Sleep, my child, in peace and dream. The dawn will wipe away all fears.” A woman now, she sits alone at night. She stares, over there, beyond the hedge, under the tree. The Harvest moon, she stares, In the cold, while creeping winters waits. There are no creatures in the shadows, There are none to dance and play In the silver fingers of a laughing moon. She sits and stares till the shivers come, As darkness’ cold embraces. She lost her chance to play, to sing a song of stars, to dance among the silver fingers dancing in the trees. She welcomes sleep. She welcomes blankets of her fears laying soft upon her skin. Still she steals a final look. Just over there, beyond the edge is sight, dance shadows sprung from the moons silver light. Glowing eyes return her stare, and then they are no more. Whispering in the wind at night, Under the Harvest moon. “There are no frights but those you make. We are your fears. We are your blight. We are what you will never be.” Sleep takes hold. A shiver in the night. The wind dies to blow no more. Clouds loom where once happy, silver fingers danced. “Who will dance in the shadows of the moon?”
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