Fran Di Benedetto

Inexplicable reason Five years and no word I uttered on the topic But my ears, this time, won't handle the shooting A word -- a bullet -- followed by another And the inexplicable reason why I won't tolerate their voices. A passive-agressive argument unfolds Behind my back. My friends and the rest. I don't want to antagonize a bunch Of classmates for friends of mine.  Though there is no inexplicable a reason why None of us tolerate that group at class. I wonder why the English teacher Is so insipid -- a hookless, out-of-tune jingle. Many mediocre teachers I've found I wonder what is the inexplicable reason why There is mediocre people walking around The streets of this demanding life. I do not agree with that lifestyle Or life philosophy. I am not the best But I make decisions in life Because I believe things And I bet there's an inexplicable reason Why we all believe. In honor of today’s being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, I’d like to challenge you to write a ...

I remember I remember us each time I pass by you The pictures in my mind, I have not erased yet All are not that old But reminiscient of a past that cannot unfold Itself once again in a upcoming present. I have finally understood. I remember us each time I pass by the band members, The former have moved on, the new have joined in I have moved on But the pictures in my mind and the feelings I've had Had not erased yet All are not that old But reminiscient of a past that cannot unfold Itself once again in an upcoming present For I have finally understood. I remember me each time I hear the teacher's voice He once explained the craft behind the artwork Of a sculpture we saw -- The Kiss It is not that old, I think I am not that old But I remember different pasts that cannot unfold Themselves once again in an upcoming present. When is the future where I can finally say About all my pasts "I've finally understood"? Today’s (optional) prompt is one I got from the poet Be...

  Cheese I don't like it when your sister Wrinkles her nose and Looks at me like that I don't like it when you all Compare my smell to those Of your used shoes. Why, oh, why! I am a victim of your refined noses Even though for you I've been pausteurized And still then, picky humans, you want me. What a toxic relationship. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. 

Easy come, easy go Don't scroll down! Catch a glympse Of the words here Imprinted forever on the web, So easy to find, so easy to forget -- You save them for later but when is later? The next time you turn the light on But by then you'll be blinded by new flashes. Today’s challenge is to write a poem that starts with a command.  Photo by Youssef Sarhan on Unsplash

Nothings I sit behind my classmate She and the rest talk. I barely listen in the orgy of noise This classroom has turned into. I think about what I can write about And find nothing interesting -- Oh, maybe a poem about My surroundings and the mess around. Laurita makes her way through my friends And, once she's to the teachers desk, She announces we don't have PE classes For this week. What's next? Ah, yes -- she brings cards And I have nothing else To tell here, between the lines Of empty words and mediocre art.

  Dogs Michael was a big dog           Black and hairy was he -- We always laughed because he was really big,           Like a horse for us, 8-year-olds. It once kissed my sister            I don't remember how it happened, Just her scandalous yell and my cousin's laughs. I don't remember Michael's appearance apart from that           which I have just described. I remember his name was Michael,          That he had a prominent fur of colour black, That my uncle gave him an English name          Though Argentinian we are all, And that I was really sad when he passed out. 

A poem by my tiredness Half a month already written Down in words I may not read again.  Now, as if midday had passed, I feel the urge to take a nap.  Only half a month ahead, I remind myself.  Do I really want Routine? Am I swallowing a belief  That this is what I want to be -- Written words no one may ever read? 

AFIP Teníamos que inventar un negocio Y seríamos monotributistas Pero la burocracia Argentina Tiene sus capas y aristas Esteban nos inscribió, de manera ficticia, En la página de la AFIP. Dejé que él se encargue de los trámites, De los impuestos y del CUIT  Esos temas no me gustan, Pero, ¿acaso es negación? Por mamá iba a estudiar administración... Nuestra era esa trucha pasión Pero a ninguna matemática nos gusta Today's prompt : write a poem about something you have absolutely no interest in. 

The Opening Scene for the Movie of My Life She waits in a corner for the red lights Renault, Fiat, Ford, Volswagen... the usual cars At the Argentinian streets. Backpacks with small plastic wheels March to the beat they make Against the paving stones.  There she goes, walking past three schools Till before a tall building she stands, And reaches the door, and takes the elevator, And opens her apartment door. Then the music starts--  Nothing new below the Sun Still many things to look at -- She leaves her keys and takes A notepad out of a pocket at her chest -- But there is no time, the clock goes on Still many things left to do She looks at the nearest clock. Stress wrinkles her achned forehead I don't even know if 'achned' is a word😂

La esencia del arte Perfume de tierra Con distintos matices. A Janine le gusta, A Magalí no.  Janine es experta en comer cosas como Tierra, o cosas vegetarianas. Sabe del olor a tierra. Y mientras intento escribir un poema,  Discuten sobre el perfume que Magalí no quiere usar. No quiero escuchar. No puedo evitar. De tantas palabras soltadas al viento, Ninguna logro atrapar Entre redes de creatividad, Cadenas que perdieron su fuerza. ¿Pero acaso cadenas deben ser las obras, Lo creado con recursos ajenos, Y que se pasaerán entre las mentes Que captaran su señal y retomarán el discurso En un debate infinito como el del olor a tierra? Esencia de un perfume ambiguo, Núcleo del arte líquido que deja sus gotas.

A poem for Magalí May I seduce you,' you asked 'You may try.' 'Well, you can seduce me with...' Just minutes ago you refused My breakfast. You couldn't buy yours. 'A turrón,' I said. 'Only then you'll acept my love.' This one is a conversation between my friend and me. I didn't use today's prompt.

Where I live The building where I live Is huge. Not the tallest of around, But it's tall, of brick walls and glass. When referring to it, I told my classmate that I had my apartment around here, Puzzled, she stared at me.  "Not my aparment," I said. "My family's!" We laughed. I was a little distracted Looking through a window to a building similar to mine -- The colour of bricks against a clean sky, The colour I can never get right when mixing paintings But I still use it because no one will see my paintings And call me a great artist, because I don't try to be. I look up to it from below when I get home The heavy pack below my back But I'm so close to taking it all out. So tall, so safe -- just like I like my men. I like some jokes once in a while, but I'm Not good at that. When I get home, Walk through the plants and enter the mirrored hall, On the elevator, then push its door, My key to the locke, I unlock whatever that's there In my famil...

A poem for Cael Not a fan of words, images I sought In the places I walk through most When serendipity and Cupid aligned their threads And harmonized the both of us, Synchronized our heartbeat rates "An angel descended from heaven" My instinct told me when I saw your face, And though many men I had sought, And beauty I constantly seek, Your image struck time and broke it like glass As your eyes locked mine The colour palette for my next project Displayed itself in my heart And deep down I knew it would be chef d'ouvre Cael, o Cael, my angel from heavens The more we walked together on the tightrope, The more strokes your painted over my fully-clothed body. I lay vulnerable to your warmth and a fully naked image I become -- No added beauty, no embellishment For all the art I first saw in you We buried together along the dry leaves of last automn

El noneto de un sábado No sé porqué el que sea sábado Significa que no hay nada Que hacer. Creemos que Podemos creer que Un par es igual A nosotros En lo que Cree. No.  Image: Jon Tyson on Unsplash. 

O María María, María, María My alternative self. A saint's name María, María, María The holy, chosen one to carry God's son Everyone's expecting on your future So you do this, don't do that You're a saint, for God's sake María, I know, deep in your heart, Molded by the hand of God, Still of human flesh you are made, And so I won't praise your name. I did not ask for this task Or did I? I just wanted to serve God To carry His presence and put my hands to work For the Kindom that's come,  But my flesh... My flesh... María, María, María I cry out to God for you María, María, oh María Craft my heart, oh God, and mold my flesh I'm actually really proud of it. By the way, I loved the two poems pointed out from today's featured journal.