I agree to things before I realize exactly what that means. I throw caution to the wind an say yes regardless if I am either:
a) am capable
b) have the time
It is my modus operandi really. It seems to be what makes me tick (and go crazy all at the same time). So, while I am prepping for 3 presentations I will be giving at the next NDEO conference (National Dance Educators Organization), producing a dance concert, choreographing 3 pieces on my students, planning a special halloween tap dance performance for my Tap I class, and finishing a 52 minute dance piece for my company. . . .
I have also agreed to go on a poetry tour.
Let me remind you that I am not really a poet. Sure I call myself a poetess. But that is more of a dream identity that an actual one. I write poetry because I know nothing about it, how to do it, history of it nor whether I am making a complete ass of myself. Basically, I do it because I can write really bad poems and have no real-life repercussions. It is just fun.
Well. Until now.
Now, I am obligated. I am actually going to have to write something that I will then memorize and perform in front of unsuspecting audiences in the Bay Area next May. I hope they aren't paying. But I am getting ahead of myself.
What plague me currently is a project we poets are organizing to raise funds for the trip. A Poet/Pinup Calendar. Yes, you read right! We poets from the ages of roughly 20 to about 70 will be dressing up for your pleasure (and belly laughter) in a brand-spanking-new 2012 calendar. Oh, yeah.
Alas, our theme is fantastic: S/heroes and Villians.
I have decided to be a Garden S/hero. Mostly because I like dressing in gingham and like getting dirty. None of this troubles me. I can put on fake eyelashes and hold a bunch of carrots, no problem. The hitch comes in that I have to write a garden poem to go along with my Garden Hero character. And, I have yet to even try.
So, I hereby dedicate myself to writing at least one garden poem a day and posting it here for your reading pleasure (and daily laughter medicine -- because it may be funny or more likely so bad you will have to laugh out of pity). I promise they will be terrible, perhaps ridiculous, funny if I'm lucky, irrational and only maybe good. Read because it will make you feel good about yourself and your own art. Let me be your sacrificial lamb to the creative gods. I don't mind, really.
The poem needs to be done by Halloween. So, I had better get crackin'.
Garden Poem #1
They seem to be of a different variety
Not quite the usual white aphids or black beetles
Brown spiders of Black widows
I like the tarantulas I see every once in a while.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Nesting under leaves in invisible webs of confusion
The garden soil gives them all the nutrients they need
Fertile, dark, moist and healthy
They feed on whatever crosses their paths
But I never see them swallow
They grow and multiply whether I ignore them
or expose their bellies to the sun.
It doesn't make sense
Sensing time pass
They are blue
But blue sometimes feel closer to black
Patterns obscured by morning moods and recently upturned soil
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
Making days I don't want
Days that make my Hydrangeas wilt and my zucchini leaves turn yellow
I take my spade and fight them off
Falling through the finger of my rake
Not to be captured
Not to be tamed
I feed my plants with extra Nitrogen
but even the lavender grows crisp and brittle from their bites
Deep blue and shiny
Hiding in shadows
Mocking me on my sunny sidewalk.
I throw down the shovel
I dedicate tomorrow to stamping you out.
(Didn't expect it to take that turn. Did I mention I just write poems without editing them? Well, I do. I just let them flow. So, this is what you got for now. But. . . at least the poem is done for the day.)