If I were a poem I would probably not rhyme
not even slant
because its just too much work to give up the right word just so the sound can rebound
But I might have a groove, a rhythm of sorts.
Long short long,
short short short long,
long, long, long
Whatever it would be, it would most definitely be awesome.
If I were a picture, I would probably be in color.
Frustrating for me because
My most favorite pictures are in black and white.
This would bum me out because I would never be able to live up to my own black and white standards
Still, I might be a landscape, with tall trees
Or I might be a portrait of a girl on a swing.
it's hard to tell. . .
If I were a film, I would 100% be a short.
Even though I am tall, I know for sure that I would be a short
Maybe as short as 3 minutes.
20 at the max
I would be filmed in long steady shots, maybe even one shot. One long image developing its way across the screen and into the hearts of the audience.
People might marvel at my beauty, but the key to me would be the poignancy of it all. Some might call it elitist, erudite or pretentious. But,
It would undoubtedly be powerful and people would notice.
If I were a postcard, I would be sent from Australia,
Not that I've been to Australia, but the dry earth and clear sky would mimic my fair, sensitive skin next to my blue-grey eyes
Plus, it seems like a jovial place, and I like being jovial.
Also, I love space and from what I have been told, there is a lot of it there.
I would read G'Day and include an image of a rocky land formation
I would be sent overseas, to Spain or Germany
If I were a dance, I would mostly likely be an unpredictably eclectic blend of Modern and Jazz
People wouldn't know what to call me.
So they wouldn't, and instead they would describe me as charming and fun.
Or they might say they liked the humor (aka complete ridiculousness of the whole work) and the costumes.
I would wear sneakers or go barefoot unless the floor had splinters.
However, if at all possible, I would spend a good portion on the floor
rolling about in ways that were essentially meaningless and largely uninteresting to watch but were fun to do.
People would sit through these patiently, waiting for me to get on with the theatrical, funny stuff.
I would take my time rolling but feel guilty about it the whole time
If I were a short story, I would have only 4 characters, a girl, a boy, an old man and a dog.
The dog would go with the boy.
Most likely.
Or the girl, if she had short curly hair and went by Jo
If I were a house, I would be two stories, and spend all my time upstairs where the warm air collects on cooler evenings.
I would have a garden, but feel sad when the alternately hot summers and cold winters burned the edges of the plants.
I would beg for new paint, but miss the paint chips that had collected at the corners
and the relocated family of Opossum that have been living below me happily for three seasons. They are a sweet bunch, quiet and nurturing to each other.
If I were a piece of furniture, I would not be a couch, nor an ottoman, nor a rug, nor table, nor lamp, nor coffee table. I would have to be a outside rocking chair because I love the flow of going back and forth and back and forth until I fall into the mists of dreams and memories, or fantasies of my life.
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Poems from various journals
So, I have a tendency to write little poems in random journals. Basically I will write in whatever journal is at hand. And did I mention I have more than one journal? I have at least three. Don't ask me why. But I do. One my the bed, one in my backpack, one laying around the house or taken on trips or lost and then found at various times.
I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals. These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.
Thanks for reading!
Beth
Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.
This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.
11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.
In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.
Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.
This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.
There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.
Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home
Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.
Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.
Thursday Night
Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.
Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!
Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.
Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.
Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed.
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.
Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.
Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.
Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.
Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.
I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.
I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.
I decided it was time to type out the poems for one of the journals. These are largely unedited/unrevised, but let me know if any stand out to you.
Thanks for reading!
Beth
Johnny Varble (12-1-11)
Big slick file folders
full of notes that were once important
But now he is gone
and their hieroglyphics are yet to be deciphered
Will they ever?
So, we look through sheet by sheet
saving what we can,
what is discernible,
what reminds us of him without making us cry,
His notes on how to make an excel sheet,
a brochure for last season's performances at the local theater.
It's all gotta go
as he is gone,
but without the surprise of his leaving
over the edge of the road
with his dog in the passenger's seat.
We can't hold on to these papers forever
but we can't help but feel guilt for ripping his memory apart
page by page.
We shred the once valuable stacks of information
one file cabinet at a time.
Keep or throw?
These items with his handwriting scrawled in the margins
old papers worn at the edges and yellowed with years
and accidental stains of morning coffee.
This paper on which I write is his
top sheet of notes and memories already discarded.
I couldn't let the last few pages
go to waste.
Office papers, were not the heart of Johnny.
His heart is outside
with the horses in the barn and the cattle in the fields.
This cowboy forced to fill out the forms
we now hold in our hands
our young hands unwrinkled with time and still warm
from the afternoon coffee.
We make the decisions
paper by paper
memory by memory
making sense of what he left behind
making sense of his lost time
and our days ahead.
11-28-11
Spinning not unlike the earth
Spinning not unlike
the earth off kilter on its axis.
Round with rounded edges
smoothed by years of seasonal rains.
This stone looks more like a button on my nubby, woolen sweater
my favorite, not itchy at all
The shiny buttons of which pull against the the thread bare seams and the
deep pockets, in which I warm my hands
away from this frigid night air.
My palms press deeper into the cloth
closer to the warmth of my skin
I spin.
In time, keeping time
with the seasons as my metronome
each revolution brings me in closer
until I can feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back at me
with each exhale
It reminds me of snuggling up to you from behind
so close that I can breathe in the scent of your neck
then exhale the warm moist air onto the fine hairs at the base of your scalp
tiny droplets forming on each one
Tonight there is a chill and your body heat is a sweet treat.
Along the road
dried tumbleweeds from last summer
scamper across the lanes
the wheel softly turning
I roll, along gentle curves into tomorrow's night
Looking up I swoon
the stars spinning before me
and inside my head
As they shine
I can see the mist of my breath
in an icy fog.
This night will spin and turn to day
just as it did before
and I will wait and watch my steamy breath turn cold.
There is a point
There is a point
when blue turns black
where today becomes tomorrow
and today becomes yesterday.
There is a point
when smiles turn sour
when laughs turn dark
and he begins to turn pale.
There is a point when blood stops flowing
and the heart stops pumping
and the sky yawns
and the stars fall.
There is a point
where I end and universe begins
where hopes turn to lost opportunities
and shame to cancer.
Suddenly (No. 1)
Suddenly
I catch a whiff of my mom's apple pie
a boom of sweet sugar, cinnamon and apple
It's almost time to enjoy, but first
I put my nose back in the book
words whizz by and I evaporate
into the story of magic lands and unlikely characters.
Encountering myself in each chapter of fantasy,
I flip page to page
until it is time and my mom calls me back home
Suddenly (No. 2)
Suddenly
The lights went out and my sister sang
her voice carried through the darkness
accompanied by the click of the grandfather clock
wound to its coil and unnoticing of the dark
I lay in the still-warm bathwater
not sure whether it is safest to stay put
or risk a slip on the tile floor
to find a light.
Her voice soars up the stairs
unharnessed, unknowingly beautiful
She sings melodies
calls out to the shadowed corners and pitch black of the living room.
My mom lights a candle
I see the flames flicker in the bathroom mirror
"Charlotte, are you OK?"
I somehow want to blow bubbles in response
instead I lift my head and call
"Yes"
But, as I resumberge my chest and chin,
I hardly know.
And, my sister still sings
still haunting me with her memory.
Suddenly (No. 3)
I put in another coin
and roll the ski ball
Perfectly timed, angled, released
Lights blink as I win
tickets pour of the machine's mouth
vomit for useless coinage and cruddy "prizes"
neon green sunglasses I will never wear
a coloring set, a squishy ball with no purpose
The bells and dings and rings and beeps
are all beeping and ringing and flashing
obnoxiously
An ADHD fantasy of rushed moments,
forgotten focus and
new beginnings without endings
The hush, then quiet
then suddenly we whisper into the dark
the world stopped around us
We stand and sit with ourselves in the dark
afraid to move
for fear we might break our bones
or our timeless sense of immortality.
Thursday Night
Hushed sounds
whispers out of chapped lips
once painted bright
It could be time to call it quits
or not
I put in another coin and
a fresh tune starts up.
Oven Timer
Gosh darn it! I want to do something
crazy!
Like to sky dive, get drunk or
actually use real profanity!!
Instead I tell my stories in rhyme and stanza
stories of adventures never had
and words never spoken.
Could I bother you to allow me this one,
very small,
momentary,
indulgence?
Fuck You!
Oh, no.
That doesn't make me feel better at all.
Excuse me. I'd better so see if
the casserole top has browned.
Notes on a Nightstand
In a book in the drawer
next to the meds
which hum tough tunes
of reality.
A cage for thoughts,
this journal's pages include the
important details
dates, but no names
sentiments and expletives
circled, underlined and in caps.
The book is sinking, sunken and drowned in thoughts.
Notes hide under the water's reflective surface
mirroring life's day that plays above.
How many journals live in drawers like this?
Notes on a nightstand
trying to explain away the need
for the little, plastic orange container
that lives there too.
Dear Lower Back,
You are so sweet to call me up so regularly.
Well done, I'm listening.
Feeling.
Oh, how you love to talk,
and talk and talk and talk
Which I appreciate,
But, I asked you here today because
I am feeling ready
to let you go.
For us to go our separate ways.
You don't need to check in on my quite so often
I feel ready to forget you.
Is that too harsh to say out loud?
I don't mean to be mean.
Its just that
I could really do
without your constant reminding.
Like a parent you hold me back and
warn me against my instincts
Don't do that! Don't go to far!
Let's be reasonable.
Can't you just let me be?
For a month or so? a week? a day?
I don't think I can handle it much more.
You shouting at me daily as I wake up and when I go to bed.
Each time I want to do anything
you are right there to stop me.
Don't you think it's getting a little old?
Don't you have something better to do?
Because I do.
So, go ahead. and take a long
extended vacation.
and let me be for a while
unconcerned, uninhibited and unrestricted
for once.
Evening Happening at the Oak on Peppertree Lane
A long, blue-green feather on the road
Harrumph! I flutter to the bottom branch
Grip and claw into the rough bark,
pull myself up, through the maze of branches up to the canopy
where the acorns are still green
I settle in to roost for the night.
Eee-ahhl!
Footsteps fall below
Two of them, one stoops to pick up the feather.
How odd, don't they know?
That's no longer good. Shimmering green, gold and blue.
Those feathers were only in good fashion for last spring
Clearly they won't do any good now.
Once a part of a corona
Peacock pride
meant only for one reason
but that is all done
they are now abandoned
Deemed useless.
As it goes with we who are luckless in love
I now have to wait for next spring
To try and find her again
To show off my four foot tail of brand new feathers.
Eee-ahhl! Eee-ahhl!
Don't mistake my warning for a serenade!
They jump and laugh in response
clinging together now holding hands.
It seems this couple must mate in fall.
Being Blue
Stunned Blue in silent thoughts that
have no end
a shade of near gray that washes over my ears, cheeks and chest
blood drained from my cheeks
empty of their glow
Like a match that can not be unstruck
the blue burns out all the kindling it can lays hands on
My worries catch fire with ease and burn
in unforgiving pyres
Being blue is not a mood, nor emotion
nor a feeling
Blue is a way of existing
as mornings wash into afternoons wash into evenings
onto darker nights
Blue is a shadow waiting patiently behind me
a faux friend with a false promise to keep me company
Blue sits on my brow,
making it hard to keep my eyes open,
even when I want them to.
Blue hangs from hooks on my cheeks pulling down,
pulling, pulling down
Blue calls me to close my eyes
close out the world
sit in the blue darkness.
Heavy lids bind this bright afternoon to Blue's gravity
Today's particular shade is steel blue
tomorrow's is not yet announced.
I'm resistant
I am resistant
and the resistance clings to me like an oily residue that won't wash off
knees refuse to bend
Hips stick
full of loud pops
clicks and crackles
But I have to sit
the work is in the staying,
sitting in the thick of it
enduring the winds that threaten to topple my folded origami legs.
I'm resistant
despite myself and my desires.
I'm looped with the lasso of untamed fears
to stay despite it all
despite your leaving, again
after how many years of coming and going?
I stay, cross legged and resolute
despite my want to run
so many "aways" to go to.
Vacancy signs in neon pink and blue
tempt me with their playful blinks
like batting eyelashes.
The backs of my knees and creases of my armpits get sweaty.
The familiar heat rush of anxiety
washing through me in waves.
I feel sweat beading at my temples but
my eyes remain half closed in inner reverie
turned nightmare.
I sit.
Hands folded into each other
against all odds
against the odds that you'll come back
or
be gone forever.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
If you have a moment. . . I could use your help
So, as I have previously explained in this blog, I am committed to a poetry group, and we are going to take a show on the road in May. But, unlike the other more prolific writers, I am the newbie, writing here and there, inconsistent at best (but passionate!). We have a reading in Dec at the local mall. Oh, yes. It will be epic and you should come. But, first I need to write, write, write and then I need to pick something to actually read. The writing part is less intimidating, I mean I can write stuff if i sit down and do it. Whether is is good or bad though needs to be determined. My current challenge is figuring out what poems are worthy of performance. This is where you come in.
I just wrote these poems this morning. Let me know if one speaks to you. You don't even have to tell me why. Just let me know so I can get a sense of what might be good material to further work on. And, if you don't like any of them do not worry. I will try to post more and maybe there will be something you do like down the line.
Thanks for your help!
Write on!
Midnight Dance
It starts.
slow and fast
hard and soft
all at once
in time
without a moment's hesitation
anew and glorious
silver and gold
Another night of applause
effort expended and sweat perspired
costumes worn thin
showing bare threads
like spindles of muscle fiber
exposed
feet and ankles crack and pop
a chorus of aching joints pushed to their limit
Music plays inside the soul
melodies unravel stories to be danced
I hum and lull myself into the trance
in time
anew and glorious
Three months in
Three months in
I notice
a depression on my finger
a ring of commitment that lies pale underneath
the promise ring
even with the thin band
I notice
its weight on the tissue of my finger
daily impressions
wearing memories of our partnership
And this three months in
just three months
so powerful is love
and the promise of forever
Inside the skin
There is a grumble
something has changed
i notice the body behaving like
and intractable child
yelling at me in response to my abuse
waking me int he middle of the night
to scream and shout and cry
it can't be calmed
Inside the skin
inside the tissues
there is rebellion
I don't know when the demonstrations started
I don't know when the body first began talking back
Was it always shouting and I just never
stopped to listen?
Now like blown out speakers I can't shut out the
Powerful messages inside
the knots of my core
wondering when their cries will finally be heard
Other poems from former posts. Bugs. Another Garden Poem.
I just wrote these poems this morning. Let me know if one speaks to you. You don't even have to tell me why. Just let me know so I can get a sense of what might be good material to further work on. And, if you don't like any of them do not worry. I will try to post more and maybe there will be something you do like down the line.
Thanks for your help!
Write on!
Midnight Dance
It starts.
slow and fast
hard and soft
all at once
in time
without a moment's hesitation
anew and glorious
silver and gold
Another night of applause
effort expended and sweat perspired
costumes worn thin
showing bare threads
like spindles of muscle fiber
exposed
feet and ankles crack and pop
a chorus of aching joints pushed to their limit
Music plays inside the soul
melodies unravel stories to be danced
I hum and lull myself into the trance
in time
anew and glorious
Three months in
Three months in
I notice
a depression on my finger
a ring of commitment that lies pale underneath
the promise ring
even with the thin band
I notice
its weight on the tissue of my finger
daily impressions
wearing memories of our partnership
And this three months in
just three months
so powerful is love
and the promise of forever
Inside the skin
There is a grumble
something has changed
i notice the body behaving like
and intractable child
yelling at me in response to my abuse
waking me int he middle of the night
to scream and shout and cry
it can't be calmed
Inside the skin
inside the tissues
there is rebellion
I don't know when the demonstrations started
I don't know when the body first began talking back
Was it always shouting and I just never
stopped to listen?
Now like blown out speakers I can't shut out the
Powerful messages inside
the knots of my core
wondering when their cries will finally be heard
Other poems from former posts. Bugs. Another Garden Poem.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
In Over My Head. Again.
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
or
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. . . .
(inhale)
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
Bugs
Again
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.
Crawling.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Creeping in
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
Deep blue.
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
This bug,
Bugging me
On days
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
Blue bug
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.
But today
is blue.
(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.)
a) am capable
or
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. . . .
(inhale)
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
Bugs
Again
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.
Crawling.
Fuzzy. Kind of Cute.
No, these bugs are blue.
Unlike any bug I've ever seen.
Creeping in
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
Deep blue.
Blue of a time that does not fit in today
Shiny exoskeleton, armored from my pesticides of care
This bug,
Bugging me
On days
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
Blue bug
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.
But today
is blue.
(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.)
Friday, July 1, 2011
A Poem for Thursday
The wise screech owls call in rasps not meant for the weak at heart.
A call to arms for the souls ready to leap
out into the dark caverns where ideas are born and pencils set down onto paper
where feet travel through the space like paint brushes soaked with black ink
treading a path forged and unforged by all who have come before.
These caverns house echos of last year's shouts and you hold your weapon ready
to defend yourself against warm gusts like belches from the earth's core.
Darkness dissolves all shape and form as no shadows can be casts in this pitch black interior.
You scoot your feet ahead in the dry earthen floor, drawing lines of uncertainty that grow bolder as you listen to the screech owls outside and press ahead toward the unknown.
A poem not meant to be anything remarkable. Just a poem to reflect the turning over of my mind. I have found the brilliance about poem writing for me, is that I am completely untrained (formally) so I can just write in a luscious ignorance that I no longer have in the rest of my life. I can't beat myself up for "knowing better" and I would like to keep it that way. For now.
A call to arms for the souls ready to leap
out into the dark caverns where ideas are born and pencils set down onto paper
where feet travel through the space like paint brushes soaked with black ink
treading a path forged and unforged by all who have come before.
These caverns house echos of last year's shouts and you hold your weapon ready
to defend yourself against warm gusts like belches from the earth's core.
Darkness dissolves all shape and form as no shadows can be casts in this pitch black interior.
You scoot your feet ahead in the dry earthen floor, drawing lines of uncertainty that grow bolder as you listen to the screech owls outside and press ahead toward the unknown.
A poem not meant to be anything remarkable. Just a poem to reflect the turning over of my mind. I have found the brilliance about poem writing for me, is that I am completely untrained (formally) so I can just write in a luscious ignorance that I no longer have in the rest of my life. I can't beat myself up for "knowing better" and I would like to keep it that way. For now.
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