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.

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.)