April Poem #4

Today's Poem A Day Challenge is to write a "Don't ___, ____" poem. So here's mine.

Don't Bitch, Work
Don't bitch, work
You're guaranteed a better day
Save all your groans and grumbles
For later at the roaring bar
Or quiet pages in your journal
For once the beast is off its leash
You'll never get it back

April Poem #3

I'm skipping to Day 4's prompt, which is to write about a particular type of person. I have been thinking about limericks lately so I decided to write one about a lazy person.  Limericks are short and usually tongue-in-cheek and are fun to write once you get going.  As with many poetry forms, there are rules to follow about meter and rhyming and whatnot. I have a hard time following rules, so bear with me.


I actually have four to share.

Lazy
You've been up for four hours still sitting.
Still dressed in pajamas, how fitting!
Get off your rump,
You lazy chump
Or out on the curb you'll be sitting.

And here is the first poem I remember writing. It was an assignment in my 5th grade language arts class:


Karen
There once was a girl named Karen.
All day long she ate heron.
She choked on a bone.
What a horrible tone!
And now there's no heron or Karen.

See? Fun! Here's another one about myself sixteen years later (Wow, has it really been that long?):

Karen Jane
There once was a gal named Karen Jane.
All day she chewed on sugar cane.
Then some got caught;
Her teeth did rot.
And boy, how she hollered in pain!

And a love poem:

Lost Love Limerick
Couldn't tell, was it me? Was it you?
Have we said our goodbyes so soon?
I let you in
And I'd do it again
'Cause there's no other lover like you.

Do try this at home!

April Poem #2

Playing catch-up! Today's prompt is to write a postcard poem. More about it here.


My love,

Here I sit contentedly as I write this from our balcony. I’m watching the cats nibble the plants and the wrens play tag in the bushes. A gentle breeze is rustling the trees and the sky is a little hazy. The clouds are moving defiantly and too lazy to make way for the balmy afternoon that is surely on its way. My dearest love, I do believe this day could only reach perfection if your presence I could gain in this empty chair beside me.

Arrive home safely, Me

April Poem #1

The Day 1 prompt is to write a "what got you here" poem. Read Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer for a more in-depth explanation.


How I Got Here


Quiet your rustling and lend me your ear
As I sing you the story of how I got here
I was born of yellow, blue, and brown
A tornado drove my seed in the ground
Not a drop of rain for forty days
A ball of fire set me ablaze
Grew up strong with the sideoats stems
Learned to bend and sway and wave like them
But a dandelion sprang up one day
And showed me I could fly away
So southward on the winds we roamed
In the fertile hills we found a home
A bouquet of every color and hue
I see reds and greens and violets too!
And here the seasons I will spend
Until we ride the winds again

A Poem A Day Keeps the Crazy at Bay

I am embarking on a Poem-A-Day endeavor. I ran across this blog today and decided to take the author up on his challenge to write one poem a day for the entire month of April. For some time now he has been challenging his followers to write a poem each week with his "Wednesday Poetry Prompts," in which he gives his readers a simple assignment of sorts, then invites them to post their poems in the comments section.  I fully expect to fail at writing a poem for all thirty days this month, but I figured it would be worth a shot. And hey, it's not even April yet and I've already gotten started! Check back for my daily efforts.


Since today happens to be Wednesday, I followed today's prompt, which is to write a poem involving sounds. Here is the result:

Sounds Good

Clickity clack, clickity clack

Go fingers on the keyboard.

Effortless in their transmissions,

The original digits of the digital age.

Pat, pat, pat…pat, pat, pat

Put the love into the dough.

Earn the right to roll it and stretch it;

Taste tender caresses in every bite.

Snap and crack, crackle and snap

Weary knuckles white as ash

Grip the wheel and guide the way home

While wearing proud reminders of a job well done.

A Sidewalk Ode, Irregular

So today was a stupid day. I hate being sick and I hate calling in to work, but I did what I had to do. So I went to the doctor and came home and took a good four hour nap. No complaints there. I finally got my pajama-wearing self into the car with my big list of medicines to take (something else I hate) and headed to Walgreen's. I wandered around in my stuffed-up haze for a while but I finally got my stuff and got out. When I got back in the car there was a handwritten note tucked under my windshield wiper that read, "Your back right tyre is flat." Sure enough, it was flat as a pancake.

What to do? I have no spare. My husband is out of town until tonight and I have few friends on my side of town so I couldn't very well call anyone. I tried a couple people anyway but they didn't answer, which was no surprise since it was during working hours. I spotted a cab driving by and called the number. I sat on hold forever. So I thought fuck it, I'm walking. I was wearing flip flops but I just happened to have a pair of real shoes in the back seat.

It kinda sucked because it was unexpected and the urban landscape was less than inviting, but it gave me a good hour in which to ponder the mysteries of life, encounter some interesting sights, and think of this poem. On the way, I was accosted by all manner of sounds and smells, honked at (twice), stared at, nearly hit by cars at every intersection, and offered a ride by an old man in a truck, which I politely declined. Although I was grumpy and feeling sick, it was nice to get a pedestrian's perspective of my busy neighborhood.  The title of this poem is ironic, now that I think about it, because there was actually no sidewalk for at least half of the two-mile trek.  Instead there were footpaths worn down by the hundreds of people who walk the route every day.


A Sidewalk Ode, Irregular

This ho-hum landscape of parking-lot trees
Brings me to my knees, where the gravel stings
And the fried chicken air lingers heavy.

Here,
None so fair and fares so well
As the fearless grackle who feasts
On parking lot pommes frites;
And lest we o’erlook the panhandler’s stealth,
Whose leathery skin and eyes of pain
Reliably paper-covered cans obtain.

This underworld, yes, right under this world—
The one we set on top—so easy to ignore.
Yet curious stop light eyes will scan,
Against the will of any man,
And search for a bit of soul.
But green lights go and before you know,
We’re released from the grip of the wild.

...This one's for the Super Moon...

Spring Fever
Technicalities whizzing by
Here I stand with my wandering eye
No intention to take them in
I begin to blur the lines
Get a whiff of the canvas
Blood, sweat, and tears
Paint a masterpiece to outlive the years
Beyond this pain, these rules, the shame
We feel the ache to be maternal
The hope of life eternal
Like weeds overthrowing sidewalks
Like moss creeping up building tops
Ever striving to reach the sky
Our tendrils gently bend and curl
Our bountiful arms unfold and unfurl
Step back and feel the breadth of it
Collapse into the depths of it

Shhh...

Inspired by the improv show Austin Secrets. You can read more about it here: 

http://www.hideouttheatre.com/shows/austinsecrets


The Secret

It grows like mold; it infects my mind

A secret so unkind

A stain upon the curtain

Firmly drawn between the lines

Every word and every breath

Reeks of what I can’t confess

I did it. I saw it. No one else did see

Intention, reaction, withdrawal from the scene

I’ve swallowed and swallowed

I’m bursting at the seams

Now I revel in the dark

The lights come up

The curtains part

Shadows unfold before my eyes

Across the room,

Hushed whimpers and cries

I delight in the game

I know no shame

The secret is out

But its power remains

The Wave

I wrestle with my shadow

It follows me too closely

Sometimes I want to lie down

And let it smother me

Close my eyes and succumb

To all the things I know I am

But don’t want to admit

I’ve become

A ghost guards the gates

A mystery’s inside

Could it be all the love that’s

Missing when you search behind my eyes

Or pure hatred

Stowed away and pressurized

Or simply sadness

Poised to immobilize

I fear you are drowning

And it sickens me to think

There’s no rhyme

Or reason to the tide

I’m a slave to its chaotic sinking

I orbit within it

You try desperately to

Comprehend it

Promise after promise

Escapes from my grasp

I can’t fathom your faith for me

I clench my fists harder and harder

In case you give up on me

I ready for the wave

It’s coming

It’s coming

Spin

"Being born is going blind
And bowing down a thousand times
To echoes strung
On pure temptation"
~ Townes Van Zandt

SPIN

How many times will we exclaim
Never again and again and again...
While the broken record
Spins 'round on the table
You're a fool to think you can change it

I'm spinning and spinning
Like the earth and the moon
The day and the night
The seasons

Repeat, repeat, repeat
Despite my intentions
My love and my hate
My dreams

I lie in bed, discontented
I drive my car across the moon
No matter, no difference
It's all the same view
In the zoom out lense
I spin, I spin, I spin

Pouring one out for the ol' boy...

My dad's birthday is this Sunday, October 24th. It would be his 82nd birthday if he were alive. He passed away about six years ago, just days before I moved away from my podunk hometown to a big city that I had set foot in only a handful of times. The end of his life marked the beginning of a whole new life for me. It's strange to think about. He only witnessed my life up until I began my transition into adulthood. And since he was a ripe 55 years old when I was born, I only witnessed his life from middle-age to the end. Just as he will never know where my life has led me, I will never know exactly who he was before my life began. I have to settle for the caricature that my family's tall tales have drawn. But he is just as real and comforting in my thoughts and dreams as he ever was in real life. I love him and I miss him dearly.

The title of this poem is something my brother said that pretty much sums up life's big conundrum. For better or worse, things change every day and there is no stopping it. Life would be boring any other way.

Time Gets A Hold of Everything

For my brother

I saw a wrinkle today
Where did it come from?
Did the stork drop it off
Right between my eyes?
I'm taken by surprise
When I look at myself

Lines and lumps
Scars and bumps
Mark the spot
To the treasure yet uncovered
A different path from
My mother, father, brother
Yet the stories sound the same

I plan to take a trip
One-way to the past
One look into those baby blues
And I'll be on my daddy's knee
Not a care in my heart
And not a clue
That "time gets a hold of everything."

More to Come!

Hello friends.  I haven't posted anything here in a few days.  One of these days (soon) I'm going to break into my storage unit to get a bunch of old notebooks of poems out of bondage to share here.

In the mean time, I would like to post a poem by a nineteenth century English poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  It was first published on October 4, 1802.  It's a little long but it is one of my favorites.

This poem evokes such strong emotions when read aloud.  It's funny... I don't remember what teacher said it or in what grade I heard it, but I have these words burned into my auditory memory: All poetry is to be read aloud.  I find it true that poetry can take on other shades and develop a unique, personal meaning when read aloud.  I hope you try it.

Dejection: An Ode by Samuel Taylor Coleridge


Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear -
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze -and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth -
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud -
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud -
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man -
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds -
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings -all is over -
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay -
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice. 

Lighter Fare

Havin' a Ball

Lazy Day, thinkin' 'bout the stars

Lazy Night, I think I'll fly to Mars

Pack all my bags

My toothbrush and razor

Head past the clouds

Straight as a laser

And when I get there

I'll do nothing at all

That's my idea of

Havin' a ball

Hot, hot summer, nearly a scandal

Hard, cold winter's too much to handle

Jump on a boat

And cruise out to Fiji

The waters are calm

The air warm and breezy

And when I get there

I'll do nothing at all

That's my idea of

Havin' a ball

Socialization

"I'm an animal.  You're an animal too." Neko Case


Socialization

Compartmentalize

Prioritize

Never look them in the eyes

Hold it in

Never sin

Never smell

It's hard to tell

Where you end

And I begin

Wrapped up in a cotton cage

Catalogs and anti-age

Carbon copies

Crowded lobbies

Cold hard cash

Caffeine crash

Make the man

Take command

The boots

The suits

The ties

The lies

Get in it 

To win it

Get out when you die

Change with the Seasons

This poem is dedicated to the San Marcos River in San Marcos, Texas.  I miss it.


Change with the Seasons

Out comes the sun

To smile on the flesh

Of all of these kids

Half grown and half fresh

Lie on the grass

Glide on the water

Try hard to forget

The words of your fathers

Take your time in this world

It's one of a kind

When you leave this place

You leave it behind

Down falls the rain

All over the faces

Wrinkled and stained

By faraway places

Think back to the days

The world really shined

All that you wanted

Was all you could find

Change with the seasons

Save your resistance

Take pleasure in knowing

Your place in existence