I don't remember which day I wrote this on. Maybe Thursday, since it falls on a page between something I wrote on Wednesday and something I wrote on Saturday. And I seem to remember writing it while eating a sandwich on break, which I didn't do on Friday because I didn't work that day.
But I've realized that it's not necessarily one poem every day, but rather 40 poems in 40 days. So there's an amendment to the challenge, halfway through it. See what Shania Twain has to say about women changing minds, mmkay?
Deliciousness
My mouth wants more
To chew over;
My brain, less.
My mind is longing to escape
To the flavors
Brewing on my tongue.
A habitual exhaustion
And peaceful yearning
Always follow the joyful bliss.
I try to slow the excitement
And savor each tender tonguing,
But the excitement is overwhelming.
Showing posts with label Lenten Writing Challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lenten Writing Challenge. Show all posts
2009-04-01
2009-03-26
Reading/Writing Journal (Day 28)
Finished "Draglines" tonight. Whoo-hoo!
I just about laughed when I saw the title of the final poem in the book: "Peonies." Considering that's what the poem I wrote for Day 27 started off with. The content of the poem would be nice: I'd love for the parent with the peonies would only talk about what's growing. I love the look of peonies--my mom's get huge--but I couldn't stand all those black ants! The way they defile the blooms disgusts me.
"Winter Counts" had a really interesting theme at the end of it: history in reverse. The narrator is looking at a a buffalo hide in which Native Americans mark the years and depict stories of their people. I think my favorite lines from this poem are the first three in the final stanza: "But when these winter counts are read backwards,/the buffalo multiply, prairie schooners are driven away,/and the land-stakes are replanted with bur oaks."
It reminded me of a scene in my favorite childhood book: Bridge to Terabithia (hm...if I have twin girls, I might name them Tera and Tabitha). Jess and Miss Burke go to a museum in D.C. and Jess is both frightened and fascinated by a three-dimensional scene of Native American life. So I opened the book to page 100, and discovered the scene is only two paragraphs. Considering I haven't read that book in a long time, it's amazing to think I remembered that much about it. Although, I have read it dozens of times. I love it. Actually, I think I read it in late 2007. And I cried, like I always do. At least one tear.
But now I can begin "Ender's Game" by Orson Scott Card. I read the acknowledgements (since I'd rather be acknowledged for helping an author than actually be one) and the first paragraph of the introduction. Why only the first paragraph? Because that one ends as follows: "the novel stands on its own, and if you skip this intro and go straight to the story, I not only won't stand in your way, I'll even agree with you!"
Sorry Card, I couldn't help but also read the final paragraph. Which is poetry in the form of prose.
I just about laughed when I saw the title of the final poem in the book: "Peonies." Considering that's what the poem I wrote for Day 27 started off with. The content of the poem would be nice: I'd love for the parent with the peonies would only talk about what's growing. I love the look of peonies--my mom's get huge--but I couldn't stand all those black ants! The way they defile the blooms disgusts me.
"Winter Counts" had a really interesting theme at the end of it: history in reverse. The narrator is looking at a a buffalo hide in which Native Americans mark the years and depict stories of their people. I think my favorite lines from this poem are the first three in the final stanza: "But when these winter counts are read backwards,/the buffalo multiply, prairie schooners are driven away,/and the land-stakes are replanted with bur oaks."
It reminded me of a scene in my favorite childhood book: Bridge to Terabithia (hm...if I have twin girls, I might name them Tera and Tabitha). Jess and Miss Burke go to a museum in D.C. and Jess is both frightened and fascinated by a three-dimensional scene of Native American life. So I opened the book to page 100, and discovered the scene is only two paragraphs. Considering I haven't read that book in a long time, it's amazing to think I remembered that much about it. Although, I have read it dozens of times. I love it. Actually, I think I read it in late 2007. And I cried, like I always do. At least one tear.
But now I can begin "Ender's Game" by Orson Scott Card. I read the acknowledgements (since I'd rather be acknowledged for helping an author than actually be one) and the first paragraph of the introduction. Why only the first paragraph? Because that one ends as follows: "the novel stands on its own, and if you skip this intro and go straight to the story, I not only won't stand in your way, I'll even agree with you!"
Sorry Card, I couldn't help but also read the final paragraph. Which is poetry in the form of prose.
The story of Ender's Game is not this book, though it has that title emblazoned on it. The story is one that you and I will construct together in our memory. If the story means anything to you at all, then when you remember it afterward, think of it, not as something I created, but rather something that we made together.
I hope my copy of it fits well enough in my purse to take to work. Otherwise I might not finish it before Good Friday, when I want to start whatever is next on my list. (I can't remember right now, but I know it's documented and owned by me.)
Oh, and I feel inclined to point out that the back jacket said the name of one of Ender's siblings (I think it's a sister) is Valentine. Which is likely to be a tribute to the last sci-fi/fantasy book I read: Stranger in a Strange Land. Valentine Michael Smith is the name of the man from Mars.
_________________________________________
Driving home from Institute, I looked over into the lane next to me and noticed the hubcaps on the car passing me as I slowed to get on the on-ramp looked like they were moving backwards, when they were clearly moving forward. Within a mile, I had decided to change the radio station and ended up on one of the public radio stations. I have no idea which one or what show was currently on, much less what artist was being featured. And, part of me wishes I cared because I'd like to listen to the song whose ending helped inspire part of today's poem.
Here are the lines I scribbled while driving. (Yes, I know it's dangerous, but if you saw the poor manner in which they're written, you would conclude that I was concentrating on driving. And I always keep a pen within arm's reach while I'm in the car.)
"Wheels moving forward/Looking like backward/Sounding despairing/yet full of hope & joy"
Dichotomy
Forward, moving motions
Make the wheels appear in reverse.
Those atop the spinning circles
Know which way they're headed.
A song comes on, and the
Volume goes up.
The listener can hear
A high run and a low line,
With a gentle, hurried rhythm.
It sounds like something old
But is new in every moment.
The song is sounding despairing
With undertones of hope and joy.
2009-03-25
Writing Journal (Day 27)
I was listening to Pink Floyd, and the song "High Hopes" came on. Which I describe as a song about the reminiscenes of childhood. Got me to thinking about the 7 kids I grew up with. Man, we had some good times! I could write an entire book of poems about it...hmm...add that to my list of books to write! Here's the start of it: (although, if I do compile a chapbook, I'll probably want this title for the book and not any individual poem.)
Averbeck Alley
The black ants crawl
In large quantities
Over the peonies in the
Tractor tire that tried to be a sandbox.
It managed to succeed
In giving us a place to play chicken
And stir up Stink Soup.
Popcorn kernels, old rain water,
Random berries, greens, tree bark, and
Dirt in a pickle bucket.
I wonder if words
Under rotting stairs get faded.
Sitting on cemented gravel,
We wrote things unmentionable.
In black, permanant marker.
The mulberry tree that was
So easy to climb
Still bears the summer-long jump rope scar.
The snow bush, love pines, and yellow worm tree
Have all been ripped out by the roots.
As has the black walnut tree.
We used to climb high
Up that one on Friday the 13th,
Jumping down, tempting fate.
Thought most of the five wire lines are gone,
The crossbars to the clothesline pole remain.
Are there any footprints
One the side of the garage
From any recent flippers?
It's still a clear shot between those garages
To the hill of horse bones.
Strange that we never found any while
Digging to China.
That homemade ditch-hole made a sweet jump.
The grass grows greener over The Pit.
______________________________
This is pretty closed to being finished! Go me! I still want to work on that last stazna, though. I am absolutely in love with that last line, not only because it's true but because it pays homage to the inspiration. And symbolizes how the evidence of 8 childhoods is still slightly visibile to those who know it was once there.
Averbeck Alley
The black ants crawl
In large quantities
Over the peonies in the
Tractor tire that tried to be a sandbox.
It managed to succeed
In giving us a place to play chicken
And stir up Stink Soup.
Popcorn kernels, old rain water,
Random berries, greens, tree bark, and
Dirt in a pickle bucket.
I wonder if words
Under rotting stairs get faded.
Sitting on cemented gravel,
We wrote things unmentionable.
In black, permanant marker.
The mulberry tree that was
So easy to climb
Still bears the summer-long jump rope scar.
The snow bush, love pines, and yellow worm tree
Have all been ripped out by the roots.
As has the black walnut tree.
We used to climb high
Up that one on Friday the 13th,
Jumping down, tempting fate.
Thought most of the five wire lines are gone,
The crossbars to the clothesline pole remain.
Are there any footprints
One the side of the garage
From any recent flippers?
It's still a clear shot between those garages
To the hill of horse bones.
Strange that we never found any while
Digging to China.
That homemade ditch-hole made a sweet jump.
The grass grows greener over The Pit.
______________________________
This is pretty closed to being finished! Go me! I still want to work on that last stazna, though. I am absolutely in love with that last line, not only because it's true but because it pays homage to the inspiration. And symbolizes how the evidence of 8 childhoods is still slightly visibile to those who know it was once there.
2009-03-24
Writing Journal (Day 26)
This weekend, I had some pretty dang good ideas for some pretty dang good poems. And I didn't even write the ideas down, much less turn the ideas into poems. Now, they're gone. This is a stream-of-consciousness that developed from that.
Lost
I had all this inspiration the other day,
And laid it all aside.
As punishment, I guess,
Nothing came today.
I'd like this to be longer,
But there's nothing more to write.
I've failed to use
The triggers pulled for me.
Now the gun is pointed elsewhere.
(What's with all
This violent imagery, anyway?
Am I trying to tell myself something?)
Maybe I do need a good grounding.
One with an Enforcer!
So ground me, pound me,
Beat the sense into my skull.
No-not the skull!
Elsewhere,
Somewhere secret,
Where the words need to be
Drawn and quartered-
Pulled apart and cheered at.
Lost
I had all this inspiration the other day,
And laid it all aside.
As punishment, I guess,
Nothing came today.
I'd like this to be longer,
But there's nothing more to write.
I've failed to use
The triggers pulled for me.
Now the gun is pointed elsewhere.
(What's with all
This violent imagery, anyway?
Am I trying to tell myself something?)
Maybe I do need a good grounding.
One with an Enforcer!
So ground me, pound me,
Beat the sense into my skull.
No-not the skull!
Elsewhere,
Somewhere secret,
Where the words need to be
Drawn and quartered-
Pulled apart and cheered at.
Writing Journal (Day 25)
Once I was challenged by a Creative Writing teacher to try and write something bad. Back then, it was harder than I thought. I tried it again on Day 25, so this is supposed to be chock-full of cliche's and obvious attempts at rhymes. It was surprisingly easy. Maybe that's not a good sign...
My Son
I raised you up,
They shot you down.
I saw you from my body,
Now I'll see you in the ground.
Your friends,
They could not save you.
But they have done enough-
What more is there to do?
They got you into guns,
They got you into gangs,
They got you into drugs,
They all but said the "bang!"
__________________________
I've got to be honest; I've been failing miserably at this challenge. Hardly any of these poems are finished. So I'm really only starting a poem every day, which is not the same as writing a poem every day.
My Son
I raised you up,
They shot you down.
I saw you from my body,
Now I'll see you in the ground.
Your friends,
They could not save you.
But they have done enough-
What more is there to do?
They got you into guns,
They got you into gangs,
They got you into drugs,
They all but said the "bang!"
__________________________
I've got to be honest; I've been failing miserably at this challenge. Hardly any of these poems are finished. So I'm really only starting a poem every day, which is not the same as writing a poem every day.
Writing Journal (Day 24)
I went somewhere on Saturday...where was it? I was driving home while it was dark and rainy. Seriously...where was I coming back from? Or maybe I skipped a day and wrote two on Day 25 instead. I think that's what happened. Either way, it's not one of my best...
Stormy Ride
Dirty rain
Streaks the glass.
I crack the window
To take in the scent
Of the pavement as I pass.
The beautiful reflection
Of a double green
Captures my gaze, and
I almost miss my turn.
Lightning is beautiful,
Surrounded by dark, wet silence.
Stormy Ride
Dirty rain
Streaks the glass.
I crack the window
To take in the scent
Of the pavement as I pass.
The beautiful reflection
Of a double green
Captures my gaze, and
I almost miss my turn.
Lightning is beautiful,
Surrounded by dark, wet silence.
Writing Journal (Day 23)
Day 23 was a Friday, and was easily one of the worst days I've had at work. Summing it up (full story here): a good friend of mine yelled at me. Loudly. Over nothing.
On the plus side, the calm I was able to maintain (through little help of my own) gave me a story for the lesson I had to teach on Sunday as well as this poem.
Smoldering
The purposes of evil are frustrated
When you remain calm.
To not quiver with fear
Or shout back with defensive anger
Is to throw a brick wall
In the face of damnation.
Standing firm in the
Truth of Love
Will harrow the barrel of hate
That is staring you down.
Lashing back and
Punching the abuse down
Will cause it to
Rise higher with fury;
Remaining calm allows the
Fire to burn bright but
Quickly upon the pyre.
On the plus side, the calm I was able to maintain (through little help of my own) gave me a story for the lesson I had to teach on Sunday as well as this poem.
Smoldering
The purposes of evil are frustrated
When you remain calm.
To not quiver with fear
Or shout back with defensive anger
Is to throw a brick wall
In the face of damnation.
Standing firm in the
Truth of Love
Will harrow the barrel of hate
That is staring you down.
Lashing back and
Punching the abuse down
Will cause it to
Rise higher with fury;
Remaining calm allows the
Fire to burn bright but
Quickly upon the pyre.
2009-03-20
Reading/Writing Journal (Day 22)
"Draglines" is pretty great. I'll have to go back through the BCR's and read what work of his we published. (I think it might have been fiction.) A lot of his themes would be really familiar to the parents of the Baby Boomers. He takes some really cool perspectives.
How I came about this book:
Patrick Hick's came and did a reading at BCU and had some books for sale. Maybe he only had the one chapbook, maybe he had more and I could only afford the chapbook; I don't remember. Anyway, I had him autograph my copy. Last night, I found something I had written on the back page of the chapbook that must have been something he said during his reading: Inspiration is that moment when you see things in a way no one else sees them. Totally love that! Thanks, former seashmore, for documenting that quote.
Some of my favorite poems are:
Lipstick Traces
The Corpse
The Four Elements
The Unimagined
Some quotes (which means, according to the copyright, that this is to be considered a critical article)
The Four Elements
"amid the geometry of the dead."
"The horizon is a peaceful monotone,"
This poem really struck me and I'm a huge fan of the symmetry between the second and third stanzas. It highlights how people all over are simultaneously different and the same. From an individual basis to a general one.
The Unimagined
"At the lighting of each dawn,/he ['my imaginary friend'] collects my old dreams/and carts them away."
No wonder I can't remember some of my dreams! A forgotten imaginary friend has stolen them away! (My imaginary friend is so forgotten and long gone that I don't remember having one. Unless Jonathon Crom has forever been a powerful figment of my imagination that once left me alone. I don't have my old school class pictures from elementary school to prove that he really existed; they're in Wisconsin.)
________________________________
The other day, we rearranged our front room. The couch fits perfectly in the little space in front of the windows. Which means it faces the stairs. Not a big fan of staring at the stairs, but it might grow on me. Of course, it would grow faster if we weren't going to be storing a wedding dress from the banister so my roommate's sister's fiancee doesn't see it. Keep in mind my roommates and I are all 100% single, "with no prospects that anyone can detect." (Utah Philips) Last night, I sat on the couch and wrote this poem:
The Stairs
As much as I'll hate
Staring at the stairs,
I suppose it beats
The table and folding chairs.
Soon the white dress
Will be hung
As a constant reminder
Of what is to come.
The struggles we'll
Have with their troubles;
How there will be triples,
Not doubles.
That looming bag
From the stairs--
We'll try to hide it
To stop the ripping of our hairs,
But it will
Be of no use.
We'll all still know
How men are obtuse.
How I came about this book:
Patrick Hick's came and did a reading at BCU and had some books for sale. Maybe he only had the one chapbook, maybe he had more and I could only afford the chapbook; I don't remember. Anyway, I had him autograph my copy. Last night, I found something I had written on the back page of the chapbook that must have been something he said during his reading: Inspiration is that moment when you see things in a way no one else sees them. Totally love that! Thanks, former seashmore, for documenting that quote.
Some of my favorite poems are:
Lipstick Traces
The Corpse
The Four Elements
The Unimagined
Some quotes (which means, according to the copyright, that this is to be considered a critical article)
The Four Elements
"amid the geometry of the dead."
"The horizon is a peaceful monotone,"
This poem really struck me and I'm a huge fan of the symmetry between the second and third stanzas. It highlights how people all over are simultaneously different and the same. From an individual basis to a general one.
The Unimagined
"At the lighting of each dawn,/he ['my imaginary friend'] collects my old dreams/and carts them away."
No wonder I can't remember some of my dreams! A forgotten imaginary friend has stolen them away! (My imaginary friend is so forgotten and long gone that I don't remember having one. Unless Jonathon Crom has forever been a powerful figment of my imagination that once left me alone. I don't have my old school class pictures from elementary school to prove that he really existed; they're in Wisconsin.)
________________________________
The other day, we rearranged our front room. The couch fits perfectly in the little space in front of the windows. Which means it faces the stairs. Not a big fan of staring at the stairs, but it might grow on me. Of course, it would grow faster if we weren't going to be storing a wedding dress from the banister so my roommate's sister's fiancee doesn't see it. Keep in mind my roommates and I are all 100% single, "with no prospects that anyone can detect." (Utah Philips) Last night, I sat on the couch and wrote this poem:
The Stairs
As much as I'll hate
Staring at the stairs,
I suppose it beats
The table and folding chairs.
Soon the white dress
Will be hung
As a constant reminder
Of what is to come.
The struggles we'll
Have with their troubles;
How there will be triples,
Not doubles.
That looming bag
From the stairs--
We'll try to hide it
To stop the ripping of our hairs,
But it will
Be of no use.
We'll all still know
How men are obtuse.
2009-03-18
Writing Journal (Day 21)
Over halfway there!!
Today was my day off, which I love. And being in the outdoors, enjoying the beautiful weather we've been given, was the inspiration for this. How it came to be: I went for a walk. Intending to go to the bank and back. But then my friend called me and it sounded urgent. I wanted to talk to her, but without the noise of traffic. Well....there was an entrance to a recreational trail (used for biking and walking alike) nearby, so I figured, what the heck? Gets me away from traffic and it's nice out.
Well, after I got off the phone, I kept on because I knew there was a bench up ahead that another friend of mine mentioned he wanted to capture on film. At the time he showed it to me, I couldn't think of a way to do that. I thought I'd see what I could come up with. So I kept walking. Good news: I think I might have found a way! (Yay!)
Anyway, there's a park near the bench. It was empty, being a school day and still fairly early in the morning. I guess. I don't really know why people weren't using it. At the beginning of my walk, I had seen a swingset at a church/school and thought "that looks like fun; I haven't been on on a swing in a long time." Well.....the park was empty, there were swings, everything was pretty far from the road. (Not that doing something childish would embarass me or anything...) So I took off my shoes and my socks (but kept my coat on) and went for it!
Here's the poem that ensued:
On the Swing
The stillness turns to breeze
As I soar into the sky.
My hair falls back while
I fly forward,
Through the trees
Into the cloudy blue.
The sand falls from between my toes,
Back down to another place
Along the leafy ground.
"Soar,
two-three,
four"
Drowns out the gentle
Squeaky creak of an
Otherwise flawless flight.
The smile on my face fades
As I glimpse the shadow that shows
Me to be older than I feel.
The blue plastic seat
Only reaffirms
My battle with the ages.
Today was my day off, which I love. And being in the outdoors, enjoying the beautiful weather we've been given, was the inspiration for this. How it came to be: I went for a walk. Intending to go to the bank and back. But then my friend called me and it sounded urgent. I wanted to talk to her, but without the noise of traffic. Well....there was an entrance to a recreational trail (used for biking and walking alike) nearby, so I figured, what the heck? Gets me away from traffic and it's nice out.
Well, after I got off the phone, I kept on because I knew there was a bench up ahead that another friend of mine mentioned he wanted to capture on film. At the time he showed it to me, I couldn't think of a way to do that. I thought I'd see what I could come up with. So I kept walking. Good news: I think I might have found a way! (Yay!)
Anyway, there's a park near the bench. It was empty, being a school day and still fairly early in the morning. I guess. I don't really know why people weren't using it. At the beginning of my walk, I had seen a swingset at a church/school and thought "that looks like fun; I haven't been on on a swing in a long time." Well.....the park was empty, there were swings, everything was pretty far from the road. (Not that doing something childish would embarass me or anything...) So I took off my shoes and my socks (but kept my coat on) and went for it!
Here's the poem that ensued:
On the Swing
The stillness turns to breeze
As I soar into the sky.
My hair falls back while
I fly forward,
Through the trees
Into the cloudy blue.
The sand falls from between my toes,
Back down to another place
Along the leafy ground.
"Soar,
two-three,
four"
Drowns out the gentle
Squeaky creak of an
Otherwise flawless flight.
The smile on my face fades
As I glimpse the shadow that shows
Me to be older than I feel.
The blue plastic seat
Only reaffirms
My battle with the ages.
Writing Journal (Day 20)
I finished "The Bluest Eye" and started "Draglines" by Patrick Hicks. One of the poems in there inspired the following. I'm not sure of the inspiring poem's name, but it's about how the Miss America in 1945 was Jewish. It's very short.
I, again, had title difficulties...
Did Anyone
Did anyone think to ask her
What she thought
As they paraded her through towns?
Today, she'd be
Questioned to death
On the death of the
Kin she never asked for.
Star-shaped yellow ash
Would forever be linked to her.
I, again, had title difficulties...
Did Anyone
Did anyone think to ask her
What she thought
As they paraded her through towns?
Today, she'd be
Questioned to death
On the death of the
Kin she never asked for.
Star-shaped yellow ash
Would forever be linked to her.
Reading/Writing Journal (Day 19)
As General Conference approaches, I'm reminded of when I was reactivated. Here's a poem. That isn't very good. But I am rather fond of the title.
Reactiversary
Another year is fast approaching.
The marking of time
Is no longer on a clock.
Now it's on a calendar,
As a beautiful time to gather together.
Another six months to work within me,
Using words I need to hear;
I hope they come in time.
(Lovely how hope can be
Replaced by prayer.)
To think of millions
Standing as one,
Singing from the
Basement of their lungs.
How else could
Love be known and shown?
To stand is to fall,
To fall is to be caught,
To be caught is to be grateful.
And so I am.
Reactiversary
Another year is fast approaching.
The marking of time
Is no longer on a clock.
Now it's on a calendar,
As a beautiful time to gather together.
Another six months to work within me,
Using words I need to hear;
I hope they come in time.
(Lovely how hope can be
Replaced by prayer.)
To think of millions
Standing as one,
Singing from the
Basement of their lungs.
How else could
Love be known and shown?
To stand is to fall,
To fall is to be caught,
To be caught is to be grateful.
And so I am.
2009-03-16
Writing Journal (Day 18)
This is the result of my late-night, exhaust-filled attempt at writing a poem from the perspective of another person. Due to distraction, I was not able to give it my utmost attention while composing. Certainly didn't help matters that the event inspiring the poem had happened earlier in the week, so the memory was not fresh. Not my best. I'll be lucky to get 2 decent poems out of this challenge. *le sigh*
Little Girl
Would she have laughed so hard
Had she known what I knew?
I couldn't help but notice
How happy she seemed.
It wasn't a facade;
Those smiles were really real.
And beautifully flushing her cheeks.
Still, I desired to see her
As distraught as I felt.
I wished to take back my knowing,
To pack it all away.
Since I can't share it,
I take solace in knowing
It isn't my place
To fuel her fears
And spoil her smile.
Little Girl
Would she have laughed so hard
Had she known what I knew?
I couldn't help but notice
How happy she seemed.
It wasn't a facade;
Those smiles were really real.
And beautifully flushing her cheeks.
Still, I desired to see her
As distraught as I felt.
I wished to take back my knowing,
To pack it all away.
Since I can't share it,
I take solace in knowing
It isn't my place
To fuel her fears
And spoil her smile.
2009-03-13
Writing Journal (Day 17)
The inspiration for this poem came from today's entry on Colorfly Studio. (Which I am now publicly following.) It's a picture of an old letterpress drawer that reminded me of a shelving unit we had in our living room growing up. It was home to many knick-knacks and I decided to start a list poem. Again, not very good for anything other than practice and meeting the requirements of this challenge.
Knick-Knacks
R2-D2, a tigerish kitty cat,
Little toy trucks for Raisin Bran,
Pea-sized Disney characters,
California Rasins (or were those upstairs?),
That discus-posed figurine
With the black porcelain hair,
Those tea tins from a rummage sale...
(Had I been the least bit supersitious,
I would have been suspicious I was the one to blame.)
I can't even remember
What all was there, yet I know
Somehow those mementos
Have disappeared,
Faded to who knows where.
Knick-Knacks
R2-D2, a tigerish kitty cat,
Little toy trucks for Raisin Bran,
Pea-sized Disney characters,
California Rasins (or were those upstairs?),
That discus-posed figurine
With the black porcelain hair,
Those tea tins from a rummage sale...
(Had I been the least bit supersitious,
I would have been suspicious I was the one to blame.)
I can't even remember
What all was there, yet I know
Somehow those mementos
Have disappeared,
Faded to who knows where.
Writing Journal (Day 16)
Something happened on Day 15 that, while it was a big deal to a very dear friend of mine, it wasn't something I thought would effect my emotions too much. But I realized on Day 16 that it had. Quite a bit. I had to tap a lot of restraint before I was able to go on break and let some of those emotions out in poetic form.
Final Straw
Didn't think I'd be so mad,
But this so-called love
Is getting in the way.
It's where I eat,
Where I sleep,
What I breathe.
Three dead skunks remind me
Spring in the kingdom
Is not near--it's here!
He knows he did her wrong,
And now he wants her gone.
He battles the weak
And tries calling it fair.
His disadvantage is his advantage.
Final Straw
Didn't think I'd be so mad,
But this so-called love
Is getting in the way.
It's where I eat,
Where I sleep,
What I breathe.
Three dead skunks remind me
Spring in the kingdom
Is not near--it's here!
He knows he did her wrong,
And now he wants her gone.
He battles the weak
And tries calling it fair.
His disadvantage is his advantage.
Writing Journal (Day 15)
I was driving to work and saw a white SUV with dust on the back window and whitewalled tires. Maggie had recently painted the stairwell to the library, and it took a few days of running a fan and keeping the door (to the stairwell) open for the smell to at least fade a little.
I'll be the first (of few, since that's how many I expect to stumble across this) to admit this is straddling the line of crap.
Something So White
I see something so white,
And I start smelling paint again.
Even the dust on the back
Evokes the scent
Still lingering on the stairs.
I'll be the first (of few, since that's how many I expect to stumble across this) to admit this is straddling the line of crap.
Something So White
I see something so white,
And I start smelling paint again.
Even the dust on the back
Evokes the scent
Still lingering on the stairs.
Writing Journal (Day 14)
I took inspiration from the main event of the day: receiving a new General Manager at work. It reminded me of all the changes in management/leadership I've experienced in the past, well, 7 years. I had about 6 managers at Subway, a couple of changes in the caf, in my 2 years as an RA, I reported to no less than 5 Hall Directors (or acting Hall Directors). Learning to deal with changing superiors was actually something I considered putting in my skill set on my resume.
What's One More?
Another replacement,
Another adjustment,
Another life to break.
The trick to adapting
Is to embrace it.
Lick your wounds and
Pretend you like it.
Hating the allies of the new
Is guaranteed to
Lengthen the road.
Choose to take the higher ground.
Learn to love your life's changes,
Lengthen your stride
As you glide towards happiness.
What's One More?
Another replacement,
Another adjustment,
Another life to break.
The trick to adapting
Is to embrace it.
Lick your wounds and
Pretend you like it.
Hating the allies of the new
Is guaranteed to
Lengthen the road.
Choose to take the higher ground.
Learn to love your life's changes,
Lengthen your stride
As you glide towards happiness.
2009-03-09
Writing Journal (Day 13)
Not much inspiration behind this one. I came home from Family Home Evening, realized I hadn't eaten anything since 2:00, nor had I written a poem yet.
Waffle
The waffle so warm
Between my fingers
Burns the skin of my teeth.
I am standing in the kitchen,
Watching myself eat,
Wishing today was tomorrow.
Eventually, my bed doth call.
And when it does,
I'll solemnly give it heed.
Away to never-slumber-land
I readily will fly.
Thinking if only, if only,
And always asking why.
Waffle
The waffle so warm
Between my fingers
Burns the skin of my teeth.
I am standing in the kitchen,
Watching myself eat,
Wishing today was tomorrow.
Eventually, my bed doth call.
And when it does,
I'll solemnly give it heed.
Away to never-slumber-land
I readily will fly.
Thinking if only, if only,
And always asking why.
Writing Journal (Day 12)
Again, I was inspired by the physical act (and auditory sound) of dropping that little plastic cup into the metal tray during Sacrament meeting. A few months ago, I'm pretty sure I at least jotted some lines down, if not formed an entire poem that Lucy is holding hostage. (Or is in a spiral notebook/journal gone MIA at some point in time.)
Keep in mind, I'm considering this particular poem underdeveloped and unfinished. I still feel that it needs some rhythm and a direction that leads it to an ending.
Sins
There go my sins
Into the cup,
And then into the tray.
I willingly take upon me
The name which clears my own.
My dirtiness is thrown away
Without a second thought.
Keep in mind, I'm considering this particular poem underdeveloped and unfinished. I still feel that it needs some rhythm and a direction that leads it to an ending.
Sins
There go my sins
Into the cup,
And then into the tray.
I willingly take upon me
The name which clears my own.
My dirtiness is thrown away
Without a second thought.
Writing Journal (Day 10)
Friday, I conjured up a plan involving entering an apartment and removing thousands of dollars worth of merchandise. That plan involved a ransom note. Which I took it upon myself to turn into a ransom poem (with a clever title, I might add). I wish I had had the time to turn it into couplets because I'm really not a fan of the rhyme scheme I used.
Ransom Poem
Take a look around
And soon I'm sure you'll find
Your books cannont be found.
Please be warned: don't call the cops;
Your books are safe and sound,
Sitting in boxes once kept by the mops.
Don't you worry,
And don't you fret,
This was not done in a hurry.
Your books are being cared for
Just off the cul-de-sac
At (I'm not posting the address).
To see them once more,
You'll have to drive
To a house with a (color) door.
If you don't know who we are by now,
You don't deserve to know,
And we'll be trading you in for a pet cow.
____________________________
The story behind this is that, after I had constructed the library and realized it was missing such a large part of it, I had told SH that someday she would come home and all of her books would be gone. Well, when she told me on Friday that she wouldn't be back from out of town until Sunday afternoon before work, the light bulb went off. So I gathered a couple of accompliases and we became felon booknappers.
Which I hope explains why I skipped Day 11 of the challenge....
Ransom Poem
Take a look around
And soon I'm sure you'll find
Your books cannont be found.
Please be warned: don't call the cops;
Your books are safe and sound,
Sitting in boxes once kept by the mops.
Don't you worry,
And don't you fret,
This was not done in a hurry.
Your books are being cared for
Just off the cul-de-sac
At (I'm not posting the address).
To see them once more,
You'll have to drive
To a house with a (color) door.
If you don't know who we are by now,
You don't deserve to know,
And we'll be trading you in for a pet cow.
____________________________
The story behind this is that, after I had constructed the library and realized it was missing such a large part of it, I had told SH that someday she would come home and all of her books would be gone. Well, when she told me on Friday that she wouldn't be back from out of town until Sunday afternoon before work, the light bulb went off. So I gathered a couple of accompliases and we became felon booknappers.
Which I hope explains why I skipped Day 11 of the challenge....
2009-03-06
Writing Journal (Day Nine)
In the same way that a Law & Order episode can be "ripped straight from the headlines" in the promo and they still show the "any resemblance to any real persons, events, etc. are unintentional" (or however their legal jargon phrases it), this poem has been influenced by events, emotions and experiences actually in my life, but any resemblance to any one in particular is purely coincidental. Believe me as you will.
That being said, I won't reveal what, precisely, from my past influenced the writing of this poem. Partly because they're very personal. But also because I'm not entirely sure. Some stanzas were from something that happened to me, some were from something that happened to someone I knew, some are purely fictional.
This one has been the hardest for me to title thus far.
__________________________________________
Freight Train
The trouble that you've been in
Is more than I can share.
I know that you've cried through your dark
For someone there to care.
With their own ears full of steam,
They simply could not hear you.
Not until it was far too late,
Did someone know they knew.
It was a lonely train whistle
Coming round the bend.
At merely seventeen years old,
You were ready for it to end.
But someone else had switched the tracks
And you were losing steam.
That lovely face appeared to you
In the middle of a dream.
She didn't try to stop you;
No way she ever could.
Instead she simply let you coast
While living as she should.
Sooner or later,
The time would come, she knew,
When you would finally see the light
And find yourself renewed.
That being said, I won't reveal what, precisely, from my past influenced the writing of this poem. Partly because they're very personal. But also because I'm not entirely sure. Some stanzas were from something that happened to me, some were from something that happened to someone I knew, some are purely fictional.
This one has been the hardest for me to title thus far.
__________________________________________
Freight Train
The trouble that you've been in
Is more than I can share.
I know that you've cried through your dark
For someone there to care.
With their own ears full of steam,
They simply could not hear you.
Not until it was far too late,
Did someone know they knew.
It was a lonely train whistle
Coming round the bend.
At merely seventeen years old,
You were ready for it to end.
But someone else had switched the tracks
And you were losing steam.
That lovely face appeared to you
In the middle of a dream.
She didn't try to stop you;
No way she ever could.
Instead she simply let you coast
While living as she should.
Sooner or later,
The time would come, she knew,
When you would finally see the light
And find yourself renewed.
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