I am not much of a love poet. But, I am glad to say that my depressive poetry days are long gone with the whisper memory of high school. To this I say, thank goodness! Who needs puberty and all those rash emotions anyway? You think high school is boss and the bomb and whatever newfangled term you want to throw with it. It isn't. You get out of high school and you realize that there is a whole world of people to meet and learn from. There is a whole world that has been shifting, changing, and rampaging without you. Now you have to find a way to fit in and yet stand out at the same time. Sometimes we find that in a lover or a friend or maybe it is by ourselves we find our place in the world.
I am glad to know what I know and I am even more excited to learn what I am going to learn. Days are made of moments, and moments are just memories to have and lessons to learn.
I say this with confidence, seize the day!
Now, for you: A poem.
Art
My veins are pumping dependency.
My fingers are clawing at your shoulder.
The body becomes a maze of action.
Motions are lost in sound.
We are but solitary beings.
We follow nature to come together.
Worlds shrink in minutes.
Sweat builds in seconds.
Your hips are metered rhythm,
Your skin is a description.
Elegantly you are formed,
Legs around my body
And head relying on my shoulder.
Your eyes are ideas of
Severe punctuation
Conjoined by our lips.
Our sweat is paint,
Dripping and splattering
With wild abandon.
This world is our blank canvas.
We’ll wrestle in the stars
And swim in the sun.
Sketch our dreams
And smear our desires.
Moan me a song,
Whisper me the lyrics.
Keep the rhythm with your hands,
And exaggerate the bass.
Shut your eyes and feel the tune,
Dance to the rhythm.
We’ll be the artists,
Passion our creation.
Marquee
Friday, July 30, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
She
She
She? Oh-ho-ho. You ask about she.
Why, she is the double image of me.
And everything I wish I could be.
She… She’s my fresh and crazed wild pea.
On Monday- She is a revolutionary heel-
A whispering daughter of powder and steel.
She springs into town with a gritty ideal.
One day the copper horizon will be surreal.
One day, guns will shatter their cries.
And the sheriff will pitch to the skies.
The law will be a deafening whisper of lies.
One day the hero will say his goodbyes.
On Tuesday- She is an uneven creator-
A thoughtless affection translator.
Her mechanism is an unpracticed traitor.
It seizes rule much as a dictator.
The pigments splay like a tattered thought-
Mismatched and misshapen like the life she wrought.
This monument is what the inner mind sought
To represent everything to this life she brought.
On Wednesday- She is a cultured crowned head-
Whose blood doesn’t ooze blue but expendable red.
She cloaks herself to impel to the front line ahead.
Her reverie fills those soldiers’ voided dread.
But sometimes the royal girl falls under enchantment
By the buccaneers that sing the seas lament.
The girl follows them into the hull’s descent.
Then a delicious ransom is the scoundrel’s intent.
She? It was very curious you ask about- she.
Yes, she is as young as her thumb but as old as thee.
Yet-- she is this kingdom’s sole divinity,
Everything I once thought I could be.
When Thursday comes, she is a celestial spirit.
Men pilgrim across atlases to take a hit-
Of the elegance and the dignity that will emit.
But these appraisals are hers extract or commit.
When the crests fracture like diamond stone
And the deranged and jumbled sand cannot atone,
She will choke the obsolete darkness drone.
And love will be all that is ever known.
Fridays are the best for a meandering knight.
On these days, sulfuric snorting creatures fight.
Kingdoms fall under siege, and in the dark ignite.
And only a warrior can bring hope, like a scorching light.
Dress in metal so reflective and thin,
She takes to the head, a burning light within.
A battle cry tumbles from lips of pinkest skin.
Knotted instruments cut through the flesh of sin.
Saturday- this is a strange day for a child.
Young as a sapling and like a mouse-so mild.
Cliffs of a mess loom in a room so wild,
And to clean it she must be beguiled.
Daughter to her father, and to the earth.
With tasks given by mother, she works from her birth.
As for these mountains- she must try to unearth
A formidable cot for her royal nap of great worth.
Probable you should ask about she-
When she slumbers so simplistically on my knee.
She is a royal, a bandit and the eldest of he.
And if you asked her- She’d be no more than she.
I wrote this today and I haven't had time to check back over it, but I wanted to get this out for review. I wanted to write something about my niece and nephews before this summer was over and here is a poem devoted to my niece. I wanted to capture playtime and a different level. I wanted to have it viewed from an adult's perspective rather than the fantastical view of a child. I wanted it to be a reflection on youth and what they see and how it all boils down when playtime is over. I am not sure if I captured that but I did my best and I wrote what I felt.
The lack of posting is due to something very strange, according to my doctor. I have an inner ear infection. The doctor stated that it was strange because kids get those, generally not adults. I take this as a compliment to my youth and even to my child like nature. Yes ma'am, I would like to remain Peter Pan in Neverland forever. Yes, I would love to fight pirates in my dreams for all time! Do I want to keep the kid syndromes like inner ear infections? No thanks. It sucks when you're an adult because unlike a child, you can't just go outside and run in the yard and forget the constant ringing in your ears. I might go mad with the noise. I don't think it will ever stop.
With this much time to think- I have learned something very important today. I draw a lot of my inspiration from music but the hard thing for writers is that we can only use words. Songs can have lyrics explaining what the tune means or even what it doesn't mean. As writers, we have only words and we have to create the music and the images. Our art form is limited and therefore requires a different sort of talent. We have to make the brain work rather than deliver an instantly pleasing form.
Just something to think about.
She? Oh-ho-ho. You ask about she.
Why, she is the double image of me.
And everything I wish I could be.
She… She’s my fresh and crazed wild pea.
On Monday- She is a revolutionary heel-
A whispering daughter of powder and steel.
She springs into town with a gritty ideal.
One day the copper horizon will be surreal.
One day, guns will shatter their cries.
And the sheriff will pitch to the skies.
The law will be a deafening whisper of lies.
One day the hero will say his goodbyes.
On Tuesday- She is an uneven creator-
A thoughtless affection translator.
Her mechanism is an unpracticed traitor.
It seizes rule much as a dictator.
The pigments splay like a tattered thought-
Mismatched and misshapen like the life she wrought.
This monument is what the inner mind sought
To represent everything to this life she brought.
On Wednesday- She is a cultured crowned head-
Whose blood doesn’t ooze blue but expendable red.
She cloaks herself to impel to the front line ahead.
Her reverie fills those soldiers’ voided dread.
But sometimes the royal girl falls under enchantment
By the buccaneers that sing the seas lament.
The girl follows them into the hull’s descent.
Then a delicious ransom is the scoundrel’s intent.
She? It was very curious you ask about- she.
Yes, she is as young as her thumb but as old as thee.
Yet-- she is this kingdom’s sole divinity,
Everything I once thought I could be.
When Thursday comes, she is a celestial spirit.
Men pilgrim across atlases to take a hit-
Of the elegance and the dignity that will emit.
But these appraisals are hers extract or commit.
When the crests fracture like diamond stone
And the deranged and jumbled sand cannot atone,
She will choke the obsolete darkness drone.
And love will be all that is ever known.
Fridays are the best for a meandering knight.
On these days, sulfuric snorting creatures fight.
Kingdoms fall under siege, and in the dark ignite.
And only a warrior can bring hope, like a scorching light.
Dress in metal so reflective and thin,
She takes to the head, a burning light within.
A battle cry tumbles from lips of pinkest skin.
Knotted instruments cut through the flesh of sin.
Saturday- this is a strange day for a child.
Young as a sapling and like a mouse-so mild.
Cliffs of a mess loom in a room so wild,
And to clean it she must be beguiled.
Daughter to her father, and to the earth.
With tasks given by mother, she works from her birth.
As for these mountains- she must try to unearth
A formidable cot for her royal nap of great worth.
Probable you should ask about she-
When she slumbers so simplistically on my knee.
She is a royal, a bandit and the eldest of he.
And if you asked her- She’d be no more than she.
I wrote this today and I haven't had time to check back over it, but I wanted to get this out for review. I wanted to write something about my niece and nephews before this summer was over and here is a poem devoted to my niece. I wanted to capture playtime and a different level. I wanted to have it viewed from an adult's perspective rather than the fantastical view of a child. I wanted it to be a reflection on youth and what they see and how it all boils down when playtime is over. I am not sure if I captured that but I did my best and I wrote what I felt.
The lack of posting is due to something very strange, according to my doctor. I have an inner ear infection. The doctor stated that it was strange because kids get those, generally not adults. I take this as a compliment to my youth and even to my child like nature. Yes ma'am, I would like to remain Peter Pan in Neverland forever. Yes, I would love to fight pirates in my dreams for all time! Do I want to keep the kid syndromes like inner ear infections? No thanks. It sucks when you're an adult because unlike a child, you can't just go outside and run in the yard and forget the constant ringing in your ears. I might go mad with the noise. I don't think it will ever stop.
With this much time to think- I have learned something very important today. I draw a lot of my inspiration from music but the hard thing for writers is that we can only use words. Songs can have lyrics explaining what the tune means or even what it doesn't mean. As writers, we have only words and we have to create the music and the images. Our art form is limited and therefore requires a different sort of talent. We have to make the brain work rather than deliver an instantly pleasing form.
Just something to think about.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Apologies
This is my first apology to you all. That last sorry excuse for a poem was an eyesore and a nightmare encourager. If you suffered any jet lag or nausea from it, I will properly refund you with 'Tums' or 'Alka-Seltzer'. I understand that they all can't be winners or gems, but damn. Those were rusted, jagged, scratched and worn twice to the junior prom!
It was reminiscent of my pubescent age where everything was doom and gloom and I thought every billowy metaphor would get me in the poetry magazines. I thought I had learned by lesson but reality bites me in the butt now and again. Lesson learned. I still have along way to go as a writer.
But, hey! I rebound and create something a little more worthwhile. I hope that you find this poem a bit more pleasing. I have to thank Catherine Connor for getting be started on several ideas. She graciously burned me a CD that is quite magical. It helped me write a little more and a little better just because the tunes are so happy. I ask everyone to listen to Regina Spektor's songs "The Sword and the Pen" and "The Genius Next Door". I also encourage you to listen to "The Dog Days" by Florence and the Machine. I defy you to find a happier song.
In short... Something better than last time.
Watercolors
Grass tickles and itches my back
And I squirm, uncomfortable in my skin.
Earth fills my lungs and I exhale the flowers.
Color fills my eyes and butterflies my stomach.
The surrealist skies bear down on me.
Clouds like giant air balloons race to the setting sun.
The racers hold their caps as the basket breaks.
The finish line is close at hand.
Pointillist pebbles nudge my spine.
Each sharp edge digs into my pliant flesh
To create a new and improved picture.
I am a distinctive new canvas for the world.
Impressionistic orange covers the water top.
The fish inside dot the water like dim stars.
They swim back to their mothers to sleep.
Those lucky to live will fight tomorrow.
And as lie within the shadows,
My mind drifts off across the seas.
And my toes brush across the green.
To stretch as far as they can reach.
My thoughts become abstract
And my features the expressionism.
These illuminated ideas knot together
Until they make a haze of peace.
I am but one paint stroke to the mountains;
Blending into the grass and hills.
My body weaves to the bigger picture.
Realism has never seemed so tangible.
It was reminiscent of my pubescent age where everything was doom and gloom and I thought every billowy metaphor would get me in the poetry magazines. I thought I had learned by lesson but reality bites me in the butt now and again. Lesson learned. I still have along way to go as a writer.
But, hey! I rebound and create something a little more worthwhile. I hope that you find this poem a bit more pleasing. I have to thank Catherine Connor for getting be started on several ideas. She graciously burned me a CD that is quite magical. It helped me write a little more and a little better just because the tunes are so happy. I ask everyone to listen to Regina Spektor's songs "The Sword and the Pen" and "The Genius Next Door". I also encourage you to listen to "The Dog Days" by Florence and the Machine. I defy you to find a happier song.
In short... Something better than last time.
Watercolors
Grass tickles and itches my back
And I squirm, uncomfortable in my skin.
Earth fills my lungs and I exhale the flowers.
Color fills my eyes and butterflies my stomach.
The surrealist skies bear down on me.
Clouds like giant air balloons race to the setting sun.
The racers hold their caps as the basket breaks.
The finish line is close at hand.
Pointillist pebbles nudge my spine.
Each sharp edge digs into my pliant flesh
To create a new and improved picture.
I am a distinctive new canvas for the world.
Impressionistic orange covers the water top.
The fish inside dot the water like dim stars.
They swim back to their mothers to sleep.
Those lucky to live will fight tomorrow.
And as lie within the shadows,
My mind drifts off across the seas.
And my toes brush across the green.
To stretch as far as they can reach.
My thoughts become abstract
And my features the expressionism.
These illuminated ideas knot together
Until they make a haze of peace.
I am but one paint stroke to the mountains;
Blending into the grass and hills.
My body weaves to the bigger picture.
Realism has never seemed so tangible.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Immortality
They stare at me with frozen eyes.
Their brilliant youth captured.
Still.
They will never grow old.
They will never die.
Youth forever.
Curiosity will never kill the cat.
Speeding will never render harm.
Learning will always be with the mind.
Children like bright statues.
Eyes aglow and smiles bright.
Forever.
These are pictures of summer.
These are pictures of children.
These are pictures of immortality.
Just sketched that out a few minutes ago. I haven't touched it or hardly looked at it. This is my first step into creating something about my neices and nephews. This David Gray channel on Pandora is very helpful. "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol actually helped me compose this.
Let me know if it sparks anything!
Their brilliant youth captured.
Still.
They will never grow old.
They will never die.
Youth forever.
Curiosity will never kill the cat.
Speeding will never render harm.
Learning will always be with the mind.
Children like bright statues.
Eyes aglow and smiles bright.
Forever.
These are pictures of summer.
These are pictures of children.
These are pictures of immortality.
Just sketched that out a few minutes ago. I haven't touched it or hardly looked at it. This is my first step into creating something about my neices and nephews. This David Gray channel on Pandora is very helpful. "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol actually helped me compose this.
Let me know if it sparks anything!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)