some arch brows and
chant
meter and rhyme
and rules
and they would strip my words
to bone and bleach
pinned on the line
to flap in cold wind
until frozen it no longer folds
some say anchor your feet
with punctuation
so we know where to breath
back me up to the wall
pull my heart
out from under me
I hide the sack of exclamation points
behind my back
and hold out a handful of question marks
I would learn the ropes
and rise like steam
metaphoric clouds
blind me to the moment
I get distracted
by distant music
forgetting to sift the grains of
life as they pass
through my fingers
landing on the page
my head hurts
from all the thinking
and I will float in the sea of wisdom
bobbing and weaving
with algae and angel fish
resting between waves
ponder the knowledge
of palm trees
how they know to sway
let yellow sun warm blue water
hold my hand up to the light
marvel at bones and veins
no braking on the slippery slope
of sweetest dreams we hold to cope
cast the dice for hope and love
prayers for blessing from above
capricious luck chameleon
lives in finest gossamer skin
silver mirror tells a tale
the hazardous signs to no avail
fried eggs cause cholesterol
acid rain our own downfall
committed to this saddened road
sore weighed down by heavy load
follow through the deadline looms
inexorable lowering fateful boom
as mundane as a dog with fleas
remain in shallow water please
claimed by dirt the box awaits
there is no running from this fate
but still the soul is steel and stone
no chisel carves a scar upon
no soapsuds need to wash it clean
no jaded imitation sheen
throw your theory to the sky
Do not pretend that you know why
though battered, shattered, worn
the minds eye sees beyond the storm
pulls threads of crimson, gold and blue
a tapestry of purest hue
love sings past the aging flesh
life cycle soon begins afresh
this was from a contest on AllPoetry that allowed you to choose from five word banks of five – I decided to be perverse and see if I could work them ALL in.
Overflowing, tied in knots.
Some neatly paired.
Finely wrought for finer days.
Fancy saved
For special occasions.
Black lace toe sliders.
Silky thigh climber, sassy,
But clingy,
Hoping the elastic holds.
Uppity tweed thinks itself
Smarter than it is,
Neatly folded as a page.
Woolen warmth
For colder days,
Snuggles the corner
In the back,
Behind pilled and darned
(does anyone even
Do that anymore?
So outdated!)
Old comfort sits with holes,
Wistful and forgotten
Halfway to the trash.
Lonely single hoping for a mate,
Hanging on
That just in case dream.
Faded, jaded, spilling over,
Sorting needed, old and new;
A jumble, dryer tumbled,
Multicolor metaphor
Life in a sock drawer.
I have been too long away! The spammers stuck by me though and as I cleaned out the spam folder I found that I am now very popular with the Russians and I can purchase false ID for Albania.
would you not burst upon my sky
pushing me down with gravity
intense as a desk lamp
laser focused
no, fall like soft rain
seep into dry skin
firefly flickers
seen at the edge of vision
these are tired days
and startle easily
darting for cover
when change comes
rather sing quietly
as the night bird
gentle the wild things
curled in their burrows
I will tuck my head under my wing
while the moon watches over
the clock winding down
to the rhythm of cricket chirps
Where are my questions
in this dry season?
I should summon
righteous anger,
scathing social commentary,
but my mind is covered
by a coating of fine ash.
Sunburned thoughts,
scorched soles of feet
that have walked sere earth
as dead things crunch.
I can’t even summon sorrow
Do dead leaves weep in winter?
Oh let this season pass
Where is my rain?
Lethargy takes my hand
and lays me down,
whispering
“it will pass…”
It is so hot…I have been spending a lot of time indoors and in the process of cleaning out I have had a couple of revelations.
I have lived with fear that the internet would disappear. The piece of information that I read once and knew I would someday need to preserve the world, a life, the online safety of children or cure old age would just evaporate and as I have a very short memory, I would never be able to find that jewel again. The internet was a vast treasure of knowledge and if I could just save everything I thought might be useful someday, then my head would grow and new grooves would form in my brain and I would find the answer to life, the universe – EVERYTHING!
Then came the summer of cleaning out. It started with the move to the new high school. Granted, I am a black belt procrastinator and card carrying grand pooba of packrattiness. (I know it’s not a real word – get over it)
I tried to throw things out. I thought I was doing well. Proud of my new skill, I read (and printed out) articles on organization. I separated items and papers into piles of four and five years out of date (pitch) and two of three years out of date (take home to file and read later).
That was the summer before last! Flash forward to the present heat wave summer and I am trying to take my office back. After filling several large trash bags with paper I have had an epiphany. The internet is not disappearing but it IS changing. Not only is the internet changing, but my interests change as well. Faster and faster, it seems. My skill to work on this year is to ask myself two questions before I print or keep something (aside from the obvious value as opposed to environmental impact and ink expense). Do I want to store/file this item? (if so print and file it or find a home for it NOW) Will it be relevant or useful in six months?
Articles on getting organized? Here is a tip I will share with you. Throwing things away is a very good way to get organized. Even better? Don’t keep them to begin with. I seem to be stuck between a time when a family set of encyclopedias could be purchased when the kiddies headed for kindergarten and still be useable when until graduation. And the now when you can carry an entire reference library in your pocket. Papers would be filed in neat folders and sorted into a relevant order and stored in a room filled with metal file cabinets. Now files can be stored in the cloud and accessed where ever you have internet access. I need to make the leap into this century. I am NOT advocating destruction of personal data that should be backed up in hard copy and stored securely. NO, NO and NO. I do not advocate getting rid of books altogether. I have a collection of books that I cannot part with. The piles of paperbacks are slowly leaving though. Much of my reading is now done on a kindle or iPad. The kindle for novels, the iPad for more visual books.
I’m talking about the blog article that I don’t have time to read right now (Instapaper) or the notes from the convention session I attended (Evernote) or the presentation I am working on (Google Docs and Dropbox). Research for a project I am interested in (see above), longer PDFs that I want to read on a car trip (Calibre and my kindle of Dropbox and iBooks)
I have also been archiving computer files to an external hard drive. If I just can’t make myself delete it and I don’t think I will need it in the next few months – it goes on the external.
I learn best if I can write it down. I know that seems funny to hear about someone who does almost everything on computers but it is true. There is something about my wiring that just works best if there is a physical connection between my eye, brain, and fingers. I have five by seven notebooks (and a smaller one for my purse) that I keep and take notes in. I learned this summer than most four page articles can be distilled into one page of handwritten notes. When a notebook is full, it goes up on the book shelf in my office. Someday my children will look through those notebooks and wonder why in the world??? Hopefully someone will remember the heatwave in the summer of 2011 and know that I was just trying to be productive while staying cool.
Summer dawn,
clouds plowed to furrows,
matching the ripple of freshening breeze
on lake surface.
I could rake my fingers through their moisture,
stirring designs circling round
the space left by my hand.
is that the pattern of the clouds?
Trails of God’s fingers
stirring the air after painting
the lavender and apricot sky?
Touches of glory condensed
to a view we can handle
No vision of Him,
Just a remnant of creation
clothed in majesty.
Sparkles dissipate
leaving stars forever.
Bright red cascades
disappear on black velvet
faster than crepe myrtle
blossoms covering grass.
Patriotic songs fade
into distance until
nothing is heard but crickets,
not even a weeping mother.
Burnt grass patches,
fifth of July roadside,
left over night antics
in a burn ban town.
One day of rain
coaxing tiny green shoots,
the earth shames us
and reclaims her own.
listen you naysayers
muckrakers, joy takers, bill payers
all of you listen
the sun it will glisten on
ponds lily fronds magic wands
hopeful dreams clever schemes
are the way of the young hold your tongue
leave them be you can’t see
anymore past the past your life cast
now you just want to take them to task
They are sun dancers, free lancers,
fly by the seat of their pantsers
it’s their time not your time and this time
is high time for light and right
and loving with all their might
leave for later the haters, the baiters
the now is too laters
no waiters just jumpers with both feet
back thumpers just love them and leave them
they are bursting with sweet freedom
the hope of our future to suture
our brokenness tiredness hopeful
banked firedness
we the prayers, old players
the worlds yesterdayers
they slip through our fingers
not linger the singers will write
all new words and new tunes
and they’re gone all too soon
riffing off Gwendolyn Brooks “Speech to the Young”
bony shoulders
holding up the brown sky
in hand me down pants
clipped to cut down suspenders
suspending hope
from a million mile stare
at a train going nowhere
just making a lot of noise
and blowing holy smoke
holes in soles leaking dirt
and stones that bruise the heels
that walk the tracks
in an iron ore town
hard edges and empty dreams
Morning is a softened time.
Trouble for the day
has not yet been to visit,
and in the grayness of the edge
birds are singing fiercely.
For the first time, I wonder why.
Science says that lengthening days
bring longer exposure to light,
triggering a hormone,
but I remember a song
“How Can I Keep From Singing”
and just smile.
We are all lifted up
with exposure to the light,
and in the rising
sing all the sweeter.
Courtesy of a night at the planetarium and Paschal’s word “Plangent”
how am I going to put
this all back together
I slap pieces on and they don’t stick
pick them up lick them up
stick them back doesn’t matter
yes it does it’s all matter
some bunch of gases went all
super nova and here we are
the star is blown all out
of proportion the tortion causing shearing
it’s appearing to be damaged
cells have clamored for assistance
but resistance is more than I can handle
lit a candle still the darkness
is a massive black hole
sucking all the light out
of the world is sky covered
cloud hovered galaxy smothered
in diamond starshot fabric bending
never lending an ear or a hand
I just stand and look up waiting
skating through the night
a ball of fright so tiny underneath
the heavens I would sing
the plangent tune of space time
subtle rhyme escapes
it winds around my throat
to silence questions with
no answers like the planets
in their orbit
through my veins corpuscles travel
routes unraveled slowly
predetermined til a single
singularity (not as much a rarity
as you might think)
takes everything to the brink
and then collapses into itself
like me I’m sinking under weight
of my own thoughts
I fought too hard I think
or not enough
this skin like space is bending
folding holding in the soul
but there are limits
I am in it but not staying
like the stars I am imploding
light exploding soon outshining
stellar pining for return to
source of course we argue
what that is but in the end we all
go back and fall into the core
becoming matter once again
the star stuff fading with the dawn
but what a journey to become
a softened color coated morning
where another will be looking to the sky
and wonder where am I and
do I fit here what’s my bit here
are my cells a part of yours
and did I come from up above
will I return and burn as brightly
daily nightly ever slightly
changing to become
the sun
give me the color
that lies just at the edge
of sunset
the dark places in the ripples
as the breeze moves across
the blue water
I would rest my eyes
on the edge of shadow
under the soft clouds
the tender shade in the dip
under your eyes
just above the swell of cheek
sing me a sky just before
the storm drops down
and turns to grey and black
or the shine at the outer ring
of moonglow just before
the stars appear
let my fingers feel the petal
of iris as it blends into deep wine
holding stamen for bees to feed
let me taste purple
of new grapes frosted with dew
ripe with flavor
color of royalty
I am reading the book The Ode Less Traveled” by Stephen Fry. At a point in the first section the reader is instructed to stop reading and get out pen and paper and compose sentences in iambic pentameter and I am working on it. This was just to have fun and vent a little of my frustration.
I wish that pentameter wasn’t so hard.
I practiced and practiced but often it jarred.
If practice makes perfect then I will prevail,
though readers may wish I’d decided to bail.
I’m reading a book and the book says to cease,
take paper and pen and give muse it’s release.
Don’t fret about rhyming just count the beat,
so I’m tapping my foot while brain feels the heat.
Keep banging the keys but am I improving?
Can I make words fit beats and still be moving?
A more learned poet than myself commented “I WISH that penTAmeter WASn’t so HARD (iamb, anapest, anapest, anapest). That’s a fun and useful meter” – obviously I need more work on this but as with any tool it takes practice before it feels comfortable. Back to the journal…
the rodent tendencies will out
though you try to choke them cloak them
into submission they don’t need
your permission to socially engineer
your rear guard is breaking rank
the tanks are rolling bowling over
all the principles despicable in an
under cover way blunder over bruises
make up stories about glories unseen
unknown unshown in lofty dreaming
hear the screaming downstairs
no scares nowheresville is where you live man
you ain’t getting out soon blue moon
won’t be shining round here we don’t like no
messin’ second guessing
there are those who flock
to all your glittery jittery jiggle the lock
the key was lost so long ago
and so the ticket you can’t pick it
you don’t know what side of door
you stood on hood on susurration bout
the conflagration you can’t put the fire out
now all your alibis are leaking squeaking
by the skin of teeth
no scrubbing bubbles for this trouble
see the mirror reflection clear
except the cracks no taking back
you’re too far gone sing swan song
mama’s baby gone wrong don’t go
sneaking round breaking down
you’re not strong losing ground
the smile is slipping curtain ripping
canoe tipping point the finger once
twice thrice you’re history drown in
mystery we see through you
hate to be you
I heard a whip-poor-will this morning
singing outside my window
and wanting to join the chorus
I stepped outside in the still dark
and found myself on a strong branch
felt the roughened bark
against bare feet
spreading powerful wings
I took to sky and joined
morning dance
we wheeled a pattern clear
then came together circling
round and round
in that exquisite moment
I knew I was exactly
what I was supposed to be
a sense of deep knowing
welling up inside needing
wanting to tell the world
opening my throat
to let the joy escape
but a whip-poor-will can only sing
the song she has been given
