an iced doughnut of foliage and flower in my yard
beckons me from books and house
leads me to the floor and twirls me round
rings my fingers with dirt lace
Today marks the first day of unemployment that I can’t claim as a weekend or holiday. I’m pleased to say I worked today. I’ll post a helpful progress report on my business plan research tomorrow. Meanwhile, this came to me today and, since as a writer I’m sworn to honesty as one helpful author/mentor wrote, I’ll share it with all you hopeful writers who read me.
The clock on the wall keeps time
as step-ball-change tugs me loose,
and with clickity speed
I must speedily read,
and wealth of good writing produce –
lest my taskmaster soul bells chime.
No orientation exists –
just on the job training and fear.
The list of whatevers
and jaunty endeavors
make lists upon deadlines appear –
and procrastination persists.
Oh this …
fear of failing,
What if it sucks,
and my rows of ducks
go waddling through
and black guffaws,
full of flaws,
to find at the end
a wordful blend
that makes a difference?
They were shapely when they first appeared,
spry and plump with meaning, swift in flow,
sniffing at my eyelids, primed to go.
I stopped moving, still, as each one neared.
Hoped to lure their wild before they feared.
Flanking them in ink, but moving slow,
freshly fallen idea flakes of snow
sprinkled me with shivers as I peered.
Witness to a miracle each time
words caress my head and spring my thought.
Bounding lines, the speeding of my heart,
playing into pens of perfect rhyme.
Form and verse exploring, nearly caught,
out of nowhere, prancing herd of art.
The electric box of inefficient warm is set high,
but the fan pushing the orange hot cools it on impact.
You’d think the oil heater on the other side
would play its part, spew some warm.
Instead it pretends all is well.
The glass patio door makes sure of that.
Heat rises, so the ice air bites at my ankles.
I can’t feel my feet.
I think of the hot summers from years long gone –
the hot pavement shimmering in the radiant day,
but the tile floor and the glass door are still.
Tonight they stare, catatonic, heartless –
relentless refrigerators of my nibbled spirit.
So I put on a housecoat over my jeans and layers,
a tortoise shell against the frigid room,
drink my tea, dance my blood, and wait
for summer or pneumonia
whichever comes first.
Working on my business plan (I will soon post some resources I’ve found for those of you interested), still not at the end of my commitment here in Idaho, and this morning as I’m preparing to leave for work when the following poem flooded my brain. I couldn’t walk out the door without first racing to my mac and getting it down before I lost it. This is the madness of how my procrastination (in going to work) happens. Still, I’m just so thankful for this gift. Needs some work, but thought I’d share. Reminds me of how Spiderman was made.
this is how it happened
as I lay beneath a cloud,
a rainy mist that formed a shroud
descended to my haptic loud.
engulfed me whole;
swallowed my protected soul
and spit me out
(not feeling thirsty in a drought),
but left me changed,
not quite deranged,
painted gifts that left me strange.
made my thinking twisted round –
blocky reason had no sound.
made me swim in music sheets –
crisp and moving rhythmic beats.
and all at once I touched a blank
and flooded word trains like a tank
invading fields of poppies bright.
a lyric frenzy made me write
poetic verse all through the night,
and in the morning when I woke
my veins were smoke –
as if a stranger took a poke
into the rivers
(my flowing rhyme-laced honey givers).
Gusts and lightning, hurricanes
Tornadoes, floods, torrential rains
The Captain lashes to the wheel –
Character – an even keel.
Speaking of the weather,
Let not these words dismay –
Change may be a feather
That falls on who it may,
But each is her own Captain,
Her well marked maps abound.
No feather tells a Captain
Which depths that she must sound.
Speaking of the weather,
I think it’s safe to say,
Change is like a feather
That falls on who it may.
It flits, it floats, it falling, flies,
Emits a casual lift of ties,
But not for easy, not for cheap.
Its shoulder queasy wants to keep
The ties that bind, the merry smiles
The hearty find, the traveled miles.
The bearer, weighted down with change,
Does find the passage dim and strange.
And wanting still to hold that place –
The people, friendships, love, and grace –
Doth reach both ways but stands so still,
The future frays the battled will.
And so she knows the change must win,
And freeing courage deep within,
Releases anchors founded here.
Tucks safe the memories held so dear,
And lets the winds of fortune wail,
The goals she’s set – the billowed sail.
So waving, frantic that they’ll see
She cuts the mooring, cruises free.
The sunset forward, history aft,
Heartaches cried and funnies laughed,
A ballast full of lessons learned,
Friendships forged, demons burned –
The Captain sets a course for Then,
Embraces now, begins again.
So Change unfettered, rides the clock
And elsewhere seeks another dock.
Tune in for the conclusion of this self-fulfilling prophecy on December 20th.
A genius raised, a shroud of mist –
A muse amazed, a writer kissed –
From blue veined structures, lyrics flow.
Into a bloodlet cistern go
The drippings of a mind possessed –
Such humors best to have confessed
Onto the page where readers drink
Transfusions of vampiric ink.
They get their fill; they breath the words,
And bits of meaning flit like birds.
Into their daily highs and lows
A writer’s rhythmic weather goes.
A writer/poet – I appreciate
All form, but also dearly love free reign.
Still, yesterday I planned to write by rule,
And post a sonnet here for you to read.
“Iambic” and the word “Pentameter,”
Won’t fit inside a verse that has that count.
For starters, therein lies the rub I fought,
It’s difficult to capture depth and flow,
When forced to beat the drum on every verse.
The point and art get tangled for the worse.
What’s more, I am not one that talks so much
To say what fewer words could well convey.
But Sonnet creeps and crawls and reaches out
To poke and tickle thought and pondering
Before arriving at a central theme
And twisting a duplicitous array,
Or giving fuel to irony at last.
And somehow all this ends a melded blend.
Unlike the daily spew, the Sonnet points
To focus perfect words at ending joints.
And then there are the rhyming schemes to shape,
(Which, as you see, I’ve floated in this post,
Except to rhyme the couplets, Shakespeare style).
“A-B-A-B,” then “C-D-C-D,” goes
The Shakespeare variation at each start.
Then “E-F-E-F,” next is followed by
The final “G-G” couplet at the end.
See – Will abandoned old Petrarchan rule.
“A-B-B-A,” done twice, and then to field –
“C-D-E-C-D-E” was hard to wield.
Don’t get me started on the Dante twists
Where “A” through “C” are all that one can rhyme
The worst Sicilian puzzle to my mind
And long before a Puzo story that.
So I attempted, but alas – in vain,
To focus all my talent to the task.
Eight lines was all I managed yesterday,
And really, only seven counted good.
My point is: all the thing was meant to say
Was, “Time slips fast, especially in a day.”
Here lies yesterday’s unfinished sonnet:
“The brown of noon has come and murdered birth
With up so floating nothing inked but rhyme.
A spacious nothing lurks and fondles worth
What little is, and tiny left of time.
A gasp, and I inhale the dust of sleep,
My eyelids snap and muscles flinch to wake,
The bleach white curtain lets the sunbeam seep
Its “lost-time” acid all my urgent take” . . .
In the darkness of the hollow, In the wistful of the day, Comes a gnashing of the Daemon And the trouncing of the Bay. Leaves a mark upon the features; Plants a hook into the soul. Wants for loathing or self-hatred - Wants for wrecking of the lull. Choose the sinews of the monster - Horse of death, devoid of light. If you mount its mangy hackles It will drag you into night. Little solitude can linger At a time depression fraught. Either gallops gloom of gloaming Or a crafty concept caught. Makes for drowsy or for writing. Curl it in or fight it out: Tender tears to taint and tarnish, Fiendish fierceness flail and flout. Choose the dark and dangerous Daemon - Vapor’s Muse of shadow’s glare. Touch its fissured flesh of genius, Share its mind, but have a care. Whirling skirmish with a dark muse. Wrestling pen, now paper stained. Bleeds a vicious prose or poem; Heals the heart and mind, once pained.
indigo plane ride indigo run indigo love slide ready for fun ring on finger ring of roses love vow linger picture poses Saturday wedding!
Another fun Twitter-legal poem in honor of my upcoming nuptials. So EXCITED!
A scrap of red paper stuck in a book at Salvation Army made this gal look pages of poetry poet of note ee of cummings & much that he wrote
I wondered if a meaningful poem could be constructed solely for twitter (with just 140 characters) and was pleasantly surprised when I built this one. I was saved, as you can see, by the ampersand. It’s a true story too.
on this day is a morning of similar build to a stretch and a coffee - my grogginess killed. in the clock is an hour hand, outstretched to no one, pushing obstacles at me - wainscoting the sun. i could write of a hero, a "save-the-day" sort, fighting hand-to-hand combat; i'd level the court. with a name like "Time Stopper," "Time Keeper" perhaps, she would introduce friction to Time's brutal laps. wash those lines above! i shall name her "Love."
down for the count up for the bill water, more water swallow a pill head full of broken shut your damn lips type in my logon man this pain rips check my to do list throttle a yell keep the damn light off Lord, i'm in hell responsibility headache is killing me punch out this deadline now make a b-line sunlight and dizziness throbbing and sleepless poetry rounding forehead pounding oh for a temperate dark quiet room to wrap me in stasis, a comforting tomb.
You iron neck-clasper. You heart-thumping tasker. Indifferent to yearning, your constant page turning gives no pause for rest - just unending test. Tick off, Time! You bat out of hell; You thoughtless vulgarity trolling the bell! Be gone, Time! And leave us to dwell in transparent void fabric, fondling the quell. Cease fire, Time! The war to a close, a permanent armistice, "little while" froze. Yet now we are stalling our possibles lulling. This present now lasting our longing now fasting. This moment relates no past/future fates. Noble Time, be our friend. Slow your tock, physics bend. Give us hum, Beating Drum. Let us dance to your strum. Change your race to a walk; feel the sun; have a talk. Whisper sweet nothings into our ears - find adoration stroking your years.
I wanted to capture how we have such a love-hate relationship with time. We stress over deadlines and regret how much it takes from us in the form of moments we wish we could spend cherishing a little longer. Yet we need it to appreciate moments, to strive for better moments; and we wouldn’t seek to improve the quality of our time if we were trapped in a vacuum … even if that bubble was a “time-loop” that let us enjoy the best memory or most enjoyable time we’ve ever had. Then there’s the traditional fear of “what am I missing, being caught up in this cycle of sleep, work, home, sleep, work, home.
Get this! I went looking for a picture or a video that could symbolize this stream of thought and I found better! Jazz is the perfect music to capture this thread. And the artists that put Maurice Brown’s video together present this point perfectly! Enjoy!