I totally get this poem... and I smile.
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one's name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!
-Emily Dickinson
This is my attempt at an English sonnet... let me know if I have two left feet.
you look and see a lost and found beige ram,
his grazing diff'rent since the day he strayed,
led back by He who died a man, a lamb,
Whose fold is true, and staff, relief prepaid.
I speak with sheep and yes, we bleat today.
we'll lie with lions, just you wait and see
last night I tried to shear it all away.
forgot how big a golden fleece can be.
the dreams don't show from all the counting tried.
the wool I pull still veils my hazel view
I love the flock, try not to stand and hide.
a meadow, fences disappear - and ewe.
do you remember just what Mary had--
advice given Bo Peep when she was sad?
This is a one-syllable villanelle... not great, but not easy either.
wise,
fair
eyes.
cries
there,
wise
guys
stare.
eyes
prize
where
wise
skies
flare.
eyes
rise.
pray'r-
wise
eyes.
it's back open again.
Lifeguard gave the 'all clear'.
pool-boy hadn't seen
a kid in cutoffs horsing around.
summer sun saturates skin.
I like to float, but forgot how to swim.
looks good, I'm aware;
pulsing solution, alive,
splashing the toes waiting
out on the tiles.
does the chlorine sting?
a few rub their eyes,
yet nostrils aren't singed.
Someone filled this void with water,
though I'm sure some of it is made of
tears and sweat.
Rules are clear, and yet
it's here to enjoy.
trunks are on, and chest is bare.
I walk up to the edge, and ask
a question I am not first to pose:
slip in quietly and adapt,
or grab knees and cannonball?
This is a sestina poem. Check wikipedia for a definition.
I know many, still only three
stay in my mind. They know Grace
like few others. If beauty
is truth, then their work is mirth,
and it always brings good cheer.
They lend their gifts to serve.
And I know who they serve-
the Lord Who's one in three.
Hosanna! I hear them proudly cheer.
Co-heirs of boundless grace,
I'm driven to their mirth;
smiles that sing Creation's beauty.
first we meet beauty
as she fixes food she won't eat, yet will serve,
and coyly engages in sarcastic mirth.
she works until three,
then passes unbelief into future grace.
tired, but brings the same side-smile cheer.
In a blur you'll see good cheer
set up by another style of beauty.
We'd all be better off if we knew the grace
it takes to silently serve.
She could be the leader of the three,
if selflessness did not multiply her mirth.
Finally you might miss mirth,
since she's always out there sharing cheer.
She plays every position of the three.
Big heart, she laughs, un-ambitious beauty-
that's the kind of spirits they serve;
what else would you expect from Grace?
There are no demands from grace,
the only thing with no strings, gives mirth
to the lips of one receiving a gift. They serve
not because they seek, but because their cheer
is tied to the One who formed beauty
through death, and fulfilled it by day three.
The Three Graces-
Aglaea: Beauty, Euphrosyne: Mirth,
Thalia: good cheer, and humbly they serve.
OK, only, like, a month late. I just saw Spiderman 3.
I wrote this about a character from Spiderman 2 right when it came out, and (hooray!) she showed up in the third!
Enjoy.
Ursula
She's thin like a rose stem
and me, bare-handed, pulling weeds
I feel her slide sharp under my skin.
That gold-green stare,
as she turns her blondeness from the oven,
knows more heat than the stove's redhead flames.
She offers her simple passion on a plate:
Chocolate cake made for me,
and a silent, tall glass of milk
thankful to be emptied.
Her Chanel skin glows
into my breath.
If promises were crackers, she would be fat.
Lanky and awkward as any femme fatale,
Ursula Ditkovich lives in some
old New York low-rent high-rise,
therefore, she doesn't matter.
Despite the everyday regrets of heart,
these thorns are not painful.
Spidey decides
that for once he cannot wemble.
That copper-curled girl is forgotten
as he holds his true heroine.
Translucent
I'm watching raindrops,
each a prizim, spherical,
fortune teller's tool.
Natural
Last night I was strong.
I think that a leaf falling
might envy the seeds.
Signs
Warning: curves ahead;
one way, caution, slow, yield, stop.
thru traffic merge left.
What's in Carl's head, kids?
That's right, worries about unrequited love!
Let's flip him upside down, shake him, and see what falls out...
Boom
condensation ice
fudgsicle skin cracks, melts warm.
does it come in blue?
smirk
childhood favorite
spread thickly across white bread.
But something's missing.
http://www.groundhog.org/prediction/
anniadversary
Spring is here again,
since sometimes calendars lie.
Cookies speak more truth.
camp
I like In-N-Out.
cheese, fries, and a choc'late shake.
Better when you share.
passenger
lucid mind mocks me
live those 5 point 2 seconds,
or see ev'rything?
Yeah.
Uh huh.
Of course.
Jaws clench.
So, guess what?
I've forgotten how.
It doesn't matter what
it is I've forgot. It's gone.
Mind plays tricks. 52 pickup.
Sick like a smile. Maybe the flu.
Could be regret. Not sure about that.
I swallow. It's empty. My tongue is gone.
maybe carpet the narrow path with my dreams.
Gotta be good for something. You shuffle your feet.
And while walking, you reach for someone else's hand.
Zap.
So, yeah.
Alright, so I listened to every song I have by the Pretenders at least 10 times today. Never heard of them? OK, just try "Mystery Achievement", medium-rare. If you savor the flavor, take a sip of "Message of Love". Season it all with the salt and vinegar of "Louie, Louie" and "Back on the Chain Gang". Wow, I'm either hungry or lucid. Maybe both.
There was something unclear to me last week. Not vague, like Vaseline on the lens, but more like being colorblind at a traffic light. You want to say "I can't tell what color the light is", even though you know that the light on the bottom is the green "go", and the top is the red "stop". I wanted to stomp the accelerator, or at least ease off the brake. Glad I didn't. Through a lot of prayer, mainly on Sunday, the Holy Spirit gave me a clearer, more grounded thought process. I feel like Marty McFly after not racing Needles.
Funny how my deepest hopes and fears can be summed up with some punk-y rock songs and a glib reference to a time-travel movie.
Now, I ask for prayer and strength. I was spared this week, but what's next? My weakness ain't being called "chicken", but it's just as hard to stare down.
(My conscience starts talking to me) "The Lord is your Shepherd, lamb-boy -- trust Him. Being a Christian isn't easy, but He lives within your heart for that reason."
He's right you know. Wish I could come up with stuff like that.
Hey all you faithful readers out there.
I love watching my 'views' count go up, and yet, no comments. It's like seeing an empty "take a penny, leave a penny" tray.
Well, here's my two cents worth. Toss 'em into the well, make a wish.
(BTW, I wrote this following Jim Simmerman's "20 Little Poetry Projects" idea, which is why there are numbers. Ask me if you want the guide list...)
| Pop Song | |
| Trust is a bubble | 1 |
| blown from the inside. | 12 |
| Snowflake on the tongue, | |
| tastes like music that won't stop. | 4, 3 |
| Confidence is | |
| the last stop of limerence | 11, 8 |
| Bubbles burst because I exist. | 9 |
| But you can't see what never were. | 3, 10 |
| You don't have a lap when you stand. | 17, 7 |
| Even James Randi can't sniff out that trick. | 3, 5 |
| Feel the glossy sphere that you made, | 3 |
| a net, or possibly a screen. | |
| When you pay attention, | 2 |
| caveat emptor. | 2, 18 |
| You can always hear | 3 |
| bubbles being filled for free. | |
| Bubbles are not yours-- | 6 |
| right now, eager solution in a bottle, | 16 |
| an unopened can with dreams. | 19 |
| the effervescent kind, doesn't go flat. | 13 |
| And it will be filled with the same breath | 15 |
| that made nothing-man from dust | 14 |
| when He knows you're ready. | |
| Don't worry, just listen. | 20 |
Yeah... I love haikus.
Poetry's the best way to
speak without talking.
My two eyes are not
the only ones in my head.
Now what do I do?
