my poems so far this quarter
Silly Ones
Waiting Room
My baby may be born today,
Though the doctor says that they might die.
I hope that it will be okay.
I close my eyes and start to pray,
I guess it would be worth a try.
My baby may be born today.
Everyone is on their way,
Long-coated doctors sprinting by.
I don’t know if I’ll be okay.
How much longer will I stay
In a colder room, with air so dry?
My baby may be born today.
Will I get a chance to play
With my son, whose name is Ty?
I wonder, will it be okay?
Will she see another day?
The doctor cannot tell a lie:
My baby has been born today,
He says that they will be okay.
(the rule was the turn someone's narrative into a poem. i thought this was funny because it's a silly rhyme scheme and simple language talking about something that is in fact very serious and dramatic)
Catalina
Her hands reached across the table
Long, slender boney hands
The hands of a true artist
Sliding through the air, clutching a paintbrush
And long, swooping motions across the paper
Skin, soft and silky
Nimble fingers moving fast
To create a masterpiece
Placing each stroke where it belongs
Each finger moving simultaneously and in unity
The mechanical motions
Working together
For creation
(the rule was to write about hands...first poem of the quarter)
Could I number the things I regret?
What would that come to? How many would there be?
The numberless times I gave myself to someone who didn’t love me.
The times I ran and hid from the things that were real and good
And instead choose to dig a grave, sinking down into
A bottomless pit of depravity.
I regret the ways I’ve learned to cope
With life’s abnormalities.
I regret
All of the times I might have done something right
And instead I ran away
I regret
The times I didn’t say what
I really felt or thought, or knew to be true.
The things that I regret hang over
Both me and you.
Could I number the things I regret?
What would that come to? How many would there be?
The One's I'm Kinda Proud Of...
Taking out the trash
You walked into the kitchen then
Only you will find
A massive marshmallow mountain piled
Up, the stench was vile
It seeped into the living room,
Foul abomination
Rancid plastic decomposing
The filthy funk contagious
Grievous odor deplorable
Loathsome, heavy-laden
This job the most contemptible
The trash, it must be taken
Out into the dumpster, stained
An atrocious situation
Ambiguous liquid leaking,
An abhorrent condensation
Arduous work that has been done,
Now, coated you could be
That bag was ripping, slipping and
Corroded substantially
(the rule was the write about an every-day task)
The Tornado Warning
On down the street I walked well in
The rain that did so pour
Not a thing to hide me then
It seeped straight to my core
Rain ripped right on by me there
Pooled up all on the ground
Splash, I kicked it in the air
To hear the sweet swash sound
Clouds were dark up in the sky
The mood it was quite ill
Not a day for planes to fly
Or cook out on the grill
To my car I just then got
And swung my black bag in
In a storm I had been caught
And whooshed on by the wind
(the rule was to write a poem using only 1-syllable words to describe something ordinary that had happened in your day)
Oh, ode to the cigarette:
The first morning puff of smoke,
A warning-the coughing-of bearing the yoke.
A carton of candy, the breath of death,
A creeping addiction, a monster underneath.
Gritted teeth:
In the car, while driving, with ashes on the dashboard;
With my coffee, while walking, over to the corner store;
On the porch, with people, as we’re swinging to and fro;
We’re just talking, nervous shaking,
Take a pack on the go.
Paper butts are piling in the ashtray,
Matches and packages are cluttering the pathway.
Stained fingers flicking cinders, such a pain:
This affliction. The cellophane
Floating as I exhale, anxious.
Can I use your lighter? I need the fire,
I’m tired of this thing.
The irritable feeling lingers
A jaw clenched, my burning anger
The person I am has become a stranger
Yearning, seven years, in this tomb of doom
Searching for something in a smoky room
Who knew this would happen to you?
(i like this one less and less...)
Stop and smell the roses
I was
Walking along the slated gray pavement
A crooked and cracked path
when, to my amazement
I was hazed by the scent of some beautiful Azalea’s
Followed by a waft of Kentucky Wisteria
Not to mention the bath of Wild Hydrangea
A little further along the way I did wander
Into an array of monstrous Mountain Laurel
And a display of Lavender and Sydney Flannel
The Thistle and Astilbe bouquet impaneled
And this is what I’d thought would be
An arduous day of misery
And who’d have known the simplicity:
Just stop and smell the roses.
(tied for favorite with taking out the trash...)
Waiting Room
My baby may be born today,
Though the doctor says that they might die.
I hope that it will be okay.
I close my eyes and start to pray,
I guess it would be worth a try.
My baby may be born today.
Everyone is on their way,
Long-coated doctors sprinting by.
I don’t know if I’ll be okay.
How much longer will I stay
In a colder room, with air so dry?
My baby may be born today.
Will I get a chance to play
With my son, whose name is Ty?
I wonder, will it be okay?
Will she see another day?
The doctor cannot tell a lie:
My baby has been born today,
He says that they will be okay.
(the rule was the turn someone's narrative into a poem. i thought this was funny because it's a silly rhyme scheme and simple language talking about something that is in fact very serious and dramatic)
Catalina
Her hands reached across the table
Long, slender boney hands
The hands of a true artist
Sliding through the air, clutching a paintbrush
And long, swooping motions across the paper
Skin, soft and silky
Nimble fingers moving fast
To create a masterpiece
Placing each stroke where it belongs
Each finger moving simultaneously and in unity
The mechanical motions
Working together
For creation
(the rule was to write about hands...first poem of the quarter)
Could I number the things I regret?
What would that come to? How many would there be?
The numberless times I gave myself to someone who didn’t love me.
The times I ran and hid from the things that were real and good
And instead choose to dig a grave, sinking down into
A bottomless pit of depravity.
I regret the ways I’ve learned to cope
With life’s abnormalities.
I regret
All of the times I might have done something right
And instead I ran away
I regret
The times I didn’t say what
I really felt or thought, or knew to be true.
The things that I regret hang over
Both me and you.
Could I number the things I regret?
What would that come to? How many would there be?
The One's I'm Kinda Proud Of...
Taking out the trash
You walked into the kitchen then
Only you will find
A massive marshmallow mountain piled
Up, the stench was vile
It seeped into the living room,
Foul abomination
Rancid plastic decomposing
The filthy funk contagious
Grievous odor deplorable
Loathsome, heavy-laden
This job the most contemptible
The trash, it must be taken
Out into the dumpster, stained
An atrocious situation
Ambiguous liquid leaking,
An abhorrent condensation
Arduous work that has been done,
Now, coated you could be
That bag was ripping, slipping and
Corroded substantially
(the rule was the write about an every-day task)
The Tornado Warning
On down the street I walked well in
The rain that did so pour
Not a thing to hide me then
It seeped straight to my core
Rain ripped right on by me there
Pooled up all on the ground
Splash, I kicked it in the air
To hear the sweet swash sound
Clouds were dark up in the sky
The mood it was quite ill
Not a day for planes to fly
Or cook out on the grill
To my car I just then got
And swung my black bag in
In a storm I had been caught
And whooshed on by the wind
(the rule was to write a poem using only 1-syllable words to describe something ordinary that had happened in your day)
Oh, ode to the cigarette:
The first morning puff of smoke,
A warning-the coughing-of bearing the yoke.
A carton of candy, the breath of death,
A creeping addiction, a monster underneath.
Gritted teeth:
In the car, while driving, with ashes on the dashboard;
With my coffee, while walking, over to the corner store;
On the porch, with people, as we’re swinging to and fro;
We’re just talking, nervous shaking,
Take a pack on the go.
Paper butts are piling in the ashtray,
Matches and packages are cluttering the pathway.
Stained fingers flicking cinders, such a pain:
This affliction. The cellophane
Floating as I exhale, anxious.
Can I use your lighter? I need the fire,
I’m tired of this thing.
The irritable feeling lingers
A jaw clenched, my burning anger
The person I am has become a stranger
Yearning, seven years, in this tomb of doom
Searching for something in a smoky room
Who knew this would happen to you?
(i like this one less and less...)
Stop and smell the roses
I was
Walking along the slated gray pavement
A crooked and cracked path
when, to my amazement
I was hazed by the scent of some beautiful Azalea’s
Followed by a waft of Kentucky Wisteria
Not to mention the bath of Wild Hydrangea
A little further along the way I did wander
Into an array of monstrous Mountain Laurel
And a display of Lavender and Sydney Flannel
The Thistle and Astilbe bouquet impaneled
And this is what I’d thought would be
An arduous day of misery
And who’d have known the simplicity:
Just stop and smell the roses.
(tied for favorite with taking out the trash...)