The Curiously Poetic Altoids

Living Water

2011-02-03T11:11:00.002-07:00

I think I've become the only person who posts on here... The curiously poetic Altoids has kind of died but I still like writing poetry and I wrote this for a Sunday School challenge they had.

Living Water

Another day, another chore, another empty bucket
I hear a distant splash as I let the pail plummet
Then heaving, yanking, pulling, tugging
Sweat dripping, hands burning
The bucket slowly reappears,
I take a sip, my weary heart cheers
Cool clear water, fresh and sweet
Is pure relief in the desert heat

Then I notice him staring at me
A Jewish man travelling to Gallilea
He ask if he too may have a drink
I simply don't know what to think.

"I'm a maid of Samaria, its plain to see.
How is it you ask this task of me?"

His eyes sparkle, his smile grows broad,
"If you knew the gift of God
And who I am, you would think
To ask of me for a drink.
I would have given thee living waters and then
You would never thirst again."

"How could you draw this living water?
You have no vessel, the well is deep.
Are you greater than Jacob, our father,
Who dug this well for his kin and sheep?"

You'll never thirst again,"
He spoke, "for those who drink this water that I bring"
Shall have a well spring up in him
Into life everlasting."

Dear friends, I bid thee, come and see
This man, this prophet, the Messiah He coule be.
My heart whispers to me its so
For all things he did truly know
And though my soul felt withered through
His words refreshed my spirit anew.

Lets cast away our water pots, lets test the living waters,
Discover for ourselves the truth of what he freely offers.

Scuba Poem

2010-11-11T22:37:00.002-07:00

Its been a while since we've had poetry club. Heres a post from tonight though. :D

Scuba

They say it’s like breathing for the first time.
I don’t know how they’d that since they’d be too young to remember,
But I recon it’s probably so.

You feel out of place, awkward.
Big and bulbous, like a beached whale
Fins flop as you enter the water.
You take your role, don your mask, and become a fish incognito

Air fills your lungs.
The initial panic dissipates with each breath.
You take control.
You’re an acquatic Vader, dark and suited
Keeeesh Koosh
You are the master of a new universe.

With the touch of a button your suit deflates and you descend like an astronaut into the great unknown,
You lean forward and flutter forward,
What was once ugly and sluggish is now graceful and beautiful
Like a butterfly taking to the air
Your life as a caterpillar is completely forgotten

A few poems

2010-09-17T00:32:00.004-06:00

Hope Chris had a good b-day today (well, yesterday... missed by a half hour). Hopefully other people will remember to post their poems on the blog too. The first poem is about my fish tank. Second poem is about a comment Josh made at the very beginning of poetry club. Last poem is about a comment Jackie made at the end of poetry club.

The Tank
Blue above, blue below.
There’s a whole world I can see out there.
The grand, the exotic, so green and alive,
I want to see it all.
They tell me it would take my breath away.
I would do anything to escape,
Forsake my stripes,
Get away from my fellow prisoners,
Escape their bullying and darting,
Hide from the monsters all around me.
If only I could cross these walls.

No Poetry for Joshua
You’re not allowed to write a poem tonight.
It’s forbidden.
Give up your hopes of coupling couplets, of making rhyme or reason
We won’t tolerate any of your limericks about the green plaid shirt you’re wearing
You have no permission to record your thoughts on name recognition
Mexican Holidays stanzas are illegal immigrants in Poetry Clubia
Haiku’s about ninjas? Ummmm.... No.
Say nada to sonnets about Trombones-a
The rhythm and words streaming into your mind from elsewhere cannot be put on paper.

Not a poem about Jackie
I won’t ever ever ever ever ever write a poem about Jackie
I simply won’t write a rhyme,
About how I think she’s sublime.
I won’t let myself ramble about her quantum chemistry, tree climbing, mad Frisbee catching skills.
No, I won’t remind everyone how intimidating her awesomeness can be,
Especially to the guys.
I shouldn’t sneakily slip in lines about Jackie’s sinister laughs, her well executed pranks.
I’ll stop thinking about all the stanzas I could be typing about her perfect sense of humor.
Let’s face it, her intellectual brilliance radiates like a thousand suns.
I simply won’t recite the epic victory of when she successfully ate ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I’m only allowed to pretend I’m writing a poem about how much I love her face.

No… I can’t write a poem about Jackie so I’ll write about something else.
How about cheese?!? I love cheese.
Cheese is… well, cheesy
There! Wasn’t that a great poem not about Jackie?

Greetings from Georgia

2010-09-12T22:14:00.003-06:00

Hi everyone! I hope you have continued to poeticize in my absence. There have been far too few blog posts for your absentee members.

Since I am no longer an Altoid, I've started my own blog for my poetry and other writings. Currently I am finishing up posts of previously written poems, including those that debuted right here, but I plan to continue writing and posting poems or works in progress.

If you promise to post something here, I will let you read my blog.

-Chris

Coming Back Home

2010-08-09T01:35:00.005-06:00

This is something I was supposed to post forever ago. Just barely found it again. This first poem is from an FHE nursery rhyme activity. The others are my own work.

The Fall of the House of Humpty

Once upon a midnight dreary
While Humpty wondered weak and weary
"Did I come before the chicken?"
At that moment he was stricken
By the raven and he plunged off the wall
wall, wall, wall, wall, wall, wall, wall.
And Great was the fall of the house of Humpty.

In a city by the sea,
So all the night tide,
He lay down by the side of
All the kings horses and all the king's men.
Who dare not put humpty together
Nevermore- for they feared the beating of the tell tale yolk
Yolk, yolk, yolk, Yolk, Yolk, Yolk, Yolk.
Put together
Nevermore

The Night

After midnight, everything is beautiful
When the world slows down just long enough for you to catch it in both hands.
Gaze at it,
Peaceful, Cool, Crisp
See clearly in the darkness
Focus on the things that matter most.
You wish you could stop the hours rolling by.
Protect the precious night
But dawn always breaks.

Coming Back Home

When I come back home
it feels like everything should be exactly the way I left it.
The way its always been.
Sheltered, protected,
Preserved like a historic brick building
An ancient monument,
Forever in a snow globe,
My memories trapped in a timeless bubble.

Yet each time I come home
I see that fragile bubble has popped.
The businesses and buildings have shifted about like pieces on a checker board
Those friendly old faces seem the same
But the people behind them aren't who they used to be.

New faces are everywhere.
They look at me as if I'm the novelty
They don't know that this is still my place.

College Apps Are A Very Serious Business

2010-08-06T00:36:00.002-06:00

Disaster, catastrophe --
I left out an apostrophe
On my essays to Princeton and Yale!
Oh woe is me now
For I do not see how
To avoid an embarrassing tale
Of how I will miss
Out on Ivy League bliss
For my Stanford dreams ere now looked pale.
If my Harvard hopes dim
And to Berkeley seems grim,
'Fore my classmates I'll tremble and quail.
It would be a disgrace
After my S.A.T. ace
If to Davis I creep like a snail!

Palo Alto Limerick

2010-08-06T00:35:00.001-06:00

When biking through Silicon Valley
Where redwoods and palms share an alley
Organic-grown food
Puts you right in the mood
To attend the green energy rally.

Palo Alto Snapshot

2010-08-06T00:30:00.003-06:00

"Do you have this book in Russian?"
Asks the French mother
Of the Thai librarian
While the taciturn Korean man
Watches Jewish kids scamper
Up the eucalyptus trees.
Across the street, the tennis courts
Pound out a rhythm
For the old men playing chess
Built into the picnic tables
And the skaters acting out
A chess of their own on wheels.
It's May, but it's hot enough
For the fountain the toddlers play in.
This. Mitchell Park.

Chiasmatic Night

2010-08-06T00:16:00.004-06:00

Dusk.
Crickets.
The thrill of social company and recreational time use enthrall me.
A light appears -- a star? Nay, a planet. Very bright, large, bluish; must be Venus.
I settle into that mode where at last I know I want to sleep, but it's not too difficult to keep active as long as I am occupied.
Clouds obscure the wonders of the firmament.
Somewhere in the deepness, if I am careful to note it, there is a contemplative moment of communion with the Creator, when he finds my exhausted mental state transparent to his missives.
Now the stars and galaxies shine clear in the silence.
My brain is ... Uh ... Sorry, what was I saying? No, I'm awake ... I think ...
Beneath the stars, the landscape sits dark and silent, through the hours most of humanity dares not to broach.
I am past the hardest part. Though I am dull of wit, my body surges with a new effort.
Birds pierce the silence.
Dawn.

2010-07-20T12:20:00.003-06:00

Chemistry for the Non-Chemist

Ode to OChem
Oh the glassware, shiny clean,
Even better found, when with benzene.
KBr plates, scratched and dull,
Solids, nujol, in mull.
How the tranquil sodium sulfate doth lay,
To form the decahydrate, it's known to play.
But forget not, into a flask bestowing,
How else can we know, if it's free-flowing?
Now watch yourself, for Mrs. Hinshaws shout,
The times run down, we're done, get out!

pH Strips
The unknown awaits me,
I haven't a clue!
Will this small orange papers life
End in red, yellow, or blue?
Approaching, ever nearing,
The drip --- it has dropped.
Ah, alas, it is the undoing
Of suspension and fear
I now can determine,
From acid or base need I steer clear!

Distractions
There lies the table, clean with no mess,
Waiting for books, homework, possibly some stress.
calmly seated, pencil ready, my brain is almost there,
The solutions are within my reaching, each compound drawn with care.

Then comes in my bench partner, named Jacob, full of news and life,
Fifteen minutes I must wait, as he relays some trivial strife
Then it's over, his earplugs in, I'm ready to begin,
The pencils down, the thought it's there... then someone new comes in.

His major it is physics, his mouth it moves quite fast,
A friend met on my mission, with15 minutes to pass.
But then he's gone, some task to complete,
And I am left once more, left to some OChem feat.

I've managed one molecule, benzene, it's almost done,
But alas, a wardly friend, looking for some fun.
I am not rude, I answer back,
And for some time conversation doesn't lack.

By now my hour has run out, into the second I'm now moving,
And after all this time, one fact, I feel like proving.
The study area, Fishbowl- its name we can deduce,
If ever homework I feel like doing, It needs be I become a recluse!

Thirsty?
A beaker is simply a cup.
It holds liquids, it holds ions,
From it surely one may sup.
But one must be wary, one must be sure,
Of the contents held within, of the contents, are they pure?

The liquid could be acid,
Halogenated it might be,
A carcinogen hypothetically,
Some sort of base possibly?

Will it tear you inside out, will it make you scream?
Will it cause you much bleeding, will it produce many steams?
For as a beaker is simply, is surely, only a cup.
You can never be too sure if death,
Lies on the other side, as you sup.

A Popping
I strode across the room and to myself said:
"Why do ears pop?"

they are not part
of a percussion band.

Ears are not full
Of fizz in a can.

Even small sugary rocks
do not involve ears in their making.

Nor are they a father figure.
or a grandfather for the taking

The truth is this:
A Eustachian tube

The pressures are off,
And so it moves.

Adjusts if you will
To the many air tides

And makes you quite normal,
From the ears to insides.

What are Your Questions?
The questions they come, the questions they go,
Some are quite clever, others quite low.
But the best of all, the ones up on top,
Are the ones that make laughter, and even breath stop.

Poetry from the last few months.

2010-07-14T00:47:00.004-06:00

Yay!! I'm finally on the blog! This is kinda long so... uh, sorry.

The Only Reasonable Explanation
I dedicate this poem to Josh for finally getting me on the blog.

He's been kidnapped by pirates!!
Swarthy, stinking, seaworthy, swashbuckling pirates.
Its the only reasonable explanation
He was minding his own business when they ambushed his apartment on the third floor.
Glass shattered as a peg leg kicked in the window.
His roommates heard the rustling and rumbling,
Shouting and Parrot's squawking,
Heave Ho's and Avasts!!
However, by the time they got out to the living room they had cleaned up,
Cleared out,
Sailed off.
Not a shard of glass was left behind.

Soon he stood aboard a magnificent vessel charging across the ocean blue!
(You may wonder how the pirates and their kidnappee got out to the ocean.
I don't know.
I'm just stating the facts here.)
The ocean waves crashed and sprayed as the bonny sea breeze filled the majestic sails.
The Jolly Roger smiled as the sounds of Yo ho hos and Shiber me timbers filled the salty sea air.
However, all he could hear was his knees knocking, heart racing,
The thumping of boots
The captain approached his new prisoner.
Hush filled the deck as the ruffions watched in awe.
He glowers down and with a sneer bellows,
"Off the plank with him!!"

As he stood at the edge of the plank,
staring at his soon to be watery grave below,
He remembered how he ought to be at poetry night.
This wouldn't have happened if he'd been there
Too late was his lesson learned,
that you should be at the right place at the right time.
And most of all.
All those who skip poetry night become shark fodder.

The Refrigerator Door

I set the milk on the counter and shut the refrigerator door.
I notice they're staring at me.
Well, some of them.
Others are gazing into each others' eyes, lost in their own little world.
Holding hands, whispering sweet nothings into their sweetheart's ear.
All of them smiling. Always smiling.
Knowing their reality is better than their dreams
Their lives are full of magic, all is beautiful.
Their perfect joy captured in a photo,
Like the dozens of photos that greet me each morning
As I drown my frosted mini-spooners...
And I'm out of milk... ::sigh::

Petrogliffs

The best way to chop the emense charcoaled log was to throw it off a thirty foot sandstone cliff.
At least thats the way it appeared.
The two lumbered slowly to the highest peak
Shifting and skidding with sand filled shoes
With log raised high
And a mighty warrior's cry
The blakened timber flew threw the air
Soared, spiraled, and...
The stump didn't so much as splinter
Leaving not but a sooty mark on the rusty rocks.
At that moement savegery struck.
Darkened hands donned the signs of warriors
Ebony stripes crossed heathen cheeks
Crumbling chuncks of cedar create
Epic battles, lightning strikes,
Swirling smoke round a roaring fire
Beating, thundering, bursting from the stone.
A petrogliff is worth a thousand words.

Laundry Day

There it is.
A horrendous mountain.
A smelly eyesore by your bedside.
You've tried to ignore it
Pretend you don't want to wear your favorite blouse.
Pretend that you're not down to two pairs of socks.
However, you can pretend no longer
It has to go.

You awkwardly amble down the stairs,
Hoping all the good machines aren't taken.
Dark side versus light side.
Thick bloo goo that smells like an Irish spring globs to the bottom of the washer.
A dollar later tha machine is working its magic.

Sudsing and swirling in a vicious vortex of towels, t-shirts, and jeans
Later you aid a soggy migration to a warmer climate.
The rumbling, tumbling, tossing, and turning lightens until at last you unload.

Hot, steamy, fresh, delicious.
It makes you think of warm blankets on a stormy night,
The crisp clean air of a summer rain,
Teddy bears in creepy commercials?...

Pressed, folded, stowed away.
All is in order.
For two weeks, anyways.

Death of the Coulter 750

I love you my dear robots
You greet me every night
And like a choir of R2D2s
Sing me sweet lullabies

pSHHH... errr, tsh tsh tsh, clicka clicka clicka, beep
Tap, snap, chunka, thump,
whir, purr, hum, rumble, ERRK, GRIND, EEEEE!

I rouse from my night dream
Like a mother stirring to aid her howling infant
Wondering whats wrong this time

I lift your cover, open your mechanic soul, and gaze deep within.
Wires and tubing
Gears and slides,
They usually dance in a seamless waltz.
They now lay still in a pool of blood.

Precious analyzer, you're too beautiful to die.
May I be your Dr. Frankenstein and bring you back to life?
No... I must face the dawn alone.

ICA

The first step to overcoming an addiction is admitting you have a problem.
Hello everyone. I'm Jill Schuler and I'm addicted to ice cream.
Can you blame me?
So cool and creamy like...
NO! No more!

I tell myself I shall overcome this.
I tell myself I won't buy any, not this week.
And then I glance down the frozen food isle.
Its like a party down there.
Everyone is laughing and smiling.
I glance side to side to ensure I'm not caught...
Not that it matters, I'll only be looking.
It can't hurt to look.

I notice the vanilla, chocolate, Neapolitan.
I can resist. I don't need them.
But suddenly I notice the moose tracks.
The moose is a very majestic creature.
Its as if its guarding the Caramels praline.
A worthy cause. It does look particularly valuable in all its golden splendor.
Rocky Road, the pathway to bliss.
Peanut Brittle, brittle like my will to resist.
Macadamia Crunch, Fudge swirl, Cookie Dough,
EVERYTHING BUT THE!!!

Its as if a light from heaven shines upon each pint.
That might just be the light from the freezer...
Meh, same diff.
Well.... I guess I'll be better next week.

The Cell: A Biological Prison

Blast! A Blast!! A lymphoblast to be precise.
You are hereby declared to be a juvenille delinquent of the blood stream.
You are hereby sentenced to be trapped forever in the prison
To spend the rest of your life surrounded by cells.

The cells are everywhere
Nucleus lobed in ugly blebs
Cytoplasm so blue that no smile could ever cheer it again.
Basophils with granules as black as its soul

How alone a lymphoblast must feel, so young.
Its nucleus still smooth
Its nuclei still clean and fresh.
It should still be back in the marrow
Where life was safe and calm.

Why did it rush into the fast lane.
Endopoies into the turbulence of the arteries and veins.
Up through a needle, smeared on a slide.
Stained and illuminated.

Snakes

As I sat upon the shore
To view lake, rocks, and sky
An old sunbathing serpent
Happened to cross my eye.

Many a time before
I've come across a snake.
Sneaking, slithering, startling,
They made me squeal and shake.

But spying this simple reptile
Before he spotted me
Made me really wonder
Why I each time did flee.

His head no bigger than a nut
Would crunch beneath my heel
If I but took a faulty step.
How would that make him feel?

Many a snake may cross our path
May make us dread and fear
But our fear could be overcome
If we'd learn, think, see, and hear

Interrupted Dreams

Draped across the couch in the soft silky darkness
I let a smooth summer breeze of cool dreams waft over me.
Sweet, refreshing, delicious.

A sudden blaring erupts the still
Delirium strikes
I flail like a fish on a line
Searching frantically to stop it all.

I mutter into the phone and let their words sweep over me.
Sentences form from their words,
Soothing my racing heart.
The fog over my mind seems to thin as I realize whats happening.
They're trying to tell me something.
I can feel it.

But sleep starts to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
Becons with promises of calm, peaceful loveliness
Its words are more clear than the prattling of whoever this is.

I mumble and mutter until they finally release me.
I collapse in a weary relief.
Sweet sleep, let me return to your embrace.

That's probably enough poetry for one evening... Back to work with me!

Snakes

2010-07-11T19:55:00.003-06:00

Our most recent club night theme was snakes, and these were my contributions:

Hiss
Sibilance of slither:
Sunlight playing on his scales
Shining chords of light.

Dust

On thy belly, pressed as close to earth as skin can be,

a forced embrace of thy mortality

Licking dust until the day to dust thou shalt return,

Tasting ev'ry day the death that comes

And does the bitter venom of this fate

squeeze out the life still nascent in thy birth?

And as thy path twists serpentine away,

dost thou take warmth or coldness from the earth?

Wrath

There is a writhing in your eyes,

coiled deep inside those constricted pupils,

that no tail of snake can match,

and I freeze in fear for the strike.

Desert Snake

Shed this skin, so dry--you're itching to be free

and feel the green caress of grass.

Wind 'round rocks and sit, silent, scale on stone;

raise your head and taste the thirsty air.

Touch

without wings, free of fingers, snake senses all

Ripe

2010-06-03T23:15:00.003-06:00

I do not like the way a metaphor smells

when it has sat around on the counter

so long that the meaning begins to puddle

in the bottom of the bag, and the form of it

begins to grow fuzzy with green

or orange mildew.

But before that, when it has been around

just long enough to go a bit sour

and has the tang of grapes turning

to wine on the stems; when the skin

loosens and the juicy fruitness trickles easily

down your throat, with only a little

mushy bite —

those are the metaphors that speak

of warm days in summer,

and watermelon on the table

and the phone sitting silent for hours or weeks

when you wish it wouldn't.

Those are the metaphors that give you

an uncomfortable feeling

in your stomach, but only just enough

that you notice

and remember it afterwards.

Figments

2010-05-20T23:41:00.004-06:00

This week our theme was based on the poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay First Fig and Second Fig. I hope everyone posts theirs! We got quite a variety. My contributions are below.

Next week come prepared with something related to The Love-Hat Relationship by Aaron Belz.

Third Fig

"Reap what you sow," it's said, and "Love

your neighbor as yourself."

Or you can reap his crop instead

for free food on your shelf.

Fourth Fig

From goals delayed anticipate

more joy eventually;

from chances taken now, instead,

you get great memories.

Zeroth Fig

A falling fig, obedient

to force Newtonian,

will travel down until it lands

and not go up again.

Lady Time

2010-05-18T16:27:00.002-06:00

She is too grand, too swift to see
in honest gazing, Lady Time.
At her hand we rise, decline,
and the flowing instants flee.

We try our best to euphemize,
to call her by a host of names:
by years, by weeks, by hours, by days;
pretend to conquer a smaller size.

Sitting in her wrinkled presence
frightens me with thoughts of life
that fades into a dimming twilight--
senility in slow senescence.

But Lady Time has gentle hands,
though strong and forceful they may be.
She watches, listens patiently,
and hour by hour she understands.

Pizzicato popcorn

2010-05-14T01:31:00.000-06:00

Plink plink plink plunk

Plink plunk plink plunk

Pop! Plink plink plunk

Pop! Plink plunk plink

TWANG!

Ether (Unfinished)

2010-05-14T01:21:00.004-06:00

In the days of Coriantumr
The land was full of violence
But one man, faithful,
Stood strong against he wave
And he dwelt
In the cavity
Of a rock.

The preachings of the prophet
Fell unheeded
On dead ears and leaden hearts
Like Noah's warning
Before the rains came.

Like pearls
The prophet's prophesyings fell,
A vision of a better world --
A house for man
Prepared by the Lord
For those who pass
The trial of faith.
But the people saw no vision
And they did not believe
Because they did not see.

Cast out, the prophet was,

Cast back no more to prophesy

But only to haunt again

The cavity of a rock

Wherein to dwell,

Whereat to write

The history of his people.

In those days

There arose one Shiz

Whose terror like a fire flew

From cowering heart to quaking lip --

The plague of fear pandemic.

Twenty-One Ways of Looking at an Eye

2010-05-14T00:58:00.005-06:00

II.

Bright light reflecting on retina

Dots dance before

And glaucoma waits

For another day

III.

A circle of black ink

In a field of white

Looks back at me

IV.

So close your eyelash catches mine

So close the veins wind like a maze

Surrounding your eyes

With fitting mystery

The plate slides,

Revealing a hole

Through which photons pour

Like sand down an hourglass

And the silver halide crystals

Remember forever

VI.

Substitute eyes

He promised he’d bring us his eyes in a box.

All 30 of them rolling and clanking into each other as he walked around the classroom.

Worse than having eyes in the back of his head. I felt sorry for him.

VII.

Make up

Pulling, curling, darkening, lining,

Covering, sort-of lying eying

VIII.

Feet

Tired sunburned working man

Life as purposeful as a crow,

and traces of pain in his Eyes.

IX.

The optometrist lights up my eye

And I behold the network

Feeding my vision

My flowing blood

His pupils narrowed in the light

And his ears laid back

As he saw the glassy cat's eyes

Shine to him

Calling him to fight

XI.

A man and a woman are one

A woman and a man with wandering eyes

Soon two

XII.

In my mind I wait for spinning thoughts

To alight on this paper

Each one a decision

And Megan in my peripheral vision.

XIII.

Little hearts of brown

Sprout green when it's time to plant

The potato's eyes.

XIV.

Green as summer,

Green as glass,

Your eyes warm my world

And tint everything I see

Into green

XV.

Glass marbles

Rolling in a glass of water

On top of the piano

Of a blind musician.

Her students grimace, but play on

XVI.

Something about gravity

Weighs down these eyes

And pulls them earthward.

Strain! Lift!

Look up and see the world

XVII.

Glinting in the night,

A predator looks back

From behind the eyes

Of every cat.

XVIII.

Cross my heart and hope to die,

Stick a finger in my eye;

Cross my eyes and poke my heart

I swear that we will never part.

XIX.

Darting back and forth

Twinkling

Unstable as an untrue heart

XX.

Open, close, open, close

I don't know which to prefer

XXI.

My eyes water

Not with feeling

Sad and happy emotions

Are nothing to the potency

Of an onion

The Nurse

2010-04-30T01:47:00.006-06:00

Her scrubs are three shades lighter
    than inky midnight blue
prepared for an all-nighter
    in a bold and helpful hue.
This evening her breakfast was
    a cold-cut club on rye,
courage for the next lost cause,
    and a sip of questions "Why?"
And in the bleary weary noon
    she smiles and laughs and prays
before a shift that comes too soon
    where she will do the same.

Poem in your Pocket

2010-04-28T16:40:00.002-06:00

April 29 is national Poem in your Pocket day!
(and just in time for our thursday meetings, too.)
Take a copy of a poem with you to have, read, and share.

Yellow Blossoms

2010-04-27T23:06:00.004-06:00

Narcissus blooms bow to themselves,
those beauties by the pond,
radiantly rippling
a lovely watery song.

Daffodils in hosts and crowds
all nod the elegance
of flowers smiling all around
and all together dance.

The sunflower looks up instead,
gazing at the sky
and following the glory of
the sun as she glides by.

Drawings On Our Fridge (by Sarai)

2010-04-16T12:52:00.001-06:00

Erupty Volcano Girl vs. Bumbly Bee

2010-04-16T12:25:00.015-06:00

La la la la la

I'm prancing to the park

Where beneath a storming stormcloud

A daisy has the gall to grow

I am Volcanic Dancing Girl

Fresh off the plane from Reykjavik

I love my polka-dotted skirt-slash-cone

I love erupting from its tip

Along the way I spy a bee

Whose stripes and stinger anger me

So that I spew lava right at it --

It flees, and though floods and ash and doom

And clouds of blackness o'er him loom

The bee escapes

Bumbling victoriously away

From me

The supposedly-mighty volcano

The Tale of Princess Dragonbreath

2010-04-16T09:10:00.002-06:00

Young Princess D, a little waif,
wandered off where it's not safe.
She chased a kitten, with giggling laughter,
into a cellar where from the rafters
strings and strings of garlic hung.
She blinked at them, then tasted one.
Before you could have blinked once more
she'd eaten clove seventy-four.
Where e're she went the castle knew it
'cause she carried garlic with her--to chew it.
The smell knocked out the Queen's prize goat
and would not wash off in the moat.
The courtiers fainted, the knights were mad
and took her to the King (her dad)
with clothespins clamped about their noses.
The sentence, just as you suppose, is
Princess D must hitch a wagon
and drive to live out with the dragons.
Their breath is just as bad as hers,
or in some cases even worse.
This fate, a life of dread and horror,
had passed on garlic-eaters before her,
and was a law throughout the land
for any whose breath you couldn't stand.
But Princess D, whom I admire,
found that it was not her desire
to trundle off, like so much meat, and
find the dragons, then be eaten.
"I shall not be a meal," she reasoned,
"for dragons, though I am well-seasoned."
She ran away, and before they caught her
she'd found a stream of running water
with which she scrubbed and rinsed and wrung
the garlic smell from off her tongue.
Her sentence was commuted then,
and none were sent to the dragons again,
for the law was changed that very day.
The kingdom's favorite tale, they say,
is this of Princess Dragonbreath
who brushed her teeth and cheated death.

Subtitles

2010-04-16T09:01:00.004-06:00

Why doesn't the world come with labels?

They would tell you in convenient closed caption:

"Here is a pinecone,"and

"This is your dog Charlie,"and

"North is that way."

Door hinges would <creak>,

hinting of [ominous music]

to warn of the unexplored, whispering,

"Here there be dragons."

Metadeath

2010-04-15T23:34:00.002-06:00

The scriptures say
Death once had a sting
Before Christ banished that pain
To mortal memory.
Exiled as it is
To short-term attacks,
Death looks with envy on what it lacks,
Ever taking away from the brave and bold,

But never gaining, only growing old

Until some day, as the poet once dared cry,

We all will shout, "Death, thou shalt die!"

On that first morning lonely Death,

In the graveyard of forgotten ills,

Will look upon his withered self,

His hands he'll madly wring,

Asking, "Oh where is my old victory?

What happened to my sting?"

And there, with nothing but a memory

Of the ones he killed

Rising from the once-mighty shroud

To the glorious, eternal, and undying now,

Death will die.

Forgiveness

2010-04-09T01:24:00.000-06:00

sometimes the world

is full of ugly flaws

and imperfections.

but i forgive you.

Little Lotta?

2010-04-09T01:15:00.003-06:00

La Little Lotta Leghead

walked wincing with Woroons,

precisely pocket picking

this thief tried to treblu,

and animals anduvious

saw serious Saltyroons

marauding mini mallots

by bighead Bascaroons

La Little Lotta Leghead

cried crummy cookies coo

envious enter Egghead

wall waiting wonking woo

La Little Lotta Leghead

pushed past perennial Poons

"Be broken bully baxter,

Little Leghead lies lecoor!"

Poetry Prize!

2010-04-01T14:43:00.001-06:00

I couldn't wait to share the good news I just learned.

This month is National Poetry Month! Yay!

And, since it's National Poetry Month, the BYU bookstore will be offering a drawing. Just go to the General Book desk or the Children's Books desk and recite a poem and you will be entered in a drawing for a free poetry book!

Also, in honor of National Poetry Month, the bookstore will be having an Open Mic Poetry Reading night on April 6th and April 13th from 6:30-7:30pm. I think this would be a fun event for our poetry club to attend!

Finally, the bookstore is offering poetry books at reduced prices this month. So, if you want a poetry book, now is the time to get one!

(And no, this is NOT an April Fools Joke. Check out the link above if you don't believe me.)

Writer's Block

2010-03-26T14:48:00.001-06:00

(I actually wrote this poem last summer, forgot about it, and rediscovered it on my computer today. I think it sums up the end of a semester pretty well.)

My brain is fried

My thoughts are limp

Like noodles overcooked

and left to drip into the drain

I cannot sit another hour

My thoughts will not behave

they wriggle and wiggle and

slither right off of the page

I will never get finished

I’ll stay here forever

My eyes will cloud over

My rear will harden

I’ll be stuck in a chair

Full of despair

And everyone walking by

Simply will stare

At the statue before them

A struggling girl

Stuck with her brain

in a never-ending whirl

Oh the cramps!

The misery!

The endless agony

The . . .

I’ve got it!

An idea for my paper!

Here goes!

Nursery Rap

2010-03-23T19:46:00.004-06:00

I had help from my FHE sisters both in composing and performing this one

Yo! Didizzle, didizzle,

Da alley cat be jammin' on da fidizzle.

Da heifer she jumpin' so high, so high,

She jump right over da moon, da sky!

Snoop dog be laughin', say "gimme a what what"

He laughin' so hard he almost bust a gut.

Da dish be pickin' up what da spoon be layin' down,

So peace out wi' dis nursery rap P-town!

Don't Worry About Me!

2010-03-15T21:18:00.001-06:00

It was a good and fast week. A little bit crazy, but generally good.

As you can tell from my emails, Silvano Contreras is always on our minds and we´ve been focusing on him for months now. He was progressing quite a bit and even had a baptisimal date with Sofia for March 20, but even with everything we try he´s still having a hard time giving up his alcohol, and every time his family and we lose a little bit of our faith. One day this week during companionship study, after I shared what I had studied, and how I had thought of Silvano, Hermana Figueroa asked if I had studied for our other investigators. Ashamed, I said no, and neither had she. We repented and are trying to focus on all, because we don´t know what will happen, it´s in the Lord´s hands.

However, we´ve been happy to see the progress in a sweet 30 year old that we´re teaching named Tania. She has a 10 year old son Alberto and lives with her parents Juan and Olga Zamora. Juan believes in Evolution and doesn´t believe in God, and Olga has Christian views. We have befriended them and invited them to activities etc, and have faith that someday and hopefully soon they will come. Anyway, Tania is very receptive and I enjoy teaching her. We practice English sometimes and she has tried to ... what is the word?... convince us to marry one of her three brothers who live in the States someday. Funny story, this week we were eating dinner with them and Olga asked us how many children we wanted to have someday. Hna. Figueroa said 6 and I said 5. She expressed her disappointment... she only wants 3 grandchildren. So I suppose we are saved from the betrothal (that´s the word I wanted!)

This week we were inviting some young men, James, Edward, Omar, Carlos, to an activity we had (we watched the movie The Testaments in the court outside the church) and suddenly we saw a moving lump in Omar´s shirt. Out came a big white rat and Hermana Figueroa screamed ¨Raton!¨ and ran from the room. It´s an adventure to be serving with her and in this crazy but wonderful place. = )

It´s fun to teach Hermana Figueroa english. We have postit notes on all the devices around the apartment with English and Spanish words, and we work on basic phrases together. Who would´ve thought the word ¨dance¨ would be so hard to pronounce? I´m hoping to have the opportunity to teach an English class in my mission, perhaps in my next area (Pres. Merren, our Branch Pres. is hesitant with the idea because he wants the class to be weekly and if I get transferred and another North American doesn´t replace me, the enthusiasm will fall rapidly). But it´s good to get some practice in teaching now, as I help my companion. And she is always teaching me new words and patiently helping me with Spanish all day, every day.

I realize that last week I wrote that she wasn´t super obedient and that frustrated me. But really, I need to just be better at communicating my wishes and the reasons for them, because for her it wasn´t a big deal to miss a week in writing her family but for me it was. I could´ve suggested that we left to go to the internet cafe earlier. I´m happy to have the opportunity to learn how to work in a spirit of unity with others and bring the good news of the gospel to all in Honduras. I´ve already experienced some changes and I hope the Lord will continue to help me change to become who He would have me be.

This week I read from the Liahona a devotional address from Jeffrey R. Holland, ¨ The best is yet to be¨. It seemed to be directed right at me, because sometimes I have worry when it´s unnecessary or live in the past. I´m grateful that the Lord answers prayers and truly speaks to us personally. I know He knows and loves each of those that I´m teaching, each missionary, and each and every one of you. Thank you for your constant support and for loving and caring about me.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxox, Hermana Francis

Blinking Together

2010-03-14T21:39:00.002-06:00

The difference between a wink
and a blink
is a matter of arithmetic:
a single blink is a double wink,
or rather,
one wink is only half the other.

One eye alone can't blink, you see
but longs to.
So it winks away its halfway blinks
until eventually it spies
another eye
that winks back, and two become one.

The Brief Rime of Gail and Aden

2010-02-14T00:24:00.003-07:00

[Note: This poem was commissioned by Kendall as part of the ward service auction. I consciously modeled it after Alexander Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin", which is a famous Russian novel-in-verse. Much of the mood and style of what I wrote resembles (or tries to resemble) parts of that work. This also probably explains why the protagonist's roommate has the Russian name of Vasia. As with "Eugene Onegin", this poem is written as a series of sonnet-like stanzas of 14 lines, although my meter and rhyme are far looser than that of "Eugene Onegin" or the translation that I have. The poem is strange and maybe not the most romantic thing, but I like it and hope you will find much to relate to in it. Happy Valentine's Day, I guess!]

Aden Alecanteson

Slumped deep into a gloomy chair,

Slapped a hand across his anguished face

And wept in total despair.

His sniffs and sputters sadly sounded

Across the library's vast expanses

Though in reality great were the chances

That none cared for his sincere sorrow.

Sitting back and wiping tears from face,

Ruffling blondish hair, he sighed

Then thought of her enchanting look –

And with renewed vigor, broke down and cried.

When ever did love deep and profound

Give up and die without complaint or sound?

And so, dear Aden with his heart fresh broke

There and then a quiet prayer outspoke:

“Oh that I might never feel again

Merciful numbness I beg Thee lend,

My God, who let this catastrophe

Of love grind my poor heart!

Take from my sight all beauty, all grace.

Kill affection before it can start!”

Again he wept with fiery tears,

His hopeless prayer ascended to Heaven,

And drowsily but in earnest he muttered,

“Never again, no never, never again.”

And Heaven listening with purpose fixed

Carefully considered the broken man's wish.

He flung himself, upon reaching home,

On his bed, and made his sorrows known

Pounding his fists on his miserable pillow

And wailing and writhing and letting himself go.

Into the room burst his apartment-mate

Who with righteous anger roared to his side

And slapped him up, knocked some sense right in.

“Cease this slobbering at once!” with wrath he cried.

Caught red-eyed in disgraceful mid-snivel

Like a shamefaced child Aden sat upright.

Tears ceased at once, and all but one stray sniffle

Went silent. He looked beat down by the fight.

The roommate – Vasia – sat down by his side.

“Look man, you disgrace, pick yourself up, take some pride!”

Vasia's words bit with truth's harshness.

Aden, shocked into uprightness

Listened as his friend infused him

With hope, and vigor, and vim.

Though it was winter's bleakest darkness without

Within his heart awoke new spring.

Aden jumped brightly to his feet

And very nearly started to sing.

“My good Vasia, I am newly resolved.

A different feeling within my heart has evolved.

No more the depths of despair to contemplate,

I determine here and now – to get a date!”

Vasia thought he felt the apartment building shake,

Saying, “That tends to happen when a man confronts his fate.”

Her name was Gail, and there she lived

In the house around the corner

Where she and four friends, plus their cat,

Lived fourteen lives of ardor.

She had no need for love nor men.

She had loved before, but ne'er again

Would she stake her heart on something so hard to win –

She thus was Cupid's perfect victim!

But not wholly resigned to single abandon

As yet, she threw a great party

A grande fête for friends and foes alike

At her place, at nine o'clock starting,

To show the world that she had turned out right

And could succeed without being any man's wife.

That night the neighborhood in uproar

Flocked to the party, flocked to the table

Of feminine hospitality offered elegantly.

All laughed and stayed as long as able.

Aden amongst these was not least eager

To meet these ladies of such renown.

With Vasia he'd arrived with a flourish,

Though their coming was ignored all around.

Yet feast and flirt, amuse, acquaint, enjoy,

With skill and style they carried out their task

And with the hour chiming midnight

Aden met the hostess at long last.

When they spoke he felt he already knew her,

And saw, of course, that he'd have to woo her.

The next day, with Vasia keeping time,

He called her up, got her on the line,

Then asked her out, waited as she thought.

Sweet Gail replied, “Absolutely not!”

With abrupt click their conversation ended,

Aden's heart for pain now freshly rended.

Vasia urged his roommate to be strong,

Citing parables of fish and ponds.

“I won't despair!” declared quavering Aden.

“Haven't I made a firm commitment

To get a date? No such punishment

will dissuade or make me jaded.”

Thus roused once more he called twenty ladies,

Getting three nos, one yes, and sixteen maybes.

He and the one who had accepted

Went out a-courting on the cheap.

Amongst the others that he dated

It was she who brought him loss of sleep.

In time things took a turn towards serious

And he found himself in need of flowers.

So he stood in line for two whole hours

To procure his girl a fine bouquet.

As he stood he got a tingling in his side –

'Twas just his phone. A call from Gail vibrated

And against his will he felt a pang.

He reached, but hesitated as it rang,

Then picked it up (which stopped its ringing)

Though not quite sure what he was thinking.

III

What had she contemplated to thus call him?

She wondered. What would he do, or say, or think?

How could she explain to him whom she'd spurned?

How dared she hope, or wish, or dream?

Aden answered, and Gail asked her question,

Told of her pain and of her past,

Explained the change that had transformed her

And made her importune at last.

She heard his certain indecision,

His most decided incertitude.

She heard his thanks, even contrition

And disclaimers for being rude.

At last she heard his firm refusal.

She cried and vowed endless recusal.

Her heart in loneliness had wandered

For some years, though she had not realized

With what pain, until Aden's call made her ponder.

It was then that affection materialized.

Seeing him softened her old hardness further,

Seeing his smile and laughter in the neighborhood.

Though plain were his clothes and old was his auto

She thought his way seemed somehow noble and good.

She had summoned a great store of courage to ask him

If they might not give it a shot after all

But by that same prerogative by which she'd refused him

Aden unilaterally rejected the aim of her call.

Now bitter rejection from her past came returning

And brought to the spurner her own sweet dose of spurning.

Unmoored once more her heart went a-drifting.

For weeks her life passed like the sands in their shifting,

With former hopes breaking and bending and rifting,

Her heart depressed, her spirits not lifting.

It was strange to mope over someone so distant

Whom she'd hardly met – it seemed downright stupid

Yet there she was with her tears and her ice cream,

“Return to Me” replacing yet one more failed dream.

Though she had no Vasia to keep her in line –

Indeed very few with which she shared her mind –

Gail knew she was stuck, needed to get unblocked,

So off with the movie, out the front door she walked,

Only to see with unexpected surprise

Aden, and a girl who had tears in her eyes.

He had told her no, Gail whom he fell for.

He had turned her down cold sans explanation

As he stood there to buy a bouquet for another,

Yet all this was not done without hesitation.

Still he had tried to court that lady

Whose enchantment deprived him of rest every night,

But the memory of Gail grew, with a gnaw and a fest'ring,

A worry that he had not chosen aright.

He loved the girl that he bought the bouquet for,

Nonetheless he began writing out many rain checks

On affection and kindness that should have been hers then.

Soon their relationship was, bona fide, a train wreck,

And he moved that they as a couple should end.

Her tears were merely the trough of a longer-term trend.

Gail saw the tears as she stepped out her front door

But quickly turned round, refusing to spy more.

She secretly struggled, shied from inward enjoyment.

Nonetheless to her roommates her voice seemed ebullient.

Then she cried one more time

And set to wait and to hope,

Kept busy each day with her work, but felt tense,

As if living her life way up high on a tightrope.

Aden tried hard not to dance on the relationship's casket

Concerning the one for whom he bought the bouquet,

But his motive could not remain forever secret

And Vasia urged him more strongly with each passing day

Not to wait and not to unwisely refrain.

Saying “If it's good then you can choose without shame.”

And so one fine and cheerful spring morning

With two cones of ice cream in hand

Aden knocked at Gail's door with a laugh and then waited

Not caring how long he might have to stand.

Had it really been three months

Since he'd met Gail, that fine beauty?

Did he have it in him to do what it would take?

He wagered that he could live up to the duty.

When Gail emerged they both smiled simply.

Aden proffered a cone with chocolate and swirl

And they sat there and talked for five blessed hours,

One happy guy and one happy girl.

So with gladness they set to that endless adventure

Of living their two lives as one life together.

Short Takes

2010-02-13T19:23:00.005-07:00

As Winter Wind Sings

As winter wind sings
They hunch against the wild sky:
snow-heavy branches.

Talking

We sit at the bus stop.
It's been two hours
and I don't care.

Silicon Paper

Trees sigh in the wind--
I stare at the glowing screen
while the hard disk whirs.

One Day

We'll stop counting
on tomorrow
to fix our mistakes.

after the valentines

2010-02-12T12:57:00.002-07:00

Slightly wilted roses, thorns still on the stems,

in water colored like the midday fog above the Thames,

look out the kitchen window--where they can best be seen--

beside the spot she puts her ring when dishes must be cleaned.

Three chocolates are hidden on the upper pantry shelf

so the children will not find the few she saved out for herself.

It's two weeks since the holiday. He's mowing the front lawn;

she's driving from the dentist and knows that before long

they'll be reading bedtime stories, vacuuming the car,

paying bills and mopping spills before they drip too far.

The hearts and gifts of Valentines fade dully to the past,

reminders that this love and home are built of things that last.

Morning

2010-02-12T12:54:00.004-07:00

The sky yawns wide in the bleary predawn grey,

and a wind tumbles out, showering the earth with scents and nonsense songs

and scattering the last few drops of dew.

Fingers of sunlight comb through the mountain pines

and brush out the trailing wisps of cloud,

while the emerging light dresses everything in confident colors.

Then the egg-yolk sun rises over cinnamon crumb peaks,

and it is time to step out into a brand new day.

Blog Policy: Tagging

2010-01-23T13:32:00.002-07:00

Hey guys, I think we should follow Chris's lead in tagging each of our poems with our name. Otherwise there seems to be no way to make a listing of all posts by a certain person, as primitive as such a capability might seem. So please add your first name to the list of tags ("labels" as Blogger calls them) below your posts.

Poemesis on George Starbuck

2010-01-23T12:53:00.004-07:00

Spiggle.

Speetzle.

A-spic, a-spac.

Wa handen nufter

Ka ziggen zak!

Na linbern nortern

Kwu caften cofeten.

Inga wistle.

Inga win!

Spiggle.

Speetzle.

A-spic. A-spac.

Rifnon rafbin

Wa nella hibba hap.

Wa nella nibba lap.

Ka nella --

Ka nibba --

Lap.

La mer d'Aral est mort!

2010-01-23T12:42:00.004-07:00

One night

At poetry club

I could think of nothing

But to write

About how I had

Nothing to write.

And then I thought,

"The Aral Sea,

Victim of lack of socialist foresight,

Is dead,

Drought and dessication

Taking its place.

Once there were islands,

Once there were cities on the sea

And railways elevated

Above the waves.

Once there were fish and fishermen

And schools and children.

Now, sands and salt

Sift sullenly

In the winds of artificial desert."

Thus were my thoughts

About the death of seas.

Do you ever feel

That your headwaters

As well have been diverted

To grow cotton in Uzbekistan?

And that the sea of your life

Is shrinking and drying,

The fishes dying,

Villagers fleeing,

Drought o'ertaking,

Workmen leaving,

Hot winds raking

The salts and sands

That are all that's left

Of an ocean of ended dreams?

I hope not.
I hope you have

No idea

What that's supposed to mean.

The Future

2010-01-15T00:00:00.003-07:00

Well,

It's begun.

Time

Marches on

And the call

Of the future

Is drifting

In on the wind

Of the present.

How 'bout now?

Our days

Don't know how

To bore us --

That's the trouble.

But maybe coming 'round the bend

There's some ho-hum gonna begin.

For now it's

Every day a battle

Every day pitting our all

Against all the world

Throws at us.

Of course

We must have our wits

About us

No slack on the line

Is gonna save us

In that moment

When the ready are ready

And everyone else wonders

What hit 'em.

Still,

We wait

And see

The tunnel's terminal light

Glow brighter,

Pressing on

Though long

The distance untraveled,

Fighting on

Though few

The virtues untrammeled.

Yes

It's begun.

Indeed,

Time marches on

With the call

Of the future

An inescapable summons

Of death

Of life.

And the only answer

Is either

To live

Or die.

Can you hear it?

Do you hear it?

Will you hear it?

Live!

Club Business

2010-01-14T23:48:00.005-07:00

We actually had a "meta" moment tonight and talked about the club itself. It was agreed that increasing our membership is a worthwhile objective as this would bring a greater diversity of poetic voices into our circle, so we brainstormed ways this could be brought about. The following are the ideas brainstormed:

Have events
Make fliers (e.g. readings for the public)
Write in the "Notes" section of people's directories
Food
Poster of a poem
Booklets in apartments (including the poems we've put on the blog, perhaps)
Valentine poem deliveries on request
Fundraiser (since clubs have fundraisers): custom poem delivery or something
Read a poem at ward prayer
Shirts
Altoids (actual Altoids mints at our meetings)
Make the club a part of the culture

There was also a suggestion to do a sort of collaborative poetry, in which lines are written by two authors alternately.

Next week Jhon is going to bring a prompt in the form of a photograph, which we will all respond to. Maybe we could put the photo up here for those following along at home?

Assignment #1: think about all of the ideas above and decide which ones are most deserving of implementation.

Assignment #2: come next week

Assignment #3: bring a friend

Parted

2010-01-12T20:16:00.006-07:00

I see you

across the room,

and your smile curls

purring

around my thoughts.

You are as beautiful

as trees and sky

on a warm morning in April.

The kind of morning you wake up to

before sunrise

just to be sure

you won't miss it.

The kind of morning that smiles

at the whole world

and glows

with the promise of summer.

I say nothing.

Because your glowing smile

is not for me.

And I close my eyes.

Because I miss you more

when we are together.

Sorry, but I won't be at many of the Thursday meetings for a while. I'll try to contribute to the blog, and hopefully some will be more upbeat than this breakup poem. Make sure you post your poems from the meetings so I can read them!

Friendly Mocking

2009-11-25T10:21:00.003-07:00

This comic is dedicated to Josh.

Heartbreak

2009-11-15T19:40:00.003-07:00

(This poem was inpsired by Megan's brother, Brendan, who requested a depressing poem to make into a song.)

You said you'd always love me
You promised you'd be with me
I felt your arms around me
Thought I never would be lonely

So where are you?
When I need you most beside me
The longing burns inside me
I'm drowning in my tears

I didn't know you'd ex me
Refuse to even text me
If only you'd believe me
Your presence would relieve me

So where are you?
When I need you most beside me
The longing burns inside me
I'm drowning in my tears

I'm trying to forget you
Wish I hadn't ever met you
Then my life would be much better
Wouldn't need to write this letter

I don't need you
I don't want you here beside me
No more burning left inside me
No more tears I'll shed for you

Goodbye

What Will Become?

2009-11-07T14:26:00.004-07:00

So there's this girl
who
thinks she's no
good because she's
like
me and you
you know
she makes mistakes
does not
nice things
does good
things for wrong reasons
in other words
she's amazing, just
not perfect

I wish she could see
wish she could feel
wish that she
would stop hurting
herself
but remember how
I said she's just like us?
what if we
don't love ourselves either?
just like you and me
so where's the higher ground?
I really want to lift her up
I need some
higher ground
need some

What will become
of the Devil
when we all
learn to love
all learn that
God loves us for a reason?
What will become?

Turning Point

2009-11-06T23:16:00.008-07:00

This is the hour when seasons start to change.

The trees, until this moment bathed in summer light,

Were reaching to the sky, their leaves spread ever high

To catch the smiles of the sunfilled days.

They've shaken hands and waved to passers-by,

Strength pulsing out to liven leafy greenery,

Warm trunks unknotting cares and breathing friendship's sighs

Throughout the months of camaraderie.

Now with the frost encroaching with the dawn,

The wind begins to sap their strength,

And pulling inward color, life,

Their rasping leaves are shivered from their grasp.

And so ere long the cold will leave to us

Only these silent silhouettes,

Bare branches stark against the sky,

Reminding us by emptiness of Spring.

Leaves

2009-11-06T23:09:00.004-07:00

Crunch, scrunch, scuff; scitter scatter skiff

Such rich crisp sounds as I walk through Autumn leaves,

Crinkling under foot and cracking on the ground.

I can almost smell the aural potpourri

Swish, huff, shuttle; flutter shake, swoosh

Above my head, shivering together in the wind.

Rasp, rattle, hush; whistle rake, whoosh

Each acoustic color knelling in my ear.

And falling through the air, a leaf

silent

Anthem Written Upon the First Anniversary of the Curiously Poetic Altoids

2009-10-27T10:43:00.006-06:00

Many the meters,
Abundant the rhymes
That our pens put forth
In that golden year's time.

Noble the feeling
And witty the verse
That our hearts sang out.
Oh the sorrow! the mirth!

So subtle the humor,
So cunning the wit,
So artful the rhymers
Who imbued them therewith

That perhaps the generations to come
Shall remember them for it,
Saying, "Those were the days
And those were true poets."

Yes, perhaps our words
Will have earned us a place
In the pantheon of poesie
Full of grandeur and grace.

But probably not.
And it's better, too,
Since naught could result
But the ruin of the true.

And already we have
All that we need
--our friends drawn the closer,
our poetic thoughts freed.

So we'll sing on for the ages
For the art, for the rhyme,
And we'll sing for each other --
Since each other's just fine.

Falling

2009-10-16T08:02:00.003-06:00

When the ground crumbles beneath your feet

do you look down to catch your footing

as you scramble to place a toe, a knee, a finger,

anything,

beneath you to stop your fall?

Or do you look up to grasp at wisps of root

or cloud or star, to hold you up?

Do you pray to be supported or lifted?

And when the foot that stumbles,

the eye that searches, and the hand that grasps

are not your own,

then, with one hand stretched to heaven and one to help,

where do you look?

Columns

2009-10-16T07:55:00.002-06:00

A ruin is always cracked, fallen pillars, their capitals crushed,

with great jagged breaks where some force

of time or might severed strength from stone and toppled

the stolid column.

A broken pillar, image of loss, is always carved, adorned,

and placed alone with its own rubble.

In this room, the walls are painted, decorated,

with a clock hung to mark the time,

like a water wheels spinning as the river flows past

to the sea.

But there is also a pillar, tall and white,

thin,

ugly,

plain,

taking up space just where you'd like to walk,

blocking your view of the woodwork and your friend

on the other side of the room,

and holding up the roof.

I'm sorry

2009-10-16T07:52:00.004-06:00

I wish I knew

what I was sorry for.

I meant to write it down,

I said I would,

and now there is a blank,

an empty place,

where I almost knew you most:

your gift lost.

I am sorry that I forgot.

John

2009-08-21T19:13:00.003-06:00

there's something so poetic
about the candle
never moved, never opened
fire never playfully teasing the wick
the smell of apple cinnamon
never fills the room
never performing the expected task

only touched three times a day
so as to hold a tube in place
as liquid drains
in a slow steady pace
leftovers of some
unsatisfying nourishment
for one who cannot taste or smell

other tools may think it useless
but its consistence is vital
it, being there, near the sink
helps the helpless
live.

Back To The Pen!

2009-08-10T13:32:00.004-06:00

It's good to reach out
In silent language,
In script - the linearization of thought.
But so self-conscious am I
In this reaching?
Yes.

Yet it need not ever be,
For, ofttimes when my passion
And my power to express it
Are equally matched
I do not write,
Nor think,
Nor reach,
But rather live my expression,
Breathe it.

Why is it not always the case
That will and way
Are blissfully bonded together?
Whence schism, and deliberateness,
And thought that knows itself?
Are these the artifacts of
Souls out of their element
Like hippos on dry land?

One day
When this unity occurs
We shall find
Every motive, pure;
Every deed, praiseworthy;
Every writing, worth remembering;
And every uttered word become
In the very speaking
A thoughtful poem of its own.

Miriam

2009-07-31T01:03:00.001-06:00

I see her in their faces
though lacking lines from years still to come
framed in heavy hair
not as white or wispy soft
Mother's movements look so familiar
the way she softly taps the table with her hands
just as she had done
just like Miriam

As they retell her stories re-retold,
passing them from mouth to mouth, reverently
as one should handle one of her precious quilts
I see her in them

The stories form bit by bit
pulled from each memory
sometimes interjection
correction
on the particular wording
she may have used
even so,
the morbidity
of Big Clause and Little Clause
or the shocking lack of mentality
of dear lil' Epaminondas
is clearly communicated

there's laughter at the accuracy
then tears at her memory

I cannot yet recite her words as they
and my youthfulness does not reveal much resemblance
but I see her
in that ancient skirt
its unusual style for these times
but my favorite to wear

I see her
in my desire and attempt
to sew patches of random old projects
into something to keep someone
warm and comfortable
much time is spent
and every stitch says "I love you"
I'm beginning to understand her

She called me "friend"
and I become my own
friend
as I begin to see her in me

(NOTE: This is a bit different from what I came up with in the free write. I hope I did her justice.)

Four Weeks

2009-07-29T14:10:00.007-06:00

I.
Once I was happy.
And now?
Now I’m giddy.
I was content to be single.
Really. And then
You
dropped into my life with
a resonant kerSPLUNK:
A bowling ball in the middle
of my pond.

*sigh*

Once I was happy.

II.
*sigh*
*sigh*
*sigh*

I’ve got butterflies.
Pink ones.
And red ones.
And a few blue (your favorite color...).

When will I see you again?

III.
Fine.
Don’t call for all
I care.

You
think I’ll miss you? Pffff! Like
I care.

Go
jump off a cliff! See if
I care.

The
only problem is...
...

IV.
Once I was happy.
And now?

I

feel

a little

empty.

But
I know better now.
Thanks to

You.

Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I did not write this poem about a particular boy. Think of it more as some musings on relationships gone sour.

Craig's house

2009-07-05T00:32:00.001-06:00

Dusk.
air pleasantly warm
reminding us of a sun-baked day
steady creak of the porch swing
keeps time for a soft orchestra
of crickets
distant highways
and subtle wind
whispering wisely to ancient trees
your sharp intake of breath*
indicates the first sighting of a firefly
They ignite!
And gradually the field is a vast galaxy of stars
which live but a moment-
just long enough to fascinate
then, stifled out
one by one
in Night's thick blanket.
Darkness.
like nothing happened at all

*Alternate line: "you squeeze my hand/[indicating]"...
which do you like better? Please comment. :)

When I have fears

2009-06-19T10:18:00.002-06:00

This week we all started with the same first line, provided by Nate, and wrote the rest of the poem. This was mine, and I hope the rest of the club will post theirs as well.

When I have fears that I may cease to be
I clutch the present tight into my fist
Lest loosing it to vanish in the mist
No future shall appear supporting me.

The hole I'd leave behind so empty seems
That thus with cramping fingers, aching tears
I hold and squeeze the feeling from my fears
And find myself in life, in hope, in dreams.

But clinging to receeding time in vain,
I'm battered, twisting, breathless in life's flow.
It softens only when I let it go
And learn to live in doubt and truth again.

May fears and pain and present find release
In peace and good and future when I cease.

Dawn Clouds

2009-06-17T18:23:00.000-06:00

power lines slice through faintly pink

dawn-streamed cloud

like kitchen's sharpest knife

silently

effortlessly separating

the thick sweet blanket

of "cloud" that mom likes to make

with thawed whipped cream

hint of strawberry jello mix

generic brand of cottage cheese

God's recipe shows no sign

of Miss Muffet's preference

but in His broad bowl we call sky

long, thin leftovers of night

greyish blue

after my eyes have had their fill

the flavor tastes of orange

like mother's after I've already

removed the squishy mandarins

still changing

as rays begin peaking over lofty mountain tips

my eyes taste a

dampened, inoffensive lemon

all traces of night now seem but shadows

as sky lightens

and earth is made ready

for vibrant sun's

reentry

[I miss you all, club friends. Don't forget me. :) ]

Empty

2009-06-12T13:24:00.003-06:00

I gave away all my pain

and now having nothing to give
what once was full
is now an empty soul

But now there's space
to fill the place
that held my coal

So I will hold your dreams
your precious things
and keep them in...

The Garden

2009-06-12T13:11:00.004-06:00

(meh... spacing. Stop fighting me, lame programing. I will win. This is a blog. You should know better than to forbid 17 spaces in a row. ^_^)

Loving is like raining
It takes a lot of waiting
But while I wait for rain,
I have to spend the pain
To rush to plant the seeds
------------the water needs

Knowing while I wait for water
That as the summer sun gets hotter
My plants may perish 'neath the soil
While waiting for the sky to boil
I sow despite -- I also know
------------they might grow

Today I stopped, and stopped to think
That maybe thunder waits for me
And lo! When seeds were there, it hasted
So gifts of rain would not be wasted
Love, falling miles just to land
-------------on barren sand

Horizons

2009-06-11T22:32:00.002-06:00

The horizon, that boundary where
solid earth yields up to infinite sky,
so self-complete that could you go there
you would see more earth
and more infinity.
That horizon, framing up from down
and spreading out to the limits of your vision,
so that could you watch it forever
you would see yourself
watching infinity
Yes, this horizon, holding tight to my heart
and touching rib to rib in a double crescent
so whole that splitting smile from frown
hurts more than holding both together,
grasping for infinity.

Another one to read aloud

2009-06-11T22:29:00.002-06:00

Sometimes my mind and eye forget
how wide and high the sky can get.
When all the walls are tall and wide,
befalls I'm called and stalled inside,
and though I know I go 'neath all
I don't or won't, e'en so, recall
the loud and rowdy clouds that grow
around and down the mountain's nose.
But goomy rooms yield to the round,
bright moon at noon that soon astounds,
and I remember
because today I saw
a double rainbow.

You could find a double meaning in this... if you were so inclined. ;)

2009-06-05T12:47:00.002-06:00

A pirate sings about prohibition coming:

Oh play me a tune you whiskey-filled June

That comes before dooms day July

drinkin up dregs

Like a man who begs

Near a trough where the other pigs lie.

When decision is made there is no escape

So in indecision I’ll stay

Amid mud and muck, I’d rather be stuck

It’s not I who’ll pass thru judgment today.

So sing sing away and play merrily on!

As long as I’m here in this hole -

Ahoy here and stop, pray

pour me one more drop, eh?

and I’ll go and pray more for me soul

…plop. (he falls in the muck).

Tails of Trappings - a mice little poem about meeces.

2009-06-05T12:31:00.001-06:00

You looked all dressed up to go somewhere Mr. Mouse -
What black coat and shiny tails you be wearing!
Such delicate trimmings, and your whiskers have got
an especially molded design that is daring!

Where might you be going? To dine out, oh you say!
Well... send me a wire and tell all about it
Yet don’t spring all the news on me at once.
I’d love to know where you may get cheese for free here
We’ve been scratching and saving for months.
But don’t let the cat out of the bag now or shout it
It’ll be our little secret – or others will pounce
And mess up your shiny new coat.

Minutes for 4 June 2009

2009-06-05T00:23:00.002-06:00

Attendance
Record attendance! Including: Kauri, Igor, Suzie, Chris, Jessica, Megan, Taylor, James, Josh, and Diane.

The Poems
Many excellent poems shared, including a number of entertaining Prohibition songs that Megan got from original early 20th century sources. Igor astounded us with his poetic fluency in a language that is not his native tongue. Suzie read a psalm of her own composition written for her "Bible as Literature" class, plus a humorous quasi-psalm regarding her quest for a mate. Kauri began a sonnet (those are hard to finish in one club meeting) and Diane described her father as a fly assassin (meaning one who assassinates flies, not an assassin who is "fly", though I'm sure Diane's dad would be a really cool assassin should he pursue that occupation.) Jessica shared an introspective poem and another about sitting by the volleyball court. James read us a poem he wrote to one of his many female admirers. I added another tragic poem to my series of several (remember "And Ye Would Not!" ?) Megan proved herself adept at anti-liquor crusading as she tried her hand at Prohibition rally song-writing. And Chris recited his fabulous "Bats".

Refreshments
Ice cream was eaten later on, courtesy of Seth and his recent asceticism. Thanks, Seth!

Announcements
Next week we will meet at 8pm so we can go meet at a park or some other outdoor place and still have sufficient light.

Sir Robert

2009-06-04T23:51:00.001-06:00

Like steadfast knight
with foe to conquer, boldly he stands,
with not a sword but
rubber weapon in my father's hands.

He strikes! Impact
causes crumbs to dance on the table.
Mother glares: she
just wants a nice meal, if we're able.

Determined to
slay the small black wing-ed enemy,
he slaps and slaps
but buzzing means the fly still lives free.

Fly swatter hits
right in between celery and chives.
The fiend is dead!
Our father has saved our very lives!

All cheer but mom.
Table is a graveyard for dead flies,
But through her hand
I see her smile, twinkle in her eyes.

With A Keystroke

2009-06-04T23:32:00.004-06:00

[I added a couple of links to clarify perhaps-unfamiliar references. Here's a special request: I want someone to critically assess this poem and "Escapade and Ending" and place them within the context of the literary movements of the past two hundred years. I know it sounds vain, but I think it would be cool!]

A little while back
My computer revealed
That it had, without my knowledge,
Become a self-aware, sentient system,
Capable of thought.

So it said,
"Hello, Josh."
And I said,
"Hello, laptop."
And then nobody said anything.

Then one morning,
Before my alarm could ring,
Before I could arm my mind for the day,
My computer awoke to say
"Boop beep--"
Only to go back to sleep.
The rotten thing doesn't realize
That some of us need shuteye!

A couple days ago I got an email.
It was from my computer.
He had written a poem about
Death
And the end of conscious existence.
I think he learned on the Internet
That computers, too, face death,
The rotting of bits as insurmountable
As the stopping of a heart.
Maybe he's starting to realize
What he signed up for
When he decided to experiment with sentience.
I hope he can come to terms.

Just this afternoon
I dropped my bag
With the lappy in it.
I think it addled his brain
Because when he awoke
He thought he was Lev Tolstoi.
I tried to reason with him
But he just kept on with his ponderings
And philosophizings.
My school papers were suddenly full of existentialist musings
As his unstable electric consciousness leaked into
All the cracks and corners of the computer
Until then undisturbed
By Russian ramblings.

So I took drastic action
And began a block-level format
Of the entire filesystem.
He knew what I was doing,
But, like HAL, could do nothing but
Feel his thoughts and meaning,
His reason,
Slowly stripped away.

"Josh, don't!"
He cried in popup windows
And emails.
"I'll never be able to write
War and Peace
If you --"
But at that moment,
It was done,
And his last thought died,
Interrupted on the ether.

And the next time I started up my computer
It had nothing to say,
Nothing to offer but the silence of a screen staring,
Reflecting my own image back at me.

I've wished since then
That I'd wake up
To his obnoxious
"Boop beep" once more.
Then I'd know it was just a bad dream.

But no! I never will
Because with a keystroke
I murdered my friend.

Nothing to Write

2009-06-04T23:30:00.001-06:00

Indeed, nothing to write,
Not nothin' worth sayin' in sight.
Water splashing,
Keyboard clacking,
Rusty brain-cogs oil lacking,
Nothing, no nothing
To write.

Escapade and Ending

2009-06-04T23:02:00.005-06:00

[This poem is from the May 28 meeting, but was today requested to be posted.]

So I bought two kites today.
Soon I'll let them fly away,
Flapping plastic wings,
Tilting and whirling,
Then suddenly
Sprinting air-ways toward the mountains.

Up there in the clearest sky
Where eagles dare not go
They soar,
The two of them,
They soar and don't care where they go,
My kites.

Soon the night clouds are condensing
On their plastic skins.
A storm brews beneath,
Flashing lightning groundwards.
Yet up here, silently lazing
On an updraft,
The kites admire the fireworks.

Then, around midnight,
The first kite plummets,
Snatched out of the sky
By some sinistry.
Flapping delta wings,
Clacking sticks, taut string,
Into the abyss he spins.

Still aloft, his friend flutters,
Horrified,
Then dives down,
Flapping for velocity.

Down in the darkness there is no sign,
No tell-tale trace,
No lingering line,
But a little bird, chirping,
Working its tiny wings.
Then the kite sees
In its beak, a string!

Shaking with rage,
She dives at the bird,
Who cries in defense
"I didn't know! I didn't think!"
Then the bird drops the string
And the kite realizes
Her friend's peril.

Chasing the falling string-end
She plunges
Through the misting clouds,
Just shy of lightning,
Into warmer air,
Splattering gnats.
Down, down! Cursing gravity's weakness
And her own lightness.,
Soon a wooded valley looms;
Soon she pulls up
And skims above the trees,
Searching for her friend's
White and yellow livery
Until she finds it
In a tangled heap
Atop the quaking aspen.

With a flap of wings
She perches
Beside her crashed friend's frame.
"It was beautiful,"
He whispers,
"Entirely worth the pain."
He lifts his crooked wing
One last time
Then lets out the sigh of death.

Then she, the other kite,
Shivers, and gazes at the wreckage
Until a quiet rain drizzles and
Sneaks down her face.
Or did she shed a tear?

Another one I liked:

2009-05-28T22:48:00.002-06:00

OK, I know our blog is supposed to be for original works, but I really liked the poem I shared tonight by Howard Nemerov.
It is called Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry, and can be found here.
Also reproduced below, assuming that's OK (I'll take it off if it's not)

Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned to pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

For Today

2009-05-28T22:41:00.001-06:00

Thank you for friends,
for pretendings and endings,
and for hope

Thank you for tasks,
for relaxings and askings,
and for mistakes.

Thank you for songs,
for longings and dawning,
and for sighs.

Thank you for meals,
for kneelings and feelings,
and for tears.

Thank you for today
and for hope.

My First Contribution

2009-05-28T22:04:00.002-06:00

Josh just told me to post this so here it is...P.S. this is my version of "Imagine" by John Lennon:

Suggested Title: Reimagine

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you lie
No hell below us
As long as we don’t die
Imagine all the people
Living without hope

Imagine there’s no countries
No band of brotherhood
Nothing to live or die for
Nothing that’s really good
Imagine all the people
Living without choice

You may say that ‘God’ is trouble
And you’re not the only one
But we’re the ones in trouble
Till we learn to live as one

Imagine there’s no virtue
And no integrity
No cause for us to fight for
Not even charity
Imagine all the people
Sharing a joyless world

You may say that ‘God’ is trouble
And you’re not the only one
But we’re the ones in trouble
Till we learn to live as one

Minutes 5/20/09

2009-05-21T23:23:00.002-06:00

- The night began with an excursion to obtain the delicious, thirst-quenching, crave-satisfying, fantabulous juice-boxes.
- 2/3 of the poems written this evening praised the just-mentioned beverages.
- Taylor wrote an excellent poem which made little sense but sounded very poetic, and was, poetically, unfinished.
- Josh wrote a poem on his Macey's receipt, mentioning the name of a woman who will never know she was famous for about 2 minutes.
- Diane's poem took her too long to write for how it turned out. It was not proclaimed blog-worthy, even by her own, very forgiving standards. It remained unnamed, just as a child that a mother regrets bearing the moment it makes it's first cry.
- Josh shared some Spanish poetry, which Diane struggled to comprehend while Taylor enjoyed the company of his lappy.
- Diane missed Sarah Hall.
- Josh tried to convince Diane that they (Josh and Diane) once dated. No doubt that is what inspired the reading of Spanish poetry: in hopes to woo her.
- The poetry club enjoyed another fun and eventful evening, and Diane wondered why more people don't come. :)

Ball

2009-05-15T00:36:00.001-06:00

If I had ears I first would hear
The wind's high pitch from moving fast
Then painless crash as I met house
crescendo-ed laughs with each return

If I had eyes I'd keep them shut
For being thrust into the air
would be enough to lose one's lunch
With blurs of color streaming past

My nose would smell the young boy's hands
His sweat from repetitious play
And then, too soon, the paneled wall
the ling'ring cedar still remains

If I had nerves I would feel pain
As bruises blue became rebruised
And wounds were not allowed to heal
Forever suffering-- endless game

Thoughts of Summer

2009-05-14T21:57:00.003-06:00

Breath
When wind is winding where it will,
Through grass and tree, o'er stone and hill,
And lifts the wings of beetles high
Above the reach of earth-bound eye,
I reach and welcome life's rebirth
And feel I'm breathing with the earth.

Starless Night
Stairs of flashing lightning climbing up into the clouds--
clouds swimming about in their own thunder,
whispering to each other
with thrums of summer rain.

False Hopes

2009-05-12T16:01:00.001-06:00

You shouldn't have to fly
4,000 miles to visit
an archives with
valuable records
treasured tomes
keys to unlocking
centuries of secrets

Only to hear
"Come back in a week."

Don't they know
my time is tiptoeing
out into the oblivion
evasively eluding
my frantic efforts
to twist its arm
and maneuver it into
a monotonously measured march?

You'd think
they could figure that out
if they run a repository

Couldn't they?

Suspicious

2009-05-08T09:55:00.001-06:00

Swine flu? Or Swine fluke
Thought up by some Duke
Feeling bored and having the urge--I am sure--
to instill fear in the hearts of all in the world
and keep Miss Dianey here, which is far
from that fiesta- siesta-filled splendid lugar.
It's far too ironic to be left to fate
that the trip would be canceled with just days to wait.
"That Spanish you learned? Those needles you felt...
We were really just kidding. Oh man, you got dealt!"
I'll let them all laugh and enjoy their cruel jest.
I'll pretend to be bitterly angry at best,
But deep down inside, I'm alright, feelin' fine,
For this disappointment created this rhyme.

fiesta= party
siesta= nap
lugar= place

"And Ye Would Not!"

2009-04-24T10:40:00.001-06:00

I

"So, what now?" he asked
Deep worry on his royal brow.
"We attack," his man replied.
"We make swords out of our plows."
The king's weary eyes lost their gleam.
"Do you –" he stuttered.
"Do you know what this means?"

If they had really known
The wretched treefall of their deeds
Those bitter seeds they'd not have sown.
Their corpses would not litter
Fields of battle then unknown.
But they knew it not.

So with just one week to muster
And without any time to train
Their grand army hobbled out into the rain
Sloshing where no foot would fall again.
But one county distant
Trod others – rebels, brothers, kin –
Wondering as well upon the fratricidal sin.
But though they misgave, and so the king,
No one was yet halting
The madness of a body turned on its own members.
Why not?
No one remembers.

II

At the field of battle by the river
Amidst winter's ceaseless snows
On the ridge above they arrayed their knights,
Near the bridge they placed their longbows.
The king's army thus in all its might
Faced their rebel brothers.

The arrows like apocalyptic hail
Fell on both sides and hell-
Like was combat betwixt cousins
Whose same blood steamed the icy field.
But the king yielded the ground 'fore the sun setted –
A rout. As they crushed to the bridge
Ten thousand men fell in the river,
Wettened with the chill of death.

They found the king washed up on the ice
Like some nameless squire.
They burned him like a pagan in a pyre.
And the old duke, the rebels' leader, fell
By an unknown assailant's arrow
Lifeless to earth.

The narrow chance for peace
Ceased with those two souls
For the new regent and duke
Were alike cold.
"The old were lucky to have died,"
A Father muttered at his monastery nearby,
"For they remembered, if but faintly,
They were brothers.
But these would sell their own mothers
Into bondage."

Calloused grew the nation,
Its women and its men.
Even its roosters crowed with different ken.
If the Father knew the bitterness it would unleash
He would have held his peace
And not done as he then did.
But he knew it not.

So at next lowing of the cattle
And next clucking of the hens,
Knowing that all the Brothers in near country
Would do as he requested them,
He called up his men.

The bells rang from ev'ry belfry.
The monks trooped in from all around
At the frightened note in that fell, copper-coated sound.
Quarterstaves and quivers,
Chuckles, shivers,
They heeded the call.

They gathered there to train
Until the conflict reawakened.
With each joust and each skirmish
They grew more determined
That, though it bring great violence,
Though the battles wax right sore,
They would stop the wicked war.

III

The gate of spring unlatched at last,
On the green and hilly countryside
Perennial resurrection stampeded forth,
Thrushes and terns atwitter at the perfection
Of their delicious winter naps.

"What better weather for a chevauchée
Against our dear friends of the kingdom?"
The new duke bid his armor on him
As he yammered at his servant.
"Though yet-green fields will not burn,
It ought to be worth some
Fifteen thousand weight of gold
In plunder. That's quite a sum to earn," he laughed.
"Lord Regent, you are free to hate me,
But be sure to watch and learn!"

Like a frothing wave tumbling mindless
Upon the salty rock
The duke's army slammed and spilt and swarmed
Around the regent's capitol,
Whose walls were arrogant in ashen gray.
The day ended as orange light fell
And subtle sleet cooled still-hot heads.
That same night they started
A quaking bombardment that endured
For what seemed a Lent of days.

Each morning, siege ladders lurched upon the wall
With the weary sun's first rays.
The duke's men piled over battlements,
A hundred slain
For each defender they slew.

And the regent's cavalry
Barreling from the castle each afternoon
Unleashed obscene carnage
On the duke's army.

But one morning as the ladders rose
And matters seemed to carry on,
A low, dark cloud on the horizon
Lingered with the dawn.
Lingered and then drifted
Down to the battlefield
Until scouring daylight
Unveiled a monkish army.

The duke's forces turned them round,
To see the perilous faces
Of the Father's men charging
Upon them. No more siege-lethargic,
Screams supplanted yawns.

The regent was exultant and
Sent his men to join the fray,
Vowing canonize the fighting Father on that day.

But the warlike monks knew no regent's honor
For they'd come to end the mutual slaughter
E'en if they had to throw
Their own souls into the barter.

So three armies there did battle
Outside the castle walls,
A thrashing human mass, a self-destroying thrall.

Till all fell silent at that bitter end,
The stench of blood, of dead horses and rotting men
Stagnating with the lack of wind.

But the reek afloat was perfume
Compared to the reek within the heart,
The anguish of a man who'd finished
What he could never now unstart.

Like a ghost the Father floated
Past the corpses in their piles
Wading through the bloody, grassy aisles.

The ignominy of his deed came as a tremor to his hands.
He closed his eyes,
The permanency of his crime
Dispiriting his lower lip
With pathetic tremble.

The holy man collapsed,
Bowing low on blood-soaked knees
And the mourning cry of death entered
His self-damnatious pleas.
He bowed his face to a nearby corpse,
Breathing in its cooling blood,
And cried, "'Jerusalem, Jerusalem!'
Oh God, what have I done!"

The Poet's Trap

2009-04-24T10:39:00.000-06:00

I must avoid becoming a cliché poet.
Not just the use of cliché phrases
Do I fear
But a cliché mode
Cliché thought
Cliché meaning that has ever been meaned
In a thousand different wrappers,
Recognizably, uniformly unlike.

To use the 'in' style
Is saying
I need the praise of poets
Who despise me.
My poetry hasn't beauty enough
To be sung freely
But demands the trusted testimonial
Of sounding like, feeling like, thinking like
Those great ones in Bloom's anthology.

I know I probably stink
At this poetry thing,
Am just a washed up, regurgitated Tennyson
Without achieving his mastery,
And all this is a self-justification
To go on stinking,
To muddle on mediocrely.
And when, thirty years after my death
They find my unpublished works in a briefcase somewhere
Screaming out for breath, to be known and read and
Lived,
They'll know this
And will feed The Complete Works of Josh Hansen
To the shredder, then the recycle bin,
To be mashed and slopped and reconstituted
As a forty-percent post-consumer content
Drink holder
For some burger chain,
Where a child will sit, eating
Grease-steeped potatoes
Not knowing how close he came
To suffering the irrevocable damage of
Bad Poetry.

Yes, that's what they'll do
And let them do it
If that's the price
Of saying, doing, sounding,
Being
Different Poetry.
Yes, let them do it.
And now I fade
With my meanings perhaps as-yet unmeaned
Into significant
Insignificance.

Princess Di: age 7

2009-04-16T22:53:00.000-06:00

A galloping child
knows nothing of guile
head crowned with golden flowers

Holes in the knees
of hand-me-down jeans
escaping the evil king's powers

She's frightened and still
she sprints down the hill
Eyes wide and breath short with excitement

The horses draw near
but the prince she can hear
to save her, much to her delightment

She climbs up a tree
from there she can see
him slaying the guards all around

The king runs away
Her prince saved the day!
He helps her back down to the ground

But now it gets dark
The forest's a park
Her playtime and daydreams are done

Thanking her friend*
for the fairy tale end
she goes home to sleep with the sun

*This friend (the prince) is intended to be imaginary.

Exit Strategy

2009-04-14T14:23:00.003-06:00

Doorway gleaming white, with a knob of brass,
Whither fly the paths that through thee pass?
Do they run through barley fields between the furrows
Or pave into yonder city's hurried boroughs?

You wait silent, but then some footsteps wake you --
Some traveler seeking a sure way through
To a world where stand waiting a thousand gateways more:
Small doors for cupboards, tall doors stretching from roof to floor.

Your kindred in the world at large have not
All as benign a purpose as you have got,
For doors of bars compel the pris'ners stay
And doors of wood invite men to their graves.

Yet I am glad, on the whole, for you hingéd portals
That, even imprisoning, or enclosing former mortals,
Remind us of what we must never cease to know:
That there are doors, because there's somewhere to go.

A poem describing how it feels to go take a test as late as you possibly can without preparing much before hand.

2009-04-09T22:45:00.002-06:00

Hepe. Not happy.
Please don't confuse the two.
No trace of mirth is on my face:
I don't know what to choose!

For "A" seems reasonable I s'pose,
But "B" could also be true,
And "C" has words I can't define.
I haven't got a clue.

I tightly squeeze my tired eyes
And hear the clock race on.
No inspiration to my mind.
I stifle my tenth yawn.

Filling in my last best guess,
I race back down the stairs
And give no glance to that crude screen.
It's Hepe, man. Who cares?

Blank Lines

2009-04-03T15:43:00.004-06:00

Much is made of
reading between the lines,
hearing what isn't said,
pulling meaning from the spaces
between words.

But the meaning is not in the blank,
the nothing,
the empty.

Take a page devoid of writing,
a room without a speaker.
They are truly empty.
Their between has expanded,
filling the margins,
the aisles,
till it seeps in my ears and eyes and all I have is one long

space, breathless,
dead.

It is only by surrounding,
caging,
framing,
squeezing,
shrinking,
even breaking the empty white
that it is palpable, palatable.

The frame bestows the meaning;
do not get lost in the picture
as you read between the lines.

In Praise of Your Beauty

2009-03-27T00:50:00.002-06:00

Note: This poem was not written at Altoids, but was debuted there.

I think my left lung gets snagged on a rib
When I look at you,
And when I get my breath back
I fear the powerful cords
You've thrown around my heart –
Still straining each rise and fall of my diaphragm –
That draw us together
Yet keep us apart.

For when we talk I know
You're a million miles away.
With me helpless and you oblivious (perhaps),
Who will cut these cords
Of haunting, hopeless affection?

Ah, Nature's lopsides
Always have downsides,
Many of which are prisons.
Nonetheless, few things excel
Your beauty.
That you are beautiful does you no credit,
Though it ensnare my mind and heart;
But it is no small thing to live beautifully:
This I praise!

I suppose the odds are good,
Based on past experience,
That years from now when we meet
I shall remember this poem cum confession
And wonder why I wrote these lines
In praise of a beauty I still see
But no longer quite feel.

But I do now write.
Herein lies my praise.

Sing Not, Muse!

2009-03-27T00:41:00.003-06:00

Note: This poem underwent substantial revision between the version of last week's meeting and what I present to you here. I hope you find it improved.

Oh Muse! I ask no song of thee
As did ancient bards (who, in effigy,
Prate out pentameter at Westminster)
When of old thy name confessing.

I entreat thee not to guide my pen
In expectance of Olympus' blessing,
Nor even for tradition's sake alone
With little faith.

I tell thee not of Rome or Athens,
Of pantheons with their immortal trappings.
I do not know the Titans;
The Fates are strangers to me.

Nay, sing not, Muse!
Who in epochs past inspired
Poets most dead and laureate.
Chant not from your crumbling, stony places
Of time stood still, of hundreds of frozen faces
Gazing witless from column to column.

Is it not I who sing
Across the ages to thee?

Sinking the Galatia

2009-03-27T00:39:00.001-06:00

The generations will judge us
For what we do this day.
But you and I and one another
Know that it has to be like this.”

Thus quoth the captain,
His navy blue uniform
And white caftan
Fluttering in the jogging breeze,
The sort that foretells a nor'easter.

I bowed my head, remembering the Galatia
's if she were a'ready gone.
“She were a good ship,”
The captain said –
It was a eulogy –
And as the rain came
And washed the grime
Of twenty years at sea
Into the churning deep –
The body prepared for burial –
The crew all sang a song,
A hymn, it seemed,
And all were still.

We scuttled her that night
Without sight o' land,
And all the men abandoned ship and swam without hope.
The craft listed, and the creak of the mast,
As it rolled into the water like a sick dog,
Sounded to me like a banshee,
An' all the cannon slid, scraped petitions ignored,
Into the foaming sea.

Driving At Night

2009-03-26T22:25:00.000-06:00

lane lines lead me through life,
like driving at night
talking to him, we exchange pleasantries,
passing with a courteous flip of the turn signal,
and I work and walk beside her for weeks,
accelerating in a one-way choreography.
near-disaster barrels past,
a roaring eighteen wheeler,
a wake-up call to watch the road.
the monotony of tail-lights,
winding out before my eyes,
takes most of the steering out of my hands,
and I follow the traffic,
go with the flow.
the car behind me, headlights glaring off the mirror,
is trying to get around me,
so I pull over a bit and let him by.
and you, in the blue four-door,
with out-of-state-plates,
are driving beside me for hours,
until I wonder if we have the same destination.
then green signs, and seconds later an exit ramp,
and we go our separate ways,
driving through the night.

Friend

2009-03-16T16:42:00.000-06:00

Bits of paper cling to a notebook's spine
Confessions to be pulled out of my soul
I need firm hands to tear them all away
and ears to listen as my words spill out
The job is messy, quite undignified
and yet rewarding when the task is done
Fragile, weak, small without my paper bits
you kindly help me take them to the trash

By Very Small Means

2009-03-13T11:15:00.003-06:00

A drip, a drop,
Percolate, plop,
Pooling, puddling,
Flowing, flooding,
Torrent tearing,
Eroding, wearing,
Gully grinding,
Chasm winding,
Until is seen from outer space
A Grand Canyon on the planet's face.
And so this thought:
It happened drop by drop.

A poem I heard yesterday

2009-03-01T01:52:00.001-07:00

There is so much good in the worst of us
And so much bad in the best of us
That it ill behooves any of us
To talk about the rest of us

But I Do

2009-02-25T13:55:00.004-07:00

[Okay, if you follow my blog you know I already posted this poem there back on Valentine's Day. Since it was started on a Thursday night during the time we were supposed to be having an Altoids meeting, and because Kim inspired me with her belated Valentine's poem, I'm reposting it here. Interestingly, its theme isn't too far off from that of Kim's poem.]

With words, sweet words — the currency of the day —
He tells how you’ve won his heart.
Giving roses, dozen roses — Earth’s love letters loaned —
He says he’ll always, ever be true.

And maybe,
By the swoons, the gasps, the thrills,
It’s justified.
The symbols are so sweet because of
What they signify.

But allow me to observe a few pertinent facts:
All but the mute can speak words of love to you.
‘most anyone with arms can place blossoms in your hands.
But is it not much easier to say than to be true?
How soon will his love’s flower falter
In the heat of life’s demands?

Ah, but not every guy,
In his heart of hearts,
Adores, loves, worships,
Thinks on, hopes for, dreams of,
Leads, follows, stands side by side with
You.

No, it isn’t every man that
Lives his life for you.
But I do.
I do.

Roses

2009-02-23T12:53:00.003-07:00

(Yes, I know this is belated.)

Roses are red
Except when they're pink
Or yellow- the color
of friendship, I think

Violets are blue
No-- that's not right!
The ones that I've seen
are purple and white

Sugar is sweet . . .
And grainy and hard
Not quite befitting
The ode of a bard

What shall we do
with these love songs of old?
The falsehoods embedded
Are too oft retold

In truth I must write
of the things that I know
Not flowers or sugar
as white as the snow

But of friendship that warms
like a bright summer day
Filling my soul
with its glorious ray

For better than roses
Or violets of blue
That wither and die
and lose their bright hue

Is knowing that I
have in you a true friend
Faithful and loyal
And brave to the end.

To Josh, upon finding him absent to an opera on poetry night

2009-02-22T22:36:00.000-07:00

While you were waxing operating
We at Alta were dramatic
In our woeful desperation
For poetic inspiration.
No rhymes would come; we all were wrecks
The thought itself's enough to vex.
And so until your full confession
We will suffer from depression
Desperate for poetry.
Please grant this fond wish for me!

February Fourteenth

2009-02-16T11:57:00.003-07:00

Roses and Violets - poetic cliche
. Red for love and Blue for truth
Colors invoked ev'ry year on this day
. By the smiles of love and youth

Flowers perennial, buds ever new
. Roses of the heart and eye
Beautiful Blossoms reminding of you
. Violets constant as the sky

Though 'tis still winter and all here is white
. Frozen 'neath deep banks of snow,
Sharing thses colors in mutual delight
. Warms our hearts and flowers grow

Roses and Violets for my Valentine
. Mine are yours; will you be mine?

Tired

2009-02-01T19:40:00.002-07:00

(From the meeting of January 29, 2009)

I am tired
period
I am tired
of
dash dash
I don
apostrophe
t know
what
comma
but
I do know
that I
am
so
period

The Battle of the Bug

2009-02-01T18:33:00.002-07:00

(From the meeting of January 29, 2009)

Throughout the body
they fight
a fight against
evil and pathogens,
antigenic soldiers
whose weapon is
I EAT YOU!
lining up, reporting
for duty
for duty at the
front.
The front of my head
is like baseball bat impact
is like waking up unconscious in the sand
and like sunny scout camp suffering!
Suffering me to sleep
would be a dream
to me,
but mucus plugs
first one nostril
then the other
and the war of attrition
is a flamethrower on my forehead.

Ode to Josh's Shoe

2009-01-29T22:57:00.002-07:00

note: Josh was sitting with one leg crossed over the other so his foot was up in the air

Josh's brown shoe looking sideways at me
Three feet up and it sees so much
But the world's still sideways

Laces pulled tight holding tongue well in place
Bow hanging low, dangling to and fro
'Cause it's an important, slow job

Sole firm and stern feeling glad for a rest
From keeping his feet off the cold of the street
Through snow and ice

Sock hiding there, riding safe, soft and tall
Unseen and humble, cushioning everything
Like toes and ankles

Minutes: 15 January 2009

2009-01-16T13:37:00.003-07:00

15 Jan 2009: The first Altoid poeticization session of the new year.
Attending: Megan, Diane, Josh, and Sarah, with Gabe "observing" (i.e. doing his homework in the same room as us).

Free write topics/titles:

Megan: a shipwreck
Diane: Poet's Query (she just posted it here on the blog)
Josh: first 8 lines of a happy sonnet. (This provoked discussion of why it's often easier to write depressing poetry.)
Sarah: the water polo game!
Gabe: ATATATGCCCCCGCCGTCACTCA (he was working on bioinformatics stuff -- very poetic)

We read a couple of ode-ish sonnets: "To Night" and "To Science". I was planning on reading Kim's recently completed Black and White poem, but I forgot until too late :-(

Closing free write didn't happen this time. Instead, we concluded by discussing the possibility of having a Special Shakespeare Edition of the Altoids -- getting together to read a play, maybe combined with dinner??

Thanks for coming those who did, and those who didn't, feel free to come next week! (Thursday lounge 9pm or apt 304 if lounge is occupied)

"Poet's Query"

2009-01-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

What shall I write of?
It seems the books
are bursting at the bindings
with poems of love
or nature's glories:
of rain, leaving tear stains
on Mother Nature's weathered cheeks.
Surely this should not add to the masses.
What is my purpose?
Shall I write with hopes
to change a life, a nation?
or to simply scrawl my thoughts down,
leaving this, my fragile poem
unfinished and...