OK! You've noticed I've been gone. It's because I'm still sick. Not terribly, but enough that I feel tired all the time and haven't had much creative energy.
I will be reading poems out loud to people real soon, though! Check it out:
Hi all. I haven't posted these last few weeks because I've been sick. I still am; I have pneumonia and hopefully it will only be a few more weeks before I'm better.
I've been writing a little and I want to get around to typing and posting some of it at some point, but not right now. My efforts might even be a little hilarious (oh if you could see my notebook!) because I am not as sharp as I usually am. Sentences keep coming out half the wrong tense and an eighth garbled. It's weird, dude.
Ok! Today's dVerse prompt is "underground." It reminded me of a poem I wrote about a dream I had a long time ago. It was one of those vivid ones; reading the poem gives me flashes of images of the dream itself. The human brain is amazing, isn't it?
May 14, 2009: A Dream
Humanity fled last night
to hives underground
to escape possible disease;
Americans shoved into shelves with impossibly small cracks to be shoved into by,
sealed in by the wires of their possessions,
wires shot across to submission by fierce, burnished androids who didn't shoot me,
who handed me a highlighter
and a card like a Commuter Rail ticket
and told me to count their shells,
to tally their averages.
The Androids, silver like they bathed in eye-shadow,
are impressed with my speed. I'm quick
“for a human” they said.
“I'm Ashkenazi” I said like that explained it,
and we—a man, a woman and I--
fled to the surface world un-pursued,
to poke around junkyards;
everything has been abandoned and it all ended up here and we wander,
picking through skis and docks,
trucks and mattresses and home telephones
until we find the little red car that might have been waiting for us
to ride away through towering alleyways
white with sunkissed snow.
I'm back from vacation! It was amazing. Maybe I'll even post a few pictures. But that's beside the point...because it's Quadrille Monday over at dVerse and the assignment is to write a quadrille (a 44 word poem) using the word "echo" in some way.
This weekend I got the call to come sub for my friend's softball team (adult rec league) because they were short a player.
Turned out we were short more than one player and had to forfeit before we'd even started, but the other team wanted to play and had an abundance of players, so they loaned us a few players (and bats) and away we went.
How did we do? Oh, so badly. How did I do? Badly. But no worse than anyone else. The forfeit was mooted by how badly we lost. I actually don't know how badly we lost by because I wasn't counting and no one announced anything, but the final score was definitely A Lot to None.
Anyway, I was in the outfield most of the game, because during the decade or so I played softball as a kid I was always in the outfield. And the minute I started standing out there, I felt like I'd never left the outfield. That same dream-like state induced by mostly just watching a game one is also participating in kicked in...and it inspired this poem:
Remarkable how fast
the echo of the past
seals around my curved view;
suddenly the last decade is gone
and I've never left the outfield.
A descending deja vu,
I'm thinking the same thoughts I used to;
half escapist clouds
and half quiet strategy.
So three or four years ago I was at a CLE (Continuing Legal Education seminar) and the topic was Voir Dire. One of the judges on the panel said something to the effect of, "you can do your voir dire in limericks for all I care, just ask the right questions!" Aaaaand my head was down for the rest of the class, writing voir dire limericks. I even sent a few of the best to said judge, who, I recall, enjoyed them and forwarded them on to the rest of the panel. Thursday's dVerse prompt happened to be "write a limerick" and it made me remember those voir dire limericks and decide to dig them up and share at least one of them with you. What is voir dire, you ask? Just read the poem! And if you want more, let me know and I'll post more.
Voir Dire Limerick #1
"Voir Dire" means "jury selection,"
where the lawyer roots out bias with questions.
Today she must find a juror
who understands furor
or her client will be sent to corrections.
Postcard From Space
The faster I go the smaller the chance
that you will be alive
when this postcard arrives.
Apparently I'm a hero so bold
pushing the boundaries of what might be real
but infinity alone is what I fear...
oh my darling, I wish you were here.
Yes, it's a day late...but I was moving quickly. This is my Postcard Poem from dVerse's "Tuesday Poetics: Wish you were here" exercise.
Today I'm trying out dVerse's Haibun Monday exercise. A Haibun is 1-3 paragraphs of meditation on a subject, followed by a seasonal haiku. This is my first attempt at anything in this form, and I love trying new things! Any constructive criticism is welcome.
There is a joy in keeping the mind clear, the keen edge of life. But there is also the glory of the fuzz; of not being clear, of being melty in the abstract. Warm and cozy, the personification of a fireplace in winter and not any other season. But warm and cozy contribute nothing more than what they are.
So is it willpower, staying fresh, when freshness is not always welcome? Even if it maybe should be? There is a fear in not knowing which I'd prefer. Would I rather be asleep, and am I better conversation when I'm dreaming?
am I a petal
rushing through the air? or just
floating in a stream?
If only I was friends with Ms. Frizzle
she could make us part of this endless drizzle!
We'd evaporate, condense, and fall--
an eternity of rain, snow, and squalls.
We'd get back to school
as the coolest of cool;
the best water cycle around!
My poem for dVerse's Quadrille #30 exercise. Go to the site and read and share more of them! As quadrilles, they will all have 44 words. As a part of this exercise, they will all include the word "drizzle."
but I'm also peering down the barrel
of a bag of sea salt and vinegar chips.
Grabby fingers poised and ready,
picking the small bits of sour
for the grace of twisted mouth.
but my gaze is fixed.
The greasy silver cradles the crunchy glories,
all puffed through with bubbles and twists,
folding over on their own delicious knees,
ecstatic to meet
the grinding altar of my teeth.
My little poem for dVerse's Thursday OpenLinkNight #193! Any poem will do, they say, so here's to potato chips!