Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Poetry Project, day 29

Today I will write the most ridiculous
Ode (aka acrostic) to a pro skater I know
Nothing about, and refuse to Wiki.
You know who you are, the one responsible. 

Hawk, I'm told, is utterly
Awesome in every way, enough to
Warrant this: a poem that surly will
Kill all my creditability as a poet.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Poetry Project, day 28- dactylic pentameter- sounds like something that I don't want to happen to me.

High and the mighty might look down on all that they see here.
Knights and their squires are hustling about for you, dear.
Hold up your head- that’s the way- just a natural gesture.
Do not hide behind your cloak or any other vesture.
Fate takes your glove and will gently massage all your fingers.
Look, all around at your choice- see whose glances will linger.
But: pay attention to me, and I never will harm you.
So chose with care or you’ll see all the trouble I can brew.

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Poetry Project, day 26- anapaestic hexameter (sounds like a disease)

For today you must climb up the hill, through the trees and the houses of white,
past magnolias right and the tulips of red. All the signs of the spring.
Once inside, look around, simple beauty surrounds all your senses, delight

in the gentle enclosure of sounds from outside, the low humming of life,
but not life as we know- no, the clang as the wind chimes are tossed in the air,
by the force that can both tickle cheeks and also bring down walls with such ease.

But not these, no, these walls are a comfort to me. They dull harsh traffic noise
and allow only light to reach me, and occasional birds I do hear,
lest I sink into deep and forget that I can't make this moment here last.

Poetry Project, day 26

If I could jump into any story,
I'd 1. learn French, because
being able to jump into any
story also means other magic
things are now possible.
Then 2. acquire my finest
Musketeer attire, complete
with the biggest hat I can
find, sward of the appropriate
style and 3. grab the edges of
the pages, take a deep breath
and jump head first, right
in, really fast so I don't
chicken out.

And right away, even with
my cleaver disguise, my
literary crush would not
be fooled. Cyrano would
scoff at my verse, call me
names and ask me if I'd
come from the moon. But
maybe we could be friends,
when I'd tell him my secret,
(but I'd never tell him his,
although he might enjoy
being fictional) or partially
anyway. I'd tell him I was
a time traveler.

Then maybe I could help,
make him see that he's
the beautiful one, that his
words and deeds and
panache made him who
he was, made him worth
loving, made him my
favorite character of
all time, and that his nose was
nothing to be ashamed of
or to hide behind handkerchiefs,
beneath hats and balconies,
from behind a face of another
who he believed deserved them.


That would completely change
his story. The story I loved
so much I dived right in,
real quick, before I could
chicken out. Would that be
worth it? Good thing I can't
actually dive into a story
in real life, only in my mind.
Much safer that way.
Avoids the impossible
question- to change the man
or save the story, when
saving the story would
ruin the man.

This is
why books are so safe.
Fiction is comfortable.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Poetry Project, day 24

A midnight parcel,
waiting after work. A key:
I so miss my friends.

Friday, April 25, 2014

Poetry Project, day 24

Sometimes news will hit harder than you thought
despite your distance from the sad headline.
A family's pain a million miles away
could make you visualize within yourself
a weakness you had not before perceived.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Poetry Project, day 23

The Internet is barely fast enough to post this-
faster on my phone, technology fails
not for the first time.
But this should not be such a hardship,
it should not be something that gets in the way
of my day, of your day, of everyone's
day. But it is. Is there
such a thing as being too connected?
0f being so easily found online that you every
move is documented, your every little
thought recorded, so
that after you are gone, there would
be enough if your online personality online that
someone smarter than me could clone
you, and you could
live forever? I once heard a person of
note say that she thinks that soon, the people with
no online presence at all will be the
coolest people. At
first I disagreed, my first thought was
the obvious one, but now I'm not so sure. I think I
probably agree now, I see her point,
her loud, striking, harsh
point. Who are

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Poetry Project, day 22- Why I want to be Mac Brownell when I grow up.

To live a life like Mac Brownell
would be a vast and wonderful thing.
If we could all be as kind and loving,
the world would turn much more smoothly-
no axel grease required, just the desire
to help anyone who needed your help.

I have a confession that will not help
my position- I didn't know Mac Brownell.
We met, but when my only desire
was to eat and sleep, I was a small thing
and did not clock her importance- smoothly
overlooked, typical baby, even to the most loving.

But my whole life I've heard tales of her loving
ways, her wit, her never yielding want to help
all those she encountered, how she smoothly
connected the dots between people. Mac Brownell
is a name I've always known, something
like a legend, or timeless story of love and desire.

And now, there is nothing more I desire
than time travel, to talk to my Grandmother's loving
friend, now remembered with a vase of anything
blooming, to thank her for all those she did help,
and for being the best sort of human. Mac Brownell,
like you, I want to come and go smoothly.

We rarely go through life very smoothly,
our own days and needs fuel our desire.
And I'm sure she was the same, but Mac Brownell
desired more than her own happiness. Her loving
nature touched everyone she met, and the help
she gave remains a beautiful thing.

I hope when I'm gone, my friends buy flowers, a thing
to make them happy- beauty makes days go smoothly.
I don't think my words will ever really help
anyone, but it is my deepest desire
that I will be at least a tenth as loving
as the legendary cookie lady, Mac Brownell.

The thing about life is that all humans desire
it to go smoothly, with few misfortunes, for it to be loving:
but this would never be without the help of humans like Mac Brownell.

Read a better summery of the life of Mac Brownell HERE.
and HERE.

Poetry Project, day 21

I wish we could
all remember our
first day on the
earth. Sure, we
were probably mostly
asleep and when
awake, probably
not too happy about
it- the injustice
of sunlight and
loud noises. But
just imagine seeing
the world for the
very first time,
how bizarre air
must feel and
how unnerving
any slight movement
must have been.
To be new and
unsmudged must
have been

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Poetry Project, day 19

Smoke smelling hair-
red wine cigar lips.
A small thing with a
red light around it's
neck so the darkness
won't swallow her
up, so we know
where to focus our
attention if ever there
is a lapse in the
conversation. But
tonight it won't
come to that,
although that would
be a good reason to
get a puppy, or
to have a
baby. Just like a
Kermit watch-
bad for telling time,
good for starting

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Poetry Project, day 18, a series of haikus, because I feel like just one is almost cheating

The more I start to
care about poetry the
harder this becomes.
At first, the fact that
I had no time to edit
was fun- now: hateful.
I should write at least
one haiku about nature-
I'm not Japanese.
My skin crawls with the
uncomfortable itch of the
the things I'm not doing.
If learning was like
breathing, for me, I'd be long
dead by now. Nature.
The heart wants what the
heart wants. And my heart wants to
suck less at haikus.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Poetry Project, day 17

Happiness is trending.
everywhere you look
there are new lists
of solutions, of ways
to find happiness-
'Be what you want to be'
'Live like you're dying'
'Smile more, worry less'
A website for any affliction.
Do these things, and
you'll be happy.
Clap along if you feel like
that's what you wanna do.
But also- eating.
Peace, Love and
[insert favorite food]
Ice Cream = Happiness.
Buy yourself a slice
of happiness.
Then, take this
weightless supplement
and be the you that you
want to be again, the you
that you used to be before
you ate so much
So what is the solution?
Take this quiz,
see what pop culture
icon you most resemble.
The similarities will
make you laugh.
Tell your friends.
Sunshine and ice tea
Blessings- my friends
and family are a
blessing, thank you
all for helping me
through these hard times.
Truly blessed.
So, is happiness
really trending?
Or do we just really
want it to be?

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Poetry Project, day 16

A lazy day can
be seen in pages read and
end in a haiku.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Poetry Project, day 15- I think I finally get iambic pentameter (that was not in iambic pentameter)

I never understood meter before.
How can it be so easy to see stress,
and not to just become a ball of stress
when in the past it always blew my mind.
Has age at last brought wisdom with it's years,
or do my flaws evade my seeing eyes
like all the things I've done and left behind.
To start this way is fun but can I stop?
Or am I trapped in verse for all of time?
I see my future now in front of me-
the rolling eyes of friends who long to smack
the rhythm out of my repeating lines,
the smile off of my annoying face.
But please do not begrudge my will to try,
for things like this were once beyond my grasp.
As simple as today it may appear,
or as it still may be to different brains.
I take each small success and hold it close,
for who knows when success will come again,
or if I've seen it's first and final blow.
I make awake and find that all is lost,
my momentary verse turned to white dust.
Or find that suddenly I have no time,
like most who have the will to learn but not
the luxury of hours to sit and think,
to count the syllables with joyous beats
of finger tips against a plastic case
or tapping on a table long and hard.
Ignore the voice inside that likes to shout-
shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up-
and bounce along the wave of gentle sound
that comes when all the words fit into place
and make the world a more organized place.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Poetry Project, day 14

In a new place, I often hide-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
in places besides those who have died-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
I want them to know, that I know they were here-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
and that we, the living, still think they are dear-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
You may find this silly, or very morose-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
but to me it's quite nice to have them so close-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
Cemetaires, to me, are a beautiful sight-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
not depressing at all, but cities of light-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
And if ever I were to meet a ghost-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
I'd have lots to ask, friendlier than most-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
But for now i'm content, to seek and to see-
I don't know why, I don't know why-
But most of all to just live, and to be.
We all know why, we all know why.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Poetry Project, day 13

All the same picture:
lovely pink blossoms that hide
sticky smart phone smiles.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Poetry Project, day 12

And just like that, tan lines are a thing again.
The sun is on my skin again,
and I need to wear a hat again
and being outside matters.

I forgot what all of this was like,
what lost in the air feels like,
what new and nice and light tastes like.
A car backfires, people exclaim.

But some things are always the same;
serendipitous buzzing surrounds the same,
my sunny self loves the same,
and the uncomfortable tug never leaves.

But that's probably for the best,
to never rest,
and be a pest,
refine and zest,
close to my chest,
the ongoing quest,
to be there and not there at once.

So I guess I'm on the way again,
to somewhere unknown and neat again,
wouldn't that be such a treat again,
I can only hope I don't get things wrong.

Poetry Project, day 11

Blood Moon Baby

The moon makes some crazy and blue
as light somersaults through our air. 
All I know, baby, is I'm crazy for you. 

The Blood Moon casts a fine red hue.
Gaze freely on her magnetic glare.
The moon makes some crazy and blue. 

Your life brings joy and pondering views-
such wonders our eyes do find rare. 
All I know, baby, is I'm crazy for you. 

Presence and peace, so small and new. 
We're high in your shine- cannot but stare. 
The moon make some crazy and blue.

Ignore the doubters, they think they knew
what you'd be, a cures, a fate we'd share. 
All I know, baby, is I'm crazy for you. 

To us, you are all, our love and our glue-
your blood moon sister, a pair with flare. 
The moon makes some crazy and blue,
but all I know, baby, is I'm crazy for you. 

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Poetry Project, day 10

Left Side Fright

There once lived a man...where to begin?
To his left he would panic- petrified of all therein.
His syndrome- hard to fake,
dates- impossible to make.
So he was left in a perpetual spin.

Poetry Project, day 9

Benji's Last Day With The Circus

His shoulders did ache
as the clowns infernal laugh
shook his sanity.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Poetry Project, day 8- Villanelle

Be yourself, the friend did say,
against the change of unkind time.
The self you are won't go away.

You may keep inside, your thoughts at bay,
go through routines, life's steady mime.
Be yourself, the friend did say.

Good intent won't win the day.
Hidden deep, a wish in it's prime.
The self you are won't go away.

To make one side come and stay,
dig past the doubting layers of grime.
Be yourself, the friend did say.

Empty sheets beside where you once lay,
filled in a dream, an upward climb.
The self you are won't go away.

Rage: gentle thought will soon decay,
but hope, I promise, will always chime.
Be yourself, the friend did say.
The self you are won't go away.

Poetry Project, day 7

Humble hills hum with
whatever you want them to
say- mirror for change.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Poetry Project, day 6

Maria's Country Song
(Not making fun, just for fun)

Here I am baby and the night is so long:
I think I'm gonna write me a country song.
I've got beer in the fridge and love on my mind,
a childhood of twang and my feet good n' reclined.
Here we go honey, how hard can it be?

I've got a nice cold beer and my daddy's red neck,
this should be about love, but what the heck?
I should say how great you are lookin'
ask what you've got cookin'. 
Don't like it? Write you're own country song.

The wind's gonna whisper down these old dirt roads,
that sounds better to me than you're bard's old odes.
My rusty old pick up truck kicks like hell,
but like my Grandaddy's gun, I'm ain't never gonna sell. 
That's what I gotta do, right? Got a lotta loyalty.

I've got a nice cold beer and my daddy's red neck,
this should be about love, but what the heck?
I should say how great you are lookin'
ask what you've got cookin'. 
Don't like it? Write you're own country song. 

Sing with a real deep voice, tell ya stories of old,
bout love and loss and pockets fulla gold.
Bout my family's bond, where my boots' been kickin'.
Them jeans baby get you and I me clicking.
You've gotta problem with me, you know right where to go.

I've got a nice cold beer and my daddy's red neck,
this should be about love, but what the heck?
I should say how great you are lookin'
ask what you've got cookin'. 
Don't like it? Write you're own country song. 

Once I get this song out of my system,
full of stereotypes and not a lotta wisdom,
maybe I could write a good one, of which there are a ton.
They'll break your heart, make ya laugh- all fulla fun.
Country's got more soul than you know.

I've got a nice cold beer and my daddy's red neck,
this should be about love, but what the heck?
I should say how great you are lookin'
ask what you've got cookin'. 
Don't like it? Write you're own country song. 
All I know baby is that country's here to stay,
you and me darlin' won't have it any other way.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Poetry project, day 5

Safely stifling
The world waits- brains on fire
Make mindful mischief

Friday, April 4, 2014

Poetry Project, day 4

Classical Music.
Not a fan?
That I just don't understand.
It's way with sound,
power and light,
helps the soul get through the night.
So much we feel
cannot be described;
words alone have often told lied.
I write one down,
infinite meaning that we speak of.
But play a note,
loud or soft:
and master's skill will not be scoffed.
I used to think that
words reigned superior:
all other art was good, but inferor
to the love I had
for the written word;
the beauty and love that they always stirred.
But now it seems
I'm not too sure,
the lines themselves are a constant blur.
This poem for instance,
is fairly pitiful,
but the music I hear is just so mystical.
I can see without sight
a story unfold,
and without one word, without being told.
Sometimes I wish
I could reach out and touch,
the joy that I feel, that I just value so much.
When the notes come together
in just the right way-
transport you from here, to a place you can't stay. 
The Galápagos Islands
to war torn everywhere,
to the middle of space or a lover's mad-jealous glare. 
I'm going to stop
before I go on,
which would only bring a series of yawns. 
Classical Music. 
Give it a try. 
You have nothing to lose; the future is nigh.


Thursday, April 3, 2014

Poetry Project, day 3

Here we are, day in and day out,
searching for meaning, filling with doubt.
We write and we write, to make something worth reading,
when really a trash can is what we are needing.
Don't know about you, but I fear being forgotten.
Long after we're dead and our bones are all rotten.
So I write and I fight with my negative side,
and try to just enjoy the ride.

Socrates said an unexamined life is not worth living.
To this I agree, with not one misgiving.
But Socrates never wrote a single word.
So maybe my tactics are a little bit absurd.
But then again, neither did Jesus.

Poetry Project, day 2

Based on True Events

Woke up that day, early and bright,
visions of fame woke me happy and light. 
Our bags were packed, provisions to spare;
ukuleles in hand, to make time easier to bear.
Head shots in hand, freshly printed that day;
pixelated portraits- we were on our way.
But we never even stood a chance...

Jeff Skywalker we would not become-
the plan itself was pretty dumb. 
In the end we were just left to strum,
and play our ukuleles instead. 

The first train out - we were just in time,
but there was already an epic line. 
Teens and parents and makeup galore:
we alone did not the age limit ignore. 
But before we had a chance to be distraught, 
they cut off the line without a second thought. 
So it seemed...

Jeff Skywalker we would not become-
the plan itself was a tiny bit dumb.
In the end we were just left to strum,
and play our ukuleles instead. 

At first I was bummed but not at all surprised;
the whole ordeal was not well advised. 
We were neither actors nor scrappy, or even athletic,
we were about as perfect for the parts as I am poetic. 
But the power of the force is just so strong,
and to resist it's pull felt all wrong. 
I'm still glad we tried...

Jeff Skywalker we would not become-
the plan itself was really rather dumb. 
In the end we were just left to strum,
and play our ukuleles instead. 

Our gallant spirits had not sunk,
so we got some mulled wine and then got drunk. 
The sun shone over Bristol, bright and clear,
full of vendors, meat and holiday cheer. 
And although the day sort of cost a lot of money, 
at least the story is sort of funny. 
And now I can play a few chords...

Jeff Skywalker we would not become-
the plan itself was exceedingly dumb. 
In the end we were just left to strum,
and play our ukuleles instead. 

We were hastled by a homeless guy,
saw a disappointing dinosaur on the fly. 
Rememberance Day was in full swing,
with bagpipes and drummers and that kind of thing. 
At the time our auditions were supposed to have ended,
the line was still there and all smiles had bended. 
And we went merrily on our way home. 

Jeff Skywalker we would not become-
the plan itself was really damn dumb. 
In the end we were left to strum,
and play our futures away. 

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Poetry Project, day 1

My brother and I share
the same cadence of voice
when we complain.

When I lament the
maddening morons I meet
driving on our dirt roads,

and when he comes home
late at night and tells our
parents of his art class anxiety,

we sound just the same.

The same rise and fall,
the same storytelling voice
when the story annoys us.

We are very different, in
most ways, but when the
world crosses us, you'd hear it.

Made of the same stuff,
from the same people,
but you'd never know,

 until we get mad.