I'm Maybe a Poet, and I Know It

Last fall, I took intro to creative writing - fiction, and this semester I have to take intro to creative writing - poetry. Poetry is totally not my thing, y'all. I sometimes dash off little free verse poems, and I like Neruda, and "Do Not Go Gentle" but that's about it.

But I'm actually enjoying the class for the most part! I like my classmates, and most of the assignments haven't been too hard. (I about killed myself trying to write a sonnet, though.)

So anyways, I thought I'd share some of my poetry like I've shared some of my prose pieces. So...enjoy!

Anticipation (a lyric poem)

Chatter, clatter, cacophony all around,

rising to the dome,

swooping to the floor.

Feet shuffle

and stomp

by.

Bodies squeezed together,

not an empty seat in

the building.

We are at the top,

almost vertical.

I feel like I could fall,

could pitch forward,

at any minute.

The video on the screen ends.

The crowd takes a breath.

A song begins.

It’s starting.

It’s starting.

It’s starting.

I feel so close.

It ends.

The crowd takes another breath.

Darkness falls, not for long.

City noise and flashing lights,

Cheers swell.

She’s coming.

She’s coming.

She’s coming.

Welcome

                        to…

To My Sunshine with Paws (a villanelle)

Hello, my little love, my fluffhead.

I don’t care if I’m waking you from sleep.

No, stop pestering me; you’ve already been fed.

Go on, go through your door, go ahead.

Oh, now you’re already back in with a leap.

Hello, my little love, my fluffhead.

Go lay down, go on, I said.

Oh, stop that; don’t you dare weep.

Stop pestering me; you’ve already been fed.

Okay, go lie in your crate instead,

and don’t make even a little peep.

Hello, my little love, my fluffhead.

Stop that, Sunny, I see where I’ve been led.

I still won’t feed you, you little dweeb.

Stop pestering me; you’ve already been fed.

Look at you, all curled up in your bed.

Oh man, this feeling I have, I’m in deep.

Hello, my little love, my fluffhead.

No, stop pestering me! You’ve already been fed.

Childhood (a list poem)

I’m from brick and gray houses,

tan and stone houses.

(I don’t remember the brick.)

I’m from the South

And South Beloit

And Woodstock.

I’m from suburbia—but with cornfields

Outside my window.

Suburbia, two blocks

From the center of town.

Suburbia—but surrounded by trees.

I’m from a no-cat, no-dog, no-rabbit family—

At least at first.

We had fish, two of them, then one.

We got a dog, a little fluffball of a thing.

He is sunshine and warmth and trouble.

I’m from train rides to the city

To a store with deep red awnings

Splashed with stars;

To a museum with lions,

And a park with a bean and fountains.

I’m from books, and books, and books

Filled with bears and little houses,

Detectives and babysitters,

Green gables and horses,

Boxcars and wardrobes.

I’m from churches, schools, and libraries.

I’m from casseroles, waffles, and spaghetti.

(Not all at the same time.)

I’m from a Midwestern legacy,

But my heart belongs in Virginia—

Or maybe Kentucky—

Or maybe Chicago.

You're Gone/I'm Gone (a pantoum)

I see it all now that you’re gone.

You were subtle, manipulative, brutal.

You were all I wanted, but not like this.

Let me tell you what went wrong.

You were subtle, manipulative, brutal.

You played me like a game of chess.

I’ll tell you what went wrong.

You left me all alone in my best dress.

I was only a pawn in your game of chess;

That night when we danced,

You left me to the wolves in my best dress.

I wondered what I had done wrong.

That night when we danced,

You were all I wanted but not like this.

I don’t wonder what I did wrong.

I see it all now that I’m gone.

Please tell me what you think of these. And be kind (but honest, too). I don't think I'm the best poet, but I actually have found I'm not terrible. (At least, I think so.)