May 4, 2016

That Poetry Thing

I shared some of the poetry I wrote for class back in March, and I decided it was time to share a little more.

Ode to Gilmore Girls (a poem I submitted for workshop)

To Lorelai and Rory:
All you have to do is call my name,
and I’ll be there on the next train.

I will follow where you lead
to quaint Stars Hollow,
where everyone knows your business—
like the time
Lorelai received 1,000 yellow daisies,
and that Luke got married
and divorced
and that Rory got arrested
for stealing a yacht.

Where you lead I will follow,
down the street and we’ll see
the town troubadour (he sings about everything),
Doose’s Market (he runs everything),
Miss Patty’s Dance School (she knows everything),
Kirk (he does everything),
and Al’s Pancake World (they serve everything
but pancakes).

If you’re out on the road,
feeling lonely and so cold,
stay at the Dragonfly Inn
and verbally spar with Michel.
Eat at Luke’s Diner—
you’ll want a burger;
and if you’re feeling brave,
pay Kim’s Antiques a visit.

But you’ll know you’re a Gilmore Girl
when coffee becomes your oxygen;
when Friday night dinners are mandatory;
when you name your dog Paul Anka;
or when you say,
“Oy with the poodles already!”

Adventures Beyond This World (a segment poem)

My earliest memory, I do not know.
I was on a lap with a bewildered mind.
I think there was a big red barn with a cow
or a little girl named Madeline.
~
Soon I graduated to Junie B.
Jones, who taught me grammar, humor, and sass,
and Nancy Drew, who was smart and gutsy,
not fragile, and, at every turn, displayed class.
~
Little girls, Greek gods, and cats lined my shelves.
I could gallop off on a Canterwood horse,
or visit a book club where being yourself
was the most important lesson, of course.
~
Now my friends are warriors and dreamers.
They span centuries and rippling maps.
They write in the stars; they are believers
in happy endings despite the facts.
~
Joseph-Beth and Read Between the Lynes are
my bed-less, bustling homes away from home.
When I visit them, I can travel far
across lands and time through one tome.
~
Someday I will create my own heroes—
girls who love to read or who save the world.
They won’t just sit and stare out windows.
And it’s all because my own world was turned
upside down by one little book.

The Words Don't Reach (an ekphrastic poem - I'm gonna wave my poetic license around for this one; it's not inspired by my life in any way)

Inspired by Katie Palmer’s “When Temptation Comes My Way” 

I am alive.
Innocence is all I know.
Warm arms, soft touches,
gone all too soon;
I don’t know why.
They never return.
I grow—surviving, not thriving.
Full belly and shelter,
but sleep is always slow-coming
and loneliness is my best friend.
Fear gnaws at my mind,
worry furrows my brow,
sadness settles from my heart to my soul.

~`~

I am alive but dead.
I walk, I think, I feel in a stupor—
not induced by any drugs,
but a feeling inside that won’t be shaken.
I can’t quite name it:
inadequacy, ennui, grief?
Desire for something better, perhaps—
desire for love, contentment, relief.
I possess no will-power to fight for it.
If I made a hole in my stomach,
would the feeling bleed out?
Would my despondency ooze like tar?

~`~

I am dead.
A tree sprouts from my middle,
in this forest of moss and mud.
I’ve been here for decades,
yet decay has not taken over.
My face appears peaceful,
like the tree branches swaying overhead.
Inside, though, the roots tug at my soul,
my discontent soul.
I had no choice but to make the hole.
Depression oozed out,
but death was not the answer.

Resonance (a metaphor poem I submitted for workshop)


Rock comes from quarries,
from pounding drums and explosives,
resonating guitars and drills,
causing vibrations in your soul.

The blues come from quandaries,
from sleepless nights and heartbreaks,
tossing and turning and jiving
to the rhythm in your toes.

Pop comes from effervescent bubbles—
easy to burst, like smiles and sunshine.
It is splotches of color splashed on a sidewalk,
colors that glitter like your eyes.

Classical comes from stately columns
and tall windows framed in velvety curtains.
It is the piano melody you can’t flee
that itches in your fingertips.

Hip hop comes from rough roads,
crisscrossing rhymes, and emotion
It is the beat that drives your feet,
the verse that slips off your tongue.

Country comes from wide-open fields,
a mother’s quiet whisper to her child,
Sunday dinners and the lights on Friday nights,
the chorus forever in your heart.

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