Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, April 2, 2022
Monday, April 6, 2020
NaPo20 - D6
Another strange prompt today. The prompt was to look at Hieronymous Bosch's painting "The Garden of Earthly Delights" and choose a figure in that work to write a poem from the persepctive of that character. There is a lot going on in the painting and I found it a bit overwhelming, but I did a little reading on the painting and the painter and chose to write something from Bosch's POV instead (which was another possibility suggested in the prompt).
I look out through my triptych
At the art scholars of the day
They question what it means
What I was trying to say
They travel from all over the world
To see me here in Madrid, Spain
They discuss if its about lust
Or if I was warning of after-life pain
They devote websites to my work
They celebrate it even now
Five hundred years and then some
And my work can still wow!
I don't mind them puzzling
I don't mind that the meaning is lost
I am painter
As long as they question my work,
My memory will remain.
I will live on forever
As people peruse my work
As they argue its true meanings
And say its a lustful work
I will get the last laugh
I will outlive all the people
Who wander museum halls
It is my name they ponder
Who was Hieronymous Bosch?
I look out through my triptych
At the art scholars of the day
They question what it means
What I was trying to say
They travel from all over the world
To see me here in Madrid, Spain
They discuss if its about lust
Or if I was warning of after-life pain
They devote websites to my work
They celebrate it even now
Five hundred years and then some
And my work can still wow!
I don't mind them puzzling
I don't mind that the meaning is lost
I am painter
As long as they question my work,
My memory will remain.
I will live on forever
As people peruse my work
As they argue its true meanings
And say its a lustful work
I will get the last laugh
I will outlive all the people
Who wander museum halls
It is my name they ponder
Who was Hieronymous Bosch?
NaPo20 - 5
Today's prompt is a bit tricky (and, therefore, my poem is late). It is to use "Twenty Little Poetry Projects" in your poem. For the list of these click here. I think I did about half of them and made this rambling poem.
The ephemeral knife of isolation
Stabs quickly and deep
You can smell the sharpness of it plainly
It is an acrid odor that grows slowly
It makes your eyes water
As you feel more and more lonely.
King Arthur tasted it when he lost his love Guinevere
Yes, perhaps it would be better
To live in Glasgow, Montana
Than to self isolate.
When I cook,
When I sleep,
When I walk,
Or when I sing,
I realize that freedom
Is a state of mind more than anything
But when I dance
Or when I sneeze
I realize that
In times of fear
We may sacrifice freedoms
For perceived protections.
Always be aware of your protector
And their motivations
And devotions
We hold tight to our freedoms,
But when we give them up
To the wrong authority
We will not see them returned.
Its hard to interact with anyone
Before someone starts to wax philosophical
Or even worse, political
And in times where I can't escape the polity of the day
I think
Self isolation is grand.
So take me to a cottage by the sea
With a certain je ne sais quoi
Where the wind and waves call to me.
I'll garden and gab
And life will be glad
And I will host no more parties
And rub elbows with no snobs
And that will just be the glob,
Yes, that will be the glob.
The ephemeral knife of isolation
Stabs quickly and deep
You can smell the sharpness of it plainly
It is an acrid odor that grows slowly
It makes your eyes water
As you feel more and more lonely.
King Arthur tasted it when he lost his love Guinevere
Yes, perhaps it would be better
To live in Glasgow, Montana
Than to self isolate.
When I cook,
When I sleep,
When I walk,
Or when I sing,
I realize that freedom
Is a state of mind more than anything
But when I dance
Or when I sneeze
I realize that
In times of fear
We may sacrifice freedoms
For perceived protections.
Always be aware of your protector
And their motivations
And devotions
We hold tight to our freedoms,
But when we give them up
To the wrong authority
We will not see them returned.
Its hard to interact with anyone
Before someone starts to wax philosophical
Or even worse, political
And in times where I can't escape the polity of the day
I think
Self isolation is grand.
So take me to a cottage by the sea
With a certain je ne sais quoi
Where the wind and waves call to me.
I'll garden and gab
And life will be glad
And I will host no more parties
And rub elbows with no snobs
And that will just be the glob,
Yes, that will be the glob.
Friday, April 3, 2020
NaPo 2020 - April 3
This was quite a tricky prompt! Use RhymeZone to come up with a list of rhymes and near rhymes. And write a poem using them. So yeah not my best work - but perhaps it'll give you a laugh.
The meadow was aglow with fluorescent fungi
The moon was a waning crescent
The fairy made her ascent
And perched atop a mushroom cap
She sat where you could hear the oxbow
She did not dawdle and played her banjo
Her wings shone iridescent
As the moon made its descent
And the banjo notes cascaded in harmony
She did not throttle the instrument
But instead let out an epiglottal sound
And began to sing
Her voice tinkling like bells all around.
I listened quietly and tucked the bottle
I had planned to capture her in away
And tapped my toe and hummed and began to sway
In that moonlit meadow on a night in May.
The meadow was aglow with fluorescent fungi
The moon was a waning crescent
The fairy made her ascent
And perched atop a mushroom cap
She sat where you could hear the oxbow
She did not dawdle and played her banjo
Her wings shone iridescent
As the moon made its descent
And the banjo notes cascaded in harmony
She did not throttle the instrument
But instead let out an epiglottal sound
And began to sing
Her voice tinkling like bells all around.
I listened quietly and tucked the bottle
I had planned to capture her in away
And tapped my toe and hummed and began to sway
In that moonlit meadow on a night in May.
Friday, April 12, 2019
NaPo2019 D12
I looked at the thing I treasure most
I looked at it close.
It was beautiful, dainty, delicate strong.
Why is it that what's best seems so wrong?
I broke off its wings
So it wouldn't fly
I removed it's beak
So it would fail at its own song.
I watched it shudder, sputter on the floor
And knew it wouldn't bother me more.
I tried hard not to cry
As it gyrated and quook
The way dreams do when they die.
What could I do? I had no choice.
It was impractical, improbable.
There was no other recourse.
It couldn't feed me or pay the bills
I needed a way for my coffers to fill.
Even in its sad, broken state
It still glimmered and gleamed
Oh, what a waste!
I turned my back, I walked away.
But sometimes I wonder
If my broken dream still waits.
I looked at it close.
It was beautiful, dainty, delicate strong.
Why is it that what's best seems so wrong?
I broke off its wings
So it wouldn't fly
I removed it's beak
So it would fail at its own song.
I watched it shudder, sputter on the floor
And knew it wouldn't bother me more.
I tried hard not to cry
As it gyrated and quook
The way dreams do when they die.
What could I do? I had no choice.
It was impractical, improbable.
There was no other recourse.
It couldn't feed me or pay the bills
I needed a way for my coffers to fill.
Even in its sad, broken state
It still glimmered and gleamed
Oh, what a waste!
I turned my back, I walked away.
But sometimes I wonder
If my broken dream still waits.
-Sharon
Thursday, April 11, 2019
NaPo 2019 - Day 11
I started off life a storyteller
I was telling stories before I could read,
Gathering the adults in my grandma's front living room
And telling them self-invented legends of polar bears.
I started off life an explorer
Crawling beneath barbed wire
Finding animals, plants, and bones.
I was a faerie among farmers and city-folk
Wearing flowers in my hair.
I valued the crickets
Awaited fireflies
Nursed mice back to health
Hand feeding them cheerios.
I was a hugger of trees and dogs.
I was a seeker and spreader of knowledge.
I had salt water in my blood.
I lay in the grass, the forest, and the sand.
I treasured seashells, feathers, leaves, and sand dollars in my hands.
I loved listening to the thunder and watching the flashes of lightning
At night I was a comedienne
Exchanging jokes with my sisters in our rooms.
I danced to the music and sang with the tunes.
I came from strong, educated women
There was no question that I would be one too.
Where am I going?
Where am I going?
Where am I going?
I'm trying to go where I've always wanted to go
But I think I'm lost.
The maps and compasses point different directions
And all routes seem to lead to dead ends.
So I will ask the question again:
Where am I going?
Where does the journey end?
Prompt: taking inspiration from Safia Elhillo's "Origin Stories" we are to write a poem of our origin and where we are now.
I was telling stories before I could read,
Gathering the adults in my grandma's front living room
And telling them self-invented legends of polar bears.
I started off life an explorer
Crawling beneath barbed wire
Finding animals, plants, and bones.
I was a faerie among farmers and city-folk
Wearing flowers in my hair.
I valued the crickets
Awaited fireflies
Nursed mice back to health
Hand feeding them cheerios.
I was a hugger of trees and dogs.
I was a seeker and spreader of knowledge.
I had salt water in my blood.
I lay in the grass, the forest, and the sand.
I treasured seashells, feathers, leaves, and sand dollars in my hands.
I loved listening to the thunder and watching the flashes of lightning
At night I was a comedienne
Exchanging jokes with my sisters in our rooms.
I danced to the music and sang with the tunes.
I came from strong, educated women
There was no question that I would be one too.
Where am I going?
Where am I going?
Where am I going?
I'm trying to go where I've always wanted to go
But I think I'm lost.
The maps and compasses point different directions
And all routes seem to lead to dead ends.
So I will ask the question again:
Where am I going?
Where does the journey end?
Prompt: taking inspiration from Safia Elhillo's "Origin Stories" we are to write a poem of our origin and where we are now.
Sharon
CatchUp Day 9 - NaPo2019
Day 9's prompt was to write a list inspired by Sei Shonagon.
Things that Make You Feel Grown Up
Paying bills, loans, and rent because that means you are responsible for yourself.
Buying your own groceries, cooking your own meals, and washing your own dishes - or going to the grocery store and then picking up something on the way home from the store, because you couldn't possibly cook the food you just bought.
Going to bed whenever you want and having to get yourself up in the mornings!
Having a job that you, hopefully, enjoy.
Having health insurance so that if you get sick or hurt yourself, you can actually, maybe afford going to the doctor instead of downing elderberry syrup and praying - although honestly you'll probably take elderberry syrup in addition to whatever the doctor prescribes.
Going into a department store and buying new clothes.
Actually buying furniture or dishes or appliances or things like vacuums.
Having a stocked medicine cabinet.
But maybe it's really just the vacuum (even if you don't use it).
Things that Make You Feel Grown Up
Paying bills, loans, and rent because that means you are responsible for yourself.
Buying your own groceries, cooking your own meals, and washing your own dishes - or going to the grocery store and then picking up something on the way home from the store, because you couldn't possibly cook the food you just bought.
Going to bed whenever you want and having to get yourself up in the mornings!
Having a job that you, hopefully, enjoy.
Having health insurance so that if you get sick or hurt yourself, you can actually, maybe afford going to the doctor instead of downing elderberry syrup and praying - although honestly you'll probably take elderberry syrup in addition to whatever the doctor prescribes.
Going into a department store and buying new clothes.
Actually buying furniture or dishes or appliances or things like vacuums.
Having a stocked medicine cabinet.
But maybe it's really just the vacuum (even if you don't use it).
Sharon
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
CatchUp Day 8 - 2019
Day 8's prompt was to write a poem that uses jargon.
Cheloniids
are quadrupeds
some are elephantine
others are flippers.
They lack teeth,
Instead having rhamphotheca.
The carapace is covered with keratin
Some are thought to demonstrate cloacal respiration
All are exothermic
And those that live in frigid lacustrine environments
Are known to brumate when temperatures drop.
So uh, any clue what that poem was about?
Cheloniids
are quadrupeds
some are elephantine
others are flippers.
They lack teeth,
Instead having rhamphotheca.
The carapace is covered with keratin
Some are thought to demonstrate cloacal respiration
All are exothermic
And those that live in frigid lacustrine environments
Are known to brumate when temperatures drop.
So uh, any clue what that poem was about?
Sharon
NaPo 2019 Day 10
Today's prompt is to write a poem using a regional colloquialism for weather phenomena. Being from Texas, I have a lot of options - we Texans love to use strange language to talk about the weather.
When the heavens break open
And its as noisy as two skeletons
Dancing on the roof,
Water starts to pool on the ground.
If it stops soon enough
Kids will head outside
To float tin-foil boats on ponds
And make mud pies.
But if it keeps raining
Then
It's a frog strangler
As though
Frogs could drown in the rain.
Turkeys are known for this
They stare skyward,
Holding their beaks open
And they can actually drown.
That's why its important to put
Fowl inside when it rains.
But frogs?
Frogs start off as tadpoles
Tadpoles breathe water
With gills
And yes, frogs metamorphose
And grow lungs instead
But then they breathe
Through their skin
As long as its moist enough.
They are resilient too.
If the rain stops
And the land dries out
Til its so dry the trees are begging the dogs
Well then, frogs burrow down in the mud
They aestivate til things get wet again.
If frogs can survive it that dry
Surely they can survive it that wet,
Lord willing and the creek don't rise.
Anyway,
In Texas churches
We are always either praying for it to rain
Or praying for rain to stop
But we should know better
Because
A drought usually ends in a flood.
I incorporated a few of those funny turns of phrases in there. This prompt sort of reminded me of Jack Prelutsky's poem "It's Raining Pigs and Noodles." An interesting side note, in Texas we seem to be a little obsessed with frogs because something can be "as fine as frog fur" and it can be as "cold as a frosted frog."
When the heavens break open
And its as noisy as two skeletons
Dancing on the roof,
Water starts to pool on the ground.
If it stops soon enough
Kids will head outside
To float tin-foil boats on ponds
And make mud pies.
But if it keeps raining
Then
It's a frog strangler
As though
Frogs could drown in the rain.
Turkeys are known for this
They stare skyward,
Holding their beaks open
And they can actually drown.
That's why its important to put
Fowl inside when it rains.
But frogs?
Frogs start off as tadpoles
Tadpoles breathe water
With gills
And yes, frogs metamorphose
And grow lungs instead
But then they breathe
Through their skin
As long as its moist enough.
They are resilient too.
If the rain stops
And the land dries out
Til its so dry the trees are begging the dogs
Well then, frogs burrow down in the mud
They aestivate til things get wet again.
If frogs can survive it that dry
Surely they can survive it that wet,
Lord willing and the creek don't rise.
Anyway,
In Texas churches
We are always either praying for it to rain
Or praying for rain to stop
But we should know better
Because
A drought usually ends in a flood.
I incorporated a few of those funny turns of phrases in there. This prompt sort of reminded me of Jack Prelutsky's poem "It's Raining Pigs and Noodles." An interesting side note, in Texas we seem to be a little obsessed with frogs because something can be "as fine as frog fur" and it can be as "cold as a frosted frog."
Sharon
Sunday, April 7, 2019
NaPo19 - Day 7
Just after midnight, I realized that at work yesterday I kept writing the date as 6/6/19 - that would be June. I'll let my manager know in the morning.
For now, we begin the process of processing the NaPo prompt for this one week deep in poetry. Today we are supposed to write a poem of gifts and joy.
Recently I have realized
That the best gift
We can ever give
Or receive
Is forgiveness.
As a child there were times
I made a mistake or hurt a friend
And felt bad
Apologized and was forgiven.
But as an adult
The mistakes I've made are worser.
The hurts are hurter
The wounds are deeper.
When I finally speak the thing I've done outloud
I feel weighted down on the ocean floor by an anchor
My soul is being keel-hauled by the guilt of the thing I've done
In those few moments when I await response
I imagine the worst
Losing you.
You take a deep breath
Visibly upset
But give me the best gift you could:
Forgiveness
"We'll be okay."
My soul cautiously, bubbles up from the Challenger Deep
and surfaces.
I look at you curiously through my periscope.
I wonder at the treasure I have found
How is it that you love me so much
You can forgive
Even that?
For now, we begin the process of processing the NaPo prompt for this one week deep in poetry. Today we are supposed to write a poem of gifts and joy.
Recently I have realized
That the best gift
We can ever give
Or receive
Is forgiveness.
As a child there were times
I made a mistake or hurt a friend
And felt bad
Apologized and was forgiven.
But as an adult
The mistakes I've made are worser.
The hurts are hurter
The wounds are deeper.
When I finally speak the thing I've done outloud
I feel weighted down on the ocean floor by an anchor
My soul is being keel-hauled by the guilt of the thing I've done
In those few moments when I await response
I imagine the worst
Losing you.
You take a deep breath
Visibly upset
But give me the best gift you could:
Forgiveness
"We'll be okay."
My soul cautiously, bubbles up from the Challenger Deep
and surfaces.
I look at you curiously through my periscope.
I wonder at the treasure I have found
How is it that you love me so much
You can forgive
Even that?
-Sharon
Saturday, April 6, 2019
NaPo19 - D6
Today's prompt is to write a poem that focuses on possibilities. Being a person who tends to focus a little too much on the future this shouldn't be too difficult to do. I'll be racing to publish this post/poem before midnight.
You're so young, you have your whole life ahead of you.
Maybe that's why I always feel like I'm waiting for my life to begin . . .
Discontent in the now.
If I weren't paralyzed by all the past rejections,
I would apply and apply for more jobs
Until I finally heard "you're hired"
And I would leave the job that drains rather than fills.
I would be like a modern Miss Frizzle, but in the field or a park
Not the classroom.
Nature would be my office, flowers would be my uniform.
Like the pied piper, I would lead children - and adults
Off a cliff
Into wonder
Introduce them to the sparkling night skies, constellations and meteors
Help them peer closely at a butterfly and learn about the metamorphosis it undergoes
Show them how the world decorates itself in wildflowers
Study frogs, observe toads
We would march, frolic, observe, protect, preserve
Help them discover the wonder of bees, ants
Overcome fears of snakes, spiders, and moths.
Snakes would wrap our fingers like rings
Before we released them safely
Fireflies would be our dance partners
As we sang with the choruses of frogs at night.
If we weren't afraid to love
We would marry in a wooden meadow
I a fairy with a flower crown
Then you would never miss me again
We would explore the world
Eating new foods, climbing new mountains
I would document plants, animals, and friends.
But we would return to our own house
Fall asleep entwined in bed
With the sound of rhythmic rain
Falling on the tin roof overhead.
Then in a few years or months
My belly would swell with love
As our baby grew inside.
She would be born
A fierce thing
With blonde hair and green eyes
You would kiss her head
My heart would melt.
We would teach her
To respect herself and love nature.
To be friendly to strangers and frogs.
When she was learning to drive,
Like her mother,
She would swerve around frogs in the street
And pray that they hopped safely to the other side.
People say I have my whole life ahead of me
And the world is pregnant with possibilities waiting to be born
But I am anxious to begin.
You're so young, you have your whole life ahead of you.
Maybe that's why I always feel like I'm waiting for my life to begin . . .
Discontent in the now.
If I weren't paralyzed by all the past rejections,
I would apply and apply for more jobs
Until I finally heard "you're hired"
And I would leave the job that drains rather than fills.
I would be like a modern Miss Frizzle, but in the field or a park
Not the classroom.
Nature would be my office, flowers would be my uniform.
Like the pied piper, I would lead children - and adults
Off a cliff
Into wonder
Introduce them to the sparkling night skies, constellations and meteors
Help them peer closely at a butterfly and learn about the metamorphosis it undergoes
Show them how the world decorates itself in wildflowers
Study frogs, observe toads
We would march, frolic, observe, protect, preserve
Help them discover the wonder of bees, ants
Overcome fears of snakes, spiders, and moths.
Snakes would wrap our fingers like rings
Before we released them safely
Fireflies would be our dance partners
As we sang with the choruses of frogs at night.
If we weren't afraid to love
We would marry in a wooden meadow
I a fairy with a flower crown
Then you would never miss me again
We would explore the world
Eating new foods, climbing new mountains
I would document plants, animals, and friends.
But we would return to our own house
Fall asleep entwined in bed
With the sound of rhythmic rain
Falling on the tin roof overhead.
Then in a few years or months
My belly would swell with love
As our baby grew inside.
She would be born
A fierce thing
With blonde hair and green eyes
You would kiss her head
My heart would melt.
We would teach her
To respect herself and love nature.
To be friendly to strangers and frogs.
When she was learning to drive,
Like her mother,
She would swerve around frogs in the street
And pray that they hopped safely to the other side.
People say I have my whole life ahead of me
And the world is pregnant with possibilities waiting to be born
But I am anxious to begin.
Friday, April 5, 2019
NaPoWriMo 2019 - Day 5
As I mentioned in the previous post, Day 5's prompt is quite a doozy. It has three possible parts: (1) form = villanelle (tricky tricky, but I like form prompts because I tend to defer to free verse), (2) lines taken from a different text, (3) opposing phrases. Maureen assures us that we can just do one or two or all three. Being a glutton for punishment, I want to attempt all three which may mean this poem doesn't get written . . .
P.S. Maureen explains what a villanelle is on the NaPo post for today, but I always like to look around for another explanation because sometimes a different explanation works better for me. Typically the poetry foundation is helpful. You can read their brief explanation of a villanelle (reiterating what Maureen has already told us) with a few more examples of the form here. "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas is a good, and perhaps well-known, example of the form.
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Listening to that siren song, I started to think there might be another way
Till human voices wake us and we drown
I was living an average life
Nose to the grindstone working my days away but
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Our generation was told if we worked hard anything was possible
So we dreamed big and set our sights high
Till human voices wake us and we drown
I've got loans to pay that keep me buried
I've got expectations that I need to meet but
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Sometimes I want to walk away from the mundane
Believe the magic of happiness, dreams, and improbability
Till human voices wake us and we drown
I dreamed big, set my sights high, thought I knew how and why
But human practicality is inevitable
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Till human voices wake us and we drown
Quick thoughts after writing:
It turns out when you borrow your repeating lines from other work; a lot of the poem writing is done for you. This was fun and I like the result. Putting those two lines together was somewhat like putting together a puzzle. Fun stuff. I THINK I may have ticked off all three of the prompt boxes hoo-ah!
I italicized the borrowed lines in the first stanza: the first is from the Switchfoot song "Awakening" the other is from my favorite stanza of a really well known poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
P.S. Maureen explains what a villanelle is on the NaPo post for today, but I always like to look around for another explanation because sometimes a different explanation works better for me. Typically the poetry foundation is helpful. You can read their brief explanation of a villanelle (reiterating what Maureen has already told us) with a few more examples of the form here. "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas is a good, and perhaps well-known, example of the form.
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Listening to that siren song, I started to think there might be another way
Till human voices wake us and we drown
I was living an average life
Nose to the grindstone working my days away but
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Our generation was told if we worked hard anything was possible
So we dreamed big and set our sights high
Till human voices wake us and we drown
I've got loans to pay that keep me buried
I've got expectations that I need to meet but
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Sometimes I want to walk away from the mundane
Believe the magic of happiness, dreams, and improbability
Till human voices wake us and we drown
I dreamed big, set my sights high, thought I knew how and why
But human practicality is inevitable
These dreams started singing to me out of nowhere
Till human voices wake us and we drown
Quick thoughts after writing:
It turns out when you borrow your repeating lines from other work; a lot of the poem writing is done for you. This was fun and I like the result. Putting those two lines together was somewhat like putting together a puzzle. Fun stuff. I THINK I may have ticked off all three of the prompt boxes hoo-ah!
I italicized the borrowed lines in the first stanza: the first is from the Switchfoot song "Awakening" the other is from my favorite stanza of a really well known poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
Hasta la pasta (that's from something I think)
Sharon
NaPoWriMo 2019 - Days 3 and 4
It's April 5th and I'm already behind today's prompt is a doozy . . . so I'll give it its own separate post.
Day 3's prompt was to write a poem that unfolds over a fair amount of time . . .
It is December, I am on the phone with my sister
She unintentionally lets me know that
Our family
Will be
Growing
By one.
But I can't tell anyone
It's too soon.
She will let them know when the time is right.
It is late March
My nephew has told my sister she is "big"
Her belly has become obvious
As the new little one
Grows
Under the surface
Deep inside
Cells are dividing
Multiplying
Forming into eyes - what color will they be?
Nose, hair, fingers, toes.
My sister announces it will be a girl
Excitement!
A niece finally!
The baby is due in July
And I hope to be there
I was in the room when my nephew arrived.
It was in November, I was called
Told my sister was in labor.
I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be at work.
Got in my car and drove two hundred and fifteen miles
(You think I'm joking?)
I was afraid I would miss it.
Someone should have reminded me:
Labor takes time.
We were at the midwife's clinic.
People were sent twice for food.
My other sister and I went for a walk
Down a trail through the woods.
"Tell us when its time to push"
Said my brother on the phone.
There was much discussion of
Progression
Dilation.
I went into the room with my sister.
It was dark.
She was laying in bed.
The pain - contractions - came periodically.
"What can I do?"
"Push here."
I formed my hand into a fist and pushed
Harder and harder
Til it seemed to help her pain.
Finally, finally
After hours and hours
Her water was broken
And soon after
It was time to push
Birth is quite a shocking sight.
For while newborn babies are small
They come into the world through a rather small . . . opening.
I think it was 2 AM when I finally saw him.
A tiny little baby
All new and pink.
Finally finally here.
Like all things worth waiting for,
Babies take time.
Day 4's prompt was to write a sad poem, perhaps using a sonnet.
I am often unaware
As it creeps in quietly
But soon I recognize it in my stare
I notice my immobility
When it comes to even brushing my hair
It makes itself at home
And it becomes difficult to wash my underwear
Far from my bed I will not roam
It lays on my chest and my mind wanders hazily
Simple tasks seem impossible
My days are spent lazily
Job applications are insurmountable
Always an uninvited guest
It proves itself a persistent pest
Day 3's prompt was to write a poem that unfolds over a fair amount of time . . .
It is December, I am on the phone with my sister
She unintentionally lets me know that
Our family
Will be
Growing
By one.
But I can't tell anyone
It's too soon.
She will let them know when the time is right.
It is late March
My nephew has told my sister she is "big"
Her belly has become obvious
As the new little one
Grows
Under the surface
Deep inside
Cells are dividing
Multiplying
Forming into eyes - what color will they be?
Nose, hair, fingers, toes.
My sister announces it will be a girl
Excitement!
A niece finally!
The baby is due in July
And I hope to be there
I was in the room when my nephew arrived.
It was in November, I was called
Told my sister was in labor.
I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be at work.
Got in my car and drove two hundred and fifteen miles
(You think I'm joking?)
I was afraid I would miss it.
Someone should have reminded me:
Labor takes time.
We were at the midwife's clinic.
People were sent twice for food.
My other sister and I went for a walk
Down a trail through the woods.
"Tell us when its time to push"
Said my brother on the phone.
There was much discussion of
Progression
Dilation.
I went into the room with my sister.
It was dark.
She was laying in bed.
The pain - contractions - came periodically.
"What can I do?"
"Push here."
I formed my hand into a fist and pushed
Harder and harder
Til it seemed to help her pain.
Finally, finally
After hours and hours
Her water was broken
And soon after
It was time to push
Birth is quite a shocking sight.
For while newborn babies are small
They come into the world through a rather small . . . opening.
I think it was 2 AM when I finally saw him.
A tiny little baby
All new and pink.
Finally finally here.
Like all things worth waiting for,
Babies take time.
Day 4's prompt was to write a sad poem, perhaps using a sonnet.
I am often unaware
As it creeps in quietly
But soon I recognize it in my stare
I notice my immobility
When it comes to even brushing my hair
It makes itself at home
And it becomes difficult to wash my underwear
Far from my bed I will not roam
It lays on my chest and my mind wanders hazily
Simple tasks seem impossible
My days are spent lazily
Job applications are insurmountable
Always an uninvited guest
It proves itself a persistent pest
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
NaPoWriMo 2019 - Day 2
Today's prompt from napowrimo is to write a poem that "resists closure by ending on a question" meanwhile on the Poetic Asides blog, the prompt was to write either a worst case or a best case scenario poem.
Apply for a job a day
Drive across the state for interviews
Wait and wait and wait
Finally get a call answer the phone,
Hold your breath, and wait for the words
"We'd like to offer you the position!
Let's discuss start date and pay."
Or maybe there is no phone call
Instead there is an email
"While you interviewed well
Among a field of candidates
We have offered the position
To another applicant."
Repeat.
When will it be my turn?
When will I get the job?
Reads through a job description.
Takes a deep breath.
Clicks apply.
Maybe it will be my turn this time.
Its worth a try . . .
Sharon
Friday, June 29, 2018
Some Sort of Life Crisis
Hello internet,
Are you there?
No matter, I'll just write this poem here for you whenever you happen to stop by.
The other day I was driving on the highway
And we saw a car fire.
My sister called 911
A firetruck arrived
The fire was extinguished
We went about our day.
But today, I can't help but feel
That my life is that burning car
And I am the driver standing nearby
Helplessly watching it go up in smoke
Uncertain and unaware of where or how to go.
My life is not what I expected or anticipated
Or anywhere near what I would like it to be.
But I am stuck and I don't know how to go where I want.
You're not stuck.
I am. I'm stuck.
I can apply, apply, apply for jobs
And not get them.
I am working a job anyone could get
with a clean background
and a high school diploma.
My college degrees were in vain.
Wasted time. Wasted money.
Loans that seem insurmountable.
I think of that story
With the train
That just thought really hard
And tried really hard
And got over the hill.
I really liked that story as a kid.
I tried to live out that story as I grew up.
But I did not crest the hill.
They will tell you if you try hard enough
You'll get it
But that isn't true.
You've got to have the right stuff.
And I don't.
I don't have the experience.
And I've applied for jobs that I would like
That don't require experience
But if someone else who has experience applies
They will get the job.
So I guess I need to volunteer.
I should have volunteered and interned while I was in school.
I should have done more.
Getting a degree does not guarantee you a job
GETTING A DEGREE DOES NOT GUARANTEE YOU A JOB.
It doesn't even always guarantee you an interview.
I'm not saying college is a waste
It's just you've got to have the experience too.
So you have to volunteer and have a job and get internships
AND study and go to class.
Then maybe you'll be able to get a job that uses your degree.
And suddenly I feel like I've done everything wrong.
I studied hard but that wasn't enough.
I had an internship but that wasn't enough.
And it all kind of boils down to this massive feeling
that
I am NOT enough.
And so my life feels like a car on fire.
And I am twenty-five
And having some sort of life crisis.
Are you there?
No matter, I'll just write this poem here for you whenever you happen to stop by.
The other day I was driving on the highway
And we saw a car fire.
My sister called 911
A firetruck arrived
The fire was extinguished
We went about our day.
But today, I can't help but feel
That my life is that burning car
And I am the driver standing nearby
Helplessly watching it go up in smoke
Uncertain and unaware of where or how to go.
My life is not what I expected or anticipated
Or anywhere near what I would like it to be.
But I am stuck and I don't know how to go where I want.
You're not stuck.
I am. I'm stuck.
I can apply, apply, apply for jobs
And not get them.
I am working a job anyone could get
with a clean background
and a high school diploma.
My college degrees were in vain.
Wasted time. Wasted money.
Loans that seem insurmountable.
I think of that story
With the train
That just thought really hard
And tried really hard
And got over the hill.
I really liked that story as a kid.
I tried to live out that story as I grew up.
But I did not crest the hill.
They will tell you if you try hard enough
You'll get it
But that isn't true.
You've got to have the right stuff.
And I don't.
I don't have the experience.
And I've applied for jobs that I would like
That don't require experience
But if someone else who has experience applies
They will get the job.
So I guess I need to volunteer.
I should have volunteered and interned while I was in school.
I should have done more.
Getting a degree does not guarantee you a job
GETTING A DEGREE DOES NOT GUARANTEE YOU A JOB.
It doesn't even always guarantee you an interview.
I'm not saying college is a waste
It's just you've got to have the experience too.
So you have to volunteer and have a job and get internships
AND study and go to class.
Then maybe you'll be able to get a job that uses your degree.
And suddenly I feel like I've done everything wrong.
I studied hard but that wasn't enough.
I had an internship but that wasn't enough.
And it all kind of boils down to this massive feeling
that
I am NOT enough.
And so my life feels like a car on fire.
And I am twenty-five
And having some sort of life crisis.
If you couldn't tell, I'm feeling down,
Sharon
Sunday, April 29, 2018
Penultimate NaPoWriMo 2018 - Asthmatic Poem
Asthmatic Poem
Blue lips
Purple fingernails
How I gasped for air that night
Sometimes breathing is a losing fight
It is a strange and odd thing
When your body turns against you
When it grows angry
And inflames
So your lungs don't work the same
I walked into that angel's arms
Here doctors, nurses worked to mend my harms
See the triage nurse
Right away she sends you back to a room
Soon you'll pose
Like a prisoner
Before a screen
And finally
Needle into arm
Mask over face
Breathe deep little one
Ignore the pains
Soon you will be right as rain.
Bronchial tubes perpetually inflamed
Trigger exposed
Tubes swell
Muscles constrict
Mucus produced
Isn't that an odd trick?
Yes, my body turns against me
And my muscles contrict
Around my lungs
Like a snake around its prey
Its even called bronchoconstriction
Shouldn't that be the name of snake?
Take a cocktail
Of bronchodilators
And corticosteroids
Sounds like chondrichthys
But not nearly as cool.
Some of the medicines taste just fine
Like that oddly good taste of liquid albuterol
But the acrid flavor of prednisone liquid won't do at all.
It was so bad, my mother would follow it with
spoonful of sugar - sweet
Now every day I must take
a luekotriene receptor antagonist
At least that sort of sounds cool I guess.
When I was a child I took it chewable
It's flavor - cherry - was quite doable.
Now I'm adult and I have to take it swallowable
But it doesn't taste bad - just quite bland.
And I suppose it works better than anything
And it doesn't elevate my heart rate
Like my inhaler - it gives me the shakes.
Sometimes it still strikes me
I remember there used to be a commercial
Where a child claimed
"Asthma is like a fish out of water."
I've always disagreed
Rather it is like
Someone stuck a hand in your chest
And made a fist around your lungs
It is quite unpleasant.
But it is what it is.
At least it's not as bad as when I was a kid.
So this one was a stretch. The penultimate prompt (cool word! sad circumstance) was to pick one of Sylvia Plath's poems and write a poem that is inspired by it and well . . . I sort of did. I selected Among the Narcissi which mentions "something on the lung" and "tries his breathing" so I produced this poem about my experience thus far with asthma.
Blue lips
Purple fingernails
How I gasped for air that night
Sometimes breathing is a losing fight
It is a strange and odd thing
When your body turns against you
When it grows angry
And inflames
So your lungs don't work the same
I walked into that angel's arms
Here doctors, nurses worked to mend my harms
See the triage nurse
Right away she sends you back to a room
Soon you'll pose
Like a prisoner
Before a screen
And finally
Needle into arm
Mask over face
Breathe deep little one
Ignore the pains
Soon you will be right as rain.
Bronchial tubes perpetually inflamed
Trigger exposed
Tubes swell
Muscles constrict
Mucus produced
Isn't that an odd trick?
Yes, my body turns against me
And my muscles contrict
Around my lungs
Like a snake around its prey
Its even called bronchoconstriction
Shouldn't that be the name of snake?
Take a cocktail
Of bronchodilators
And corticosteroids
Sounds like chondrichthys
But not nearly as cool.
Some of the medicines taste just fine
Like that oddly good taste of liquid albuterol
But the acrid flavor of prednisone liquid won't do at all.
It was so bad, my mother would follow it with
spoonful of sugar - sweet
Now every day I must take
a luekotriene receptor antagonist
At least that sort of sounds cool I guess.
When I was a child I took it chewable
It's flavor - cherry - was quite doable.
Now I'm adult and I have to take it swallowable
But it doesn't taste bad - just quite bland.
And I suppose it works better than anything
And it doesn't elevate my heart rate
Like my inhaler - it gives me the shakes.
Sometimes it still strikes me
I remember there used to be a commercial
Where a child claimed
"Asthma is like a fish out of water."
I've always disagreed
Rather it is like
Someone stuck a hand in your chest
And made a fist around your lungs
It is quite unpleasant.
But it is what it is.
At least it's not as bad as when I was a kid.
So this one was a stretch. The penultimate prompt (cool word! sad circumstance) was to pick one of Sylvia Plath's poems and write a poem that is inspired by it and well . . . I sort of did. I selected Among the Narcissi which mentions "something on the lung" and "tries his breathing" so I produced this poem about my experience thus far with asthma.
Deep Breaths,
Sharon
Saturday, April 28, 2018
NaPoWriMo 2018 - Day 28
The prompt on this 28th day of April was to write a postcard poem, which apparently is a prose poem that "captures a moment in time with a strong sense of place," is addressed to someone and is brief (for more types of poem see here).
Dear past/present Sharon,
I know you are longing for the future. I know you are impatiently awaiting that time when you have a house and a husband and a job and maybe a child. I know, at the very least, you really want a job and a small house with a fenced back yard for your dog. I know you can't wait. I know you are rushing, rushing, rushing forward, just like you always have. I thought you'd learned the lesson finally, but you haven't. Enjoy the present. Enjoy the time being. Enjoy where you are. Stop. Take a breath. Look around and enjoy. Stop looking at your situation with anxiety and trepidation. Embrace your situation. Realize that you are not trapped - you are free. This chapter of life has value too - and one day you will (sometimes) long for it. Even in your worst days, there is good in this situation. Relax, breathe in, enjoy.
With love,
Future Sharon
Friday, April 27, 2018
NaPoWriMo 2018 - Day 27
Today's prompt threw me for a bit of a loop as I really know nothing about tarot cards. But anyway, I eventually settled on the fool as the description contains the phrase "the spirit in search of experience" which I can quite relate to.
If the fool is the spirit in search of experience
Then I suppose I am the fool
I spent my days in school
I studied hard, I took good notes
But grades on transcripts and diplomas
Don't amount to much
Without that hot commodity
Experience.
Unemployed then underemployed
Yes its been almost a year now
I lack the experience
To do the things I need
To succeed
At least in mine own eyes.
I apply to jobs and on and on
Over and over
It seems like it ought to be my turn
But the world doesn't work that way
It just turns on and on.
So I go on and on
Journeying on
As the spirit in search of experience.
The frustrating thing
The irony
The impossible thing
The paradox that haunts and taunts me:
In order to get the experience I need
I am in need of experience.
If the fool is the spirit in search of experience
Then I suppose I am the fool
I spent my days in school
I studied hard, I took good notes
But grades on transcripts and diplomas
Don't amount to much
Without that hot commodity
Experience.
Unemployed then underemployed
Yes its been almost a year now
I lack the experience
To do the things I need
To succeed
At least in mine own eyes.
I apply to jobs and on and on
Over and over
It seems like it ought to be my turn
But the world doesn't work that way
It just turns on and on.
So I go on and on
Journeying on
As the spirit in search of experience.
The frustrating thing
The irony
The impossible thing
The paradox that haunts and taunts me:
In order to get the experience I need
I am in need of experience.
Sigh
-Sharon
Thursday, April 26, 2018
NaPoWriMo 2018 - Day 26
Berry Dreams
I had dreams
Berry dreams
Dreams of cobblers
And jams.
So I went in the yard
And worked oh so hard
Picking those berries
From their canes
Those bright purple, black berries
From their thorny, thorny canes.
And it was nearly impossible
Quite impossible
To pick a berry
Without feeling
That sharp quick pain
Of the thorn pricking your finger
And it stung too.
Not as bad as a wasp
But maybe like a bee.
My fingers were sore and red and pricked
By the time I was through.
I carried my prize inside the house
And set to work in the kitchen.
Rolling and stretching out the pie dough
Pressing the soft, delicate dough
Into the cool glass pie pan.
Then I rinsed my berries
Under the cool, clear water.
Dumped them in a bowl
Mixed in some sugar and cinnamon
And dumped the filling in the pie.
I layered the top piece of dough
Wet my fingers,
And methodically, carefully
Sealed that soft dough shut,
Crimping it as I went.
I cut holes for vents.
And opened the oven
I felt the blast of heat on my face
And thought of the pizza oven
That I thought a dragon lived inside as a child.
I placed my pie in the middle,
Set the timer
And went in the living room.
I waited,
And waited
And waited.
Til I heard that
Shrill, little
Incessant
Beep, Beep, Beep.
The oven timer
Is always in more of a rush than me.
I pulled the pie out
Carefully
Covered the nicely
golden browned edges with foil
Working quickly
Feeling the heat of the pie plate
On my fingers
The heat hastened my pace
So I wouldn't get burned.
Then into the oven the pie returned.
And I waited again
for the impatient and piercing
Beep beep beep
Of the oven.
Padding into the kitchen
I smiled
At the cinnamony, bready
And bright smell
Permeating my kitchen.
I pulled out the pie
Lightly browned on the top
The berries and sauce bubbling
Reddish purple
Through the steam holes.
I sliced that pie
And served a piece
The juices spread out on my plate
And I ate a tantalizing bite
The crust both crisp and tender
The sauce was both tart and sweet
The berries somehow both firm and soft
And the seeds of course were grainy, but pleasant
I savored each bite
The cinnamon and sugar imparted
A light spiciness and sugar sweetness
But the berries' bright tartness shone.
That night I dreamed
Dewberry dreams.
Today's prompt was to write a poem that spoke to all five senses and well, I've tried.
I had dreams
Berry dreams
Dreams of cobblers
And jams.
So I went in the yard
And worked oh so hard
Picking those berries
From their canes
Those bright purple, black berries
From their thorny, thorny canes.
And it was nearly impossible
Quite impossible
To pick a berry
Without feeling
That sharp quick pain
Of the thorn pricking your finger
And it stung too.
Not as bad as a wasp
But maybe like a bee.
My fingers were sore and red and pricked
By the time I was through.
I carried my prize inside the house
And set to work in the kitchen.
Rolling and stretching out the pie dough
Pressing the soft, delicate dough
Into the cool glass pie pan.
Then I rinsed my berries
Under the cool, clear water.
Dumped them in a bowl
Mixed in some sugar and cinnamon
And dumped the filling in the pie.
I layered the top piece of dough
Wet my fingers,
And methodically, carefully
Sealed that soft dough shut,
Crimping it as I went.
I cut holes for vents.
And opened the oven
I felt the blast of heat on my face
And thought of the pizza oven
That I thought a dragon lived inside as a child.
I placed my pie in the middle,
Set the timer
And went in the living room.
I waited,
And waited
And waited.
Til I heard that
Shrill, little
Incessant
Beep, Beep, Beep.
The oven timer
Is always in more of a rush than me.
I pulled the pie out
Carefully
Covered the nicely
golden browned edges with foil
Working quickly
Feeling the heat of the pie plate
On my fingers
The heat hastened my pace
So I wouldn't get burned.
Then into the oven the pie returned.
And I waited again
for the impatient and piercing
Beep beep beep
Of the oven.
Padding into the kitchen
I smiled
At the cinnamony, bready
And bright smell
Permeating my kitchen.
I pulled out the pie
Lightly browned on the top
The berries and sauce bubbling
Reddish purple
Through the steam holes.
I sliced that pie
And served a piece
The juices spread out on my plate
And I ate a tantalizing bite
The crust both crisp and tender
The sauce was both tart and sweet
The berries somehow both firm and soft
And the seeds of course were grainy, but pleasant
I savored each bite
The cinnamon and sugar imparted
A light spiciness and sugar sweetness
But the berries' bright tartness shone.
That night I dreamed
Dewberry dreams.
Today's prompt was to write a poem that spoke to all five senses and well, I've tried.
Happy writing! And berry eating.
-Sharon
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
WARNING (NaPoWriMo 2018 - Day 25)
WARNING
Careful
Gets very hangry
Feed regularly; have snacks on hand.
Caution:
Indecisive
May be frustrating but
She can't always make up her mind.
Sometimes she can't tell you what she wants
But can tell you what she doesn't.
This may be frustrating.
Use patience.
Cuidado:
Doesn't like repeating herself
Listen carefully and closely.
Know what she said the first time.
Beware:
Introverted
Sometimes may seek solitude
It's nothing against you,
She just needs her alone time
Let her have it.
DO NOT LEAVE CHOCOLATE UNATTENDED
She will eat it.
Do not get between her and her chocolate
You will regret it.
She is a shameless chocoholic.
Today's prompt was to write a warning label for yourself. And in the spirit of getting to know each other a little better, I thought I'd answer the questions Maureen has asked poets in the NaPoWriMo Interview (I've even included a writerly author bio following the format of said interviews - not sure what I'm talking about? See one here.)
Sharon has many half-baked novels, but many more fully formed poems. She created her first (and only) chapbook, Tidbits, in her Creative Writing class her junior year of high school. Her work has been published in the local newspaper, a TPWD wildlife newsletter, and the 2017 Seaspray Literary Journal. She also freelance edits.
1. Why did you begin writing poetry? Why do you still?
I've been telling stories my whole life. I started writing as early as I could. I was introduced to poetry in the fourth grade (everyone else liked Shel Silverstein, I was and am a fan of Jack Prelutsky). I'm not sure when I started regularly writing poetry, but I do remember writing some poems in 7th or 8th grade that were embarrassingly lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy.
I've kept writing poetry because I've found it helps me to process things: events and emotions, both personally and at a larger scale. Not to mention, I just really enjoy writing.
2. What is the best piece of writing advice you've gotten? The worst?
I'm not sure I've really gotten much writing advice. I do remember in 7th grade, my English teacher encouraged me to be more descriptive in my writing by writing what I know.
But I think the key to writing is the same as what my mother once told me was the key to art: you have to know when to stop adding to a poem. You have to recognize when it's done. It can be difficult, but practice (and revision) helps.
3. How did your new book come into being?
New book? Are you a prophet or a soothsayer? I don't know, but I'll let you know if there ever is one.
4. Is there a generative prompt, practice or ritual that you find particularly helpful, or that you would recommend to students, friends, or other poets?
I find writing to prompts incredibly useful. Or writing about something I've had an emotional response to. I think the most important thing is to write. But if you insist. . . I love NaPoWriMo and I think one of the prompts I enjoyed the most was this one from 2015 that encouraged us to take a well-known poem and write a satire or parody of it. Here's the poem I wrote in response to that prompt. The way I approached it, I think could help you master unfamiliar poem forms (like that of the Poe's The Raven).
Careful
Gets very hangry
Feed regularly; have snacks on hand.
Caution:
Indecisive
May be frustrating but
She can't always make up her mind.
Sometimes she can't tell you what she wants
But can tell you what she doesn't.
This may be frustrating.
Use patience.
Cuidado:
Doesn't like repeating herself
Listen carefully and closely.
Know what she said the first time.
Beware:
Introverted
Sometimes may seek solitude
It's nothing against you,
She just needs her alone time
Let her have it.
DO NOT LEAVE CHOCOLATE UNATTENDED
She will eat it.
Do not get between her and her chocolate
You will regret it.
She is a shameless chocoholic.
Today's prompt was to write a warning label for yourself. And in the spirit of getting to know each other a little better, I thought I'd answer the questions Maureen has asked poets in the NaPoWriMo Interview (I've even included a writerly author bio following the format of said interviews - not sure what I'm talking about? See one here.)
Sharon has many half-baked novels, but many more fully formed poems. She created her first (and only) chapbook, Tidbits, in her Creative Writing class her junior year of high school. Her work has been published in the local newspaper, a TPWD wildlife newsletter, and the 2017 Seaspray Literary Journal. She also freelance edits.
1. Why did you begin writing poetry? Why do you still?
I've been telling stories my whole life. I started writing as early as I could. I was introduced to poetry in the fourth grade (everyone else liked Shel Silverstein, I was and am a fan of Jack Prelutsky). I'm not sure when I started regularly writing poetry, but I do remember writing some poems in 7th or 8th grade that were embarrassingly lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy.
I've kept writing poetry because I've found it helps me to process things: events and emotions, both personally and at a larger scale. Not to mention, I just really enjoy writing.
2. What is the best piece of writing advice you've gotten? The worst?
I'm not sure I've really gotten much writing advice. I do remember in 7th grade, my English teacher encouraged me to be more descriptive in my writing by writing what I know.
But I think the key to writing is the same as what my mother once told me was the key to art: you have to know when to stop adding to a poem. You have to recognize when it's done. It can be difficult, but practice (and revision) helps.
3. How did your new book come into being?
New book? Are you a prophet or a soothsayer? I don't know, but I'll let you know if there ever is one.
4. Is there a generative prompt, practice or ritual that you find particularly helpful, or that you would recommend to students, friends, or other poets?
I find writing to prompts incredibly useful. Or writing about something I've had an emotional response to. I think the most important thing is to write. But if you insist. . . I love NaPoWriMo and I think one of the prompts I enjoyed the most was this one from 2015 that encouraged us to take a well-known poem and write a satire or parody of it. Here's the poem I wrote in response to that prompt. The way I approached it, I think could help you master unfamiliar poem forms (like that of the Poe's The Raven).
I can't believe the month is almost over!
-Sharon
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