Monday, April 30, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #35 Plumbing rules my existence anymore....

Not brilliant or hilarious, but a little bit lighter. This gal has a lot to work on tonight besides doing this, so this will have to be my last poem this month. (This probably really comes from spending most of my days around middle school boys!)

I’m tempted to keep writing tonight, but I must pour that effort into my grad school studies and otherwise. (Only 15 more days till I take the dreaded math test again!) Goodnight all. Be good to each other. Check back from time to time as I do post poetry and prose up here from time to time. But for now….

It’s All about the Plumbing
Pipes full of suspect wipes
Everything going down the drain
My brain included!
I have eluded to otherwise, but no,
I am not a pro at poo
It is such a stew
To not know how to grow up
Making all breakdowns a big issue
When much is clogged
A bog in my head,
Such a fog,
Then I lie down in bed
And my insides start to rumba
I won’t get no slumber
Over this sticky issue
It is all in my head
Makes me see red
There is a flash in my lumbar
Looking to spar with me
Nope, gotta pee!
I get there feeling relief
And good grief! What is that?
I hit to flush and there is no rush
I have to take off the top
Get a mop and pray
Why can’t this happen in the day?
To bed I toddle after this waddle
Where I sleep the fitful fain
Getting up in pain
My middle is squashed by a chain
Pulled tight
It isn’t the main concern
It doesn’t burn---just heavy
A bevy of suspects I detect
And think I might spend my day in the privy
A chance at not being the resident skivvy
I stretch it out with grumble and pout
Moving despite the internal shout
Uh, gotta run! Something has started to come
Flushed out clean
Ah, serene!
And the toilet went too---yahoo!
Now if the coffee will just help me start
Today, I might sound smart
Caffeine highway, here we come!
Making sure everything is plumb!

Sunday, April 29, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #34 For Marty and Kelly

(I promise I’ll try to post something more on the humorous side if I can, tomorrow. I can’t believe the month is over! This is the first April I’ve skipped so many times—sorry.)

For those that only read my blog, I didn’t write last night because I found out yesterday that a dear college buddy of mine died in a car accident. I wrote a tribute to her on my Facebook page and posted pictures, but no poetry.

Last night I did look at a poem I wrote about her in college, but it isn’t very flattering to her at the time, so I won’t post it. It isn’t fair to her. So that one will stay in my journal.

I tried to rough out other poems, but the well is quite dry. I tried to write about my recent friend that died, but then I kept thinking how I found out in January of another college friend that also died---a couple of years ago----but to me it feels recent. And the phrase,”They haven’t died, they’ve gone on…” from some movie popped into my head and I thought what a funny notion. So, here is my attempt at a poem tonight.

Gone On
Two friends have gone on
I didn’t know
Both a violent rip
Not a planned trip
One closer to me than other
Pinpoints of time
Hand cut jewels that were mine
Many ideas discussed
And a trust
That was there
Things we shared
Despite how much had gone on
I knew them in the dawn
Of me discovering real
Such appeal to walk
And talk over nothing and everything
They left sudden
I am bereft
Deaf in one ear
Wanting to be near
Now, I cannot
It must stop! Please just stop?
And wait for that train or plane
The trip sounds good
But as I understood
Our reservations are to be so much later
To cross that sea
How can it be?
Two women so strong
Have gone on
And I didn’t know
I was slow to notice
My vote would have been for them to stay
Not go away
A vacation I could stand
I’d hire a band
to welcome them back
Now I’m slack
Here crying in my beer
I should celebrate, right?
Go on all night
Talking about how good they’d been
It’s the trend
I have
But in the quiet
There is no riot
Clamoring for more
Just pictures that don’t speak
And how I seek to know who they were
It is like a burr
Stuck to my pants
Pricking me
in a spot
I can’t quite reach
I know they’ve gone on
And I can’t respond
Like a rock thrown
Deep into a pond
I meant to skip
It makes that sick
Lack of bounce sound
A deep high hitting the ground plink
That stinks and I feel cheated
I want that perfect-in-my-hand rock
To fling and go on zinging
Across to the other side
To go on
Okay, I let you go
And show that I know
Not when but where
You’ve gone on

Friday, April 27, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #33 Stuff, things, and more uh...stuff....

Banged this out in literally less than 10 minutes as I don’t have time tonight to think a lot through writing poems---no thesaurus or rhyming dictionary tonight---nope, just my gut. I’m in the middle of writing a paper and have to get back to it as I’m highly distractible right now. I’m not sure what all of this poem means, but maybe some of you can read it and tell me.

Accumulation of the Heart
The urge to purge surrounds me
It astounds me how much I’ve accumulated
I feel dated by this stuff
And yet I go on
somewhere says it isn’t enough
To bathe in things
That ring round and cause me to dizzy
How to get rid of it
Before it is too late
And someone else at my gate
Sighs saying they don’t know what to do
With my stuff!
Still here I sit
Dripping wet with wiggly wonders
That wanders all over my house
It is surprising we haven’t been
Torn asunder by the weight
Of our collective junk pile
Of what is in and out of style
And is hot and not
It is maddening to think about
When it throws a doubt
About what matters
We are scattered
Inside and out
Still,  I see something with glee
When given to me
And I love to gift things to my friends too
A map, a picture, a pen, a shoe
To pick up the blue
I give with much intended
As I befriended this thing
I bestow on you
And hope that you love it too
I’ve given experiences
But it doesn’t reverse
My pattern of giving something
To someone for that bling
Of enthusiasm
Such sparkle and glee
Pointed towards me
Or away from how deeply
I feel and cannot deal
With the daily dose
Of how to say more
As I’m verbose
On paper
But I’m an escaper
Who would rather give
A token
That might get broken
But with great care
I place it within your reach
So we can bare
What to keep

Thursday, April 26, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #32 Middle School Lunchtime

Can you tell I monitor students during lunch? It is fun for human observations.

Second Lunch Watering Hole
Bright, white sun reflecting
Off the blacktop play space
That is overrun by students
Each studying the other
Without saying so
They glow, bow, and imitate
Grown up gesture
Gauged in middle school vernacular
Grouping by the watering hole
After lunch ritual
The packs roaming
Some hogging the shallows
Staking out the best places
They are callow
Growling to strike fear
And no one come near
As they chat
Or hash out the latest spat
They look like the ones
That could eat you alive
But not really
The ones that strive
To stay hidden
Or doing what is forbidden quietly
Those are the ones to flee
They are the wolf pack
Waiting for the weak
This is who they seek
To grab them and drag them under
To drown in the muddy water
Where they plunder
The moral center
Of the innocent
To blacken or slacken
Their convictions
In shouting loud about restrictions
When they can
Or under breath
Like a grain of sand
Working its way
To irritate those that do obey
They try to flay the strays
These calves are the ones that seek the sun
But have so little fun
As they don’t have friends
Well it depends,
If one or two choose
To look their way or move
Then they are in a group
That is searching for a hook
To latch onto
Another person that is more certain,
Who will lead them like they read in books
As they are the ones that stay in the shade
Away from the watering hole
They hide and wait till everyone trades
Glances to say “we’re done”
And go on
Bell rings, the alarm sounds,
And from the middle
One bird flies through in missile flight solo
A clever rook, scattering them all
The last saunter, throwing one more basketball
Taking one more long drink
Before they have to think
Under the placid sun of the watering hole

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #31 Birth

I don’t want all of you to think I’m such a sad sack that obsesses on my past miscarriages every time I see one of my friends is having a baby or adding to their children. I think when the miscarriages were the recent past, I was raw and it was very hard. But that is now firmly in my rear-view mirror.

Now, it crops up at the strangest times like when I am most elated for a friend, I get a little sick to my stomach knowing the choices we made after those times of struggling to have another child. It felt like personal failure and several things do---a very hard reoccurring theme to shake in my life.

We could have adopted and nearly did, but it was again, just overwhelming with all of what we were doing. Many of you know my life and I can’t imagine in some ways having another child with us on this journey and in other ways, on the good days, I feel guilty for not having another child here with him, perhaps helping him or us along. 

So, I think that is where this poem popped out last night as I couldn’t sleep---so I wrote it down. I thin k it is also because I had a disappointment this week so, I’m feeling fragile at other people’s  joy, so yeah… here it is….

Birth Notice
Deeply jealous
No trellis
To scaffold my feeling
Of being left
In dust
Past steeped in mistrust
My body betrayed me
Inside formed
Little hands and feet
Even some toes
That is far as it goes
Or went…
Never again
And yet friend after friend
Had full formed babes
Added to brood after brood
I chew
On the celebration of others
Not a good food
As there is now nothing I can do
I look away
To a new day
When sorrow turns to song
When nothing is wrong
Green drains away
The monster dead
Quiet in my head
For the babes that will never be
As they have crossed over the deep dark sea

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #30 Boy at bedtime again

This is the boy and my about every other night routine. My office door opens to face his room and he always closes his door, but I keep mine open.
How l think of him when he calls (age 7)

After Bedtime 911 Call
“Mama!” you bellow down the hall
I come to your call
Even though I know this time it isn’t urgent
I can tell from your tone it is convergent
Of need, a question, and a seed,
The need being how you feed
Our bond of parent child
I have to smile
I come to help
When you utter a yelp
“What is it my lamb?”
As calm as I am
A million things pull at my sides
This holding me firm as I’d just hit my stride
“I need you in here!”
Your panicked wail trimmed in fear
I throw off the weights
Ignoring my plate
And enter your room
Dark as a tomb
I make out your familiar outline
You on your bed, a shrine
That is covered in soft mountains
Of blankets, now exploded like fountains
I see how you need aid
For this I should get paid
That thought is brief
As I help and you get relief
I know this  need swiftly turns to question
Someday you are destined
To discover the cure to cancer
From all the quislings you get answered
The questions come in a flood
My head now stuck in deep mud
As I try to be coherent
And you endeavor to bear it
As there is so much I don’t know!
This is him  Nov. 2017 taking a computer apart!
I am not a computer pro!
You move on to plant
Knowledge that I can’t
Even begin to understand
I pick apart the strand
You take your Mama’s hand
This part I like, it’s grand
I know you’re settled in
The real goodnight begins
Whatever I wanted to get done
This is a better prize I’ve won

Monday, April 23, 2018

NaPoWriMo: #29 the yearly sonnet attempt

Shakespeare’s birthday and Martin and my anniversary of our first kiss----poetic, eh? I think so! Here is my yearly attempt at a sonnet. I confess to have a huge headache right now and I am only giving myself 30 minutes to rough one out, but hopefully it will work out.
And I have always liked some of Shakespeare’s lesser known sonnets one is posted below that everyone skips over. I think because it contains a word that looks like a racial slur, but it isn’t. It is a word that dates back to Middle English meaning miserly.
I just finished at the 30 mark and I like it, but I don’t think it exactly scans. Oh well, it just proves I’m not Shakespeare!

Song of Sweetest Smells
Thy lips they fell upon a rose
To taste the bloom and not the thorn
Rose high your song in lover’s silver mist
Your heart blew hard on my bright ember
The tune traced our friendship twain
A kindship brought from deepest pain
Met in joys we could reclaim
Out of the fog of uncertain loom
Weaving thoughts that began our bloom
Where we could dispel our creed
Your kiss from love’s hunger Godspeed

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
---William Shakespeare 1609