Long Pencil in Poems
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Twas the night before
'Twas the night before Christmas and all around soup
Not a poet was writing, no words from the group
And I, with my paper and pencil in hand
Had just settled down at my new writing stand
I wrote out a poem, but waited to post
To hope for one poet, well two at the most
Then turned off the site as nobody was stirring
It was getting late and my eyes they were blurring
I thought that tomorrow would be a good time
Or maybe the next day to send out my rhyme
I closed my computer, it shut with a snap
Decided to go take that long winters nap
When all of the sudden my phone started dinging
Like church bells on Sunday, just constantly ringing
With messages falling like snow from the sky
One after the other, they did multiply
I opened my laptop and clicked on the site
And waited until it was glowing so bright
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
So many soup poets were spreading good cheer
I reached for my words and then typing so quick
My poem a gift and I felt like Saint Nick
When I had to pause and just think for a while
Because all I wanted was to bring a smile
They don’t need a poem that’s written by me
Just nice happy thoughts that each poet could see
So I paced and I thought and I thought and I paced
Then wrote down some words that I quickly erased
I had a few cookies, a nice glass of milk
Put on my pajamas, they were made of silk
I glanced out the window, the street was aglow
With bright colored lights, such a beautiful show
Tossed some more tinsel atop of the tree
Straightened the star so the neighbors could see
Wrapped some more presents with ribbons and bows
Not very good and each package it shows
Sat down again every thought it was whirling
Like red and white sugar on candy canes swirling
When suddenly something came clear to my mind
Such wonderful words that were happy and kind
So I typed out this message to post on the site
“Merry Christmas dear Soupers, to all a good write”
11/26/18
Written for: The Night Before Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Azteca
As a young girl growing up in Los Angeles City
My mother took me everywhere with her
Our favorite Mexican restaurant had great hospitality
Casa De Nina, I enjoyed the music and she, their famous platter;
Guajolotas o tortas de tamal
Desayuno, plato de huevos rancheros
Champurado and pan dulce de Pasqual
The owner made us feel special, served us our usual
There were, Chicano art hanging
Some of the most authentic were of Azteca
Roots in the primeval instincts enchanting
The details of nature surrounding, alla prima,
A painting of an epitomal Aztec noble prince
A beautiful princess in his arms, bien fe`rma
The traditional cuadro stayed on my mind ever since
There it was, in all places, the painting was everywhere
La Marketa, the textile district, La Golondrina
Pintura’s de Indios Mexicano’s all about the town square
Olvera Street, even in the Mission at the Marina
As soon as I got home, I cleared away the furniture,
from up against the wall
In one hand the print on the calendar
a charcoal pencil in the other I began to sketch it all
A mural has to be painted in close relationship
to the scale, style, and mood of the interior,
With regard to such siting, to eye levels, a very good tip
Considerations as light sources, make realism art superior
I hid the paint from my mother and dad
Unnoticeable as of yet, I drew very lightly
I worked fast with what mediums I had
Brush strokes here and there, ever slightly
Until a finished project, my very first mural
I took her scarf and covered her eyes,
lead her down the hall and pushed the door
I whispered into her ear, s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e
Happy Mother’s Day, I prepared her a little more
With her fingers splayed over eyes and lips
My mother processed, motionless, in awe
Focusing on the corner at the paint drips
she said, I always knew that you could draw
An inspiring experience for the most part
Exhaling—she saw that I was passionate of my Chicana art
Can I write this without being corny and still be prideful?
I grew up on Hip-Hop, and I have a lot of idols
Every time I pick up the pen and use ink
I hope to write something that would have been good enough for Jay-Z's blueprint
I grew up on the likes of Tupac, Lupe Fiasco and Wu-tang
The only 11 year old who was listening to lyrics that some adults struggled to understand
I'm thankful I grew up on rappers who would share a message
That's why when I have an issue, I'm not scared to address it
8 years old, was the first time I heard Eminem
Since then I've put my heart into my poetry and made it genuine
I learned you could be emotional without being feminine
Sometimes I like to have fun and see how many rhymes I can pencil in
Tupac gave me quote after quote
Isn't it funny how people you've never met, can give you hope?
50 Cent surviving being shot 9 times, made me feel like I could survive anything
I looked up to, Eminem, 50 Cent, Scarface, Rakim like they were my parents
Foster care staff, telling me the music was inappropriate because of the swearing
Which just showed me they don't listen to the words being rapped
It's great when you relate, and you feel your own hurt being matched
I remember the emotion I felt when I first heard Eminem release Like toy soldiers
I didn't really start to appreciate Jay-Z until I got older
Sleep is the cousin of death, Nas Taught me that
I came to see that People make up lies and spread rumours when they're short of facts
I'll always have love for Nas, Eminem, 50, Game, Wu-Tang, Scarface, Ice Cube
There's more that inspired me, and I'm thankful, because of them I write too
I always loved Hip-Hop and had a lot of idols
I just hope I managed to write this without being corny and can still be prideful
Every time I pick up the pen to use ink
I hope I write a the good enough to be on Nas's Illmatic album or Jay-Z's blueprint
In the morning I was impatient as you dawdled
and I told you to stop being so slow.
You just smiled sheepishly and said,
"Bye Mommy, I have to go!"
In the afternoon I spent most of my day on the phone
while you sang aloud and put your toys in a jovial row.
I motioned irritably for you to be quiet,
"Get your homework done right now!"
I rattled off like a sergeant.
"Okay Mom", you said seeming to understand
and sat straight at your desk with pencil in hand.
After that it was quiet in your room.
In the evening you approached me hesitantly and asked,
"Will you read me a story tonight?"
"Not tonight. Your room is still a mess,
how many times must I remind you?" I said in a muffle.
With your head down you wandered away from me,
but kept your dance-like shuffle.
Before long you were back and peered around the wall of stone.
"Now what do you want?" I asked in an agitated tone.
Without a word you threw your arms around my neck,
kissed my cheek, then "goodnight Mommy, I love you"
was all you said and hurried off to bed.
I felt a wave of remorse come over me.
At what point did I lose the rhythm of the day
and at what cost? I couldn't say.
You had done nothing to provoke my mood.
You were just being a child, busy
with the tasks of growing and learning.
I got lost in an adult world with responsibilities,
burning demands, and flip flopped priorities with
no energy left to give.
You became my teacher even after an arduous day
of tip toeing around my moods.
We have one life to live and I yearn to start the day again.
Tomorrow, I will treat myself with as much understanding
as you have shown me today. I will remind myself that you
are my baby and I will enjoy being your Mom in every way.
Your resilient spirit has touched me so I come to you,
to thank you my child, my teacher, my dearest friend,
for the gift of your love that will never end.
It’s there in the darkest corner of his room
there where he takes off his shoes and socks and just leaves them
the place that his Mom said that she is going to leave as is from now on
it’s just sitting there grinning
he can’t see it clearly but it’s there
just waiting
as soon as he closes his eyes it’s gonna streak across the room
and rip his face off with its razor sharp claws
why did it come to his room
it should have gone to nerdy Norman’s room
no, to big fat bully Billy’s room
he can’t hear it breathing
‘cause its sitting there with its mouth wide open
slowly breathing in and out past big yellow teeth
just waiting
his eyelids are getting heavy
he shakes his head from side to side
to keep awake he thinks of terrible things
like the time big ole spotty Betty stole his lunch
and stamped on it with her big ole leather sandals
right there in the playground in front of everyone
or the time that Nathan whose Dad is super rich
snapped all his pens and pencil in half
right there in the classroom in front of the English teacher
and got 3 days detention
all this remembering has made him as mad as a snake
he now wants it to come streaking across the room to rip his face off
‘cause he is good and mad and ready for it
he is tired of always taking it, and taking it, and taking it
he is now ready to do some giving
he closes his eyes squinch-face tight
inches up further against the headboard
clenches his fists as tight as tight can be
kicks the blankets onto the floor
and waits, and waits, and waits
eventually he opens his right eye just a smidge
and looks over to where it is
it’s still there sitting quietly
not moving not breathing
his older brother’s big ole back-pack
that he borrowed for a camping trip with Dad and uncle Lonnie.
A poet who was famous for his love poems was approached by a young boy who shyly bowed his head…
“I want to write a love poem…can you teach me how?” He said.
The old poet smiled.
“So you have come to me because you know how love and poetry are intertwined…and I’m guessing there is a special someone for this poem you have in mind.”
A nervous smile crossed the young boy’s face at these words the poet said.
He looked up and the old poet could see his cheeks were glowing red.
The old poet smiled again.
“My best advice is don’t start out to write a love poem…you see it doesn’t work that way…start our writing about this person…and love will find a way.”
“Take pencil in hand…and think about this person…soon you’ll find it so exciting…
How the words will travel from your heart to your brain and end up in your writing.”
“And your poem may rhyme…or it may not…it does’t matter for in time you’ll see…anything written from your heart…why…that is poetry.”
“And you’ll feel such a sense of accomplishment when your poem is done…
That it won’t matter if it finds its way to a million people…or if it reaches only one.
“And once you’ve written your first love poem…once you see it completed there…
You’ll want to write another and another…because you’ll start to see love everywhere.”
“You’ll see it in your family…you friends…your pets, the Earth…your home…just remember, if you’re writing from your heart…you’ll end up with a poem.
“And finally remember you are human…sometimes you’ll end up with the perfect poem…a poem you will adore…other times you’ll realize…that’s what they make erasers for.”
“So if you want to write that love poem, take this pencil and this pad of paper too…
I have told you how to start…the rest is up to you.”
Once I met a little girl
Sweeter than honey could be,
She must have been barely eight
But looked much younger to me.
She asked with a dimpled smile
If a picture I could draw,
Her eyes shone with a strange light
In them happiness I saw.
Not to let her mirth astray
I took her pencil in hand,
She gave me her picture book
Then I sat with her and planned.
Knew not what to draw for her
But was keen for something nice,
Though I am no artist great
So I thought over it twice.
‘Tell me what you wish of me
Do tell me my little queen?
Should I draw the sea and sky
Or some distant hillock green?’
‘Would you like a hilltop house
Or prefer the birds and bees?
I could draw a pretty bloom
In a garden lined with trees.’
She shook her pony-tailed head
And said to draw what I like,
Her words made me ponder hard
To rummage into my psyche.
Was hoping against my hope
That I could fulfil her will,
So I set upon my task
And I set down all my skill.
Etched the outlines of a lea
With mountains reaching a height,
Drew a boat amidst a lake
And a skein of geese in flight.
Then I drew a rising sun
Some homesteads near the shore,
‘Twas the best could do for her
I knew I could do no more.
Saw her face her limpid eyes
They were brimmed with joy and glee,
I felt she liked what I drew
For with a kiss she thanked me.
The she sat and coloured it
So its beauty I could see,
Was spellbound watching her paint
As happy as I could be.
Then I mused life too lets us
Etch thoughts on its canvas white,
Then fills it with colours fine
To make a beauteous sight.
We ought to have faith on life
With the passion of a child,
Like they do with jocund hearts
Care not of being beguiled.
***********
These dreams are yours these dreams are mine
Yet misery seems to be this poor mans only paradise
Reality seems to be the only place to hide
Trying to make the best of what I have
This is my life’s engraved path
No mercy in tears
Only sympathy if you’re worthy of fears
Some one shake me from these seizures
I’m constantly burning of statistical leisure’s
Bed time story’s, kisses from head to foot
Anyway, you want to please her
Given age, I was born from a rapist
Forced upon passion, as an infant in a wound
How can I escape this?
Simply exposed to this diluted area
You never know, she could’ve recruited malaria
Possibilities that her insides polluted, scaring her
My collarbones hurt, the thought of rubbing a loser
Growing up a substance abuser
Strapped with intoxicated lungs and a low self-esteem
The tools needed for this living
all I have left are dreams
Trying to get by on less than minimum wage
Drooling over paper
like there is cinnamon on this page
I could be a heart ache
or I could be apart of the break
Cold water in my eyes, what ever it takes to wake
Bread crumbs in my left hand, I choose to give or try
Given life I’m only promised to die
Pencil in hand, thoughts bloating my brain
By gods’ grace, I have been scared with pain
Only washing my face when it rains
And most of the time, the skies release hail
So now I’m wondering to where will I prevail
A selfless act from a wealthy man
is usually a filthy hand
Should I live or should I die,
give a small sacrifice, and try
Forever I dream of heavens door
And if I should go
I want no tears to show
Forever dreaming of your saviors doors
hello,please be sure to vote for the o-b-a-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n come november
remember,america has never had a black president and until this is fullfilled,we will never prove we are not racist
places will scream if we go with o'cain,eer,i mean,mr.mccain and the lovely vain wife of his.has she ever been proud of america?
dont believe me?lets look at truth.the youth need a black man,isnt that the truth?know how i can tell,look at the sales and popularity of .50 the rapper.america is mad about him,so its time
a brother finds this out.we doubt poems would reach him,so mr.obama and your mysterious earthly career of smoking crack,or writing poems,which ever one happened.doubt me and see,the south will go red.nevermore
its a racial issue because they made it one.they,the democrats are the race baiters,and they love pain and hope your poor and stupid enough to believe they help the poor.good luck getting this published,many will scream.know what i mean?
this dark look at human thoughts was brought to you by katie kuric,the lover of any that hates america.god bless the union?i never will.we wont, we will.
when people pencil in a black man,especially a large black man,they jibber jabber but dont say they are proud to be supporting a black,they just say,"yeah,well",then go off on their own and think.thats eternity slipping away.the one you had mapped.
i am against barrak obama being president because he hasnt proven himself,and he loves himself,and he comes from the chicago area,and because he loves black music and black things and other insignifigants.
The first time I blew up,
I was in love... taken by surprise,
when she walked trough the room
had all those boys' heads turn to her,
it was her voice, which lit the fuse to my
explosion,
like a firecracker on the 4th of July.
The first time I fell in love,
I was heartbroken,
sick and tired,
my head pounded,
my heart faint, skipping beats,
my brain was rusty and dead.
Emotions ripped me apart,
and drinking and smoking
and living life and poetry all came to me.
That's what killed me.
The first time I wrote poetry,
I was lost,
I was down,
I was gone,
I was soundless,
I was metaphoric,
as the grass grew over graves
of the silent dead,
and the living dead walked of to 9 to 5 jobs;
I sat at home,
a pencil in hand ready, steady on a piece of scrap paper.
The first time I wrote a poem,
I felt myself die...
The second time I wrote,
I died even more...
with puffs of cigarette after cigarette
and swig of beer and red wine after swig and gulp after gulp,
I kept on going,
dying, but writing and living at the same time.
The second time I fell in love,
I died even more,
ten times harder I fell,
and one hundred times harder I died.
But I wrote more and more and more,
better too.
One after another, I wrote and soon found myself,
with all these meaningless words on scrap sheets of paper.
The first time,
was the last time,
and I think I've found a calling in life,
something to keep my mind of suicide for a couple more days,
and my lips away from the bottle.