Details |
Rhyme
|
A piece of paper
on a wall
it is an exercise
not too small
They come in rolls
from many a shade
to suit all types
both public and trade
The lady likes a flower
on a nice pattern
a kid likes it bright
but others just like to discern
While some are costly
and some come cheap
it’s your own decision
as it’s yours to keep
Poetgord
|
Details |
Free verse
|
I wrote
my first love letter
on a sheet of paper
torn out of my exercise book
when I was ten, a soft-hearted boy
I look back and think I was a better lover then
I look back and think I was a better writer then
Oh how the years shapes the boy, shapes his love
Oh how the years shapes the boy, shapes his writing
May love conquer always, may the pen be mightier always.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
Time to write
Time to exercise your hand
Be sure to ready your paper and pen
Or, check your p/c battery
Before you begin the word journey
And make sure no one is around, disturbing your mind
Tis not about rhyming, nor about the form
Just write
What you feel is right
For you, to make others laugh
Or touch their heart
Above all, be yourself
The originality lies inside you
And, the rest will smoothly flow
Try it, and hope you enjoy the fun
|
Details |
Free verse
|
the thoughts
the image
blinded with emotion
arts of literacy
mix with passion of life
living
breathing
gripping to be let out
our greatest fears, written on paper
bleeding with tears
the blinding of reality mix with fantasy tales
that can capture and convince readers
the print
the tone
thee theme
all to exercise your thoughts
turned pages
gripped attention
the lyrics that recite the connection of how one feels
the tongue of alteration and captivation
so am I obsessed
yes
poetry is the theme of ones daily life!!
|
Details |
Free verse
|
What shall we keep after the revolution?
Lies will go on, yes lies always survive;
state sanctioned lies,
personal lies, collective lies, secret lies, open lies,
lies of omission, lies of admission,
lies about yesterday and tomorrow,
lies for our own good,
lies about how we have overcame.
Oxycontin and sedative factories
must be kept on a war footing of course.
We will condemn, replace, dismiss
ban and debunk all the unfit that do not fit.
Declare that forgetfulness is natural,
safe and should never be treated
unless there are signs of recovery.
Breadlines will be considered
a patriotic and legitimate form of exercise.
Who needs toilet paper anyway?
Malcontents will to be turned
into a much needed glue,
in order to hold together our glorious future.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
Look through the hidden cracks and you will find
The university of my mind,
While trapsing through the dreamy dark
Sweet silence left behind.
You will look upon a little living light
Through paved pathways of my minds new night
And sparks will faintly flicker
While wading past life's slight in sight.
My thorough thoughts then quickly overcome
And simply settle with a quiet hum.
You will eventually enter and seed the drill
Which my melting mind has created and become
And then like lucid lightning and thunderous skies
The looming creative conception lies
Beneath the splendid surface
Begins its outward inventive cries.
You will then see the eager exercise begin
Where pen verses paper, and paper wins
Scribbled words of mind eye laid out
That sacredly speak of truths and sin.
And wonderous words on lines in rows
Connect and yet earns ebbs and flows
Wonderous when's, what's why's and where
My mind like seeds in garden grows.
CNK
|
Details |
Quatrain
|
I wish I were a baggage to abandon.
I wish I were a hold-all to un-hold,
With no handle for some bloke to put his hand on
Or to plant a snotty kiss that leaves me cold …
I wish I were a parcel, square and string-tied,
In stout brown paper, not to be un-wrapped;
Inscribed in huge red letters, “DON’T PEEP INSIDE!
Till I’m dead and gone, and cannot be sent back …”
It might be rather fun to be left luggage;
To fashion most exquisite, boring days
With false teeth and umbrellas in West Dulwich,
Or to gather dust in Walton-on-the-Naze …
I think I’d like to be a Printed Packet,
Forgotten on some sorting-office shelf,
With nobody to notice I can’t hack it
And no-one else to hassle … Just myself …
I want to pass my private rites of passage
Simply wrapped up in myself, and “off the ‘phone.”
I really DO wish you would get the message …
Just like Garbo, dear, “I VANT TO BE ALONE!”
( I found the first line of this poem as a typing exercise
on a second-hand computer.
It just tickled my fancy! )
|
Details |
Verse
|
Dishonorable plastic discharge
gouge a crater debt
of predatory lending regret
Dead faces on printed paper
exercise still
their executive will
Oppressive weight
from the mausoleum stacks
of dollar bills
Folded temptation —
some crispy new,
others old and faded
Both remain in
C-4 spend circulation
See for the blast damage done
to the slug underbelly
Crawl into the barrel
of a power drunk
cellar dream cluster fermenting
So psychotropic ink sick
from chasing the jade paper trail
Dead faces stay buried
in their head
Throttle the creased kick,
unfurl the abominable pirate sail
Skim cream of the dairy
udderly dead
Emerald leaven rolls
hidden
in the basement mattress
Adjacent to the Egyptian carvings
on the ivory headboard
of a Cleopatra-scented bed
Whispering voices,
from a dank, debt dungeon,
echo lovingly ...
with craven, creditor joy
They murmur ecstatically
of the profits reaped
in the name of idol presidents
lying in earthen beds
Covetously urging
the living
to never speak
ill of the minted dead
|
Details |
Haiku
|
Words run away
No rhymes now;
Rest in jest
~~~~~~~~~
Love knows the way
Faith anchors hope;
Peace sums joy
~~~~~~~~~
Come what may
Peace of mind stays;
Style knows the way
~~~~~~~~~
Touch of good earth
Orchard of plenty;
Delightful harvest
~~~~~~~~~
Weather forecast
Thundery showers;
Bright sunshine smile
~~~~~~~~~
Old couple here
Parkway bench respite;
Morning exercise
~~~~~~~~~
Walking their dogs
Owners chit-chat;
Suspicious canines
~~~~~~~~~
Early morning jog
Adrenaline rush;
Breezy wind cajoles
~~~~~~~~~
Lost connection
Internet down time;
Ink stains paper
~~~~~~~~~
Emergent light
Dawn hurls swift;
Dreamtime evaporates
~~~~~~~~~
Too much
Too little;
Too late
~~~~~~~~~
Wordplay episode
Clutter desiccates;
Unfinished business
~~~~~~~~~
Birthday greetings
Facebook amalgam;
Discrete overtures
~~~~~~~~~
Too much talk
Missing mileage;
Loose cannon wildcard
~~~~~~~~~
Wild conundrum
Stillness circles;
Creative potential
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
06 December 2016
Singapore
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
"The pen is mightier than the sword"
- In general, I guess that's true
But mine's a lazy blighter;
It treats sloth as a bloody virtue
It's not the liveliest of beasts
It's always at a halt
It likes staring at blank paper
As though that's the thing at fault
It lives a charmed sedentary life
Full speed is torpidly inert
It charges around at the pace of a slug
When flat out and alert
My pen possesses zero 'nift' -
I can't fault it for being too nifty
Its' sweet repose is a full-on doze
It thinks saving ink is thrifty
It's scintillatingly steady
So passively at peace
Unchanging in its' inactivity
Like a grazing wildebeest
So languid and so supine
As it munches on my thought
Remaining ever restful
Seeing hibernation as a sport
It's frustratingly calm and fixed
To the point of being plain dull
And that's when it's being lively
It's worse still, when in a lull
But now and then I drag it
Out of its' latent, dormant air
Force it to get some exercise
And treat my thoughts with care
Often it’s quite useless
It's rare for the spark to light -
But when thought and pen work as one
Well, that's the time I write
|
Details |
Free verse
|
In class, the aerodynamics of thought -
the engineer commandeers our papers.
She wears a blindfold over mouth and nose,
trains us on how to crease and navigate.
The solid white and dotted lines, on course.
Teach’ will enforce sans imagination.
Argumentation on the plane - not good.
It will set sail - students will stay in line.
The race is on, some fast, some slow, no-goes.
Leader nods approval to bobbing heads.
A seamless exercise in full control.
But, today, here I am with crimson paper
tucked into my binder. It opens eyes.
Without boundaries, abruptly I crease
the wrinkles of the teacher - she demands
that I cease. I can’t hear her - she’s muffled
behind the ridiculous cloth, of lack
of common sense, and pomp; her eyes seething.
I complete my assignment filled with glee.
The path I take in life, adventurous.
I’m weaving left and right. I’m not unseen.
I break the sound barrier, and speed of
light. My fuselage - twenty-four seven lit.
I lift past the classroom, way past normal,
until my death. The teacher grabs my plane,
tears it up…”will not be tolerated!”
She hands me a page - a solid white sheet.
I paint it bright red, concealing the dots.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
When I was a child,
horses raced across my consciousness
like storm chased clouds.
They sprung from my crayons
onto a blank pages,
horse words filled reams of paper
in my exercise books.
Every book written about them was worn,
read and re-read,
stained with dirt from my grubby hands.
I schemed,
prayed to gods-indeterminate,
to have one of my own.
On screens of black and white,
their images smudged, movement’s jerky,
manes and tails flying,
hero’s rode into myth.
They were magical
in an un-magical world.
A world of loneliness,
an earthquake world,
where each step
might lead to nothingness,
a gray concrete world
of uncertainty and pain.
The dreams of a little girl
who would seek them
at fairs and carnivals,
where poor ponies stood patiently,
look for them along the road
during our many moves.
Would find them in any town
we stayed in, however bleak.
Would work all day at a barn
just to smell or touch them,
joy of joy to be able to ride one.
I knew that each one was a safe place to be,
to hold all the love I could give,
with my arms around their neck
my head on their shoulder,
not once rejected.
Impermanent and fleeting as it was,
I knew that they were a safe haven.
|
Details |
I do not know?
|
Why do I write
The things I do?
Pick up a pen
And paper too,
Put down my thoughts
Flitting like birds
Across my brain,
It seems absurd
To want to write –
To let it all out,
To watch my work
Leave me in doubt
As to whether I could
Have written it all,
These strings of words
In the dirty scrawl
Saying things
I never knew I thought,
Painting a picture
In ink and blot.
Telling a story,
Recounting a tale,
Laughter and tears
So strong, so frail.
Everything done,
Yet I don’t know
Why I write,
Let my feelings flow.
It is not for wealth,
For then I would sell
For as much as I could
These stories I tell.
But then, I think,
Its surely not fame:
I am content if
No one knows my name.
Is it what some
Awful people call
“Aesthetic exercise”?
Oh no, not at all…
I’m not trying to help
Woman, child or man,
And I’m not writing
Just because I can.
But I think I can cast
Some much needed light-
I think the answer is
That I love to write.
To feel my thoughts
Forming a line,
Interpreting emotions
So hard to define,
Gives me assurance
That I can narrate,
Invent and concoct,
Compose and create,
A story that gives
Me an identity,
That story is special
For it defines me.
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
My spouse and I own a comfortable home on a quiet street,
And we have roses, flowers and bountiful fruit trees replete.
I take great care to ensure that things are regular and complete.
That way, from neighbors I'll take no unwarranted heat!
I planted a holly bush a number of years ago,
And that dude just continues to spread and grow.
So every now and then I grab my shears and it I prune.
This must be done every year around the first of June.
It is nearly six feet high - I must stretch to reach the top,
So I use a step ladder to reach the highest twigs to lop.
In years past I've used the ladder and have had no trouble,
But today it slipped - I took a tumble in a bed of stubble!
When I fell the branches parted like The Red Sea for me.
I landed on my posterior in all sorts of dubious debris.
Looking up briefly I saw the pristine Colorado sky,
And sent a plea upward saying, "Lord this ain't no way to die!"
I could see the headlines in tomorrow morning's paper:
"Man dies in clutches of holly bush due to careless caper!"
I learned a valuable lesson as a result of this exercise:
New methods for pruning that challenging shrub I must devise!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kids studying in my son's class
After school attend tuition class
Back home there is double work
Both school and tuition homework
They also attend some other special course
Its best for their future, parents reinforce
Full day they are busy
At the end they feel dizzy
Desire to come first
An unquenchable thirst
One day their brains will shatter
If within it is put so much matter
Many such kid's fare badly in exam
They cannot recall much in exam
Then extra burden is put on them
Special classes are arranged for them
I'm midst of all this childhood is lost
Physical exercise, laughter and fun is lost
Childhood is meant for enjoyment, games and play
Now it is done in electronic devices to much dismay
On computer they spend all free time of the day
I wonder what physical strength within them lay
When young we would play in rain
Alongside paper boats would be lain
In vacations we would be out in sun
Playing and enjoying we would have fun
There was no pressure to top, we were a happier lot
Now with egoistic parents kids life is fraught
From playing in mud, rain and sun parents restrain
In their apprehension young kids happiness is slain
In lap of nature children belong
How will such kids become strong?
Every child should at least for 1 hour play
In friends and play joys of childhood lay
Childhood comes once in lifetime
It should be kids most joyous time
All parents should try to ensure that
Everything else is secondary to that.
Date: 10/9/2020
Second place
|
Details |
Couplet
|
Enabled by God for this day’s fulfillment bliss
Meeting Him in sweet fellowship I should not miss.
Morning prayer and Bible reading nourish soul
As prioritizing the Lord remains my goal.
Thanking the Creator for breath of life so free
My spirit basks in worship’s praise with gracious spree.
Hygienic routine comes next along body care
Marked with exercise-sweatings for physique’s welfare.
Supplied with nutritious feast by the Almighty
My appetite succumbs to fresh breakfast bounty.
Fortified now for multi-tasking challenges
Ready am I to enjoy mother-role plunges.
Bathing my special child, singing “This is the day*…”
I delight in his milestones to manage his way.
Preparing him accomplish something beautiful
Instructions are repeated while he stays mindful.
With composure, I turn to my teaching venture
Facing learners whom I’m entrusted to nurture.
As a mentor, I have paper works for checking
Thus, time is gold upon strict schedule sticking.
Likewise, embarking in counselling takes much time
with my extra-mile duties midst ministry chime.
Phone-call Gospel sharing along discipleship
My heart engages with Holy Ghost’s partnership.
Granted assignment I cherish as joyful gain
For blest solo rendition, rehearsals must reign.
Culminating work hours is poem-writing pleasure
Unwinding my mind serenely against pressure
Then my spirit yields to Christ for restful sleep claim
While triumph by His power I humbly exclaim.
*Psalm 118:24 This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.
September 12, 2020
1st place, "All In A Day" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by William Kekaula; judged on 9/16/2020.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
The twisting and turning snatches of light are back on the wall
I can't decypher them - they don't have messages within
There's more to be known from snatches of caught words than prepared words
The truth of course lies no where
Just as it's impossible to understand the ocean fully from looking at the waves or the undercurrents
Funnily - both the waves and the undercurrent are dangerous to weak swimmers
And that's what I consider myself
The motive of the ocean is a mystery to me
I'm safely standing on the shore trying to understand why the ocean holds the jellyfish aloft ~ offering ultimate praise...
The jellyfish is dead on the beach soon after
I can't decypher it of course, it's cryptic - perhaps not even for interpreting
It's wise to mistrust the ocean
It keeps me safe
So I don't look to it for messages to raise me up because the jellyfish are welcome to it
Plus the beach seems citrinely soaked from all the elixir of enticing excitement brought about by the jellyfish exercise and it ceased to be entertaining entirely for myself as a weak swimmer with a strong bladder
So, as the egg custard shaded sand is mocked by the sprinkling of nutmeg ~ I myself am mocked my echoes whispered on the wind. The sand is jelly fish free today but there are messages in the flaked pastry that fell from the bakery's paper bag. Only a fool would sit trying to read the teacup of life where the messages are left in stray pie crusts ground down to be themselves just granules indistinguishable from the sand itself. Yes, only a fool... the citrine substances dried, became dust that joined the sand - the whole thing is perhaps rather gross if you put it under a microscope ~ but I won't do that... no. It would be weird. I'll just mind my own business.
|
Details |
Rhyme
|
With intention, I walk into the laundry room to get what was it now,
Let’s see, looking around ~ I know it will come to me somehow.
I’ll resolve this, so back to the kitchen, I carefully retrace my path,
It strikes me, I need some bleach, its like solving a problem in math.
Every morning I gather the newspaper and sit down to have a read,
Eagerly I open the paper, now where are the reading glasses I need.
After searching countertops, tables and finally deep inside my purse
I find my multi-coloured magnifying glasses as I give out a quiet curse.
I seem to be tired all the time but when I hit the bed I just can’t sleep,
Finally I drift off after a soothing bath, sipping hot milk and counting sheep.
No sooner I’m asleep when the pain becomes so intense, again I’m awake,
My hip hurts, my shoulder aches ~ oh someone shoot me for pity’s sake.
My conversations don’t include the word old any more because that’s me,
Feeling young but according to Denny’s I am a senior, in the upper category!
Caught in limbo with age, it seems somewhere between heaven and hell,
Pay full price for the bus and a movie, but I can eat for less at Taco Bell.
My knowledge and skills lose their relevance to my ever independent kids,
Along the way we’ve switched from teacher to student, we’ve changed grids.
Now retired I have time to walk and exercise but my joints limit the amount,
My metabolism has really changed, seems all food has a triple caloric count.
Are there benefits to being a senior, having to take drugs, I don’t condone,
Maybe being able to watch my family grow and mature with lives of their own
Because now, I am the storyteller, keeping the traditions of our family alive,
The elder who outlines what we stand for, guiding our history as we thrive.
Written July 28, 2012
For Nancy Jones’ contest
This is how life feels when you get to be my age
|
Details |
Verse
|
To presume to write to someone about courage
and not complaining, don't importune or make dying people cry.
I've always said Leave me alone with autumn.
Don't stand around my bed, I won't be in it.
Over 7 years after he died, I finally looked
through my father's papers. Couple of unclaimed insurance policies,
savings bonds, our genealogy and on graph paper in an engineer's
block lettering quotations from The Seat of the Soul.
Reincarnation and karma are the chicken soup of the soul,
the after life is the reward for our colossal imperfections.
Along with banking instructions, he'd underlined
this: Your soul is immortal. It exists
outside of time. It has no beginning and no end.
Every time you ask for guidance you receive it.
If we are not at home in the world, contributing purpose,
we lose our desire to stay here -- ?and we die.
The physical world is an unaccountable given in which we unaccountably
find ourselves and which we strive to dominate to survive
or it is a learning environment created jointly by the souls that share it
and everything that occurs within it serves our learning.
Sin is activity directed toward self rather than toward service
to others. Sickness is sin. Almost any condition can be corrected.
You are part of God, therefore, think in a godly manner.
If you cannot accept this, forget it all. Do not even begin.
The first act of free will: How do I wish to learn?
If we participate in the cause, it is impossible not to participate in the
effect.
We shall come to honor all of life sooner or later.
Until you become aware of the effects of your anger, you will continue to
be an angry person.
Walking is the most commonly suggested exercise. Also, breathing.
"Thy will be done." Concentrate on that!
These expressions of certainty, conjectures and guesses
were inscribed by him in block letters on graph paper.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
To the end, the Home will uproot itself in nomadic urge -
The Flesh will ache to lift as paper from its delicate strands
with their reddy pulse, to float off as the slip of a dove
and bask with the world in a kitey splendor
and unbound from bitter ink,
and proudly Naked to the next beginning.
The Skin wishes to dirty itself,
soles in urban sewage and belly in a ritual mud.
The Skin wants to be tattooed, marked, and symphonically
Undefined. The Skin wants to be held.
And what of the Brain? Oh, You clumsy, grey thing,
How You whine to create, how You noisily rustle with blurred Eurekas
in Your shaking box, how stubborn! And too clean!
You must train each day to soften Your concrete,
and finger the soil in. You throb to be spoken to,
And Tongue: You throb to speak.
You want an exercise that dumbly bends You in
unfamiliar manner, You want Your spine to heavily crack,
to be understood and answered in turn
by another fluid, pink leech.
Lungs, You must breathe!
Expand proudly, thin sails!
Exhale rusted screams and gossamer whispers
to tell them who You are.
To proclaim Your bit of earth,
to which You are purposed a return,
a carbon christening.
The two jelly-eggs of the Eyes beg the colors,
They stubbornly will the whitened pokes in a black-blanketed sky.
And They must recognize the special ones They dilate for,
memorize each canyon and all their pebbles
for the day they are curtained.
And ears, You flat, blushing roses, You micey rounds;
You know Your purpose well. Let the instruments seduce You,
And the words of another prick Your delicate hairs.
Receive the good news -
that You are loved.
Now, scatter, scatter!
Seek every crevice,
and fit yourself to each corner untouched.
Cradle the empty, fill the cups.
It is not until You know all the world and hold every bone
That You will join to birth the infant Soul.
|
Details |
Narrative
|
Amiana was so very happy
When she finally got to go
For a wonderful visit to see
Her happy Grandma Flo
They both got right on the ball
Since many years had passed
Without any visits at all
Now the time was here at last
They first tried their luck
With a pizza they ate
The cheese and paper got stuck
But it really tasted great
Next they decided to write
A poem about the visit
Grandma was a funny sight
When she kept saying tis-it
The poem was going to be
About Butch the ceramic statue
But their minds changed you see
For there was nothing he could do
Grandma’s dog Sophie made a fuss
They just couldn’t concentrate
As she was getting so rambunctious
But she got quiet after she ate
With so much they wanted to do
They made a list to prioritize
Then for energy to get all through
They first began with exercise
Amiana needed to stretch her skin
As she was beginning to grow
And with Grandma getting so thin
Her skin needed tightening you know
They told funny stories to each other
When they finished doing a dance
They planned to put poems in ABC order
But never did get the chance
They giggled and laughed all around
And even hid snow globes too
Hard to locate but always found
After searching through and through
A lot squeezed into two days
Amiana made a big poster
And figured out a puzzle maze
That Grandma Flo drew for her
They dusted and shined the whatnots
And took time to play with Sophie
They updated calendars and did a lot
While building special memories
In the morning they still had fun
They watched a little Joel Osteen
And planned to go out in the sun
But first got a few things cleaned
Even using a timer they didn’t realize
While tanning and talking of the fun they had
That it was time to go home and were surprised
When they were greeted by her mom and dad
They will both remember this day
When Amiana was only seven
And how they laughed and played
Like it was a joyful day in heaven
Florence McMillian (Flo)
|
Details |
Quatrain
|
Compared with us, the kids today
Too little play and too much weigh.
Alone indoors they snack and sit
And buttons hit, while we stayed fit.
We'd quickly chores and homework do,
Then dash through doors to fun pursue,
To basketballs and arrows shoot,
To jump with ropes, and footballs boot.
We'd earthworms dig for fishing bait,
On scooters glide, and roller skate.
We'd hopscotch, seesaw, chase. and swing
And boomerangs and frisbees fling.
We'd tackle, dribble, leap, and throw.
We'd tunnel through and shovel snow.
In haystacks dive and wagons ride,
On ice and into bases slide.
We'd whittle wood and baskets weave
And pennies pitch and horseshoes heave.
We'd yank the strings so tops would spin,
When wrestling, try to shoulders pin.
We'd kindling fetch and firewood chop,
Inflate balloons to later pop,
Sink numbered balls in billiard halls,
And topple pins with bowling balls.
We'd weekly swim at downtown Y,
Our kites and model airplanes fly,
We'd darts and putts and marbles aim,
With lens or flint set twigs aflame.
We'd sneak beneath the sideshow tents,
Climb ropes and poles and chain link fence.
We'd hike and camp with scouting troops,
Rotate our hips in hula hoops.
We garden weeded, hosed, and tilled,
We'd soap box car and treehouse build,
At picnics joined the tug-of-war,
And barefoot romp when rain would pour.
We raced on stilts and pogo sticks,
Made pies of mud, our pets taught tricks,
Were paper, pin, and altar boys,
Ignored complaints of too much noise.
For caddie tips, we'd golf bags lug;
To jukebox records, jitterbug.
We'd carpets beat, played kick-the-can,
Collected rocks, and errands ran.
To school and back on foot we tread,
Down steepest hills and alleys sled,
Played pitch-and-catch in yard with Dad,
Pushed mower that no motor had.
We'd rake the leaves and chestnuts crack
And toddlers carry piggyback.
With feather pillows fight in bed,
Our cap guns fire, and fall down dead.
We'd wildly flail at punching bag
And batted balls and passes snag.
We'd zig and zag, avoiding tag,
Till tuckered out, we'd homeward drag.
No trophies or applause we'd get.
Our play was real, not internet.
To kids today, I this advise:
Get off your butts and exercise!
|
Details |
Prose
|
I must think fast. My house is on fire and I'll have 16 minutes at the most
to decide what I will save!
For sure, I will rescue the computer, or the flash drive at the very least.That is number one, for this represents a great number of hours I have spent creating poetry.
The second thing is my photos. I've saved most of them in albums, and there are many! I'll have to grab them up in armfuls and make two trips back and forth to get them out!
Third, I really should not forget paper documents: proof of birth and house ownership, certificates, checks, etc. To get those things redone is a huge hassle, and luckily, I have them all in one big box.
What next? I think I will grab up my jewelry, especially my rings with precious stones that I love so much. Bracelets, earrings and necklaces too. I'll toss them all into one big bag and worry about sorting them later!
I've used up at least ten minutes of my time by now. Next I will try to rescue my clothes. There are too many of them to save them all, but I will grab up my favorites, yanking them from hangers and taking them to my lawn in big piles. I'll use the hamper to carry them in!
After clothing comes shoes! Of my many pairs, I need only to save a few which are my very favorites and my two most comfortable pairs which I wear the most often.
Finally, I have arrived at the final thing! Most of the sixteen minutes to get stuff out of my house has disappeared by now, so I will run into my kitchen and grab up my supplements along with any healthy nutrition bars and dark chocolate, all kept in my pantry. I will just shove them all into a large box and get my butt out of the house.
Whew!! The fire truck is here now. I am praying all my favorite nic nacs, books and old records will somehow be preserved! I can always get new sheets, blankets, furniture and televisions, but the things I most cherish are the things I grabbed first to take out of the house, especially those things irreplaceable such as photographs and my poetry!
And what did I learn from this little exercise? Well, I really need to have all my favorite things previously organized into big boxes which are easy to carry!
Feb.21, 2019 for
Caren Krutsinger's Seven Things You Would Save If Your House Was on Fire
|
Details |
Free verse
|
My Parents were too busy getting drunk to care for me as a child
Bullied at school, mocked for not being sane
Bipolar mixed with depression and anxiety I couldn't stop the pain
But I will find a way to end this story with a smile
All I've ever had is a fully loaded pen with a chamber of rhymes
Inspired by Nas, Rakim, Eminem, Ice Cube, Big Pun and the gods of Hip-Hop
At the age of 10 I was watching Boyz n the hood and dangerous minds
I was just a kid lost
Who at times showcased his dumb ways
But most the time I was trying to expand my knowledge from a young age
Inspired by Mike Tyson, Rappers, Malcolm X and Martin Luther
My past was tormenting me, but I was trying to start the future
I never had a thing
Demons tried to grab my wings
Cut them off so I couldn't fly
Killed off all my emotions so I wouldn't die
I became numb to it all
But I found the strength to stand up to it and not run from it all
Forgive me but i'm not impressed by your closet of nice shoes
I'm impressed by the guy who lost a leg but continues to try and move
I don't respect your diamond jewelry, I respect the guy with a broken neck trying to keep his head up
I respect the homeless person trying to find work even though they don't know how a bed looks
I admire the person Going to church trying to get clean wings
I despise the guy who Makes a little donation, but hides the fact the rest of his money went in a strippers G-string
Sorry but it just doesn't seem right
Yes I go to strip clubs, but I don't then go to church preaching about a clean life
I found beauty in my nightmares and turned it into my dream life
Me, Myself and I, the ultimate team's arrived
I thought I needed more, turns out I was wrong with that mindset
Thankful I started to realize my own worth while I have time left
Over 3 thousand poems, but it feels like I Haven't rhymed yet
My pen got me out of mazes I thought I'd always be lost in
"He made mistakes, but he tried to correct them, no matter how much it cost him"
That line is how I'd like to be remembered when my time comes
I exercise my thoughts on paper as my mind runs
Been ridiculed, bullied, and mocked but I found a way to survive
Better times are ahead, if you continue your journey and stop saying this can't be life
|
Details |
Verse
|
1
Sunrise, late winter
skunk smell
turkey flock
playful otter, too.
The white heron
a great blue,
white phase,
in the abandoned beaver pond.
Purple clematis
its long-awned achenes
in globose heads
spidery, fiery, extravagant fruit!
To identify or classify
birds by
the complexity or beauty
of their songs.
And so
what is over that
ridge or hill
a sink-hole, a sand dune, a steep bluff.
2
What must I do. Organize
the heretofore unorganized. The rabble
of unemployed child abusers.
Molesters of their intimates.
Are there dysfunctional bird families?
Simply put, they do not survive.
We have hope
that everyone alive is essential,
consequential. We classify
and specify.
The commonplace and everyday
is sanctified.
What happens everyday?
Morning is quiet, everyone at work.
Home writing, watching birds.
Afternoon, kids come back from school.
Evening, watch tv.
Scotch and Star Trek.
Captain Picard's problems eclipse
ours who stayed behind.
3
Pray to Allah
and maybe he will spare you
when he sets the world
on fire.
Where or with who
will I be on that day?
And how many people and adventures
will I find in the wind storm and rubble?
I may live, but will it matter
whether or not I help anyone else to live?
This is no Last Judgement.
Those who have learned or who still know how to live
will survive.
Nobody will go to hell, they will just die.
There is no limbo either.
Anyone who didn't find a way to be immortal is just dead.
So, what am I trying to do.
Organize the unemployed, the welfare mothers
and alcoholics
into a flying chevron of purposeful explorers?
4
The doctor's conscious, organized,
naive attempt to do good,
his legacy, versus the randomness
of the road and the war zone.
There his legacy is his rectitude and natural
rough compassion for the damaged people
he encounters. The difference
between planning a legacy
as if you knew enough to control events
and letting the legacy arise
from events themselves, controlling,
insofar as you are able, only
your own actions and reactions.
The doctor's leadership role such as it was
grew out of not his material possessions
like the car
but his mission, his personal quest
to find the young doctors he had naively trained
and sent into the war zone
where all died.
5
July-a cold city
not as great or as gritty
as I thought, summer theater left
the shoe shine bereft of customers
eyes cold as a bureaucrat's
except for our soles
and their leather. Sweat-soaked
girls, the beautiful ones left town.
Emotionless as a bus.
Sparrows, no chickadees.
All that's important happens indoors.
Exercise to philosophies.
You get what you see.
The panhandlers ask
just once, won't risk
friendship, justice.
No sale today
in the finite city
where, for the shoe shine,
pedestrians are infinite, times two shoes.
6
Faith = wait + trust.
But don't anticipate.
Popper prohibits prediction.
Niebuhr expects destruction.
I believe in God
doesn't mean there's a sketch
of a man in my head. It must mean
all will be well in the end.
Satisfied with snow
or summer. And now
with dying old or younger.
Gold or paper clips. Gulps or sips.
In the final resting place
in the city of the dead
are there all night card games
and sometimes open swims?
Each inch, square, or cube of Earth
brim with grasses and sedges, dragonflies and spiders, sparrows and eagles.
The tiger lily and the water lily and the lily of the valley, the calla lily.
When a girl on a bicycle smiles, that is a smile.
|