Post Poems Here!
Yep, this is the place. The place to paste your poem if you want feedback from April’s guest blogger, Adrian Potter. (workshop details)
Adrian will provide feedback on a few–but not all–posted poems toward the end of the month.
Note: You must be logged in to leave a comment, and you can’t login until you register. If you haven’t registered with the site yet, click on “logged in” below the Leave a Reply heading, then click on “Register” below the login box. Enter the userid you want to use and your email. It takes only a moment. Your password will be emailed to you within minutes. As soon as you have your password, you can login and begin asking questions or posting poems. We promise to use your email only for announcements of events and speakers at this site.
There are also links to “Register” and “Login” at the top left of every page under “Stuff You Need.” If you run into any problems or have any questions about the workshop that are not for Adrian, email Candace or Amy.
Good luck!
TO JUDY
“A long time ago”, we . . .
How long ago was it, sweetheart?
Really?
Well, let us just say that
It was a long time ago.
Do you remember how,
At the end of a hot summer workday,
We would drive up the canyon,
Park, and sink our six-pack
In the icy waters
Of a laughing glacial creek?
Do you remember how
We would sit together on a boulder
In the middle of that merry stream,
Enjoying a cold brew and
The sound of the wind
In the pines overhead.
Do you remember how we loved
The coolness of the canyon,
The mountain blue of the sky,
The scent of the pines,
The air,
Each other.
God, it was good.
April 12th, 2008 at 4:51 amWe were still young,
Almost broke and struggling, but
I would look at you, and
You would look at me
And fortune and prospects made no difference.
No difference at all.
Joy of Flight
As free as thought
My plane dips to earth
Flying through the stratus
I soar through space
Not a whisper in the air
Cutting through spumes of cloud
Racing for the stars
Waiting expectantly
Up, up into the mirrored blue
Like a seagull
Dancing with easy grace
What peace
Aloft in the majesty of space
Into this realm I am enveloped
Consumed by scorpion shaped clouds
Out of touch with earth
Within a small world of my own
My thoughts suspended towards
The horizon
Only the engine’s murmur in the
Silence of the sky
Angel fingers weave
Like cotton candy
Through the blue endless heavens
What joy this dimension
Feelings of freedom, power
Faith and control
So few are able to experience
On this plain
Time and distance slip past my wings
April 12th, 2008 at 10:29 pmAs I peer downward
Descending to the bonds of earth
I dip, turn through the Valley
And touch the ground at home
WAITING FOR SPRING
Sunset over snow capped hills
April 12th, 2008 at 10:44 pmTrails of white on forest green
Flat icy river,
Birds circling over for their catch
Stillness,
Before the dawn
Footprints on the ice,
Otter, heron, geese
Waiting for Spring
Stalks of brown
Reaching for sunlight
Clouds mingling with the blue
The colors of Spring, still
Not here
Great to see-er-hear a new voice. Thanks for coming in, flyinglady! I enjoyed your two contributions very much and look forward to reading more of your work. (Can you give me a hint as to where you are?) - Jerry
April 13th, 2008 at 12:11 amAbiding Womb
How to mourn what could have been?
How to lament what never was?
Like the promise of rain from passing clouds
I held the future.
Once.
Like a tightly-drawn bow never released
I grew full of hope.
Twice.
Like the joy of gallop ever restrained
I felt life begin.
Thrice.
Can one rejoice three sparks never grown to flame?
Can such grief turn to gladness?
Like the Milky Way on a moonless night
A future unfolds.
Once more.
Like longed-for snow on Christmas Eve
Hope dares to take hold.
Again.
Like the tremulous increase of Spring
April 13th, 2008 at 1:57 amLife persists this time.
For good.
untitled
What they gon do with me?
Kill a man.
Jury say, “guilty.”
Judge say, “Twenty to life.”
I say, “Say what?”
These dudes don tell me nuthin.
They just put cuffs n’ chains on,
An’ say, “come along.”
I don’ care.
I ain’t scared.
I can take care of myself.
What they gon do with me?
April 14th, 2008 at 3:04 amYour lap, Your Chinese Checkers
April 14th, 2008 at 6:39 pmThe little eggshell bungalow
sporting the racket-making swing,
pink and blue hydrangeas
big as conch shells
and a woman who knew
a child needed
- to be held — to be fed -
- to be sat in a corner -
- to be let out to dream
in the shade of a sweet-smelling
magnolia -
The little eggshell bungalow
that never moved
that never changed
the child knew
- that however long the wait,
would smell of sweet milk,
sugar, butter, Johnson’s wax,
and lavender sachet -
- big pillowed rockers
and wide, rust-chained swing -
- cuppa-sugar lemonade
to cool a child
got too much sun…
Never, ever, picture a giant
bulldozer laying flat
a little eggshell bungalow
to make room for
anonymous.
- woman a knowing ghost -
Jerry,
The conversational tone in your “To Judy” poem is a nice touch. You really frame the relationship well with images of the past - the hot summer day, the six-pack in the creek, the landscape - they all are used to show us the carefree nature of the relationship with this lady when you both were younger. The ending almost seems bittersweet, but real. I enjoyed this one…good read…
April 14th, 2008 at 8:32 pm‘Like Giants, Grim and Grey’
April 15th, 2008 at 12:02 amThe time of courtiers’ and lovers’ play
Soon passes like the giants, grim and grey
Determination, sharing in life’s course,
Is not perchance her accomplice’s choice,
And, if she should venture there, may be bound
To repeat poor Eve’s dilemma’d option.
The soul was mostly tempted by a dream.
He did not have The Character—Depart!
And yearn; for condemnation’s all she sees.
The waste of hours, the loss of days does rend—
In the soul—after loving she will grieve,
And hate the part that whispered, “I believe.”
Two Shadows
Shadows on the wall of life
Grow more gently in the evening
When silhouettes in the waning light
Cast pictures in twilight’s deepening.
In the gentle light of dusky green
Walking alone, quiet steps along the road
In my mind I find you always with me
Sharing memories and cares and load.
I am yet alone on the solitary path
But I feel inside the renewing comfort
With the memory of our shared past
Essence of your presence coming forth.
Though the light is dim and blurry
Where I sand to seek remembrance
I can see in the smoky memory
Your shadow here when down I glance.
Two shadows intermingled in the twilight
Memory has brought me here to see
Two shadows on the road of life
Two shadows there forever free.
Written January 2002
April 15th, 2008 at 3:11 pmWren Song
The wrens are gone and summer flys
As raindrops splash on window panes
And sighing pines whisper sweet and slow.
I miss the wren’s sweet singing in the early morning light as I lay upon my pillows after my long night’s respite and gaze at raindrops falling, minute silver crystals drop from each leafpoint to kiss the earth, kerplop…kerplop…kerplop.
Autumn finds my spirit strangely dampened as the sun moves ever slowly to the south taking all the warmth and glow and I am melancholy and reserved again.
I’ll rest and slumber silently until Jack Frost has done his worst wrapped in my protective blanket made from beams of summer’s work.
Growing and maturing through
April 15th, 2008 at 3:18 pmThe dark grave time of winter
Until I hear again the singing of the wrens.
Native American
Walking past headstones at Wounded Knee,
I am tourist for the day.
Watching names rise from the parched earth,
planted back in the sorrowful season—
No Ears, Yellowbird, Her Many Horses . . .
Death grows well in the little cemetery on the hill,
where prairie grass struggles to breathe,
and trees never do achieve a graceful height.
An Indian stops by with an offering.
The wind sifts and carries the dust of his ancient song
through granite and ground, back to bone.
His song resonates,
sticks in my Adam’s rib,
catches hold of my breath.
And I stand,
head bowed in Sunday reverence,
waiting for the benediction.
A moment later we turn to go.
Him to his Chevy,
me to my compact.
Each to his own America.
April 17th, 2008 at 1:42 pmWash Day in the Midwest
The corn wilts and puckers,
waiting to get its feet wet in the playground of grasshoppers
as cows collect beneath the coffeenut tree.
The dog doesn’t bother to get up.
It’s hot dry August in the Midwest,
where people assemble in the frozen foods section to complain.
“Hottest day of the year,” one says.
“If it weren’t for the humidity!” says another.
And somewhere,
April 17th, 2008 at 1:46 pmfrom the back door of a hundred years ago,
behind the old farmhouse
Great-Grandma gathers her skirts ‘round the washboard and tub
and takes up her fight against several days’ dirt.
She laughs out loud.
“They’ve all gone soft,” she says.
flyinglady,
In posts two and three you give us a couple of poems very rich with imagery and description. I am a fan of poems that show me something and don’t just tell me something…and I think both of these fall under that category. Being up here in Minnesota, I can really relate to your Waiting for Spring poem.
I am not as well versed in nature and landscape poems - I am more of a confessionalist/narrative poet, so I guess I don’t really have advice or criticism of these two poems. I think if all of your work has this type of imagery, you should defintiely be sharing more of it here…and with the rest of the world…
A
April 17th, 2008 at 8:59 pmCandace (post #5):
So melancholy, so real. I really like the strucutre of this poem - I don’t know if it is a certain form or something of your own creating, but I like the repeated one long line, one short phrsse, one word structure.
“Like longed-for snow on Christmas Eve
Hope dares to take hold.
Again.”
^^That part really stood out to me, it was well-worded. You said a lot with just a few words. Simply complex…I like this…
A
April 17th, 2008 at 9:06 pmJerry (post #6):
I like the voice you used ofr this. I think you painted the scenario of this criminal facing jail time and wrote his thoughts in authentic way, right down to the simplicity with which he views his situation. The dialect adds to the appeal.
I found myself wanting to know more, though…I wanted to know his backstory. Maybe this could be part of a series of poems that tell this man’s story, I don’t know. It’s not bad to leave me wanting more - that’s the sign of good writing.
I think you should give this poem a title - it deserves a name. The right title, in my opinion, would help this poem’s identity. I think you are leaving a great opportunity on the table to polish this poem up to perfection by not giving it a title…just my two cents…
A
April 17th, 2008 at 9:12 pmphylisjg (post #7):
You did so much with images in this piece. You gave a complete character sketch of a loving woman who cared for a child. This part really stood out to me:
“that however long the wait,
would smell of sweet milk,
sugar, butter, Johnson’s wax,
and lavender sachet -”
Such rich description. Was this person a grandmother or mother? Either way, this was a fitting tribute to this person. A good read…
April 17th, 2008 at 9:16 pmGranny’s Would Be Birthday
My one son has your musky scent,
Cherokee spiced skin, I think it is.
Another reflects you, speaking only what is essential.
In my kitchen drawer still, sits your red handled shears
Once used for cutting Betsy McCall paper dolls,
Snipping twine and skinning chicken.
On your cherry hutch settled at my house,
Rests a blood red glass goblet
Paid for with my childhood dimes.
It replaces one I broke while helping you dust.
Occasionally, your words tumble from my mouth;
April 17th, 2008 at 9:25 pmI look over my shoulder;
Could you be here still?
But my mother wears your eyelids now,
Carries the salt and pepper hair.
My own thighs vibrate with slack from age;
My babies are grown now into warrior men.
This year I have lived as long without you,
As you had lived on earth with me.
Amy (post #12):
Your “Native American” poem was absolutely moving. You did a good job of juggling the fact that your narrator was a tourist for the day, seeing elements of the Native American’s life and culture, but yet can not fully understand as they turn away and assume their separate lives…or as you put it, “him to his Chevy, me to my compact, each his own America.” The contrast here was powerful.
This poem reminds me a little of a poem I read awhile back in a workshop, both in tone and subject matter (the clash of Native American past with American present). I think it was called “The River Will Not Testify” by Martin Espada. It was all about how the modern world was too busy to remember the tragic massacre of some native tribes centuries ago in Massachusetts at Turner’s Falls. Although that poem was a lot longer that yours, you evoked a similar awareness in me with this poem.
April 17th, 2008 at 9:27 pmClaudia Mundell (post #18):
Your poem is moving. I just lost my grandmother last month, so this really touched me. I noticed after the funeral how my own mother has started wearing my grandma’s eyelids, etc., much like your poem expresses.
The whole poem transitions so smoothly between generations: from the son, to your grandma’s words tumbling out of your mouth, to your mother slowly aging into your grandmother. Great concept and delivery.
A
April 17th, 2008 at 9:33 pmAdrian - Appreciated the comments in your post #16. If you have a moment to consider, what would you think of “Young Blood” as a title for this poem?
April 21st, 2008 at 12:00 amJerry -
I like that title, it works well with the poem. I thought your poem was too interesting to not have a name.
I come from the school of thought that a title is another opportunity for you to win over/impact your reader, a chance to show off your wordplay or your clever wit or your deep insight…not to say that there isn’t a time and place for an untitled work, but when you can, I’d suggest to always come up with some kind of title. Some folks may differ with me on that point…to each their own, I suppose.
April 21st, 2008 at 12:53 pmDisengaged
I called it being disengaged.
And I was
Stunned
At being dumped.
I’d had a future,
Then I didn’t.
Because
He’d changed his mind.
He was confused,
He said.
Yeah,
Me too.
So, I drove.
No traffic.
Except,
In the road
There was a body
Of a cat.
Dead.
Just hit.
I pulled over,
Got a towel,
Picked
It up.
I’d found my own cats,
Too often
Rent
Beyond recognition.
Someone had loved
This one,
Too.
They would find him
In one piece.
April 22nd, 2008 at 12:48 pmLike my heart
Is
Now.
Horses
They allowed us to tame them,
way back when,
’cause we’d never’ve pulled ourselves
out of the muck without their help.
They carried and heaved and nourished
our burdens of
hunger, shelter, expansion, war
and even introduced us to flight.
For there is nothing in heaven or earth
like galloping,
thundering across a broad plain on a warm back
arms out to the side.
I fly.
April 22nd, 2008 at 12:59 pmAnd the wind accepts
my prayers
of thanks.
A Horse Barn
Not any horse barn
April 22nd, 2008 at 3:03 pmbut a good, clean one
where the sharp pitch of kiln-dried shavings
or the yeasty green of fresh-baled hay
is first to catch in your nostrils
mixed with leather and saddle soap
and neatsfoot oil.
And horses.
There’s the eye-tingling menthol of linament
and the citronella of fly spray.
Underlaying, underpinning it all
is the never-ending supply of pungent manure.
It’s just grass and water, I say, and a bit of grain.
Nothing to be afraid of.
If there’s a new load of feed,
the sticky sweet of mollasses
can lift you off your feet.
With the farrier at work, there’s the clang
of metal on metal, of shoes being shaped
and nailed.
And the resonant clip-clop of a horse
moving over concrete.
A huff and a swish of tail.
The horses.
Here is the place I want to be.
Where I live the most and breathe the best.
And never feel at odds, only even.
Where time stands still and the colors
are brightest.
And the smells stay with you forever.
They know me for who I am.
Horses.
Can’t have
a horse barn
without them.
Hi Jerry! In Post #4 you asked where I was. I am now living on Maui where I was raised. “Joy of Flight” I wrote while I was flying/living in the Bay Area,California, and “Waiting for Spring” I wrote when I was living near Bend, Oregon.
Aloha, Flying Lady
April 23rd, 2008 at 3:14 amDavid
Samuel went looking for God’s chosen one,
And found him to be Jesse’s youngest son.
David tended to the sheep day and night,
Watching over them with all of his might.
He was a musician, warrior, very wise
Knew how to speak and was easy on the eyes.
King Saul needed his help in a spiritual bout
David’s music on his harp moved evil spirits out.
During a battle David went against Goliath,
who laughed in his face.
David had the Lord on his side and was full of grace.
A slingshot and stone showed off his skill.
And Goliath, the Philistine, he was able to kill.
The Lord had a plan for David from the start.
God knew that David would become
a man after His own heart.
King Saul became jealous of David’s life,
And sought to fill his days with fear and strife.
But it was Saul’s own son, Jonathan,
who stood by David’s side.
He made sure David had places to hide.
David reigned over Israel forty years.
Through many heartaches and many tears.
One thing we can learn from him is this:
When we encourage ourselves in the Lord,
We can’t miss.
Barbara Hodges
April 23rd, 2008 at 4:39 amCandace -
I love the description in the poems posted in 23, 24, and 25. I especially like the horse barn poem. The richness of the description places me into the barn itself - the mention of the kiln-dried shavings, eye-tingling menthol of linament, and resonant clip-clops appeals to several senses and grabs a reader’s attention.
April 24th, 2008 at 2:34 pmbarbie doll (post #27)
I like the message behind this description of David. I feel like you taught us a lesson about this religious figure without being preachy. I also appreciate the rhyme scheme - I think you took the time to read this aloud while working on it to make sure the rhymes flowed well and there was balance to the rhyming lines. Your conslusion was strong as well. Good read.
A
April 24th, 2008 at 2:38 pmAdrian, Thank you for the encouraging words. I am also enjoying your thoughts in the workshop. B
April 25th, 2008 at 3:25 amTo flyinglady: Oh, you west coast and Hawaii people! To a midwesterner it sounds so romantic. I’ve been through the Pacific northwest and was raised in southern Cal (Anaheim), but never been able to visit Hawaii. Landed there once on a military mission to Guam, but that was it. I did enjoy the floating gardenias in the terminal, though. Maui! Ah! Aloha! - Jerry
April 29th, 2008 at 4:58 am