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Sunday, April 26, 2009

Some older poems 07/08


It keeps raining
cold gray skies with window wipers that squeak
because it is not raining enough
It would be nice
if it would just pour and the sky would empty
and we could move on.

But instead I deal with this slow trickle
and wait.

Vivaldi Plays

Vivaldi's Seasons plays for my two-year-old
daughter, as she tilts her head
to see a visual interpretation on a DVD.
A golden retriever plays in autumn leaves,
a fall-covered mountain passes by quickly,
as she tilts her head.

She holds her blanket that she has had since birth and she is calm -
looks reflective to me.
And I wonder if she

Sunlight streams across my keyboard through the blinds behind me,
from the sun outside.
unlike the TV, where it is Fall, out there,
it looks like Spring,
and I hope it is,
really is,
(I am reflective too, reflecting on:)
We could both use a little bit of spring.


Like an image tattooed on the sky
it's public record
but you
tell the untruths
you say
I wasn't
you say

Like an image
a sunflower that browned
and wilted
falling to the earth below
then scattered

You have lost everything

only your untruths remain
tattooed on the sky


The rain continues on without stopping
Our white plastic balcony chairs are wet.
I sit on one anyways.
I smoke a cigarette long and hard,
as I miss him.

Everything is wet and the rain
falls softly.


Night comes early to one who has been too long
in the day. One who walks and walks like a worrier, like a hummingbird,
hum hum, worry, worry,
One who sees tomorrow only in possibilities
of black and gray,
and sadness, seagulls have become more plentiful straying
Far from the ocean, you can now find them anywhere
digging through trash. They are vultures. She is a vulture onto herself
seeing everyone, everything, as feeding on her.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Being in shadow

Most times, I don't look for the moon,


some times, the moon hangs too low
on the horizon,
or it is out during the day.
Sometimes it is a large circle you just can not

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Dull roots

Here is an excerpt from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot, from Part I The Burial of the Dead:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

This quote was sent to my igoogle yesterday, and it really struck a chord with me.

Which I think I am going to write about in my other blog, A Year About Smoking.

But to talk about this poems in a literary way, I would like to say:

I like the not-so-typical take on April. When I think of a poem about April, I don't think about April is the cruellest month. It is a very refreshing take, and I like literature that does that: gives me a different perspective. This quote makes me want to pick a month and write about in a surprising way. Now, I have not read The Waste Land. (I would like to and have tried but have been intimidated by its length.) So in its broader concept, this reference to April may not be so surprising, but for now I like this quote for what it has to say isolated from The Waste Land.

I like that it ends the first three lines with verbs, and I like the choices he makes: breeding, mixing, and stirring.

I also love this imagery: Lilacs out of the dead land and Dull roots.

I have not been working on the exercises in In the Palm of Your Hand not since my post Raw and Naked Prose Poems,

but I am hoping April will stir my dull roots.

I just finished my twenty-two page poetry lesson plan for my grad class, so yesterday I was depleted.

However, it was a creative process about writing imagery and metaphors and I have this definition of imagery settling around in my head:

Language that appeals to the senses. Descriptions of people or objects stated in terms of our senses.

Also settling, is that same website's list of figurative language,

and this poem that I included in my lesson plan:

Looking Down in the Rain

In the big puddle

at the bus stop

I see the city standing

on its head.

Tops of buildings

move under my boots.

A wavery red light


to green.

The school bus

orange as a pumpkin

wobbles in on its roof

and stops.

In the puddle

I see small faces

and yellow leaves swimming

under water!

-Barbara Juster Esbensen

These poetic ingredients are may be breeding, and I hope that soon they will be mixing and stirring my dull roots.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

a metaphor

I thought I would share a poem unrelated to the work I am doing in conjunction with the book In the Palm of Your Hand.

I have not had much time for creative writing or blogging as I have been working on a long lesson plan for one of my grad classes. But the lesson is about poetry. It is intended for a sixth grade class to teach imagery and metaphors and I used this poem:


Morning is
a new sheet of paper
for you to write on.

Whatever you want to say,
all day,
until night
folds it up
and files it away.

The bright words and the dark words
are gone
until dawn
and a new day to write on.

- Eve Merriam

In my lesson plan, student will write their own metaphor poem with the topic being life.

So I thought I would try doing one of my own.

Life is
a long highway
for you to drive on.

Wherever you want to go
there are bright green signs
with words,
yellow lines to keep you in your path,
and exits when you need to get off.

The paved road
can hide potholes
and others may crash into you.
but if you drive carefully and purposely
and make choices,
you will get
where you need to go.
-J.N.Sinclair (Morrow)