Friday school

My Town
by Gabrielle


My town
has a meatpacking plant
on one end
and a doughnut factory
on the other.
So,
depending
which way
the wind blows,
any day
will smell like
either shit
or sugar.

*************

Misty Eyed Memories

I blossomed near a Mangrove Bay.
My roots grew down where branches stray.

With tides and time and glistening sand,
Palm trees sway as hurricanes land.

Sun burns the wind and stings my skin,
Saltwater ripples reveal dolphin fins.

Ospreys soar as egrets sail,
And misty fog our secrets veil.

They float in rivers, bays and sea,
The great majestic manatee.

Sunsets flow through thunder clouds,
As sails are set for a westward bows.

Then east I turn to sunrise find,
Pelicans launch from a Mangrove Blind.

No further proof of God I seek,
Than where the sky and Mangrove meet.

Marianne Fuchs
June 16, 2008

************

Breaking down the House
by Andrea

We all wanted the silver

The oldest got the China
boxed up with confrontation and mistrust
Over in the corner I spy the crate of neglect
next to the carefully rolled up abandonment issues

who will take the trunk of verbal abuse
the set of not feeling worthy enough
the matching tears nobody wiped away

There is a hole in the box of attention
small bits escaping through the years
pounced on and secreted away-
afraid they will be taken again and stored
on an ever higher shelf

New old stuff...

I mentioned before that I find poems with very short lines - no more than 3 or 4 words - very appealling. That compactness of communication seems very tightly controlled and beautiful to me. I also like an ambiguity with grammar that leaves a line open to personal interpretation.




Untitled
(late 80's)

Broken,
boundless,
faithless,
few.
Forget today
and seek the new.
Sorrowful,
regretful,
seen
the beauty of
what could have been.
Silence,
promise,
fractured,
true.
And see
the damage
done to you.
To others
woe,
the things the same.
Disregard the number
and the name.
Irrelevant
to you
the cost.
Goodbye to what
we all have lost.

Friday School

Next Friday's assignment: A poem about where you live - be it either state, town, structure or room. Any format. See you then!

Shortness...

I wish I was a turtle
with my house upon my back.
Then, when I had to move away
I'd never have to pack.

Cleaning out the closet...

Ok, so, as I said when all this started, I had absolutely years of poetry to climb through, and wanted to throw it out there. Here's another from my days in the 80's, when I considered myself bad company, indeed.

Untitled
(late 80's)

I live in a world
I could be sorry for,
but that is the last thing I'll say.

I incur a price
that some find extreme,
but that is the one I won't pay.

I choose
my reality,
make my own dreams.
I refuse
to succomb
to desire
it seems.

My life
is the bait
and my heart
is the trap
and love
is the head
that I find
in my lap.

Breathing again...

Hello, friends. Back again, finally able to catch my breath a little. Posting some old ones again, will post a new assignment soon. Thanks for giving me some time, it was one of the most profound experiences of my life to see CR accomplish what so many did not believe possible.


Too Much to Carry
(late 80's)

Once again
we pack up our lives,
wrap our memories
in old newspaper
to be tucked away
in anonymous brown boxes.

Every time
we shed a little more,
leave behind a few more tears and smiles.
Our days reduced to belongings
which we must decide are
too painful to leave
or too heavy to carry.

It always hurts to leave.
The things we know
packed away from our touch,
unable to assure us
that we are really real.

All we need to know
is that this place
is no longer ours to use.

Never certain of
which direction we are moving,
only that it is
away.

Is Anyone Still Out There?

Hey all you Poets. This is Marianne, masquerading as Gabrielle again. She's a bit bogged down in life right now. The Big Graduation is coming up next weekend. Friends and family are converging from all sides of the map and it's about all she can do right now to keep moving in the right direction.

Gab has promised she'll be blogging again soon. She sends her regards to everyone and is wondering if any of us have come up with any ingenious new word combinations lately. If you have anything to post, please feel free to forward it to me at msottis@yahoo.com or put it in the comments.

My sister found the poet in herself last week. She dropped one of her teenagers off at school. He was walking into the building a little too slow so she decided to do exactly what she is trying to teach her teenagers not to do while driving. She rolled down the window, looked back at her son and yelled a smart remark, something like, "I know you can walk faster than that." Unfortunately she did this while she was driving in the other direction, causing a guardrail to leap in front of her vehicle. Here is the sad lament she wrote while waiting for the tow truck:


At This Moment

At this moment I feel
Alone, desolate, lost and isolated.
Who do I call?
Who will come?

This road is so empty.
Family is too busy or far away.
Where is my love?
Are there really any friends?

Help will come, it has too.
I cannot sit here all day.
Aren't there other things to do and
places to go?
Mustn't life go on?

But, the reflection is broken.
The skin is scratched and marred.
The momentum deflated.
What will I do?
What can I do?

I can still see the road ahead.
But I cannot move forward.
Only sit, watch and wait?
Can I make a call?

I watched him walk away.
The confusion happened.
Suddenly my heart raced?
Why didn't I see?

I turned and lost control.
Flashes of red and yellow passed
with screeching sounds.
I had to stop, to breathe, to think?
Now I just wait and hope?

I tried to call.
But only indifferent silence sounded.
How did this happen?
What will be next?

Damn that car-line guard rail!
It just appeared.
Where did it come from?
Has it been there long?

Next time, I will trust.
I will not glance back,
watching my child walk into school.
Next time, I will remember and
the cell phone will be charged.

Teresa M. Lonchar
5/15/08

Spring Fever

I'm suffering from spring fever and experiencing nostalgia, so I wrote a little ditty about my youthful summers;

Florida Summers

Fire signs,
Suntan lines.
Bar-B-Que.
I love you.

Catstail Walls,
Line sandy shoals.
Beached sails,
Before sunsets trail.

Cocoa Butter sweat,
In paradise met.
Loves passion faced,
In sinewy embrace.

Summers last chance.
Follow love’s dance.

Marianne Fuchs
May 01, 2008

Nonsense Word Poems

Hello out there in poetry land. It's starting to feel a little desolate in here. The only post I've received as of Sunday night is my own. I know I may be a little narcissistic, but come on, you guys are making me look bad in front of the Teacher and you know it's all about me, me, me... If I don't have some seriously nonsensical poetry posted by the time she gets back, she won't ever let me guest host again. Now lets get rhyming poets! Here's mine.

Scalpetish

After 1 Year of Chemo
I’m scalpetish I claim.
My mirror knows that I’m vain.
My hair is still there.
Heads still not quite bare.

4 Months Later
It’s starting to fall.
It seems I’ll shed all.
The Crypt Keeper’s hair,
Looks good by compare.

2 Weeks Later
Hands cling to bare pate.
I’ll never find a mate,
Though I attend every function,
As I deny my compunction.

6 Months Later
I compulsively stroke hair,
For my scalps almost not bare.
Scalpetish I am.
My indifference a sham.

2 Months Later
New drugs burn my veins.
Yes, I still am quite vain.
Hair is my only real fetish.
You know, I call it scalpetish.

Marianne Fuchs
April 22, 2008

***************

Yea! We have another poet willing to scramble her words to create a poetry omelet. Here's a tasty little slice of rhyme by Andrea I think you will all enjoy:

"Life is just so complicayteedee"
she mused while attempting to feed a dead cat some of her lunch
"Pussykins Pussykins you wuvas cheese don't you"
trash strewn canyons wind through mountains of newspapers
"I've read every book here twice times two and those for clippings"
toenails and slippers grown as one, wig matted to scalp
"I'm a healer and can warm souls so I don't need help just now"
life is just so complicayteedee

***************
by Gabrielle

My Nonsense Word

My nonsense word is called Freedom,
its a love I pained to conceive.
My nonsense word is called Freedom,
its an ideal I longed to achieve.
The government finds
the taste of it sour
but cannot deny
its increasing power
exponentially growing
hour by hour
So I guess I can finally believe.

***************
Here is my Nonsense Word Poem
Please suggest any changes.

JG

Nonsense Job

I worked in his office
Each day after drool
For a grubbett of wheezers
A pocket of spool.

He licked me, I’m sure
With a winkel and nod
And paid me entreaties
Of hooves and a clod.

I ungered him once,
A pain in his chest--
He drubbed me unduly
To always unrest.

I worked in his office
Each day till the drop
And left with a wouch
And a snack left on top.

April 30, 2008 6:41 AM

***************
From kackerbe

H.I.M.


he gorps and grows so
messianic manitou
helpless, my love grows

***************************

(a haiku about Barry!)---p.s. did you ever see The Manitou?
Best-Worst movie ever!!!!!
"gorp" means to my family-----drinking thick milkshakes, etc. :)
His*Infernal*Majesty

Need A Little Help From My Friends

Hi Everyone. It's a pleasure to be here, standing, or should I say, typing in for Gabrielle. As we all know, sometimes life gets a little to hectic and we have to take a step back. I guess Gab is having one of those weeks. I'll be filling in until next Friday.

While I'm at the controls, I thought I'd ask for a little help from all of you. A dear friend of mine is opening a Day Spa. She has asked me to write a poem she could have framed to display in the spa. She asked that if reference God, friends, women, and that her dream is coming true. Here's what I've got. Any suggestions?

Ode to Ana’s Dream

New Awakenings Day Spa

An exquisite dream,
Was fulfilled it seems,
By Gods warm embrace.
Reward for her faith.

In the company of friends,
Femininity shall mend,
Bringing forth these rare flowers,
Meant to bask in Gods Powers.

These rooms shall be filled,
With laughter and tears.
May joy, peace and grace,
Complete this fair space.

True beauty is not skin deep.
Into our souls it doth creep.
Thus know you’ll never repent,
This precious time here you’ve spent.

Marianne Fuchs
April 22, 2008

Friday Makeup School

I need to take a little break, due to upcoming graduation of eldest Son. Let me introduce you to our guest, you know her as ADD Novelist, My Friend Marianne.

Your assignment this week is to make up any assignments you've missed in the past.

I hope everyone has a great week. I'll be thinking of you during this nail bitingly difficult time. Please keep me in your thoughts. Please extend a gracious welcome to Marianne, as I know you will.

Please forward all submission for this week to Marianne at msottis@yahoo.com

I'll be back next week.

Gabrielle

Sorry...

Sorry I was so late in posting my own poem...

Andrea's Sunday School

Your assignment, if you choose to accept it, is to write a poem with at least one nonsense word. Direct questions to our fabulous Andrea.

Belated Friday School

Sorry...I've got the mung and have just been crudding around.
******************
by Gabrielle

To My First Love at Thirteen

I'm sorry we got in that fight
and I went to camp without saying goodbye.
When I came back you were in ICU
and the nurses could not meet my eye.
I left a note they said you saw,
did you know the sorrow I could not say?
Do you know that regret that lives in my heart
even to this day?

I love you John S.

******************
by Monica

Mr. Carlson

I'm the youngest of your youngest
She and I look a lot alike
Act alike, not that you would know
I was named for your replacement
I never met you, but don't remember him
I watched the TV you died with
I think we would have got along
Do you even know who I am?

******************

by Andrea

Ode to the man sitting across from me on Bus #5 heading North from Downtown

Only
eight
stops
to
say
I
Love
You

by Andrea

******************
by Marianne

My Conversation With

Mark Twain

You were a brave man,
to take such a stand.
Against everything grand,
established or thought to be good.

Religion, you spurned it.
Government, you burned it.
Society, you turned it
on it’s heels, leading it astray.

Marianne Fuchs
April 15, 2008

Friday School

I liked our heard and spoken poem so much it really got me thinking about communication. I want everyone to think of one person(or thing) they would really like to have a converstion with. The title should be that individual's name, and the poem will be 8 lines of what you would say to them if you could. Have a great weekend, poets!

Closet Poet Jam

Here's our results so far....
*****************
by Gaby, Andrea, Marianna and Kate



Its snowing where I'm going
and its snowing where I've been.
My beams reflection on the road ahead
is the only light I've seen.


I remember in the summer
We weren’t bothered by the heat
We ran through sprinklers, drank from hoses
Played kick the can on Dravis street

If I were in Florida,
It'd be hot and steamy.
Now I'm in this snow-bound world,
My view is white and gleamy.

with the warm thump of my wiperblades
my sense of self becomes the car
who's to say I'm not in a spaceship
dodging cosmic dust ,while longing for my star

*******************
by John


“It’s snowing where I’m going
And it’s snowing where I’ve been
My beams reflection on the road ahead
Is the only light I’ve seen”.

Dorothy wakes up, the snow is gone
The snow was only a dream.
Nothing that wonderful ever happens in Kansas.
Dorothy is about to scream.

It’s a boring day in Kansas
I’ve had it up to here with all of them.
So I jammed the Jeep in four wheel drive
Oops, I backed over Aunty Em.

It’s windy, mighty windy
The wind’s ‘a blowin’ quite severe.
Still nothing beats the open road,
Springsteen and a six-pack of beer.

It’s raining, I’m not complaining
It’s raining fierce and then it fades.
I’m very glad that Uncle Henry
Installed new wiper blades.

It’s hailing, but I’m not wailing
The chunks are hailing crossways wise
Tis a good thing Hickory applied
A second coat of Simoniz.

Twas a twister, almost missed her
Twas a twister mighty grand
The Jeep became a flying monkey, now my
GPS says “Munchkinland”

Religious Ideation...

Here are two old poems, one by John and one of mine. John is inviting any suggestions on his...I kind of like mine as it is....

Vision of the Madonna Weeping
Upon the Shoulder of
Route 9



A desolate strip of asphalt divides the land,--
right, Connecticut resumes her southward journey,
while to the left, lush Haddam’s forests stand.

A phantom fog dominates this valley
tonight. Low beams lap uncertain sight,
the broken lines of white infinity.

Images in a mirror without light:
a liquor store, a school, a dead end street;
repent attention from the drowsy night.

How molecules make man and this conceit
of mist against my window—to defrost
this Latin Mass of poetry--effete

tenor and vehicle in the gray exhaust
of clouds in contact with the ground. Route 9
North or South, no difference when you’re lost.

I see her on the shoulder, the Divine
Madonna, holding a lily, weeping—
and goodness was the last thought on my mind.

********************

Crucifiction of the Dance Indifference

lost soul

dark blue and grey

calloused hands and bruised face

In life's forests the paths

often lead to confusion

while the blind kneel

in retribution.

*

battered soul

vivid purple and red

torn feet and bloody head

silhouette

against the setting sun

communion of the faithful

when day is done.

*

Time ignores those

who bow in reverence

but crucifies those

who dance in difference.

*

Close tired eyes

and dream of the sublime

or shimmer like stardust

for too short a time?

Friday School : Closet Poet Jam

Thinking about lyrics the other day reminded me of a poem I started this past winter. I have to travel a long distance to work on a 2 lane highway fraught with perilous turns and speeding semis. The poem kept me company on the long drive. As it was forming, it felt like a song. I'm posting the opening lines, and its your job to build it with me. Please follow the same format and rhyme scheme. Have a great weekend!!



Its snowing where I'm going
and its snowing where I've been.
My beams reflection on the road ahead
is the only light I've seen.

Heard and Spoken

Last week's assignment was to record the first words you heard of a morning and the last words you said at night from Monday through Thursday.

*********************
My Week In Review
By Marianne Fuchs

Hey, we woke Marianne up!

She sounded like she was
ready to sue, didn’t she.

Bobby’s talking to the bank today,
about the loan.

Beckham got hurt as soon as he
got here, but he’s still getting paid.

Are you awake? Are we going
to breakfast?

No, the Anti-Theft device is
activated. It’s tucked in.

Are you feeling better now?

It’s in safe mode right now.
We can play the games tomorrow,
but if it crashes, we’re screwed.



****************
My week
by Andrea

I was hoping you were you
The kiln is on and the annoying fan should stay on too

I need your help, what would Gidget eat?
Evil Timmy better be there next time

Did you find Lil' Marcy on your doorstep?
I'm off to be neat, cool and strong

Can you order more Hydroxizine?
1 I love you, 2 I love you, 3 I love you- Bye!



Someone once said to me that the only thing weirder than me were my friends...
I didn't include the "hi Andrea it's..." just the "real" first thing that was said to me
(Although my sister never said hi-just launched into needing my assistance planning a 60's style beach BBQ)
The Neat cool and strong was from a newspaper article about my family pottery class- that's how a 9 year old student described me. I think it will be a good slogan should I run for President.
On Thursday, I told my friends what my assignment was so they have been calling me saying all kinds of nonsense-too late!




**************

by Gabrielle




Ok.
There better be some sleeping going on.
Mama Mama!
See you in the morning.
Bye, Mom.
Yes, good night.
I’ve got to go to Grandma’s house.
I really do love you.
*************

By Kate
book ended by the sun and the stars

...I know I know,....it's TIME to get up....
good night sweet dreams I love you.
um Mom, is it time to get up?
'night Peachy paisano, sweet dreams please hush now.
Wow! I sure sweated a lot last night.
did you go pee before you hopped in bed?excellent big guy...love you.
I wish I could go back to sleep...
goodnight angel eyes
.**********************************************

this was a transaction solely between mother and child.I'm still giggling over his "sweating" in bed...he had actually peed and this happens once or twice a year-if he eats a lot of salty food then drinks water through the night....I'll treasure these memories.





**************
By Monica
I couldn't do this week's assignment, so I wrote a poem to explain why.


FIRST AND LAST
First in the morning, what was said?
It's hard to tell. It's in my head
A jumbled mess of words and phrases
Like a book with missing pages.
One night I stayed up with pain
I sorted through the words in vain.

What was said last at night?
To my cat I think it might
Be all the words I have to say
Because I've been at work all day.

****************
by Michelle

this is my week. my daughter, 12, is not a morning person. lol
*

i'm up
goodnight, god bless you, see you in the morning. i love you
don't turn on my light
goodnight, god bless you, see you in the morning. i love you.
ug
goodnight, god bless you, see you in the morning. i love you.
alright, i'm up
goodnight, god bless you, see you in the morning. i love you.
**
my mom used to say that line to me when she tucked me in. i started saying it to my daughter when she was a baby and have ever since. even though i don't tuck her in anymore...she goes to bed and will actually wake up when she hears me coming up the stairs, tells me good night and waits for me to say it to her...then falls back to sleep. hopefully she will say it to her child someday and have the connection that it has brought to us.

Hard poems

Sometimes, you're in a hard place, and you write a poem to help you get your head right. Sometimes, a friend is in a hard place, and you write a poem to get their heart right. Here's a couple. Have you ever been there?

*************
by Gabrielle

My Brief SI


Sometimes
I sit in the car
and think about
turning it on
and letting it run.
Warming it up
to take me on a trip
to another place
away from these troubles,
these problems I can't solve.


I sit in the driver's seat
and smoke a cigarette
looking at the cinderblock wall
in front of me
and the closed garage door
behind me
and think
about turning it on
and letting it run...


but I guess
I'm not
done packing
yet.


*************
by Marianne

Dakota’s School Days

He speaks in whispers,
Not wanting to be rude.
His gestures timid,
Not daring to intrude.

Heart-breaking sadness.
Eyes glistening with pain.
Hoping for approval,
He knows he’ll never gain.

Born in such a hurry.
Smaller than the rest.
Grew up much to slowly.
Great scars upon his chest.

A host of medical conditions.
Operations saved his heart,
But what about his spirit?
It can’t be written in a chart.

He’s the different son.
Not the All Star one.
Homework is never done.
Tragic life may come undone.

Scratching till he bleeds.
He sees Doctors, Psychoanalysts.
He’s too young to understand.
What cruel curse is this?

When anger finally explodes in class,
No calm voice or loving embraces.
Only stern words, cold hard stares,
To fuel the fire as it RAGES.

Marianne Fuchs
March 26, 2008

Listen closely...

OK - your poem starts tomorrow, but remember - its the first words you HEAR and the last words you SPEAK. Don't get confused and just used what was said to you. Your words are half the poem. Good luck!

Just a quick intermission....

Let us lay down these ground rules now and forever - you may ask anything that you have a question about and you may answer any question presented to you - AND those two things will be interpreted as being helpful only. This medium can lead itself to interpretation that is false. SO....we will all expect only the best of one another, as I am sure we all have only each other's best interest in mind. I am so thankful to have the input of each and every poet here. You all have given me a great gift, and I hope that I have given a little something back to you. The world mourns the fact your poems are not heard by everyone. Their loss is my gain. Thank you.

Monica's quote...

Thank you Monica, for joining us...and you are NOT late! People, feel free to submit at any time. I can't say it enough!
******************
by Monica


Sorry it took so long for me to do this assignment. I didn't have the poem I wanted to quote, so I had to wait for Amazon to deliver it.

It's called "Serenade" by James Merrill. Although born rich, Merrill never has given off any pretense that seems to come with money. He always seems very "real" to me, just a normal guy going through life. His work I think reflects that, and at the same time goes past reality and becomes achingly beautiful. The poem opens thus:

Here's your letter the old portable
Pecked out so passionately as to crack
The larynx.

This is the personification of the typewriter used to write a note to Merrill by a loved one. This is important because a writer's medium is sort of an extension of oneself, and so to give human qualities (emotion, even!) seems essential and natural.
The poem ends with a similar treatment of the very paper that love note was written on. More importantly, though, the action of the light transforming the page into a sky view transfers an eternal quality to the written word. That page quite possibly outlived the person who typed it.

Heard now
In his original setting--voice and reeds--
As music for a god, your page
Asks to be held so that the lamp shines through

And stars appear instead of periods.

Why this speaks to me is why I've always considered myself to be a writer. Words - spoken and written - hold such power, and weilding such power brings vitality. They are a life force for me, and one of the few things that have brought me joy continuously throughout the years.

A poetry experiment for Friday School

OK, Poets, let's try an experiement. It's going to require a little different effort. This upcoming week, I want you to record the first words you hear that morning and the last words you speak that night. Start on Monday, end on Thursday night - so that should give us all an eight line poem. I hope this will be enlightening, and let us hear how poetic our lives really are. Have a fantastic weekend!

The teacher becomes the student...

Kate is the one who inspired last week's assignment, so she gets her own post, and as I know how generous she is, I know she won't mind Andrea hitchhiking along!



I might go the first route suggested "of poetry in other forms"...I've always loved the writings of William Faulkner and his "tip of the hat" to poetry writing always touched me, "I’m a failed poet. Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first, finds he can’t and then tries the short story which is the most demanding form after poetry. And failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing." I found his "stream of consciousness" technique enormously poetic... and so The Sound and the Fury, followed by As I lay Dying....hold a special place in my heart.
***************************************as for an actual poem:
Robert Frost's --A Tuft of Flowers, a common poem perhaps, but it resonates my feeling of contentment with being alone. I like how Frost contrasts a sense of aloneness with a sense of empathic intuitiveness to reveal his "theme" of the common bond between men. Thus for me, I personally feel more "human" when I'm alone and outside with nature.Gabs, I don't know if we have room or the need for A Tuft of Flowers to be posted...here it is is you like to put it up.

The Tuft of Flowers

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been -- alone,
'As all must be,' I said within my heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly
,Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach
.'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'

****************************
by Andrea



by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Richard Corey


WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.


And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.


And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.


So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.


My Mother used to read us poetry from a black leather bound volume. She could read The Raven and have you believe you were in the room with the narrator. We always requested this one-perhaps we were just morbid children or perhaps it was our Mom's way of teaching us "Be happy with what you have"
My favorite line, apart from the shocking last one, was always
"In fine, we thought that he was everything to make us wish that we were in his place."
(We THOUGHT that he was everything... )
My Mother, and this poem, helped me to look past the facades and see the people underneath- for better or worse.

My quotes...

My quotes are many and from various genres, I hope you enjoy them and that your's keep coming.

Jungleland by Bruce Springstein

"...and the poets down here don't write nothing at all
they just stand back and let it all be
and in the quick of the night
they reach for their moment
and try to make an honest stand..."

Not only is this an awesome rock song, it is a beautiful poem. That line just struck me when I heard it - just gorgeous stark imagry.

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
and the mome raths outgrabe."

To me, there is no better beginning to a poem.

The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving

"...sorrow floats..."

John Irving has written some of my favorite books. And his description of the horrific accident that leads to the discovery that sorrow, unfortunately, both figuratively and literally, will not sink, is some of the most poignant writing I have ever read.



Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein



"...let us leave this place

where the smoke blows black

and the dark street winds and bends

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

we will walk with a walk that is measured and slow

and watch where the chalk-white arrows go

to the place where the sidewalk ends."

Shel Silverstein is hugely important to me, as he is the one who made me want to write poetry. I was a loner and a bookworm as a young child, and when I discovered his wonderful poetry I felt this immediate sense of self awareness - this is what I was too, and not only that, there were others out there just like me.

Oh, I could go on, and probably will....I encourage you to add more quotes as they come to you.

The words that move us....

I am starting to post the quotes that inspire and embolden the poets here at Closet Poet. Please continue to send them, and submit as many as you like.

****************
by Michelle

my favorite quote is actually something my mom said to me when i had my daughter..."you are the one she will look to..."

it was part of a longer thought, but it always stuck with me. i was the one she would look to for guidance when she took her first step, to learn how to act and react, to know what was safe, to comfort her in times of distress, etc. no matter the situation, i always remember the words my mom said and remember that what i do and say help to shape the person my child becomes.


*****************
by John

G,
here is the line of poetry I most cherish.It is not musical or funny, but it embodies my entire spirit of existentialism.I truly believe that everything that happens in our life is the result of choices and probabilities.

In this case, hubris led to a bad choice. And so it goes.

It is from Thomas Hardy's"The Convergence of the Twain"

VIII

And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.


*******************
by Marianne

I am the navigator of the seas.
I built the ocean from my tears.
I go whichever way the wind might blow.
I've been drifting for what seems a hundred years,
Tragically not knowing I could steer.

These lyrics are from, Following My Compass, by singer/songwriter Kristen Hall. She has put out some of the most poetic music I have ever heard.

I think this portion of her song touches me because it reminds me of the mistakes I made in my youth, “Tragically not knowing I could steer.” There are so many things I would have done differently, if only I had realized that I could direct the course of my life. I didn’t have to wait for the perfect time, the perfect man, the perfect bank account. If only I had had more ambition, more determination. But I went which ever way the wind blew and I still seem to be drifting, and some days drifting in an ocean of my tears.

Marianne

Poems

Here are some new offerings - remember, feel free to send anything anytime you want.

Selfish Heart

Girl meets boy.
Girl wants boy.
Boy wants other girl.
Other girl wants other boy,
Who wants other boy.

Wicked is the heart.
Selfishly it rules.
It never wants,
What’s for the taking.
It only wants love,
Of its own making.

Marianne Fuchs
March 23, 2008

Friday School and other tidbits...

I just loved Marianne's idea with my poem, and I found I wanted to try that opposite effect as well, so I did Andrea's haiku - which I thought was so poignant.

Assignment this week is from Kate - please submit a favorite poet and one line of their's that really touches you. Let us know why. Have a great weekend!

Feedback requested...

John has submiited a poem and requested feedback and suggestions. Hopefully, he will comment in and let us know exactly what he is dissatisfied with. He welcomes all criticism.
STARLIGHT MINTS



I remember the day Grandmother gasped
and dropped the bowl of Starlight Mints.

The Big Bang of my youth produced
a linoleum galaxy of glass

and candy, red and white whirls
in wondrous cellophane

stranded between glistening shards.
“Be careful, don’t touch that,”

she bitterly cautioned as my hand
reached for the nearest

pigtailed pinwheel of crystallized
sugar. I couldn’t help myself,

I didn’t fear the rasorial edge
of hen pecked tales. Not all

glass cuts, not all light blinds.
Touting confidence in the diaphanous

wrapper, I unwound one end,
making sure every crinkle

transmitted clearly to Grandmother’s ear.
“I’m warning you…” the magnitude

of her words diminishing in
the sweet sensation of my tongue

against the Starlight Mint.

FRIDAY SCHOOL Revisions

We have our first revision. Hopefully more to come..


Also, added a new love poem...
*********

by Marianne

OLDER WOMEN
(2008)
Do older women
feel the fire?
Or touch the ice?
They wander out,
appearing susceptible
to everything-
from apathy to the weather.
Pocketbooks clutched,
silent as mimes.
They concentrate solely
on
each footfall.
They turn in surprise,
then laugh silently.
Their tension
glimmers
like the reflection
from the shop windows
cursed
by their glance.
Too conscious of the cars,
and the people,
and the shadows
that pass around them.
They’ve existed
for decades
only for the sake of others.
Broken,
apologetic,
unaware
that their moment
of beauty is not over.

Marianne Fuchs
March 17, 2008
Revision of, Young Girls,By Gabrielle Cheek

************
by Gabrielle

There for all to see
I fling myself wide open
You may turn your heads
Revision of Haiku by Andrea

Keep checking old posts and other things....

Hey, guys. Just added new poems to some of the older Friday schools, so don't forget to check them out every once in awhile.

Also, it was mentioned to me that this Friday's assignment might make some people uncomfortable....I'd like to hear back from you all, and if you agree I'll find another assignment. Looking forward to your imput, as we don't want to offend anyone here.

Have a great weekend!

LOVE poems...

Let's see if we get submissions for this one. I think that most modern poets either shy from this subject or just embrace it like a high school sweetheart on a drunken night at a reunion. It definitely wasn't the easiest for me, but that's what this is all about, right? So, here we go...





Language of Love

by Gabrielle





The language of my life's love

has many dialects:



Sister

Mother

Child

Lover

Friend



The love I feel

is without end.



My ears are always

waiting for their call.



I find that I

translate them all.


********

by Michelle

there she lies
asleep on her pillow
the only person I have ever loved
with heart
with soul
to die for
to live for
my being is hers
from birth
she is my joy
my responsibility
my friend
sleep my beloved
dream of your someday
and know
my love is eternal





I am afraid
he came out of nowhere
wanting to break the wall
trying to get in
wanting to share
all I have
and all that I love
he is kind
he is thoughtful
but can I love?
love for me?
love for life?
the wall remains
but brick by brick
fear crumbles
hope seeps in


**********

by John
(This is a reinterpretation of Dire Straits song ROMEO AND JULIET, as first seen on Mo Rocca's 180 blog.)


ROMEO and JULIO

NARRATOR

A love-struck Romeo sings 180 a serenade
Raising everybody high, well above the common fray,
Finds a hand to hold, explains why he is Gay
Asks something like, “So tell me, What’s a Montague?

Julio says “Keep your voice down Romeo, you want the INS up here?”
Why’d you never say this before, “HAY LA, my best friend’s queer
But still, couldn’t this wait until the morning dear?
Anyway, now what the hell we gonna do?

ROMEO:
Julio, my plan’s to make a wife of you
I will make you legal, Red White and Blue
I’ll have to check, make sure that it’s not wrong
But I can’t imagine, if it is—won’t be for long, Julio?

Now getting to the wedding, that’s another matter entirely
Should we take a limo, a bicycle built for two or taxi?
One thing I’ve gotta do, before the dress rehearsal
I gotta go vote, and VOTE FOR HANK KIMBALL!


******

by Monica

beauty - bone deep
distracted momentarily
by the hideous mass,
foul mind in a pretty package
remorse, perhaps
but continued seduction
what more? what for?
vision, vivid, velocity
so great, so smooth
forever trapped
the damage is done


***********

by Susan

"William"


At 3:02 in the morning
after drinking too much last night
I know he loves me
though he only winks.

I forget how we got where we are
Providence drugged me, I think,
lest I reveal the path.


I don't like much anymore.
I don't trust anything.
I miss my father, Martin Luther King and JFK.
I miss everything that violence has stripped away.
Life is big, ugly and unfair.


William knows this intimately
And knows how I've been searching under our bed for my rose colored glasses
And knows sometimes I cry because it's 3:02 in the morning
And knows I'm as crazy as the next one in my family
And knows how god-damned much I want to live


I am a poet and he only winks
And his silence is as golden
as the rims on the glasses I can't find.


***********

by Marianne

To My Reluctant Lover

Are you calling me out of pity or guilt?
Please don’t.
I’m dealing fine with my problems,
I don’t need your pity.
I know what it’s like to,
Get involved with someone,
And then regret it.
You can let go of the guilt.
You’re doing neither of us any good.

It’s obvious you’ll never care for me.
Not the way I care for you.
If you wanted me as a lover,
Or even just a friend,
You’d fight to keep me in your life.
But you won’t.
You’d find time to spend with me.
But you don’t.
It would be easier on me,
If you’d just let me go,

I hope you find happiness
I hope you find joy.
I hope you find love.
I hope you find hope.
I can’t help you anymore.
You won’t let me.

Take care of yourself.
Smile and give me a hug,
If ever we cross paths.
And remember,
You will always be,
A special person to me.

Marianne Fuchs
March 07, 2008


***********

by Andrea

So, I have been working on a love poem but didn't quite like what I had. I was looking through some old papers and found some "love poems" from the improv game Bad Freshmen poetry-if you recall this is a game where you are given either a title or a first line and must type out ON THE SPOT a poem. so- bear in mind these were written in about 10 seconds...
****
the title given me was VOMIT

You threw up on my shoes
I didn't mind
It must be Love
****
The first line given me was Pablo Neruda says...

Pablo Neruda says,
Mi Amor Mi Amor

Pablo Picasso says,
All women are whores ALL women are whores

Pablo McGinnis from my homeroom says,
Hey, wanna go to a movie?


***********

by John

M * A * S * H *

I can never love you that way,
but at least we will always have
Chipyong-ni

and your rhyme with “protocol”
@ 3 something in the morning,
and your tales of Poppy in peril.

You dance across my screen
like some cyber-virus- heart -saving
Margaret O’Houlihan

If I could write a love poem
I think it would be this:
(*)

Next Week's Assignment

Let's mix things up a little. Your assignment for next week is to take a poem from the ones submitted here, and rewrite it. Please do not choose one of your own. Choosing a specific poem to rewrite does NOT mean you didn't like the poem, or thought the poem was not good in its original state, so please, no one get worried. In fact, I am eying a couple of my very favorite ones. Have a great weekend everyone!

FRIDAY SCHOOL

Sorry to be late - I got a virus in my computer and have been waging war all weekend. I have a love-hate relationship with my computer. I love it when it works right......It's still the same old story...the fight for love and glory....a case of do or die....

On that note, let's just get this out of the way and write some love poems. Any aspect or perspective, any form, due Saturday.

Haiku Friday

Here's the first of the Haiku. I have to agree that it was easier to write bad/funny haiku than serious ones! Extra credit to everyone that submitted early!

Haiku


By Andrea
You cannot find me
I have hidden myself well
Please try anyway


By Marianne
Cats curl then unfurl
Upon my warm cozy bed
House bound lions all


By Michelle
Exuberant joy
Blows in the wind as she swings
Heaven within reach


Day renewed by night
Death renewed by creation
Cycle of the world


By Gabrielle
SMARTER THAN YOUR DOCTORS
(A haiku for Marianne)

Your doctors were awed
Said you were a miracle
I always knew it.


Barry
(for Kate)
by Gabrielle

Barry grows so fat.
From our humor he was born.
Our laughter feeds him.

Toilet Paper
by Gabrielle

No paper up here.
Keep forgetting to bring it.
Closet seems far now.

(Sorry - I couldn't resist!)

by John

Double Mock Haiku

I was forty-five *********************In the fall of life

The difference a day makes ***********I am not who I once was

Life springs a surprise.*************** Opening the mail

*************

by Susan

"We will steal your wife"

The telephone voice threatened

My brave husband shook

**

He spent more on whores

Than many earn in a decade

Confessions fall short

**

A dime makes you smile

When you don't have a penny

Feet in cardboard shoes

Transitional poetry

These are two poems written from transitional periods in my life, also adding one from Susan.



MIAMI
3/88

I hear sirens
All night long here.
Love songs
Swan songs
Lullabies of desperadoes
And they send me to sleep,
Dreaming of lost causes
And hopeless cases
And unendurable pain.


CARNIVAL
2/7/89

I went to see the carnival
Only to find it gone.
It had pulled up stakes inside the night
And fled before the dawn.

Whirling off to meet adventure
In a rendezvous with fate,
I had wanted to go with them
But I found I was too late.



the night i thought about quitting therapy

the night i thought about quitting
therapy
i spent three and a half minutes looking
for the right pen to write with
about quitting therapy
and sat in a too-warm bathtub
and worried about whether
i’d get my mother’s varicose veins.

i thought about not looking at my corners
for cobwebs and dust faeries
and instead
wanting to dance in the center of this place
and fling my arms wide
to the skylight of tomorrow.
i wanted to burn the graves of my ancestors
and to pile their marble epitaphs
into a wailing wall
for some other sucker.

there was a burning in my skull
like an emergency broadcast test signal
that urged me to rush ashore
from the primordial stew
of my memory.
the hum of an air conditioner filled my sails
and set me on coarse for wandering
as i wished to cut off my hand
that steered me toward
the rocks of cold lava
and the bones and bandannas
in the sand.

the night I thought about quitting therapy
i was frightened of my microscope eyes
turned inward
and i felt like dr. frankenstein and his monster
i felt like dr jekyl and mr hyde
i felt like jack the ripper
and every painted hooker
between his kid glove hands
as I knew not what I was creating
nor what I might destroy.

© Susan Sheppard, 2000

Submitting your poems...

I am finding that I have the best luck if you email your poem to me as an attachment, then I can copy and paste it, and it seems to retain its format. Loving everyone's poetry - better than my own, damn you! I feel like my poetry is lacking something - talent?! Ha. No, maybe I feel it lacks maturity, which or course it does, because much of it was written when I was young. I'm just not getting that "I nailed that" feeling. Any suggestions?

Hey you guys..........

Don't forget to keep checking back on the Friday school poems - just added one from Monica. Also, just added Marianne's poem under Impressions of Fear....Welcome back Marianne! I missed you!

LATE ENTRY-FRIDAY SCHOOL

Sorry guys, working a new schedule. Will get my act together better this week. I have never written a Haiku. That's our assignment. Any subject.

***************

Listen, we have got to start actually commenting on each other's poems....that is what will help us grow as writers. I am giving it a go tomorrow - I know that sucks. You have until Saturday for the assignment....

FRIDAY SCHOOL

John inspired this Friday's assignment with his poem HOUSEGUEST. I asked everyone to choose a family member and write a poem. Please feel free to submit at any time.


My mother
by Gabrielle

My mother is
the strongest one.
"Your grandfather
wanted a boy."
she told me.
So he made
her work like one.
She married young
to escape,
and then her husband died
at 27.
She married again
to give my brother and sister
a father,
and then her husband got MS
at 48.
For 26 years she has cared for him.
She bathes and lifts him
"Its a good thing I'm strong,"
she told me
and goes back to work
on heavy things.




**************


Uma
by Susan

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I have been cradled
in those strong arms
and bathed her lap in my tears
countless times.

I have carried my insecurities forth
in small whispers
holding them with tiny child fingers
wide eyed
and fearful.
I have held them out to her
like shattered bits
of a favorite toy
and watched her
mend them
into a workable revision
of themselves.

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I have laughed until breathless.

I have played through hours with her
while driving down highways
wearing masks to amuse strangers,
while driving down causeways
seeing pictures in clouds,
while driving down small avenues
passing Easter eggs
to unsuspecting Sunday faces.

I have ached in her presence
and her absence.
I have screamed to have her near me
and to make her leave.
I have rebelled against devotion
and withered with abandonment.

There are moments, days
when I hear her voice in mine.
There have been
and will be
factions of me breathing her breaths
fearing her fears
smiling her joy.

It seems so fragile, this.

I have never written a poem for my mother.

I am so afraid
to make a scrapbook
of our lives.

I am afraid to cheapen
what we have paid for dearly
with rage and blood and time.
I do not want
my stories to become old stories
to be told without emotion
on a porch
with lemonade.
I love the vivid, shocking contrast
of our feast and famine.

I am afraid to dull
what we have shined to brightness
with love and joy and time.
I do not want my memories
to be yellowed pages
clad with letters.
I do not want emotions
bottled up in words.
I do not want reduction
to a well-bound leather volume.

I am so afraid
to make a scrapbook
of our lives.



***************

THE V.F.W. HALL
by John



The men at the V.F.W. hall
stir the cabbage, sweat and season
the meat. With their stub cigars
dying under their noses and t-shirts
worn proudly with spaghetti sauce,
they joke-laugh-choke and spit into the sink.

The women at the V.F.W. hall
staple paper covers upon
soiled tables, smoke low-tars
and fold napkins into skirts.
They volunteer for a good cause
and the bartender tips them with a drink.

The child at the V.F.W. hall
stares into the jukebox song
numb to laughter and talk of wars
and wars and wars. Nothing hurts
which is not understood. A pause
between the circle of the sound in sync.


********************

WHEELS
by Andrea


I was four and wore your old outfit
carousel ponies up and down the top
"Soon you will be in Kindergarten
take the training wheels off"

You were seven and gave your old bike
Pedals worn going up and down the block
"Soon you will be flying on your own
but I have to let go first"

You forgot to show me how to stop


******************

UNCLE

by Monica

the
hours added up
over thirty-four years
equal one day we've spent
together. i know you
despite not knowing you
common heritage is both
treasure and curse
sheilded from your influence
but
one
can't
fight biology

***********************

My Brother

by Marianne

Courage of a Wounded Warrior,

Strength of a Knight In Battered Armor,

Wisdom of a Great and Gentle King,

Compassion of a Saint,

All these things I see in you,

Make me proud to call you,

My Brother, My Friend

Marianne Fuchs

July 17, 2006

Poems about Autism

Autism has been a huge part of my life for some time now, as my 18 year old son was diagnosed at 3. His Autism was fairly classic and fairly severe. He was obviously intelligent, but would only echo words said to him. It took years of specialists and therapies and fighting the powers that be, but I refused to believe that it could not be beaten. My son is better now, and hopefully will be able to go on and live a productive life on his own. Needless to say, however, it has changed me in profound and painful ways. There are no textbooks, no roadmaps. Even the "experts" don't understand why it happens or how to fix it. It was an uncertain future, one I felt I faced by myself. A lot of the poems I wrote after his diagnosis were outpourings of that anguish and fear - unbearable sorrow. Here are two.

People who have children with Autism

1998

People who have children with autism

will tell a stranger anything over the telephone.

They can recognise the pain and anguish

in another parent's voice

like a password to a secret club

nobody wants to belong to

that neediness is the key

that unlocks all the pretense and bullshit

of civilized conversation -

let's get down to business.

People who have children with autism

learn to live life in a fishbowl

and love it

to embrace embarrassing situations and laugh

because they reaffirm this is my life-

don't pinch me please, I know I'm awake.

People who have children with autism

don't have the luxury

of fooling themselves

they can swallow what's on their plates

and ask for more, beg for it.

They have no shame,

for shame wastes time.

Have earned the right

to call a situation bizarre.

People who have children with autism

can appreciate the beauty

of one unbroken ravioli,

perfect in its wholeness

can agonize over one block

that simply will not maintain its place in line

can understand how relaxing

sands feels as it falls through one's fingers.

People who have children with autism

understand that

the order of the universe

is exactly that.

And that it

is a very tall order to fill

for

people who have children with autism.

********

My son got Autism and all I got was this lousy poem

(2000)

Alone I sit.

Alone I stay.

I wage a battle

every day.

I fight alone.

Alone I cry.

And all alone

I say goodbye.

The life I lead

The love I choose.

Alone I conquer.

Alone I lose.

Alone I rise.

Alone I fall.

And all alone

I face the call.

I face the truth.

I face the pain.

But all alone

the prize I gain.

The beauty beaten, battered, blown

are all the person I now own.

No one else,

just me, alone.

( I know the second poem has a Dr. Seuss feel to it, but I can recall how absolutely devastated I felt when I wrote it. It was like, only simplistic language could convey such complex emotions. Does that make sense?)

High School Flashback

As I'm thinking about old friends today, I thought I'd post a few of my poems from high school. The first one I wrote for graduation, the second for a friend of mine, and the third was something I scrawled on a bag upon waking up New Year's Day 1986 with a wicked hangover.

Senior Year 1986

One more time

one last dance

one quick look

one less chance

one hot night

one pink dawn

one world beginning

one world gone

one brief touch

one short smile

one for forever

one for awhile

one sure hand

one strong heart

one together

one apart

one young face

one bitter tear

one last embrace

one final year

one more game

one good friend

one goodbye...

childhood' s end.

Sophia

(1986)

Fish net legs

hold the magic

to tempt the world.

Down

on your knees.

Crawl.

Stay.

I

have the power

to hold you

at my will

in my spell

under my thumb

with my eyes.

1st Poem of 1986

misty

wistful

alcoholic

dreams

of little demons

This just in....

An old friend of mine, Susan, has decided to join us, and shot me some older poetry of hers. Enjoy.


We Will Never Speak of Love
by Susan

When I am sixty – seventy - eight years old
I want still to be destroyed by your touch
and polished by your eyes
and your notes
as you play a violin badly
just to make me laugh,
stopping by a music shop,
my maestro.
And I will still dance in high heels through
October’s brown grasses,
flying a kite in circles
to remind you of the sky.
And you will beg me to speak, still,
of anything
so that you may wrap your dreams up
in a hobo pack
and sling them over your shoulder
as you float upon my voice.
We will never speak of love
like a Hallmark card or roses.
We will never speak of love at all.
And when our children ask me why,
I will bow my head in reverence
and tell them that all sentences have periods
and that you are not words
but breath and blood
and that my marrow fills your bones.

FRIDAY SCHOOL....

John submitted this wonderful poem:

House Guest

When they brought her home
from the hospital, it seemed
like a good idea
to keep her. Then she started
knocking things over, messing
herself and screaming
in the middle of the night
She looked at me
like I was the stranger


I told Mom it might be a good
idea to bring her back
She was too much
But Mom said
Grandma
would be staying

***********

That got me thinking about how strange and wonderful family can be. For Friday School, choose one family member. Again, feel free to use any length or style you want. Have a great weekend!

Impressions of FEAR....

I'm beginning to post the FEAR poems, and will continue to as more arrive. The format may be slightly different than how you submitted, as I am still learning the quirks of this thing. Marianne will have to turn in hers late, as she is currently in the hospital for surgery. Be safe, Marianne, my thoughts are with you.


***********
Heartbeat
by Mo-nee-ka

THUD

There it is again

THUD THUD

going faster now

THUD THUD

no other sound

THUD


***********

Video Clip of Innocence

For Matthew Shepard
by John Giza

PLAY:
Young boy braving a strong wind
against the open sky of the American
schoolyard. Fifth grade History class.
On his head a stovepipe hat,
black cape flapping, faux beard
The audio breaks, capturing the fragmented
line “…these dead cannot have died in vain.”
STOP.

He cannot be not Lincoln, but he is
Matthew.
Puberty and love gather on his horizon.
Today’s lesson is one of democracy.
To the West, someone is building a fence.



News Article:NEW YORK, Feb. 14, 2008 - Ten years after
Wyoming college student Matthew Shepard
was brutally murdered because of his sexual
orientation, a 15-year-old gay California
student is brain dead after a student allegedly
shot him because of his sexual orientation and
gender expression.

************
CONSUMING FEAR
by Gabrielle

my ravenous self consumes my fear.
spoon fed by my mother
force fed by the media
words and images and ideas
making me terrified
to leave my yard
speak to a stranger
stand near a microwave
use the internet
a never ending catalogue of
don'tcan'tshouldn'tmusn't.

Fear translates to dollars
for guns and locks and pharmaceuticals
and surgery and insurance-
a free commodity more lucrative than gold.
fear never loses its value,
never takes a dive,
its money in the bank.

They start on you when you're young
indoctrinating you into the culture of fear.
They train you to do the job well.
A superproducer
in a field of mass production
I feed my fear to calm it.
Reading, eating, worrying ,
mindlessly consuming
whatever it takes
to keep my fear from
consuming me.

*************
HE WAS A GREAT MAN
by Andrea


People wouldn’t sit until you did
You stated and they complied
Some called you callous, some called you worse
some demonstrated against you
I don’t know if you actually liked me
or just realized I was all you had left
You try to make me understand
It is somehow important that I do
I will never wield the power you had
I will never control vast fortunes or inspire such fear
I can only feel sorry that at the end
You had to pay a stranger to hold your hand.

*********************

My Private Battle (Cancer)
by Marianne

I fight a great and mighty dragon,
It lies deep within my chest.
Its scales they split and grow
And travel on a river,
That flows inside my breast.

My Knights they surround me,
And in place of sword and arrow
Defend with needle and scalpel,
Cutting through the quick,
Straight into my red blooded marrow.

No boiling oil or flaming sword,
Will penetrate this beast’s thick hide.
My Alchemists mix and stir and pray,
To find the poison that will cure me,
Or help me live awhile then die with pride.

I’ve cut its heart out but it springs anew,
Then it re-grows, it multiplies and divides,
It finds a place you’d last think to look,
And rebuilds its strength with frighten speed,
Using the fuel my own body foolishly provides.

Many battles I’ve fought and many I’ve won,
Oh the wounds I have suffered, many scars I won’t show,
A few fortresses still linger, another skirmish always near,
But the war is not over and I am nowhere near done,
I’ve still so much of love and life to know.

Marianne Fuchs
March 04, 2008

**************

by Susan

And So I Sang


Anyone who knows Alaska
and many ones who don’t
know
a moose.

A moose does not want to be your friend.

Taller than any man’s courage
a moose stands braver than a lion’s roar
and impervious to a trespasser’s will.

My friend
met
a moose.

The moose did not want to be her friend
nor
did not want not to be.

Standing with flared nostrils wider
than
her eyes
the moose stood still,
that great brown God,
as she stood
back to brambles.

Many months later
she told me of this moose
who did not want to be her friend
nor
did not want not to be.

“I was afraid,”
she said.
“ I did not know what to do.
I did not know what to do,
and so
I sang.”

She sang Amazing Grace
to the towering fury of breath and stamping hooves,
and the moose
stood,
not wanting to be her friend
and not wanting not to be,
and she sang

and the moose
turned away from the blueberry patch
and left.

Anyone who knows the ocean
and many ones who don’t
know
whales.

A whale does not want to be your friend.

You are another Jonah
another Gipetto
another Pinocchio

and the whale is older than your memory.

A whale does not want to be your friend
and does not want not to be
but blows and spouts
and rolls one side
to gaze up at your curiosity.

My friend met a whale
or, rather, many.

The whales did not want to be her friends
nor did not want not to be
but wanted only to surround her and gaze and look and roll one eye up
to see this air creature and her finless fins.

But surrounded by these underwater mountains
she was keenly aware
of the finality
of an underwater grave
and the smallness of the vessel
beneath her feet
and the whales
that did not want not to be her friends
and did not want not to be.

She told me some weeks later
“I was in awe.
I was afraid.
I did not know what to do
and so
I sang.”

And my friend and the not friend, not-not friend whales
Fed each other’s curiosities
And she sang
Until the whales submerged
and turned
and left.

Anyone who knows how to live
and many ones who don’t
know
loss.

I met a loss.
Or many.

My loss of you does not want to be my friend
nor does not want not to be –
but stands always nearby
deeper than my fears
and taller, too.

It does not want to be,
my friend,
as I stare at it wide-eyed and afraid,
nor does it want not to be.

My loss of you is impervious to my will
and has not been tamed by years
as it towers sometimes a grey black God
and reaches down to take my breath in its own
as I recall your face.

It does not want to be my friend
nor does want not to be,
this loss of you,
as I recall your eyes
and the way they were
the bluest blue
at that last moment
that I saw them.

I did not want to lose you

The loss of you does not want to be my friend
Nor does not want not to.

And I do not know what to do,
and I did not know what to do
and so,
I softly took your hand
and so I sang.








February 22, 2008 10:29 PM

The Poet as a Child...

A friend was kind enough to contribute this poem written by her son when he was six. I think that this is really wonderful. I began writing at around age 9, and was lucky to have people who fostered that. Please make an extra effort to encourage children and young people who show an interest in literature and poetry. You never know what you'll start....

Don't you know
Don't you see
the Magical World
of Bumblebees?
Wholesome Boy, age 6

Furiously working on FEAR...

Hope everyone is having success with their fear poems - ok, Monica, everyone except you! Mine is evolving....I have several different ideas I am attempting to cobble together into some form of cohesiveness. Its funny, sometimes it just flows out effortlessly and complete, other times its in a million little pieces, like a puzzle that can only fit together in one precise way....

YOUNG GIRLS

(2002)

Do young girls

feel the heat?

Or the cold?

They walk along,

seemingly impervious

to extremes -

of both want and weather.

Hair flippingly,

chatteringly alive,

their focus solely

on

one another.

They turn to speak,

to laugh together.

Their essence

shimmers

like the heat

from the sidewalk

blessed

by their feet.

Unconscious of the cars,

and the people,

and the clouds

that pass around them,

They exist

in this instant

only for themselves.

Unbroken,

unapologetic,

unaware

that in their moment

they are beautiful.

DEATH AND REBIRTH OF THE AMERICAN DREAM

(1990)

Busted light

with a broken cord

screen door slamming

on an empty yard.

Gravel flying down the drive

let's take the car and steal the night.

Forever starts here

if you'll only say.

For what we've bought now

we may never pay.

The radio's playing our favorite song

I'll leave right now

if you'll come along.

We can seize the moment

and forget the past.

The memories

from here on out

are the only ones that last.

Our lives are starting here, tonight.

This time we'll make

our choices right.

Forgive me for what

I'm bound to do

and I'll extend the same to you.

Extenuating circumstance,

the time is now,

Let's take our chance.

Marianne's Poem

Here's an offering from Marianne:

A Home is not Built upon the Ground,
It is built upon a Family.
The Strength of a Family
is not based upon Laws,
It is based upon Love.
The Power of Love does not come from Passion,
It comes from Commitment
.A Bond of Commitment is not formed from Obligation,
It is formed from Desire.
The Burn of Desire should not begin with the Flesh,
It should begin with the Mind.
A State of Mind should not be determined by a House,
It should grow within a Home.

Marianne Fuchs July 20, 2006

(Marianne, I apologize for the format change - still trying to navigate this thing!)

Revise, revise, revise...

Andrea asked a question about posting things in progress - please do! As I said, I am finding stuff from over the past 30 years, and I am discovering I like a lot of it, and a lot of it I am going to revise. Its only finished when I say so. Anyway, please feel free to lob some constructive criticism. I am posting some new ones of mine, and then posting one contribution later for discussion. If you all know any other poets out there, invite them over!

Untitled

(late 90's)

I live in a world

I could be sorry for,

but that is the last thing I say.

I incur a price

that some find extreme

but that is the one I won't pay.

I choose

my reality,

make my own dream.

I refuse

to succomb

to desire

it seems.

My life

is the bait

and my heart

is the trap.

And love

is the head

that I find in my lap.

Untitled

(late '80's)

I'm as subtle

as a belt

across your mouth.

Proceeding unstoppable,

smack between

your horrified eyes.

I burn like a film

jammed into a projector,

starting pinprick

and spreading wider

and wider until

the whole screen is white

and clean

from the good bright bulb

that hides inside.

I have the grace

of a falling tree

slamming into

the defenseless dirt,

leaving bruised

and hollow tracks

where I've dragged myself away.

Ripping the rope

of a church bell

with frenzied pulls,

I clang until

your eardrums ache

with slow, dull throbs

and I reverberate

for long minutes after.

Friday School

In light of these worrying times, I thought we should examine FEAR. Any form, meter, length you choose. Due next Friday. Stay safe, keep your head down, and run in a zig zag line if ever being shot at. My thoughts are with the students and their families.

Take a deep breath and let go...

So I trudged down to my basement (literally, and I guess figuratively as well) and started unpacking decades of writing. I am terrible about titling and dating my poems, so I will have to guestimate the time of most of my contributions. I have a tendency to write in a certain style for a while, which makes it easier to determine approximately when things were produced. I will continue to sift through boxes, and update as time allows. However, I am eager to read other's poetry, I believe it makes you a better, more well rounded poet. So, here goes nothing.

SUMMER CAMP

(late '80's)

Summer camp

Choking smoke from fires

that singed our legs

we proclaimed our love for Jesus and

captured the flag.

running till our lungs felt

as if they would burst before

we could deliver the prize to the Lord.

we were so crafty, so cunning and swift.

so sure of foot, darting and weaving and rolling

out of the grasp of our sworn enemies

for that afternoon.

We met in the messhall

eating mass produced food

and I don't remember what

but nobody liked it.

And after lunch we creeps

sprayed shaving cream on a popular girl

from above her as she showered.

And she didn't even know

until she went to rinse and

we ran away to the treehouse and laughed

guilty laughter at our decidedly

unchristian behaviour.

Later we apologised

at the prayer meeting

and it was a Big Deal.

She accepted it with a grace

that benefitted her position and

we were lone dogs again, curs

who needed saving and we wanted it.

to be in the moment

with all eyes upon us

and be lifted up on the prayers

of tens and hundreds in attendence.

bowing our heads dutifully, we were saved

and went off to square dance

in the rec hall.

i remember few black kids

and no hispanic or asian.

we were white middle upper class

and knew no other.

we made wallets and crosses for our parents

to carry, and tread water for 3 minutes

with a buddy who didn't want to be there

and told sacrilegious ghost stories

in the roach infested cabins

only miles from where Randy Rhodes

had just died that summer.

and a girl i knew from home,

but pretended not to know

so i would look cool,

got her hair caught in a curling iron

and i was caught in the lie

in order to help her.

and the little tiny girl

who practiced gymnastics

and could lay on her back

and do splits

with one leg across her chest

got the boy i liked.

and i got no boy,

no boy at all.

but i got a tshirt from leesburg, florida

and i got saved

and i got the flag

and i got the gratitude of a wet haired girl

all that summer

at summer camp.

WENDY

(late '80's)

I am not your Wendy

but some lost boy.

I cannot abide a ribbony existence

of worry and cautiousness.

I need a wooden sword

tight in my sweaty fist-

to feel the anticipation

of battles with Indians

whose clenched white teeth

glint off steel knives

as they creep into our wood.

I want to throw the plots and plans

down

and rush heedlessly to the sea

where foolish pirates

sail too close to shore.

To live by my cunning

and wake awed at each sunrise,

surprised to see the night fall.

To be headstrong and certain

in the strength of myself.

To never doubt.

To never question.

To never grow old.

UNTITLED

(80's-current. I like to write using one or two words to a line. That has just always appealed to me. This was just a little poem I jotted down after attending a party.)

Blue

green.

Smile

preen.

Pose

pretty.

Speak

witty.

Silly

willful

Dream

deep.

Wash off

your makeup

and

go to sleep.

Welome Poets! I have been writing poetry for about 30 years now. It has always been my passion, but we all know that poetry really is not in hot demand. However, I believe it is one of, if not THE, most important means of communication. From the ancient Greeks, to the rappers of today, the common man craves to hear the words that identify his condition, or clarify his dreams. Spoken word or pop music, the idea is the thing. And there are those who love to revel in the word - to wrestle and bend it, until it rings clear like a bell. The famous poets of today are an elite group, but I find their words no more moving than a refrain of a song, or the whisper of a friend. , or the back of a cereal box. There is poetry everywhere, and it should not be put on a pedestal. This is for the real poets, the everyman poets, and for the people that love to read poetry.
I am posting some of my own poetry, but am looking for some new, fresh voices to compliment this blog. In addition, once we are up and running, I would like to propose an assignment every week as a poetry excercise. Comments welcomed. We will figure out the submission process as we go along. For now, submit under comments. I look forward to hearing your words.