three in the morning blogging...

To be perfectly honest: I do not have a poem. It is three in the morning, and I have been walking in the rain (not nearly as depressing as it sounds...actually it was a really nice night with friends) for the past two hours. However, even if today is today and not yesterday, this is going to be yesterday's update. I will now spend the next five minutes writing what is sure to be a pretty poor attempt at a poem, and then I am going to go to bed.
Also I must remember to take my contacts out.

............

In the age of technology
where cellphones have more functions
than my eleventh grade math text
it is ridiculous that our relationship
did not come with a reset button.
The memory on my mac can be deleted
with the touch of a key
but the touch of your hand
is unforgettable
and that is frankly
unacceptable.
I want to unravel
this person I've become
to uncover
who I was
but how?
I didn't back my soul
on a memory stick
save my personality
on a portable CD.
What I had was fragile
What I have is damaged
and what worries me most
is maybe
I am programed to make the same mistakes
again...

dutifully posting...

Tonight I saw a star twist out of place
streak naked through the near-dark sky
and disappear.
Tongue-tied I watched it land -
would you like my wish?
I will track it down,
wrap it in tin-foil
to keep it warm,
tie it with a promise
and leave it lying
by your window.
wishes
(like love and cookies)
should be made.
It is the making
that is most important.

In Transit

Two backpacks on a bus
scrounging for change in a city
that doesn’t recognize me
slipping on sidewalks and
cursing the rain
the woman on the last bus
sneezed on me.
I am staring at the bus driver
trying to listen
not wanting to listen.
He says I need a dollar
and twenty-five cents
to add another zone – doesn’t he see
how heavy
how tired
how empty of change?
I don’t have…
Last night I walked
dark streets
and thought about patterns
and not belonging
and how afraid it makes me
to be insignificant.
At my age Blake
was a poet
Shelley an anarchist
on the brink of brilliance.
Byron was fourteen
for that first book of poems
and I
am not mad enough
to be a poet
nor sane enough
for anything else.
Where in this city
in this world
do I fit?


.........
So I'm going to try and blog a little more regularly. I think if I'm posting every day it'll likely force me to WRITE every day, which would be good for me. We'll see.

not much for a month...

As those of you who know me in person will know, I've been away from internet access (yes my friends, there is, in fact, a world away from the internet. Sort of.) for a month.
And it was nice, but it did mean that my blog was abandoned and sad, and is now in need of updating.
So here are a couple of the poems I wrote over the month. I don't really like them, and they're not really exactly perfectly finished (or imperfectly finished, actually) but they're kind of all there is at the moment.
Enjoy or not.

This one was written for a friend who believes that eating and sleeping are two of life's greatest pleasures. I don't like the last third of it, but I'm fairly sick of staring at it and trying to fix it.

ODE TO THE EARLY MORNING

“Sizzle” says the bacon

from its spot atop the stove

“Burble,” says the coffee pot

“Good morning,” says my nose.

There’s nothing wrong

with waking up

to greet the morning light

but it takes more than six AM

to make my morning bright.

So bake me bread

and make me beans

and fix it up just right

and maybe then I’ll smile as

I bid goodbye to night.

But otherwise you all may rise

as early as you like

just kindly do not wake me if

no breakfast is in sight.

So yes. That's that. This one probably speaks for itself. Sorry for the swearing.

DIVIDED

My body wonders what the fuck I’m doing.

I dragged it out here

to the middle of nowhere squared

so it wouldn’t wake up in your bed.

Instead it wakes up in a snowbank.

Frankly it thinks we made

the wrong decision.

Your bed, it says, was warm –

there is certainly something

in that.

And besides, in the end

all we’re doing is running away.

Sooner or later we must go back

mind body and stupid stubborn will

to face what we’re fleeing.

I suspect you would laugh

if you knew.

There is more in this folder than I thought. Interesting. Only two more, I think. This one doesn't have a title.

How did they vanish

those inches between our lips?

One second they were there

so solid you could slice them

with a knife

so immovable you might have sworn

they were miles.

but now

merely a moment later

here we are

nothing between us but tongue,

and I find myself unsure

as to how this happened.

Last one. Also kind of speaks for itself. A goodbye to a good friend who walked a long way with me.

TO A FELLOW TRAVELER

Together, with our restless feet,

we have trudged to the tops of mountains.

We have stumbled and sloshed

through snow and overflow

have fumbled

with broken laces

and frozen fingers.

Together we have traveled

past the point of exhaustion

(bloody bill after bloody hill)

only to settle down at last

the stars as our ceiling

to shiver into sleep.

And then – and always so soon after sleeping –

under the sun or moon or northern lights

the wind like a slap to our faces

you and I have woken and walked

and walked.

How many miles?

Together still we are turning now\

to trace our tracks back home.

So soon our restless feet

will walk us separate ways.

Remember, though

that the world is round.

Walk far enough away

and someday you may find yourself faced

with that place again.

Till then, my friend, walk well.

erm...doesn't have a title yet...

It's annoying how little ideas get stuck in your head until you write them. It really is. Especially when you have other things you're supposed to be writing, and they're kind of nonsensical ideas anyway, but they won't go away and be nonsensical somewhere else.
Dillon don't put any more ideas in my head, ok?
..................

He lives at the top
of the mountain,
did you know?
At the very top
of a treacherous climb
where there's just a smatter
of snow.
He lives at the top
of the mountain,
did you know?
And he'll solve
all your problems
a penny apiece
if you go.
He lives at the top
of the mountain,
did you know?
Up the crooked road
past the cliffs and craigs
that you have to climb
just so.
He lives at the top
of the mountain,
did you know?
You didn't know?
Well.
It's true my friend
and you ought to go
despite the craigs
and the cliffs
and snow.
Go visit the man
who lives up that way
if only to see
what he has to say...

Siren Song

Well before you read this you should know that I most certainly did not, in any way shape of form, write this myself.
I could wish.
It's my second favorite poem ever (I think maybe, although being me, I like an awful lot of poetry and will probably feel horribly guilty about saying this in a few minutes) and it's by Margaret Atwood, who I don't usually like. I WON'T feel guilty for saying that bit.
But anyway, this particular poem...
Just read it.
And if you don't like it, tell me why and I will sit there for an hour and tell you why it's a good poem.

SIREN SONG

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistable:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
At last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

Envy

You are not for me
you are like
evening gowns and
scented soaps. Other girls
are at home in that world
but I will always be
a pretender.
I am a swamp girl;
I trudge
up mountainsides,
I have
adventures,
I am
satisfied so long
as I don't look too long
at what I'm missing.
You are not for me.
(that doesn't mean I don't
smell the soaps
rub my cheek against
satin and lace
dream of the taste
of your smile)

.........................
I a little bit hate my life right now. Don't mind me.