Just found this in my archives... I wrote it in January 2009 and never posted it. Now I think it's funny and I want to share!
Aphorism: a concise statement of general truth
And so today another day...
The vultures flock above my head
And question whether not I'm dead
But as I drink my bottle o'wine
I am sure it's a healthful sign
That my breathing seems to repeat
And my heart keeps up it's beat
But for now I'll dance a jig
After one more tasty swig
I'll ignore the doubtful twins
Who always notice all my sins
And keep my head about the rest
Hoping always for the best
Tottering slightly way up here
As I look around in fear
Realizing as I tottle
Down I fall into the bottle
Drowning in my own despise
I climb upon my own self-lies
To survive another day
I must learn to change my way
With the wine I can not win
So how about I try the gin
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Friday, August 6, 2010
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My Sunday Rondeau
A fleeting glimpse of truth in me
Only in brief the glance will be.
Hiding in unfamiliar spaces
Written across happy faces
Hasten now entirely free.
The sorrow shown to all who see
then flicker back to revelry.
Back to more familiar places,
A fleeting glimpse.
The face, a window shown clearly
So quickly questions mount a plea
What truth in this, the mind races
That sorrow left with no traces?
Safe back inside my panoply.
A fleeting glimpse.
Only in brief the glance will be.
Hiding in unfamiliar spaces
Written across happy faces
Hasten now entirely free.
The sorrow shown to all who see
then flicker back to revelry.
Back to more familiar places,
A fleeting glimpse.
The face, a window shown clearly
So quickly questions mount a plea
What truth in this, the mind races
That sorrow left with no traces?
Safe back inside my panoply.
A fleeting glimpse.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Just Breathe
The word Spirit, comes from the Latin spirare which means breathe. When I have time to sit quietly, or to write, to tap into my spirit, I feel like I can once again breathe. When I let the world fold over myself, engulfing all the energy I have, the way the world likes to do… I can’t breathe.
The sun helps me to breathe.
Wine helps me breathe.
Running.
Dancing.
Laughing.
Loving.
They all help me to breathe.
Without them… these few moments snatched back from the jaws of the greedy world ~ I would surely suffocate.
The sun helps me to breathe.
Wine helps me breathe.
Running.
Dancing.
Laughing.
Loving.
They all help me to breathe.
Without them… these few moments snatched back from the jaws of the greedy world ~ I would surely suffocate.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
For Steph
ass over teacup
that’s where we all lie
when life has surprised us
with questions of why
ass over teacup
when our spiritual side
hides in the darkness
where misfortune resides
ass over teacup
so much easier to be
than facing the hurt
or attempting to flee
ass over teacup
can’t take a stand
it takes a village
when the shit hits the fan
ass over teacup
help’s on the way
your heart calls out
what your voice can’t say
ass over teacup
maybe you, maybe me
the blink that is life
makes it impossible to see
that’s where we all lie
when life has surprised us
with questions of why
ass over teacup
when our spiritual side
hides in the darkness
where misfortune resides
ass over teacup
so much easier to be
than facing the hurt
or attempting to flee
ass over teacup
can’t take a stand
it takes a village
when the shit hits the fan
ass over teacup
help’s on the way
your heart calls out
what your voice can’t say
ass over teacup
maybe you, maybe me
the blink that is life
makes it impossible to see
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Ode to Wade
Once upon a time
In a town called Jewel
There lived a darling girl
Who was no fool.
She spent her younger years
Dating around
Only to find
The men were all clowns.
Until one day
When the moon was right
Along came the prince
And my…what a sight.
He was dressed all in camouflage
From his head to his toe
And he carried a gun
For fighing? Oh no!
He was a mighty hunter
Who killed only to eat.
He brought the young lass
Pig, Chicken and Meat!
Her heart was a flutter
As this gent knelt down.
Her hand was the question
But it was met with a frown.
Will you always love me
More than the hunt?
The answer she expected
Came out as a grunt.
And just as she thought
She might still take this man
Along came a big Buck
And away he ran.
The moral of this story
Has one big but ~
Only take a hunter for a husband
If you enjoy a good rut!
In a town called Jewel
There lived a darling girl
Who was no fool.
She spent her younger years
Dating around
Only to find
The men were all clowns.
Until one day
When the moon was right
Along came the prince
And my…what a sight.
He was dressed all in camouflage
From his head to his toe
And he carried a gun
For fighing? Oh no!
He was a mighty hunter
Who killed only to eat.
He brought the young lass
Pig, Chicken and Meat!
Her heart was a flutter
As this gent knelt down.
Her hand was the question
But it was met with a frown.
Will you always love me
More than the hunt?
The answer she expected
Came out as a grunt.
And just as she thought
She might still take this man
Along came a big Buck
And away he ran.
The moral of this story
Has one big but ~
Only take a hunter for a husband
If you enjoy a good rut!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Reflection
The reflection of a ghost
Stares back at me
A life unfinished, a sad fate
Searching for a truth, that no one holds.
Beckoning for recognition
Pleading for a voice
The heart a vanquished space
Of a story without an end.
Answer me, hear me, see me,
The voice calls
Through the pleading eyes
And ghostly flickering and tricks
Will they hear him?
Do they know?
Without catching the reflection
He has no space.
The eerie fading truth
Is the silence of the night
The light illusions
Too quick for the busy mind
He is here.
I am slow and quiet.
I recognize, in this obscure image
my family, my friend.
Stares back at me
A life unfinished, a sad fate
Searching for a truth, that no one holds.
Beckoning for recognition
Pleading for a voice
The heart a vanquished space
Of a story without an end.
Answer me, hear me, see me,
The voice calls
Through the pleading eyes
And ghostly flickering and tricks
Will they hear him?
Do they know?
Without catching the reflection
He has no space.
The eerie fading truth
Is the silence of the night
The light illusions
Too quick for the busy mind
He is here.
I am slow and quiet.
I recognize, in this obscure image
my family, my friend.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Contest time
I am posting my screenplay and a poem to the Writers Digest competition. The winner from each catagory wins a trip to New York and time with four editors or agents. I have always wanted to go to New York. With my darling hubby being as tight as he is with our budget, winning might be my only ticket. My son (little dreamer) is sure I will win. Gotta love em.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Cujo
Cujo was written by Steven King totally blitzed! He admits to it in my absolute favorite book of all time, Steven King On Writing. He seriously doesn't even remember writing it.
It leads me to wonder whether we let the little elf speak his mind better after a couple of cocktails. Let’s test, shall we…
My very good friend Sue just sent me a recipe for Cosmos. It’s not just any recipe- it is the BEST RECIPE EVER!!! I can only give this opinion after my third. My typing is slow but my mind is a racing. I happen to think the best poem I ever wrote, was after a few glasses of a fabulous Cabernet. I will include that at the bottom.
For now, lets just go on an exploration.
I had a thought the other day about humility. What does it mean, and can a human being actual achieve it at any complete level? So, we’ll start the story there…
Brad Pickens walked with the confidence of a three hundred pound prizefighter. No matter that he was really a buck twenty, and had the acne of an eighteen year old. Even at the ripe old age of forty-two, he knew where he was going, all the time.
Today his goal was a park bench in the middle of Grand Avenue. The place in his sights, was teeming with vagrants and pigeons, the dirty little things begging for every last bite. As he rounded the corner, he saw his goal, and swiftly placed the bag as he strode past.
Fifty feet from the target he stopped by a tree, as if to tie his shoe. Slowly he turned and leaned, without any overt action, he watched to see what would take place at the bench he had chosen.
Ten minutes past, then twenty. Pickens busied himself with a newspaper someone had haphazardly thrown away in the trash bin next to him. As his timer rounded to 22:22, she came along.
Kate Williams was coming from a doctor’s appointment. She was mulling over the facts revealed to her in a completely clinical manner. “Mrs. Williams, your biopsy came back positive. It’s cancer…” the information after the fact, was a blur. All Kate needed at that moment was a place to sit down. She stumbled to the bench and placed herself upon it as delicately as she would fine china. Then she sank into her misery.
How can this happen to someone so young? How can this happen to someone with so many plans?
Pickens watched her with exclusive attention, biting his nails and wondering about her story.
Finally, Kate looked up through her clouded eyesight, and noticed the bag resting attentively next to her. Her first thought was to leave it and go home. Then, the curiosity that had been a part of her since she was four years old, won the battle. She opened the bag.
As she pulled out the money, Pickens walked away. She found the prize and what she did with it from there was her plan, her decision. He walked away without knowing what the tears meant that fell unabashedly down her perfectly shaped face. He didn’t need to know. All of that wasn’t part of his story.
Kate frantically searched the faces around her, looking for someone that would reveal to her what was happening. How does this bag of money relate to the worst possible moment of her life? How can it be sitting here without any strings attached? The questions were too much for the moment.
Slowly Kate lifted her spirit from the bench and walked from the park towards her home.
(from suz) I’ll have my editor check the commas’ later. Ha… here is the poem I wrote in a happy elf speaking state. I love it; I think it tells the story of my sister and her husband very well. Thank you August Briggs.
The Music Never Lies
See through drops of wine
Run down my perfect glass
I ask myself quietly
Why don’t the good things last?
A perfect love between the two
A girl and boy so young
Of all the lyrics playing
A perfect song they sung.
He always loved the music
Different kinds, a different tune
Their lives the perfect melody
All gone, disappeared too soon.
She lives her life in memories
Her boys they live it too
All shades a constant reminder
The memories seem so few.
Now everything is different
The road that they had taken
So suddenly it ended
In happiness forsaken.
The killer hides in constant shadows
Of how it could have been
How happy the life of four
No truths will ever amend.
The lies are not uncommon
Among the guilty parts
Their truths are deeply hidden
Among their troubled hearts.
And in the end, who pays the price
But not for she who cries
Her boys and her will always know
The music never lies.
It leads me to wonder whether we let the little elf speak his mind better after a couple of cocktails. Let’s test, shall we…
My very good friend Sue just sent me a recipe for Cosmos. It’s not just any recipe- it is the BEST RECIPE EVER!!! I can only give this opinion after my third. My typing is slow but my mind is a racing. I happen to think the best poem I ever wrote, was after a few glasses of a fabulous Cabernet. I will include that at the bottom.
For now, lets just go on an exploration.
I had a thought the other day about humility. What does it mean, and can a human being actual achieve it at any complete level? So, we’ll start the story there…
Brad Pickens walked with the confidence of a three hundred pound prizefighter. No matter that he was really a buck twenty, and had the acne of an eighteen year old. Even at the ripe old age of forty-two, he knew where he was going, all the time.
Today his goal was a park bench in the middle of Grand Avenue. The place in his sights, was teeming with vagrants and pigeons, the dirty little things begging for every last bite. As he rounded the corner, he saw his goal, and swiftly placed the bag as he strode past.
Fifty feet from the target he stopped by a tree, as if to tie his shoe. Slowly he turned and leaned, without any overt action, he watched to see what would take place at the bench he had chosen.
Ten minutes past, then twenty. Pickens busied himself with a newspaper someone had haphazardly thrown away in the trash bin next to him. As his timer rounded to 22:22, she came along.
Kate Williams was coming from a doctor’s appointment. She was mulling over the facts revealed to her in a completely clinical manner. “Mrs. Williams, your biopsy came back positive. It’s cancer…” the information after the fact, was a blur. All Kate needed at that moment was a place to sit down. She stumbled to the bench and placed herself upon it as delicately as she would fine china. Then she sank into her misery.
How can this happen to someone so young? How can this happen to someone with so many plans?
Pickens watched her with exclusive attention, biting his nails and wondering about her story.
Finally, Kate looked up through her clouded eyesight, and noticed the bag resting attentively next to her. Her first thought was to leave it and go home. Then, the curiosity that had been a part of her since she was four years old, won the battle. She opened the bag.
As she pulled out the money, Pickens walked away. She found the prize and what she did with it from there was her plan, her decision. He walked away without knowing what the tears meant that fell unabashedly down her perfectly shaped face. He didn’t need to know. All of that wasn’t part of his story.
Kate frantically searched the faces around her, looking for someone that would reveal to her what was happening. How does this bag of money relate to the worst possible moment of her life? How can it be sitting here without any strings attached? The questions were too much for the moment.
Slowly Kate lifted her spirit from the bench and walked from the park towards her home.
(from suz) I’ll have my editor check the commas’ later. Ha… here is the poem I wrote in a happy elf speaking state. I love it; I think it tells the story of my sister and her husband very well. Thank you August Briggs.
The Music Never Lies
See through drops of wine
Run down my perfect glass
I ask myself quietly
Why don’t the good things last?
A perfect love between the two
A girl and boy so young
Of all the lyrics playing
A perfect song they sung.
He always loved the music
Different kinds, a different tune
Their lives the perfect melody
All gone, disappeared too soon.
She lives her life in memories
Her boys they live it too
All shades a constant reminder
The memories seem so few.
Now everything is different
The road that they had taken
So suddenly it ended
In happiness forsaken.
The killer hides in constant shadows
Of how it could have been
How happy the life of four
No truths will ever amend.
The lies are not uncommon
Among the guilty parts
Their truths are deeply hidden
Among their troubled hearts.
And in the end, who pays the price
But not for she who cries
Her boys and her will always know
The music never lies.
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