It’s January, and my ed2go classes are brimming over with students, hence my absence from this arena. But this is old news to me, a variation on the problem of, “How can I find time to write?” Welcome to GA-5: “Poem of the Day.”
The “Poem of the Day” idea helps you grab a moment and do some writing. Because you use the word “poem,” you’re free to think small. Because they are not intended as major works (feel free to write poorly!), you suddenly have permission to just write and see what comes out on any particular day.
“Poem of the Day” will quickly become a file of dated, simply titled blurts that you will develop a fondness for. You will surprise yourself. Here is my “Poem of the Day.” You’re on next! And to quote MacArthur, “I shall return” as well.
012909: Hello to my friends out there!
Yep. I should be working.
(I’m not. Ha ha ha! I’m writing instead!)
It’s been killing me to just work,
even though I enjoy my job
and get to write all day long about what I love most.
But I miss my blog and my old friends.
GA-5 has been sitting heavy on my mind
until today
when I suddenly realized
I knew exactly how to share this new
challenge
with
you.
Ann Linquist Writes 
Icey roads, skidding trucks,
Wreckers abound, getting rich.
Broken limbs,
Of trees and of body.
Bruised egos
And bums.
Slip and slide into work
Cussing the stupid jerks.
Who decide to clean the streets,
Or not.
But the coffee’s hot,
the Secretary’s not.
Time to check
Who’s Goofing Around.
How completely satisfying, Walk. Love the secretary. You’re good.
My work day is done.
Now I’m trying to squeeze
all the things I love to do
into the hours before
I collapse.
I’m often stressed cuz
there’s much I want to do
and so little time.
I tell myself to relax
to try to go easy
through the day.
And that works for a second or two
then I’m squeezing again.
Squeezing the most out of
every minute that’s mine,
mine alone.
Always straining for
that elusive thing
just out of reach.
I fear I’d fade away
if not for the reaching.
Reaching for something
Better?
Reaching for answers to questions
lurking in corners of my mind?
Reaching for anything, just
because I don’t have it yet?
But, to reach is to try
and to try is to sometimes
succeed.
I have to respect my reaching,
If I’m to respect myself.
(Ann, thanks for thinking of us, motivating us and mostly for being our friend).
Dulcimer speaks
in a voice redolent of Appalachia,
of coal mines, music,
too many children
born to hard working people
who have too little.
“You don’t love me anymore.”
It leans against the belly of Guitar
in a corner
of the bookcase near the stairs.
Guitar is mute,
has been for years.
Now it’s covered with a mist of dust.
Didgeridoo drones
from the living room.
“What about me?
I’m lonely too.
Was it only because I’m made
of woolybutt eucalyptus
that you brought me home
from Australia?”
“You have a new love,”
accuses Dulcimer.
“That computer,
that’s your love now.”
“Mea culpa, mea culpa.
What you say is true.
It’s writing that I love now.”
“What about spending time
with us,
instead of playing
Spider Solitaire?”
“I play Spider Solitaire
while I wait for my muse,
not to waste time.”
“We can help
find your muse.
When you play
you are channeling
your creative spirit.
Perhaps that is where
your muse takes a breather.
Pick me up,
lay me across your knees,
let’s visit your soul.
Together.”
How can I refuse
Such an offer?
Morning ticking away
In this creaking house
Silent, silent. Silent.
There are no verbs here.
Only one small lamp burning
Casting shadows
Down the hall
There are no verbs here.
How did it come to this
Where’s all the laughter
Where’s all the tears
There are no verbs here.
The backpack hangs in the closet
The tent stuffed in its bag
Boots in the corner
There are no verbs here.
The trail book with all its maps
Discovered on the shelf
A whisper from the pages beckons me
There’s verbs out here.
Ode To Ann Linquist
I often wonder where I’d be
If I hadn’t stumbled upon thee.
Would my words be many?
Would my words be few?
What would be my inspiration
That would tickle my muse?
What if I never met
All these friends upon the Net?
Where would I go
To find so many friends and foes
With one thing in common
With each other?
We started in the Beginning
And all became Writers
From that same Workshop
Where we were given permission
To write bad
Where we met John and Martha
And candy wrappers.
We don’t know just how many
Hundreds or Thousands, I’m sure plenty.
That’s been transformed
Through your work, your norm
You are more than a teacher
More like a guide through the mountains
That lead us along the trail
Of writing satisfaction.
Wandering on
the internet
I found some friends
hard to forget
I’d better stop and say hello
So they will know
…so they will know
m.
Screams from
adrenalized alarm clock.
Hit snooze.
Horizontal slashes
of sunlight spilling
through plantation shutters.
Huddle in warm depths
of down comforter.
Drift off.
More vehement shouting.
Hit snooze.
Pull covers over head.
Snuggle downward,
deeper into yawning
bottomless mattress.
Drift off.
Sudden, frenzied, vehement threats.
Toss off blankets.
Bellyache, bleat
beef and bitch
while facing
Old-Testament cold.
Stumble into shower
wishing alarm clocks
could feel pain.
All original and creative. I’m not at all surprised.
KathyH, you made “lemons out of lemonade”. Who knew the last, evil, ugly, “no verbs” assignment could be woven into such a moving poem? Roses at your feet!
I am humbled and overwhelmed by all your responses to GA-5.
Poems of the Day. The title suggests that tomorrow or perhaps next Tuesday you may have more words waiting to come out. Feel free to share your treats with your friends. I’m warming my hands on these fires.
just for today…
I stared at the flashing cursor in
this comment box.
I sense it’s impatience with me
today.
Okay, okay,
here I am.
I just sat and stared
for a while because–
I’m weary today,
dragged down.
Starting on Jan. 21st,
I took a stab at
the online class–
“Write Fiction Like a Pro”
and unfortunately,
it stabbed me back.
I bleed,
I’m down
under the heavy load.
Structure,
story and plot,
antagonists,
protagonists,
passion, theme, character, premise,
Act 1, Act 2, Act 3,
and on and on…
they’re plotting
against me.
I swear
I can barely breathe.
I believe these are
honorable words
but they
are killing
me with their
demands.
My joy comes
from the freedom
I feel when I write.
I ask myself,
what if I pull
the knife from my gut
and I walk away
from these things
that make me panic
and feel bottled up.
I can’t make
my story idea
stretch to contain
all these demands.
Structure is suffocating
my ability to write.
I read the lessons,
one, two and three.
Enough–
my brain cringes,
I feel confused
my shoulders tighten
and my gut jerks.
Must I endure
these demons
to be a writer?
I don’t know
and so:
Today I walk away
from writing
to find joy in reading
someone else’s words,
in the book,
NEW MOON.
Ahhhh…
relief.
Tomorrow….
It’s another day.
Hang in there Shaddy. Yes, I know it’s like having Ann’s Frightful Four sentences compounded and hurled at you twice a week, but there’s lots of good info in Steve’s structure class. Don’t hesitate to dump your non-conforming story and start another. I did that at lesson seven of the mystery writing class, and had a blast afterwards. In fact, I just might carry that story through to conclusion. One last word: that fiction class ain’t for sissies, and I know you aren’t a sissy, Triathalon Lady.
Plus, a word of empathy. The biggest problem with what STeve is trying to teach is that there doesn’t seem to be an optimum sequence of lessons, and it feels like you must have a total view of the entire structure before you can comnplete one lesson. Does that make sense? In other words, when you’re doing one lesson, there’s something in five lessons ahead that you should have known. So, just print out the lessons, keep them in a binder, and struggle through. Then you can go back through at the end and everything will come together.
Gully
Walk With Me Wilson
Wilson wake up
Yes, I know it’s early
Come on, Wilson
Walk with me Wilson.
Wilson wake up
Yes, I know it’s cold
But we’ll warm up
Walk with me Wilson.
Yes, I know you’re old
I ain’t no spring chicken myself
We’ll start slow
Walk with me Wilson.
What? I’ve ignored you?
Hey, that’s a two-way street, buddy
I know our relationship is lukewarm but please
Walk with me Wilson
No Wilson, I don’t think we’re fair weather friends
I’m sorry you think I’ve used you
And then abandoned you, come on
Walk with me Wilson.
I realize the awkwardness, the grudge you hold
But I also remember how we’ve clicked before
Like two souls into one
Walk with me Wilson
Wake up Wilson
Yes, I promise to stop using you
As a clothes rack and a catch-all
Walk with me Wilson.
Wake up Wilson
Yes, I promise to take down
The “life’s a treadmill” sign
Walk with me Wilson.
Not long ago I told a friend that I’ve come to a place in my life where making a fool out of myself is a step up for me. Let me be the biggest fool out there. Well, the above “poem” declares me the winner. Now where’s my winners crown?! And yes, my treadmill is Wilson. I named him when I first got him. He’s named after Wilson in Tom Hank’s movie, “Castaway”.
I am enjoying reading everyone’s poems. You all are top-notch poets.
Shy: Thank you for your comments on my verb poem. Just like my muse to show up two weeks late, drop off the poem, and then take off again. The above poem is proof that I was on my on my own this morning! P.S. Why don’t you tell me who you are? I won’t tell. I promise….
Oh, I clicked the Submit too soon.Guess I was in too big of a hurry to nosedive under the table! I wanted to say Hi to Maureen. I’m glad you’re here. Your poem is beautiful. In such few words, you scooped us all up and called us friend. Like it was the most important thing for you to make sure we knew that.
Eternal Hope
She crouches
at the sliding glass door,
glares at the offending snow
with icy blue eyes,
as if she can make it disappear
by force of will alone.
The snow interferes
with her appointed rounds.
She has places to go,
voles to catch,
sea birds to watch.
The door is opened,
snow falls on her paw.
She retreats,
licks off the cold snow.
She checks
every glass door,
and there are many.
Is the weather different
At this one?
Gully, I love this! I can just imagine her cat mind thinking
One of my portals MUST lead to the warm sunshine place!
If only I could find the blasted thing!
Bravo, my friends,
Amazing writing once again.
As I reach for more,
more writing skills,
I grope as if
in the darkness:
For me,
If there’s
no pain,
there’s no gain.
I’m writing again,
covered with bandaids
to hush the bleeding.
From inside rumbles
“I can do it,
I can do it”.
Thank you, Gully,
for your constant
heads-up strength,
your strong shoulder
for leaning.
You inspire,
guide,
and always
make me want
to be
better.
The hook,
the backstory,
the trigger–
they may draw
more blood.
I have today,
tomorrow and
Tuesday to
present my case
before Lesson 5
drops its
bombshell.
My finger will shake
when I reach
for the SUBMIT key
but I’ll fight thru
the self doubt
that wants to
paralyze me.
I’m no sissy,
and I can bear it.
Because
no pain,
means
no gain.
KathyH,
I love “Walk with me Wilson.” It’s cute as the dickens and oh so cleverly creative.
A fool you certainly aren’t!!
Gully,
I empathize with your
ever optimistic feline friend.
She will be rewarded
one day.
Kathy H, Front and center. Don’t you even think about nose-diving under the table. Walk with Wilson is awesome. You Rock (and walk, too!). You should submit that to a women’s fitness magazine. Really!
We would walk through
the valleys.
We would walk through
the hills.
The breeze was
our companion.
We created it
together.
Just you and I.
And then you left.
I waited.
You said you’d be back.
Be patient you cooed
Give me time.
Time was all I had
to give now.
You knew that.
We had secrets
Just you and I.
And then you left.
I waited.
Snowflakes danced and feuded.
Blossoms exploded.
Sunshine browned your skin.
Leaves whirled and fell.
I waited.
All this time, I was
hidden in the shadows
Lurking
Wondering
Hoping
Praying but
you never came back.
I’ll still wait.
Love, Wilson
Kathy: That was for you. I agree, send it somewhere. I don’t care where, just send it.
Poem of the Day: I hit my head
I hit my head on a door.
By accident.
I tripped on a white New Balance gym shoe
and fell smack into the edge of the door, forehead first.
Four stitches, two black eyes.
Doesn’t really hurt much.
Why do I record this?
For memories sake?
(picture if you will, me, reading this 20 years from now)
Because I am an egomaniac?
(fancy yourself a poet, do you?)
Because I like to type?
(fingers clicking on the keys—I’m fast; I’m good at this!)
Because I like words?
(so sue me. I like to write stuff)
Because I have fantasies about meaning something
(me AND the words)
Because I imagine my stuff will be read after I’m dead
(what a good writer Ann was. Too bad she’s dead.)
Peanut Butter Sandwich
Eating a sandwich
Of peanut butter and bread
Some lettuce fresh off the head.
Crust is still on
I don’t know why
But I have this craving
For some Boston Creme Pie.
What I’m eating
I know you don’t care.
But I thought I would share
Just a little of my typical day
How boring it is I can’t always say.
But now it’s lunch time and I’m happy
That this poem ain’t too sappy.
Ann, I hope your poem isn’t how this day has gone for you. If so, your week can only go up from here. :>) Here’s to your fast mending.
Down all the days,
wrote Christie Brown
as he doggedly typed
with his left toe,
the only part of his body
he could control.
Down all the days,
body flying,
thrashing,
falling,
battling
against forces
uncontrollable.
Down all the days,
rock and a hard place?
So close,
yet so far to go.
Make mistakes,
back up
and try again.
Down all the days,
different colors,
different places,
in a strange place
after all.
Down all the days,
covered in armor
for protection.
Listen to them jeer,
listen to them cheer.
Down all the days.
Do your best,
try again.
Almost, almost, almost.
Down all the days,
Or, should it be
downs all day?
Makes no difference now.
Pittsburg won.
Interminable waiting,
watching
the talking heads,
listening and waiting,
waiting and listening,
any minute now…
On and on
they jabber,
they warn,
any minute now…
Big deal,
what a deal,
how to deal,
just deal,
any minute now…
Any minute now…
Eat breakfast.
Any minute now…
Eat breakfast.
Any minute now…
Ad nauseum.
But, any minute now…
Magma moving,
shaking the earth,
steam rising,
any minute now…
Will she?
Will she not?
Any minute now…
Wear a mask,
stay indoors,
don’t breathe.
Such a fuss,
Any minute now…
Don’t drive,
don’t fly,
or you might
fall from the sky.
Any minute now…
Okay, Redoubt,
make up your magma.
It’s time to blow
or get off the news.
You’ve exceeded
your fifteen minutes of fame.
I think I’m in trouble. This poem of the day thing is addicting.
For Walk and his peanut butter sandwich
Off to work, lunch in hand,
gray panels a daily prison.
Work a drag, boredom reigns,
look to lunch for diversion.
Peanut butter on some bread,
lettuce added for the crunch.
Is there jelly or banana,
or maybe mayonnaise?
Salmonella, botulism,
Intestinal paroxysm.
Disregard the warnings strong,
to return the products now,
peanut butter’s not your friend,
peanut butter’s toxic waste.
Is it bad or is it good?
Talking heads will let you know,
click on their link and they will tell
all the peanut no-nos.
Salmonella, botulism,
intestinal cataclysm.
help me rhonda help help me…
It *is* addicting, Gullie. Keep everything. Some drizzly April day you can weed out the dross and giggle over the gold. And gold there is!
Please, don’t make me go.
It’s cold out there,
And blowing snow.
Please, don’t make me go.
You must, you must,
You have to go.
It’s your only chore,
That, and opening the door
For the cat.
Please, don’t make me go.
Even the cat
Is hiding inside.
Please, I don’t want to go.
You must, you must,
Check on the boat.
Make sure the prop is up,
The heat is on,
bilge pump works,
and the fan blows.
It’s hard to see,
The wind blows so.
Please, I beg,
Don’t make me go.
Put on your coat,
Your hat, your gloves,
And boots with cleats
upon your feet.
Rats! I have to go.
If I’m not back
by March the first,
You’ll find my body
In the snow.
Oh, for heaven’s sake,
You’re making such a fuss.
You used to play all day
In weather worse than this.
Frozen, stiff and cold,
On my last mission
To check the boat,
while cat stayed warm.
I see you’re back
And on the same day.
Now tell me true,
Was that so bad?
My cuffs are wet,
my nose it runs.
I’m out of breathe
From hills so steep.
You want the truth?
I’ll tell you one:
I notice you
Stayed with the cat!
Writing Soliloquy
To write, or not to write: that is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outraged editors,
And by writing, disgust them? To write: to sleep
No more, and by writing to say we end
The pressure words can bring to an over-filled mind
That we are prone to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To write, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that dream of sleep, what words may come
When we had thought us rid of them?
Beside me is
a glass of wine,
nearly empty,
aw, shucks.
It goes
so quickly
as if
into thin air,
but enough
spilled
down my throat
to release
my shoulders
and ease
my mind
of today.
If I could
I would pour
each of you
a glass and
we’d make
toast,
a toast to
all that
we enjoy
at this
our
gathering
place.
Cheers
to you,
my friends.
I Walk, butt waite
A desirable fate
I Walk, onward bound
To delicious words found
I Walk, wax all poetic
But they turn out pathetic
I Walk, try time after time
But all I can do is rhyme
I Walk, infected with cursory
Writing poems for the nursery
I Walk, rhyme time after time
Maybe I should be a mime?
Gully in the Cove
Would be a sight to behold
Can you rig up a web cam
To show where you am?
All us’em buddies of yours
Would like to see Halibut’s shore.
So on your next trip about
Log on a give us a shout.
We’ll watch you go to the dock
On your appointed walk.
I’m can’t stop this silly rhyming
So I think I’ll go mountain climbing.
cheers, Shaddy!
I don’t have a house
on the ocean
No summer house
by the sea
I don’t have a house
in the mountains
No purple majesty for me
So many things
I had hoped for
just never came to be
I don’t own a house
on the ocean
I guess it wasn’t meant for me
My house
is smaller than I’d hoped for
My house doesn’t have much
of a view
My children
have to share a bedroom
Good thing
I only had two!
But we have
all the food we need
My kids
are safe and they’re warm
Our house
has fresh running water
My children
are protected from harm
How could I ever ask for more?
What else could I
ever need?
I might long for a house
on the ocean
but truly
I have all I need
Cool, Maureen. Absolutely thumbs up cool.
Been doing some pondering
Some thinking too
I’ve come to the conclusion
Maybe I think too much.
I must stop thinking
My brain will explode
Give it a rest
Try meditation but my brain protests
I pace the floors
I sing a song
I drive around
But it follows me.
I’d scream if I thought it would help
I’d run ten miles
But I know it’d go with me
I must find an escape.
Working on a battle plan
But I feel myself falling
All I want is a peanut butter sandwich
And a piece of Boston Cream Pie.
P.S.
Thank you all for your remarks about Wilson. I swear he’s been grinning a big goofy grin for three days now.
Shy: your poem was so sweet. I loved the walking through the changes of seasons. Gave me a bittersweet feeling. Wilson has been my unsung hero. And now he has two poems written about him. He’s never going to stop grinning…I wonder if he can walk and grin at the same time?
I awoke, at the insistance of a over-stretched bladder.
I arise, feeling the warmth of a carpet floor.
I walk, to the Room, yes, that Room.
I squawk, forgotten cold tile floor.
I slip, relief comes too soon.
I mop.
Forgive me but this came to me as I showered this morning, it gave me a chuckle so I had to share.
Gave me a chuckle too, Walk. Thanks.
Maureen,
I love your poem. I’ve heard it said that “the richest man is he who needs the least.”
Today I registered and
thus committed myself
to train for the
Trek Triathalon in
Pleasant Prairie,
Wisconsin,
in July.
So I must
become serious again
about swimming,
biking and running.
During these
cold months,
I will forfeit
a relaxing lunch hour
for a workout
at the Y
a mile from work.
I’ll train hard
to be ready
for the day
when the gun fires
and thousands of us
push ourselves to
swim a half mile,
bike 12 miles
and run 3 miles.
One by one
we’ll cross
the finish line
to cheers.
The crowd’s noise
will be blurred by
the din within
each finisher–
joyful emotions
swirling around,
pride and
accomplishment
dancing and
high fiving
each other.
I’ll hold
that moment and
treasure all
I endured
to earn it.
I advance to
the sixty to sixty five
age group
this year,
one more
good reason
to keep
moving.
Sorry, guys. I just couldn’t stand it! Here is the poem of a few days ago, with the revised ending. Thanks, Sharon, for your vote! Now I’ll do my best to get OVER it and come up with something new!
-m.
I don’t have a house
on the ocean
No summer house
by the sea
I don’t have a house
in the mountains
No purple majesty for me
So many things
I had hoped for
just never came to be
I don’t own a house
on the ocean
I guess it wasn’t meant for me
My house
is smaller than I’d hoped for
My house doesn’t have much
of a view
My children
have to share a bedroom
Good thing
I only had two!
But we have
all the food we need
My kids
are safe and they’re warm
Our house
has fresh running water
My children
are protected from harm
How could I ever ask for more?
What else could I
ever need?
I might long for a house
on the ocean
But the view here
is lovely indeed
Yep. We’re all addicted. Perhaps we should have a 12-step program.
On the other hand, who wants to stop? Not me. I love reading these.
I once read an article long ago that posited the idea that the world is not made up of matter or energy but rather bits of information. With that model, I can imagine us tied together by minute particles of thought, linked in some real way by words that spin out from each of our centers.
I was going through some old junk of mine and found this. The title is “Why I Don’t Write Poetry”.
I walk,
Leaving a trail of footprints.
I seek,
The road I can call my own.
I find.
Now will I follow?
The heart,
Will never fail to lead.
The mind,
Will never fail to comprehend.
The soul,
Will never fail to be fulfilled.
If you let it.
Walk, I think you must change the title of that poem to something less self-deprecating and more along the lines of giving yourself permission, or following your heart, or whatever. Nice work, but ditch the title.
I’ve but a minute
to come in and
say hello.
I’m bound from
southern Wisconsin
to Door County
for a long
winter weekend.
You must think me
crazy to choose
to go further north
than I already am
in the middle
of winter.
A winter festival
in Fish Creek
will entertain us.
On cross-country skis
we’ll slide through
Peninsula State Park
and enjoy a
candlelight ski.
Cherry pie
in front of
the fireplace,
under a blanket.
Maybe I’m not
so crazy after
all.
I’ll miss all of you,
my “goofy” friends.
My Mistress Is Calling
The wind is blowing
From the deep Southwest
Running through my hair
Chapping my lips
The cows are bedded
The beans all ate
Another day on the Trail
But I’ll be ridin’ till late
I’ll whistle as I ride
To calm the cattle down
My nerves as well
In this dark shadowy night
Tomorrow we’ll hit Dodge
The end of the ride
Don’t care for the saloons
Feel too boxed in inside
I’ll pocket my pay
And hit the trail
The stars watching over me
And my trusty Paint
Two weeks I’ll be home
Ma’s cooking, Pa’s corn squeezin’s
Until I answer once again
The call of my mistress