Poetry

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Poetry

I dont' write poetry much anymore.  I find that odd, because that's all that I used to write and most of what I used to read.  Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Louis MacNeice just to begin.  Lately, while I've not felt motivated to write poetry at all, I've been reading it again and revisitng some of what I wrote a couple of years back.  I thought that I'd post a few here.  I'd love some input. 
Prolonged Winter
Shuffling through a melancholy fog,
milk and eggs on my arm and a blister on my heel,
the slush sucked at my shoes.
A flash of fuchsia pushed through the grey,
an unexpected birth from a crackin the sidewalk,
premature child of spring.
I nearly tripped trying not to crush it;
squatted, examined, and plucked it.
Not knowing what it was, I calledit “Pinkus Two-leafus,”
and clutched it to my breast.
Back at home, I put it in my favorite coffee mug;
the one with the witty saying and pencil sketch that makes me smile
even in the morning.
Displayed in the window, the flower shone a bit,
as she danced and flirted in thedraft.
Humming idly, I packed away mysweaters,
put on a pink sundress, opened all the windows.
The air felt crisp and green.
Sleeping that night was easy at last,
wrapped up in blankets, cocooned in the knowledge
that spring would come again.
Waking, I stretched languorously,
and padded to the room where thetiny pink whisper
sagged, frozen by the wind.
Bitter diamonds crushed the frail blossom.
The two proud leaved were shriveled and wrinkled;
crone’s hands offering an apple.
The wind cackled and moaned through the blinds.
I eyed the sky warily on my way to the garage,
and unpacked three thick sweaters.


Loss
My son, Roland, was a wonderful blessing to our family.  He lived for 30 hours.  I wrote this shortly after we went home from the hospital.
Lying awake, counting ceiling tiles.
There are thirteen rows of twenty-two each,
Which makes two hundred eighty something, I think.
Tethered to the bed, breathing pre-digested air
My life is measured, not in coffee spoons, but it
Infomercials and the rhythmic ache
In my arm, clamped upon ruthlessly again and again.

Nurses flit busily, a hive of bees in
Sensible shoes, I wilting flower.
They hum their mantra, “get some rest, get some rest.”
Pollen sacks filled with oblivion in
Handy tablet form: Percocet, vicodon.
Their smocks are garish, desperately cheerful
In the stark fluorescent light of this demented garden.

“We must control your pain,” they say
When I deny relief once again.  Jaw locked,
Fists clenched, my breasts weep the tears that I cannot.
Leave me in solitude with my pain, the throbbing
And the aches.
 Give me that gift;
The pain and the scar are all that I have to hold,
Mocking substitutes for the weight,
Thebreath, the sweet powdered smell of my beautiful little boy

There is a third, but I think we will leave it here for now.  I'd welcome any critiques/criticisms/comments/compliments

I didn't kill him...

he was dead when I got there."  Stephen King said that once, in response to a reader who was dismayed at the death of a favorite character.  For the longest time, I thought that was a cop out.  After all, who is in control of the story if not the writer?  Then, just last week, I did it.  I killed a carousel horse.  It was a bad death, too; ambushed in the middle of the night by giant arachnids, wrapped in silk, guts sucked out.  Granted, I didn't go into that much detail - this is a children's novel after all - but, well, it was implied.  The strange thing was, though I knew from the beginning that one of my characters ran a carousel horse ranch, and have known for quite a while that he would gift my weary travelers with one of said creatures, I really didn't think that it would die.  But, as I got closer and closer to this scene I discovered it was really the only answer.  I put off writing this scene for a long time, even worked on other pursuits to not have to do this, but finally I couldn't put it off any longer.  My travelers had a place to go and as I procrastinated I couldn't help but picture them stuck in place, bored, checking their watches every now and then to see when I might come back.  So, I girded my loins as it were, sharpened my pencil, and killed the poor beast who never hurt anybody.  I'm not going to lie, I cried.  I also understood what King meant when he said what he did.  You know what the worst thing was?  As the character that was one of three that started this adventure in my head FINALLY appeared, flamingo pink wings and deafining roar bursting from one of the spider's capsules, it was absolutely worth it. 

WoW 11/25

Write On Wednesdays
Exercise 25 - I heard a song on the radio during the week and I thought the lyrics would make an interesting prompt for WoW. So, write the words "The saddest thing I ever heard" on your page, set your timer for 5 minutes and write the first words that come into your head based on the given prompt.
It was the saddest thing I'd ever heard, and oddly enough, I don't even remember the words.  Some meaningless barb about the usual....his money, his dick, the way he helped around the house, or didn't.  Whatever.  I remember the way she laughed afterwords, though, her bleached white teeth glinting ferally in the light.  Feral is the word.  Lionine.  She was all veldt with her expertly tinted hair, her bronzed skin, the hammered gold cuff on her dainty wrist.  I know that I have never felt more like a sheep than I did at that moment, surrounded by the other veteran wives in our Army baseball caps and T-shirts - gifts from husbands who had access to no more than a PX and five minutes of their time.  Dumpy, helpless, bleating.  Feeling awkward, we picked at the heaping plates of nachos, wings, and gummy mozzarella sticks,  suddenly aware of the extra pounds the deployments - the loneliness - had put on us.  What made it so unspeakably awful was the way his shoulders drooped.  Those shoulders had carried 70 plus pounds for days on end and this woman could wither them with a word.  And something in his eyes told us this wasn't the first time.   

WoW 11/17

After months of encouragement, my dear friend talked me into joining write on Wednesdays over at ink paper pen.  I got so addicted to reading other peoples work that soon I had to join in the fun. I I restarted my writing website (abandonded after by book stopped selling and I stuck my little literary ostrich head in the sand), and off we go..  This is my first of what I hope to be many WoWs.
The Fight
Mind over matter.  I can do this.  I fight the urge to bend over double as yet another wave of pain pummels me.  Stand up straight. Act normal. Breathe.  It’s just your imagination. It’s not really happening.   Oh, but it is.    It’s happened before.  I know how it will end.  Even so, I do dishes, sweep the floor, sing along with the radio louder than necessary – belting out the lyrics like and a child hiding under the blankets to keep out the dark.  The pain is lower now.  I clench my womanhood like a fist; look through a book of names.  A name.  To name something is to make it real.  Maybe the right name will be what ittakes.  A spark.  Deep down I know that it will only make itworse.  In the arena of my mind that I don't care to visit often, a voice starts to chant the names of those who have gone before. “Phoenix, Alex, Mollie,” it says, “Max and Morgan.”  Suddenly, I run to the toilet, the ultimate,unavoidable insult.  A wail escapes my lips as the blood begins to flow and the battle is lost once again.