Spam Poem #2

The Charity Prince offered insight to guide
the possibilities in my private life.
No thanks, said I.
Nobody looks here.
Spice up your senses, earn more per week,
life can be better, the Prince urged.
Just one little click.
Relax and take your time.
This is helpful information.

Breathing life into my intimacy,
I bent my mouth close
to the ear of the supercharged desires
so my hot breath
could convey my message.
The thing I never knew existed, I whispered,
my lips caressing passionately the lobe
of my listener, is that I
am not to blame.


*Every line contains all or part of a subject line in one of the over 2,600 pieces of spam in my spam box.*

Untitled

No snow.
Schools closed.
Rain falls.
Business calls.
Day slows.
Cattle low.
House cold.
Feeling old.

Husband sleeps.
Spirits weep.
Turkeys dance.
Deer prance.
Ice builds.
Feet chilled.
Fingers type.
Brain writes.

Cold day.
Let's play.

Some Calm

I need me some calm, ma'am
to take away the pain and the pounding
and the thumpa thumping in my head.

I need me some calm, mister
to ease the whine and the winding
and the twisting turning of my soul.

I need me some calm, daughter
to send me on back and then falling
and onward tumbling into my past.

I need me some calm, son
to give me a desire and a yearning
and the time and the trembling

to move on.

Too Sad

I am too sad to write

when the world is bound

by those who chain

the souls of lovers.

Too blue to cry, even,

when the word comes down

that the days grow shorter

and minutes die, tick tock.

To scared to blink

I only stare at the remains

of dreams I used to know

laughter I thought I heard.

Too sad to write

too blue for tears.

Memorial Day 2008

This is a day to honor the war dead in the United States.

My paternal grandfather, who died in 1989, served in World War II. In November I shared a war story he wrote.

Today, in his memory and to honor the members of the Armed Forces, I will share a poem penned by my grandfather:

Take Me Back to Shenandoah

By Joe B.

Take me back to Shenandoah

where the wild red roses grow.
To my Blue Ridge Mountain home

and old friends I used to know.

When the shades of night roll back

or the sun sinks in the west
I feel the touch of the Master's hand

and Love burns in my breast.

I've heard the children laughing.

They sound so bright and gay.
Like the tinkle of the banjo

in the valley, far away.

I've heard the cattle lowing

high up on a hill.
And in the valley far below

cried a whippoorwill.

Now I hear the bubbling brook

as it makes its way to the sea.
I realize that it's part of God,

and God's a part of me.

I have stood the test of life

that God had made for me.
And I know with joyful heart

that God is a part of me.

Comes the rise of the evening star

as it climbs up over the hill.
I know that night is on its way

for I hear the whippoorwill.

And as my path grows dark and long

and I no longer see,
I remember I'm a part of God

and He's a part of me.

And when at last He calls me home

to Heaven's golden shore
I'll see old friends I used to know,

and visit Shenandoah.

Just My Luck

It's just like me to love kissing you
when our lips meeting pays nothing
except delight and shivers.

It's just like me to think a walk
in the meadow by the brook
is worth more than money.

It's just my luck to work with words,
finding their lure seductive
though nouns do not pay the bills.

Seated Dancer

(For an image, click here.)

Seated Dancer

(From: "Seated Dancer" charcoal & pastel on paper by Edgar Degas, late 1870's.)

Something about her hand
highlights her defiance.
This woman sits with pale orange arms,
smiles cool while green shadowed
ghosts of confusion
skirt disproportional eyes
painted seductively dark.

Her fault, the performance.
Though she uses her body proudly
her reactions are over-rehearsed.
A quivering voice forces
nervous naysayers to leave
her arena not knowing
her finish met great applause.

Her box of jewels enthralls her
improperly conceals sweltering ice
and her sunglasses make light
much harder to see.
She'd had jewels, had rights,
knew where to stop at a just agreement
but surprise, her gambling,
compulsive as granite clinging
to ground, systematically
sought the unfamiliar.

Leads on wealth added costs
to fame, warmed her desire
for dollars and dimes.
Once the city thought her cold
ignored her foggy looks, the miles riding
and days in boats when the time was right.

What words in print describe
jukebox joints, an annual stop
in her only routine?
With taxes to pay, brandy, a cold river,
bring welcome relief.
Angels on pins
greet her with true
quotes, explain
that however wronged she feels
she still reached the wrong finale.



Note: This poem was written about 10 years ago.

My Husband's Hands, Redux

It occurred to me that the essay I wrote yesterday about my husband's hands might make a nice poem.

Here is my effort at that:


My Husband's Hands

These large hands, worn with calluses
rough and scratchy,these hands I love.

A working man's hands, my husband's hands.
Scarred with cuts from barbed wire fence.

Smashed with hammers, trapped between tractor parts,aching with splinters from fence posts.

The nails are bruised, cut short because long nails
do not belong on the hands of a farmer.

Farmer and fireman.
His hands soothe calves and save lives.

His fingers touch so lightly
that it seems a feather passed by.

His gentle hands take a pulse and feel brows,
and grip a shovel with the strength of Hercules.

His strong hands built our home nail by nail
and planted trees now fully grown.

His hands take me places I never dreamed
when they touch and caress and love.

***

What do you think?

The Sparrow

I’ve never seen a sparrow
fall from the sky
but I’ve seen them perch
shivering in early April rains,
feet grasping frail branches.
Do sparrows fear the air?
Do their hearts rise in tiny,
feathered throats as the ground
rises to great them?

The Wife Before Christmas

Rhett, over at Roanoke Firefighters blog, sent out a challenge for a poem about firefighters or a related topic.


So I wrote this:


The Wife Before Christmas


The night before Christmas, a dear holy hour
I sit with a brandy in front of the fire.
Alone with our child tucked asleep down the hall
and the man that I love has gone out on a call.


He's a fireman, you see, and when sirens blast
He rushes to help, to bring hope to you fast.
Through smoke, in the ice, in hard driving rain,
He offers assistance and helps folks in pain.


No though for himself, he offers a hand,
No matter the season or what we had planned.
I just let him go, see him off with a kiss
and try not to worry about what he will miss -


Baby's first step, or her eyes all alight
When she sees what Ol' Santa leaves her tonight.
I pray for his safety, that he comes back to me
That he not be in danger is my nightly plea.


He's my whole life, I give him all that I can.
He's one of the finest - he's a fireman.


Okay, so not great poetry. Also not entirely true in my circumstance, as we have no children. But if we *had* children, it would be like that. As it is I usually just expect something to go wrong and him not be here - you know, things like toilets overflowing or furnaces not working, or three feet of snow.

He is home with me this Christmas Eve, and tomorrow, too. Not so next year, when he pulls Christmas Eve duty. I have spent a number of Christmas Eves or Christmas Day's without him.

Being a firefighter's wife means you always say "I love you" and you don't fight because there's no way to know what will happen in the next moment. I can't count the number of times we've been saying "good night" over the phone only to have the alarm bells ring. He dashes off to a fire and then calls me back later, even it is 3 a.m., to let me know he is okay.

He is a public servant. He saves lives. I am very proud of him.

Prophecy

Grease on lips.
Fat on hips.

Where I'm From

I am from the green banks of Ireland,
from kettles filled with 'taters
and Celtic blues sung softly to the stars.

I am from the cabins of Virginia settlers,
folks who ventured to a new world
with only a Bible and a banjo.

I am from mothers with fey dreams
who know you're dying long before you do,
and from fathers who drink first,
fight later, and leave bloody prints
on the shores of their wives' beaches.

I am from a reverend who owned
whore houses and from grandparents
who set the West Virginia woods afire
while they made love.

I am from Mother Mary and the Mother Goddess
and Jesus Christ on a stick. I'm from the Shenandoah,
the slow-moving creek, oak trees and blackberries,
peaches and wine.

I am from the fires of World Wars and from spindles
that made thread, and needles that wheedled
thread into cloth that shone like gold.

From all this and more, am I; I am from black dresses,
red hair, cancers and heartache, from tombstones
and graves and moonshine whiskey
made from copper pipes.

My line stops with me; my womb yawns
like an empty cavern, barren and fruitless,
nothing will come forth to let another know
the necessity of the past,
to make it her own, to say to her,
"This is where you're from."


The template for this poem can be found here; the original poem that inspired the template can be found here. I read a poem on someone's blog from the template some time ago, but it's been such a while the blog has been removed and I don't know where that person got it from originally.

The Gun Show

We made an unexpected trip to the gun show at the Salem Civic Center this morning.

My husband I think expected to go; he just forgot to tell me until the last minute.

Gun shows are ... different. I have been to three now, all since 9/11/2001. They are not places one would expect to find me, and they are not places I would go on my own.

The first show after 9/11 was very intense. People were grim and angry, downright hostile. Lots of stuff on display about "protecting our own" and similar sentiments.

The show today was more relaxed. It is still a right-wing rednecked party, but I didn't feel like the entire place was hunting for bear.

At gun shows you see lots of guns. Guns can be pretty, if you forget that they kill stuff. The stocks especially can be very beautiful. My husband prefers the wood stocks, and they are indeed very lovely pieces of wood.

You also see a lot of Dixie items - Confederate flags, for example. Also I saw swords of various sizes, which always fascinate me. A great sword is *incredibly* heavy. Even a short sword has a lot of heft to it. My wrists certainly wouldn't hold up long if I had to carry one.

Additionally, there are aisles of mace and pepper spray, tasers, camouflage clothing, coins, bullets, vests, pistols, pistol carriers for concealed weapons, things like that.

The crowd consisted of mostly (white) men, and they looked like a sea of baseball caps spread out among the show floor. A few very burly men with tattoos (they were rather scary-looking) paced up and down the aisles. Maybe they were some kind of security but they looked like bikers.

The one thing that caught my attention was the stereotype the gun show pushed. Many of the items sold seemed to be targeted at the kind of folks who epitomize Jeff Foxworthy's humor.

Not much room at a gun show for someone who reads poetry, I must say. Although I think there is a sort of poetry in gun shows ...

The Gun Show

The Civil War, fought 100 years ago
lives strong and the Rebel Flag flies
at the gun show.

Men with chew in their jaws pace the aisles
eyes intent on their target.
A Remington, a Winchester, a Marlin.

The guns, sleek and smooth, barrels straight
await a proper aim
and a touch on the trigger.

Money changes hands and guns march off
with hunters, bandits, police officers,
women, mothers, children.

The hum of the mechanics of capitalism,
the sounds of doing business,
the death exchange.

Needs work, that poem. Ah well.

Forms of Poetry

Yesterday I posted a poem I wrote some time ago. It is a sestina, which is a specific form of poetry.

The definition of a sestina, from Wikipedia, is as follows:

A sestina is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by
a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six
words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza's lines appear in the order 615243, then 64125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531.... These six words then appear in the
tercet as well, with the tercet's first line usually containing 1 and 2, its second 3 and 4, and its third 5 and 6 (but other versions exist...).

Thus we get this form in my poem (I prefer to use ABCDEF instead of numbers, so I'm using both for an example):

grass (A)(1)
roses (B)(2)
bloom (C)(3)
sun (D)(4)
sea (E)(5)
garden (F)(6)

garden (F)(6)
grass (A)(1)
sea (E)(5)
roses (B)(2)
sun (D)(4)
bloom (C) (3)

etc.

Another form of poetry that I have written in the past is the Villanelle.

A1 (refrain)
b
A2 (refrain)

a
b
A1 (refrain)

a
b
A2 (refrain)

a
b
A1 (refrain)

a
b
A2 (refrain)

a
b
A1
A2 (refrain)

One of the most famous villanelle's is Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which you can read at the link.

Another poetry form that's fun to play with is the sonnet. There are many different forms of sonnet.

Here is the diagram for a Shakespearean Sonnet:

(a)
(b)
(a)
(b)

(c)
(d)
(c)
(d)

(e)
(f)
(e)
(f)

(g)
(g)

This is the most familiar form for English readers, I think.

The Spenserian sonnet has this pattern:

(a)
(b)
(a)
(b)

(b)
(c)
(b)
(c)

(c)
(d)
(c)
(d)

(e)
(e)

I like playing with poetry forms when I'm feeling blocked. It becomes a game, then, like working a crossword puzzle, to try and make it work out properly.

Sorting Through the Roses

Sorting Through the Roses
A Sestina
By CountryDew

Leaves sway as winds blow the grass.
Your flower bed dances with roses.
Buds fill the arbor, ache to bloom.
Showers of brightness move in the sun.
Aphrodite's roses raised in the sea
cannot match the grandeur of your garden.

A circus of colors parades in your garden.
Highlighted, accented by alfalfa grass,
white, yellow, red waves rippling like the sea.
Misplaced carnations masquerade as pink roses,
fade against climbers reaching for sun.
Your summer rainbow, ready to bloom.

You stand among roses watching them bloom.
With scissors you take a bouquet from your garden.
White Knights burst forth, iridescent in sun.
Crimson Glories--elegant, above the grass.
You smell the fragrance of musky roses--
down by the fence grow buds you can't see.

But like Aphrodite who sprang from the sea
you lose your Adonis in summertime's blooms.
Yet the King's Ransom could not buy your roses--
Paradise is tangled, alive in your garden.
Your feet feel the earth, sympathize with the grass.
The Crown of your head tries to draw in the sun.

You brush against bushes as you walk in the sun.
Thorns prick at your clothing. Still you can't see
First Love flowering low in the grasses
or the sulky black roses waiting to bloom.
Orange and red blossoms overtake the garden.
They overwhelm when you stand in the roses.

You cut only the best of the roses,
trim every stem, take the buds from the sun,
examine the leaves of each bush in your garden,
pull Aphrodite from the foam of the sea.
Scissors snip, you catch the best bloom.
You lay all your prizes in line on the grass.

When the sun leaves your garden, you ache for the grass.
Each summer you ride on the wave of the bloom.
The roses return, like the foam of the sea.

You know the best rose grows here in your garden.
You stand back, watch the buds dance in sun
You have gathered your bouquet of roses.

To Grandma, RIP 06/28/07

Your lap was the safest place in the world.
Hurts were smoothed away with your kisses
And your hugs as you engulfed us
With your love.
Pulled close and rocked hard, we listened
To your heart beat and your voice
Singing “Daisy, Daisy” as our tears
Vanished like fog in sunshine.

Your heart beat with love
For your children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
There was no transgression you could not forgive.
You soothed brows and bolstered self-esteem
And you seldom asked for anything in return.
Your life was hard but you always sang.
Even near the end, you heard music.
You made fried apple pies and macaroni and cheese
With equal amounts of joy and tenderness.
Those are spices no one could add but you,
Grandma.

Though you are now in a better place, safe in Heaven
And strolling along glided streets with Grandpa
Holding your hand
You remain still here with us, held close and fast
And with each beat of our hearts
We will remember your love.

Broth

I want to make soup,
rip the heart from some golden calf
toss its meat fat
into bubbling tomato juice
see it boil, red,
like the blood of a falling sun.
I want to make soup
with the crucifix
of the heart of the art
I choke on,
in a place where
undeserved and unserved
I eat corn, green beans – truly rare
and sacred. Part of
the bounty the earth tossed me.
It’s time to make soup.

On the Fly

The robin with the white wing
nests again in the spruce
we stole from the queer man
who lives up the street.
Stolen trees grow better
than purchased products.
The bird likes this one. Her
three eggs rest in the little
stick circle, comfortable even
in Mama's absence. She chatters
from a nearby wild cherry,
fussing at my impertience
as I peer into her home.
The eggs are brilliant
in color, larger than expected.
How can a tiny bird give
such large things, I ask
no one. As if I expect
some god to speak, offer me
stories or reasons why
the robin's eggs are blue.

A Spam Poem

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You can use it as a lovely gift;
give me a call;
Our agent will immediately commence
the release.

The Blue Country

In the far Blue Country I see

hazy dewdrops on a yellow rose.

The blossom sprang

from the heart of a locust

struck by lightning;

I pricked my finger on its thorn.



From that element my magic spread,

seeping into chambers that reverberate

with bird song and the lullaby

of a breeze. Come

to this enchanted place

those vales of dark mist, white shadow

and time in the fringes of the mind.