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Category: Bad Poetry
There’s no help for it
Do you pause to count the church bellsto make sure that they’re rightOr do you listen to hear the reverberations and look for the pigeons in flightDo you chew your food slowlyand remark on each flavor Or do you rush and drink awayall that you could savorDo you ever stop to photograph the daffodilsthat grow thick in the hope of springOr must you hurry to your next conquestnot thinking of the brightness they would bringDo you linger over a passage in a bookscribbling a note in the marginOr do you keep your ears tuned to the TVand all the senseless jargonDo you ever wonder what goes onin the lives we see on FacebookOr do you think it’s close enough to truthnot bothering to pursue a deeper lookDo you stand at the edge of the oceanand let the sand be sucked from beneath your toesOr do you stay within your phone all dayand wonder if you captured your best poseDo you know the difference between someone who’s happyfor themselvesand someone who’s living to make someone else happy? Can you recognize the look in their eyes? Can you see what they need? Can you define it yourself? Who are YOU, without your husband or children? What makes you you, with your flawed teeth that braces never really fixed? Can you say the alphabet backwards? Can you drive a boat onto a trailer? Can you read music, recite poetry? Can you paint the way light falls on water? Can…
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I am not a secretI am a sirenI am not a mediatorfor those who are weakI am the spokesmanI will not drag you with meI will proudly walk aloneFearlessBecause I faced the worsta long time agoI am strong willedStrongly opinionatedStrong legs to stand tallnot for runningStrong lungs to exhale and blow you from meI will continue, undauntedCaution trampledI am not sugarI am ginThat bites backI am honest to a fault voir direI am blue eyes and unruly red hairI am tears for an instantThen I am fierceI am a switchblade when my anger flares I am not a shrinking violetI am a strutting, bold ravenWith thorns held in my beakFor my nest in the highest, sturdiest oakI have never been a cowardBut will shatter my heart with a disaster To prove I will rise from the flamesI will not listen when you label me with your insecuritiesYour aggression is nothing to meMy confidence is a fortressI will not heed your warningsand think that I am brokenBecause you don’t approveof What I Am. *Listening to Kacey Musgraves this morning, who is not pageant material either…
One tear Waits for its companion On the curve of an eyelash It doesn’t have to wait long, and they are replaced by another And another And another Let me go I want to scream You sacrificed nothing And I want to be untethered And without remorse But I must settle for drowning In sorrow In pear wine In my solitude With only tears That never stop falling It is summer It is always summer When he emerges No matter where he’s been But I won’t save him again…
Here lies a square spade shovelThat could quickly dispose of youIf I could get a good enough swing for momentum Or maybe this wine bottleRecently emptied by yours trulyWould do the trick with more grace I always thought poison would be the way to goBut to get you drunk enough to take itTakes too long Of course a bullet would be the fastest and easiestBut it’s too cold hearted and detachedTo suit me My favoriteIs the hands-on murderI don’t hire a manOr sabotage your truckOr even consult a Voodoo Priestess No. I fantasize about grabbing you by the throatWhen you lean in to try to kiss me goodbye- what would your girlfriend say about that, I wonder-And sinking a butcher knife into your neckAnd watch your eyes widenWith recognitionAs you realize I hate youAs much as I ever loved you.And forgiveness will not come from me…
I’m that girl.The one that still prefers to be called “girl”Although clearly it would be totally appropriateTo address me as ma’amI’m still holding on to the pastWith my dyed hairAnd my funky jewelryAnd the bright clothesI still want to be That GirlWho drinks beer on patiosAnd rides with the top downAnd Guns-n-Roses blaringI want to be noticedAnd appreciatedAs ME.I am That GirlWho still can’t do sums in her headAnd doesn’t hesitate to order dessert And happily abandons responsibilites in favor of a good bookI’m the girl who will exercise by throwing a ball for her dogOr swimming in the lakeOr meandering up the mountain just to eat a bag of Chex Mix at a waterfallI don’t want to hurry I want to LOOKAnd SEEAnd DOAll the things I’m not supposed to have time forI’m That GirlWho doesn’t like crowdsWho would rather stay homeAnd eat Chinese on china platesIn front of the TVThan some fine dining establishment where you feel obligated to tip 30% Even though service was less than mediocreAnd your baked potato was coldAnd your salad was warmI’m That GirlWho cries at the National AnthemWho believes in working for what you getWho wants to know how you feel about LIFEI’m That Girl behind the keysBehind the wordsBehind the times…
{WP #815 the poem that won awards and sparked so many to love poetry again} I sat down to write it, summoning Jesus (’cause everybody’s momma loves Jesus), Shel Silverstein (’cause grownups and kids alike love him), and David Allan Coe (’cause he wrote the ultimate country and western song). I had to be humble, and funny, and true. I had to please the masses. My success depended on it. No pressure, right? It had to have music and roses and candlelightTo make everything just rightIt had to be whimsicalAnd moody And upliftingBut also rhyme and not be uptightIt had to say a million “I love you”sIt had to sing with all the joy everlastingIt had to be the one thing you could memorizeAnd let the world know you were sophisticatedIt had to make you forget about your problemsAnd make you feel lightAnd gracefulAnd place stars in your eyesIt had to talk about all the ugly things turned beautifulBecause this is the perfect poemThe one where there is the gorgeous treeAnd the luscious fruitAnd the breathtaking oceanAnd all the things we dream about at our desks at 1:30 in the afternoon  …
{WP #703 A poem about loss} Sometimes I want to tell himNot to bother locking the door behind himBecause the only person who could hurt meIs leaving…
Connect the dots Of my little spots And see my moss On which I lay. I am slimy I am cold I am fast But I’m not bold. I like the mud Best of all I’ll hide from hikers Both great and small. You must be quick To see me there Perched on a rock Near my lair. Some think snake Others think frog I am neither Beneath my log. If I had a shell I could not squeeze Between these roots So if you please Don’t pick me up As I scurry away Just admire my spots And be on your way. Please enjoy this picture by my good friend Timothy H. Fisher (aka The Hiking Fish) more than you enjoyed my bad poetry. Please hold my good friend Beth responsible for my bad poetry, as she gave me the prompt and I couldn’t think of a good story to tell. I only have two salamander stories, and neither are especially entertaining. One ends with dead, extremely smelly salamanders, anyway. Please get more information about the Salamander Capital of the World here. No foolin’!! Home of Dolly Parton AND salamanders!!! Please see Fish’s gallery at https://www.facebook.com/thfisherphotography/ He writes too…
