The World is

The world is

Too heavy

For me.

Poverty stretches through countries

Under bridges

In foreclosures

Cardboard signs begging for help

Distended stomachs

Flies eating the living

As they slowly become the dead.

The world is

Too sick

For me.

Diseases can be treated

But when minds flock to twisted ideas

When what is most hateful and evil

Sounds so good to foolish ears

And threatens to destroy all I love

All I believe in

I feel helpless to intervene.

The world is

Beyond me.

I can only keep my own world alive

Safe

Fed

Happy

Serene

While I send out my letters

To a world gone wrong

And try to connect

To the other safe havens

Huddled up

Frightened

Waiting

For the world to end.

A Sonnet for Eating

I hope all of you know the sonnet form, but if not, here it is: 14 lines of iambic pentameter (five iambic (unstressed, stressed) feet, with a regular rhyme scheme (all sorts of patterns exist with this one, so I won't spell it out). Here goes:

The Art of Baking

The house is quiet, all are sleeping still

Content to dream, and wait for morning's light

No one feels hunger, but I'm sure they will

And so I prep the kitchen while it's night.

At first the flour, yeast, and soda mix

And then the eggs, the milk, the oil go in;

The stirring is a chore--it's almost six

The kids are will be up soon, my littler kin.

The pans are oiled, ready for the dough

But it must rise first, so I wait and wait

Until it's perfect, patted, formed just so

And in it goes, to meet its tasty fate.

Within the hour the bread comes out to meet

My family, who all slice it up to eat.

Happy baking/writing, everybody.

Summer with Kids

There once were two kids out of school

Who were so bored they started to drool

So tired of Wii

They were fighting with me

And begging me for a swim pool.

We went to the YMCA

Where I tried to entice them with play

They stomped someone's toes

And busted a nose

Yes, it was a horrible day.

But summer is soon to be gone

Along with the tear they've been on.

I know that I'll miss them

And often I'll kiss them

But for now I'll be glad when it's done.

(You see, I can't write a rhyming poem without it being silly. It just isn't in me. Using a limerick format doesn't help, either. At least I'd have a chance if I used the sonnet form.)

(Instead, I'll just stick to free verse.)

All of Everything

Today

When I play

I won't just hear the keys

As they rap against strings

I'll feel the missing ivories

Of B and Treble D

I'll sense the tremble of the sound

On the palms of my hand

Sneeze from the dust of the

Old instrument

And smell its wood oil

Its decay

Today

When I walk outside

I won't just see the blue sky

Or hear the sound of cars on the highway

I'll feel the wind in my ears

The drip of sweat down my neck

My back

Smell the dew, the perspiration

The green of grass and

Bloom of summer flowers

Taste the lip gloss

The warm water bottle

And hear my own breathing.

Today

I won't just see the words

The black letters on a white screen

The rows, paragraphs, sentences

In stark ugliness and form

I'll feel the journey

Sense the movement through time and space

Kiss each character

With pain, harm, evil, good

And mold him into something

More real than he is now

I'll grow the trees

Get drenched with rain

Wade through streams

And hide, seek, run, dream.

Life isn't limited

Isn't only one element

Isn't one sense, one emotion

It isn't television

It's everything.

In Defense of Poetry

Walking Man picked a bone with me a few days ago (gently, as always) about a comment I'd made regarding what I was writing offline--and apologizing for only posting poetry over the next few weeks or months.

He had a right to question my statement, wondering why I felt poetry was some lesser form of writing, and so here is my apology. Understand that I truly adore poetry. Half of the blogs I follow regularly are made up predominately of poetry, and I find my taste for it increases week by week. I have always found poetry more emotionally resonant than most other forms of the written or spoken word (including films), yet my comments were not meant to disparage poetry in the slightest.

They were not even meant to disparage my own poetry, though I have no delusions that my poetry is fantastic. If anything, writing poetry, at least in my case, is the most subconscious of the types of writing I pursue. A phrase usually comes into my mind, slipping in almost without my noticing, and the images and feelings seep in afterwards, until I can pretty much write the thing in a single sitting, without much revision.

Because of its immediacy, I probably don't give my own poetry the same respect I reserve for my novel and play writing. A single novel takes me years (so far), development happens slowly, and it is much harder for me to do. Instead of an intense session bent over my laptop, poetry feels like a breath of sunlight, a warm bath, something short, blissful, and complete. A moment.

What's fascinating about poetry is that rereading a poem conjures up that same moment, over and over. Wordsworth's host of daffodils always leaves me happy, while Williams' note about eating plums never fails to create its image and simplicity in my mind, again and again. I also don't get sick of good poetry. I can reread it 100 times and still adore it--or adore it more.

Yet I cannot judge poetry. It either resonates with me or doesn't. Its images stir something inside my mind and heart, or they don't. I cannot criticize it, or edit it, unless the poet has used a regular meter and rhyme scheme, and then my editing only addresses the accuracy of the rhythm.

I suppose, in essence, poetry is both easy and beyond me. It's primal, a part of the most basic form of being.

What is it to you? How does it compare to the other genres?

The Race

[In honor of my husband, who is in a triathlon this morning]

Some come to vie

To see the finish line

To sail past the

Lesser athletes

To win

Finishing second

Means crushing defeat

The medal is all

Others need to feel

They are not alone

To sense the splash of water

The cheers

The breaths

All around

To feel the fingers

Brushing shoulders

Patting backs

See the rows of bikes

Waiting

To hear the laughs as others

Struggle on

To see those both ahead and behind

To be part of the pack

Validated

But happiest are those

In it only for the

Moment

Not the end

Not the others

But the feel of water on their skin

The rush of wind

As they pedal downhill

The ache of use

From their legs

As they run the race

To them, the end is nothing

All is in the now.

Settling In

I am FINALLY writing my first novel. I could say "editing," since this will be version, oh, 18 or so of it. However, I've figured out that the way the first one (of a series) was configured did too much too fast, and Thomas (the main character) has to grow far too fast for one book, so I've reorganized and replanned 5 or 6 novels, changing the first one's major event and moving it to the next to last novel in the series.

Now I am essentially revising pieces of the original, and cutting out all the other stuff and saving it on another file I've actually called "Thomas Novel Pieces." These may or may not end up in future novels, but they won't end up in the first one. I will soon run out of stuff to keep in this novel, and the parts I have to write from scratch will get bigger and bigger. I'm excited, though. I get to use much of the NW geography with these novels, including everything from Cape Flattery, which I posted about here, Mt. Rainier, and even the San Andreas Fault.

The whole series will combine my love for the paranormal with the natural world... and at least I will find it exciting.

While I'm writing, though, I'll continue to post poetry... it's the best I can do while I'm busily working on another project.