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National Poetry Month – Ricochet Challenge
April is National Poetry Month here in the U.S. I haven’t seen any mention here yet of that subject, so I would like to issue a Ricochet poetry challenge. Write a poem on any subject you would like and in any form. That is all there is to the challenge. You can post it here or in a separate thread if you think it deserves one.
Now, some might argue that the world has too much bad poetry already. But in defense of bad poetry, it sometimes leads to better poetry from the writer in the future. I’ve been writing poetry for more than 40 years, and when I started, it was all bad. Now, just most of mine is bad. Or in the words of my old friend Dave Steinke:
“Poetry is like beer. With beer, all beers are good, but some beers are better than others. With poetry on the other hand, all poetry is bad. It’s just that some poems are worse than others.”
So, I want you to be fearless, because you only have to be good enough to suit your own tastes and abilities.
I’ll post one of my own as soon as I write it.
Published in General
Ricochet
I’ve been away for months or more,
but I walk in and know I’m home.
The light was on up o’er the door;
I’ve been away for months, or more.
It’s good to see those I adore
after my far and lengthy roam.
I’ve been away for months or more
but I walk in and know I’m home.
Good God!
Midge is secretly a prolific poet. But. Midge is also quite embarrassed about inflicting her poetry on a general audience.
And. Some of Midge’s poetry would be identifiable to non-Ricochetians, thus spoiling Midge’s anonymity.
I have wanted, for a while, to perhaps share some poems of mine with Aaron and Trink, just to see what they think.
Basically, before I inflict poetry on anyone, I need editorial advice.
Aaron, Trink, Arahant: if you want me to share some poems with you, PM me your e-mail address. My old computer died, and along with it, the electronic copies of most of my poems, but I still have the paper copies, and transcribing them back to computer would give me a chance to edit, anyhow.
Emily Dickinson Meets Dr. Seuss
I tried to find you, Emily, next to a hay or leafing tree,
I must confess I even asked a narrow fellow in the grass.
Because I thought they might have heard,
I talked about you with the birds.
I even tried the last retreat, your quiet grave–
I was discreet and asked you how to find a peace,
One piece of peace that I could lease.
It wouldn’t have to last me long–
Just until my final song.
I stood there long and pondered you–
How snakes and grasses saw you through.
I thought and thought–
Could that be enough for me?
Alas, it’s not.
But sometimes, when I read your words–
They set me free.
Midge–I’d like to read your poetry. If PM is working, I’ll send you my email.
Right before Rico 1.0 went dark, I published a post containing the following “poem”, for reasons I don’t entirely remember, but which probably had something to do with our collective nervousness at our impending fate, as well as some absurd comment 10 cents had made:
Of course this wasn’t a serious effort at poetry. But if April is the cruelest month, perhaps bad poetry (as well as the IRS) has something to do with it…
I’m not sure that PM is there, yet. Partially based on the fact that I just sent Midge one, but it doesn’t show in my “Sent” messages and partially based on a comment by the inestimable Blue Yeti on another thread.
Wonderful, Midge! I like un-serious poetry, as should be obvious from the one I posted!
Midge,
It’s a subject that many of us have encountered and can laugh at. I like your line, “kung fu in front of the faucets.”
(I note that spell check is working now.)
I can confirm I have received nothing from you yet, Arahant, which is even more evidence that PMs aren’t working yet (I’m always worried that someday I’ll capitalize the s in “PMs” – it’s a very easy mistake to make).
Sure. Once PMs are working…
You can find my e-mail here, if you look at the bottom of the page:http://www.poetrybase.info/
Like a plant must touch the sun
though held a captive by the soil,
ever stretching, twisting, bending…
yet warm, oblivious to the toil,
so do I find myself trekking,
gazing far beyond my sight
for a star that makes me be
from somewhere distant in the night.
Y’all can suggest a title for this one, because I don’t like the old title.
Midge, I sent you a PM but don’t know if PMs are working. I will, of course, publish here on Ricochet whatever poems you send me. ;)
A Poem for My Old Kentucky Home, far away, written on an Tuesday Morning that should have been happier
For you whose hearts did tear upon
the sound of the arbiter horn,
in the land of the eternal underdog,
ever impoverished, ever forlorn,
All draped in the color of faith,
Of the sky at the call of the dawn,
It’s the color of misery, too, you know,
Of the soul when victory’s gone,
But abandon it ne’er for another,
Nor long lament this hideous score;
For the gallant few who play for you,
The champions of your precious Blue,
Will someday return to the floor.
You will live to regret starting this, Arahant.
I couldn’t bring up the comment space for hours. Whew. Months ago I was working on a serious poem which didn’t want to come. Then this happened :)
So Big
Sitting in your window,
thinking lofty thoughts,
as are the gal who brings the mail
and the fellow hauling trash.
The mom loading kids for gym,
the dad at work, since dawn . .
you with your lofty thoughts. . .
Yawn. Yawn. Yawn.
(Hope it goes without saying that the ‘you’ is ‘moi’)
Midge! Yes . I’d love to ready your poetry.
It is alive again! Yeti, if you fixed it, thank you.
We’re all going to have to get used to the new software’s penchant for running paragraphs together or doing other strange things when we copy and paste.
Amen, my friend.
I wrote this in response to the Occupy movement. The meter’s a bit dodgy, as I’m a songwriter and it’s hard to break the habit of allowing extra syllables in a beat as long as you say them faster, but here goes:
Envy
“What’s mine is mine; what’s yours is ours”
You have the money, but they have the power
Instead of who’s earned, they’ll decide who needs
Envy’s just as dangerous as greed
What was meant to do good was taken from your hands
Instead of charity it must go to The Man
And now at your trough the government feeds
Envy’s just as dangerous as greed
Pursuit of happiness not nearly enough
They will decide when you have earned enough
If you’ve gotten fat they will make sure you bleed
Envy’s just as dangerous as greed
What once was called charity now called a right
What once was unalienable is now called a blight
Life, freedom, property an outdated creed
Envy’s just as dangerous as greed
They call it compassion, but control’s what I see
They call it justice to plunder and feed
Just one more chance, and they swear they’ll succeed
But history tells us where their envy leads
Ditto what Merina said! I tried the PM. I’m not holding my breath, though :(
As Siam spring blooms
A new flag over the land
here is a Thai-ku
Okay, I’ll bite. Here’s something I wrote about 10 years ago…
words fly away
chase their day
vanish in the
wind blowing since creation
the father spoke the living word came
to those who hear
the spirit blew kindled tongues
to light on little words
who now take wing
we children who sing
“Hippopotamus”
I’m a hippopotamus, I sit all day,
Waiting for pancakes to come my way,
I eat ’em with butter, I eat ’em with syrup,
But if I eat ’em too fast, they make me burp.
I eat ’em in sunshine, I eat ’em in the rain,
Got maple syrup, and butter on the brain.
Pile up the pancakes 20 feet tall,
Gotta gobble ’em up, in my maw
Silver dollar, or buttermilk mix,
For a stack of pancakes, I’ll do some tricks.
I’m a hippopotamus I sit all day,
Waiting for pancakes to come my way.
This thread is a good excuse to go back through old material and resort them between my Good, Garbage, and Salvageable folders. Here’s another, one I’d forgotten, called The Hidden Good (another title I might change)… after some heavy, last-minute editing.
Lost among a bounty of the young
and hallowed gleam that lights communal trees,
an oak, whose gifts aplenty are not sung,
droops within a fiery funeral breeze.
Cold the ash tracing once-fruitful limbs,
slowing goodly sap in strangled veins.
Quiet growth still conquers forth within,
but no one cares to hear what life remains.
Hopeful as a stone, they place the fire
at roots where not a leaf nor drip is seen.
And every ent, delighted in its ire,
thinks its blackened fingers are yet green.
By the way, folks, the site likes to force double-spacing for whatever reason. A fix is probably in the works. In the meantime, you can Edit the post after publishing and fix the spacing without much hassle.
In the Night
Plunging into darkness
Swimming into light
I see no color
As I fall to black and white
My ears are deafened
By a sound I fear
I cannot hear
My face is drawn
My muscles melt
And all these feelings I feel
I’ve felt
I’ve never felt
Yet I fall and melt
And in this dream
As I scream
As I fall in sleep
I find I fight
I know I shake
But in the night
I never wake
In Darkest Regions
In darkest regions
We stumble as legions
Seeking the bearers of light
And in the distance
When for instance
We spot
A spot of light
We fight
We claw, we rip, we trip
We cheat with our feet
Leaving those of us who lie
And all too often
We come to find
That that spark
That flickered in the dark
Was nothing but a firefly
His Cocktail Napkin Philosophy
His cocktail napkin philosophy
Is all that he’s left for me
His gin and tonic
Supersonic
Rag tag hyperbole
He thought I’d fail
To find his trail
When I went to find him
And found myself
In Baja by the sea
And now I stand
In the sand
Staring down
At my hand
And his cocktail napkin philosophy
It’s tightly wound
Around something inside
Ah, yes…his cyanide
He’d meant to hide
Or did he leave it for me?
Given my Ricochet handle I feel obligated to contribute. Your post inspired me to finally write a poem whose concept I’ve had in my head for some time.
“Mr. Morrow”
I’m looking for a man-
Have you seen him passing through?
Please tell me, if you can
The direction that he flew.
You see, he has my things,
All that ‘s bright and dear to me.
The loss of them—it stings.
I’ve nothing and he runs free.
Mr. Morrow’s his name,
A thief right from his birth.
It’s he who is to blame
For my lack of wealth and mirth.
He looks like me a bit
In face and height, I’ll concede,
But more robust and fit,
With a serpent’s grace and speed.
He plays a hero brave,
So bold in his strides and speech.
But really he’s a knave,
A confidence man, a leech.
I trusted him to keep
My things under lock and key,
Till I could take the leap—
Reveal them for all to see.
What sort of things, you ask,
Was it that he stole away?
Telling that is a task
That could take us all day.
In brief, let’s say he took
All my talents, all my art.
I swear to you this crook
Stole the dreams that filled my heart.
And all that I should be
He carries with him in a sack,
And so relentlessly
I’ll hunt till I get it back.
For years I’ve given chase,
But year after year I find
Regardless of my pace
I’m always a day behind.
Haven’t seen him, you say.
Well, I thank you for your time.
But rest assured, someday
Morrow will pay for his crime.
Take Me Away
An angel of death
Has taken my breath
An angel of sorrow
Will let me live on time
she’ll borrow
Take me away,
Take me away
The clouds like ships
Sail over the sea
An armada they are
An endless fleet
Now far away
The wind is their rudder
But I shudder to think
That I shall sink
Never to join them
Take me away,
Take me away
Children of the sun
How they trip and run
They look for places
To hide their faces
Their laughter
Will come after me
Take me away,
Take me away
The gulls on the docks
Fight like cocks
They bite, they cry
Then fly through the spray
Take me away,
Take me away
The moon outside
Pulls the tide
And gives my room a glow
My blanket becomes
A blanket of snow
I pull it over my head
And pretend I’m dead
But the angels won’t let me go.