It's National Poetry Month! So. . . P is for poetry

Note: No, I'm not participating in the A-Z blog challenge. Far too much on my plate with Rain scheduled to come out next month. There are upcoming posts about it, but, in the meanwhile, I realized I hadn't posted any "bad" poetry lately.

 

 

 

 

Hidden

I don’t keep all my memories in boxes

Tucked away in square or rectangular cardboard

All glazed over with bright-colored paper

And sprinkled with stars.

 

My memories lie scattered about me

In haphazard places and on dangerous surfaces

Teetering on the edges, waiting to fall

Out on display, hidden in chaos.

 

Over there the ballerina en pointe

Long pink tutu,

Dancing to a song I no longer remember

Twirling, mesmerizing a five year old I still recall.

 

Glass enclosed bookshelves

Rescued from the trash heap

Carefully restored and gifted

Strewn once with frames and pictures

 

Voices telling stories, markers, places

People whose faces still laugh

Whose dreams I once knew.

Pain I saw as they buried their children.

 

All of my memories, pieces of story

Snatches of music, whispers of touch

All scattered around me–hidden in chaos

And my voice is silenced–no one listening.

 

 

 

 

Staggering: A Writing Trilogy

 

Staggering upright

Changing lanes, leaning on walls

One scene to the next.

 

Inebriated

Chattering so quickly now.

Can’t type that fast . . . please.

 

Words no longer mine

Just theirs, telling a story

Insistent rascals. 



Untitled On Purpose: Hope and Bad Poetry

Untitled On Purpose

Gone for the holidays

Wafted away by snatches of carols

And starry, starry nights.

Lost in foil-lined wrapping paper

And gingerbread dreams.

Not I.

The carols I hear

The wrapping paper lies unwinding on the table

And the gingerbread dreams are still just dreams.

 

I roam in the world I created.

Looking into windows

Listening at doors

A voyeur in my own imagination

Watching the rain fall.

 December 2015

 

Normally I would be posting a Christmas haiku or tanka. I may yet, the day is still young or fairly so. This is what I have written though, so I am posting it.

 

Please note the final line. It’s been a very long time, and there are still obstacles to overcome, but I am starting to have some hope that Rain will be published in 2016. More than that I am afraid to say. Saying it aloud or definitely may jinx the whole thing. But maybe. . . just maybe. . .

Hope is curious thing, isn’t it?

Something rare and wonderful is happening. I can't explain it fully. A dream . . . a hope appears to be coming true.

Anticipation

Wind howling past me

Approaching the precipice
Hoping I will fly.

Will my wings be strong enough?

No way of knowing . . . just leap.

Traveler--- Beginning Autumn Poetry

 

Traveler

I have traveled too far north
And must double back
Before the day ends and the sun sets.
Wondering how I got this far
And along this route
Without seeing where I was going
Or how far I had traveled.
Time to return. Must hurry.
The sun hangs low above the horizon.
I must be back before the deep violet twilight
And the emerging stars begin to wonder
Why I am not there
For them to welcome me home.


Yes, it's time for bad poetry again. It's been a while.  

Haikus in Newborn Autumn

 

I.

And silence beats down

Bass notes reverberating

Downing emptiness.

 

II.

Music often seen

Never heard. . . glinting sunlight

Carried in the wind.

 

III

Volumes on pages

Never spoken or whispered

All in soldierly rows.  

It's not my Bad Poetry this time --- Not Exactly

White Mountains of New Hampshire
S.E.Hudnall 2014 

That's correct. This isn't my "bad poetry". I was in New England this spring, having a grand old time and, yes, writing in my little spiral notebook. I knew I was going to be bringing back "bad poetry".

But this one, while written there, isn't really mine. It was my notebook. I held the pen. But it's really Desiree's. It's her poem. Who is Desiree? My female protagonist in Snow.

Honor for Sale

They're selling honor and glory on the street corner,
Hawking them like precious wares.
And the price---the rock bottom price
Is the blood of your fathers, sons, and brothers
A few hundred body bagsT
Caskets to be unloaded on a western dock
A sister's tears--- a father's aching emptiness
A mother's son-less arms
A future caught in crossfire on a rice field
The skein of brightness, love, and laughter
Cut by a sniper's bullet---no Fates involved.

They're selling honor and glory on the street corner
Special offer today
Death half off or two for one
Your choice of bargains.

Elizabeth Desiree Williams

 

 



They say there's a little bit of yourself in every character you create. I'll say "Amen" to that. I can't deny it. But it's never more than just a piece or two. Desiree, quite obviously, is the poet of the bunch. And also writes 'bad poetry'.  

July. . .and the Bad Poetry Continues

Lupines and Daisies: New Hampshire
2014

 

"And it was summertime, glorious summer."

The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Anderson

 

 

Morning Music

I.
Outside my window
Green darkness, raindrops singing,
Inside, cats amok.

No space sacred, bounding off
Couches, chairs, and each other.

II.
In five second bursts
Then suddenly all is still
But the rain still sings.

Note by note on glass it falls
A contralto voice. Slow. Soft.
 

 

Strawberry Moon over Manchester, NH 2014


 

 

Sleeping Dreams

 

Put your dreams to sleep.

They'll find no purchase here.

Better they sleep and not remember,

The clouds dancing by with gray mouse feet.

 

Let them dream their own dreams.

Have they really been yours?

Did you dream them or did others?

So hard to see even in moonlight.

 

Put your dreams to sleep.

Blanket them with clouds.

Soothe them with falling rain.

They will forget. . . they will.

 

 

 

 Daisies

 

Daisies in a glass

Standing soldiers on parade

In bright uniforms

 

Warm pink and orange listeners

To our laughing discourse

 



 

 



In case you're coming in late and missed it, yes, I consider all of my poetry--bad poetry. Only in the last poetry post have I labeled it "bad poetry". The label on all the other poetry is simply "poetry". The reason I call it "bad poetry" can be found here.

More Bad Poetry in June--- So Sorry!

I knew this was coming. I knew before I ever got on the plane to New Hampshire. I could have warned you. But I didn't. So sorry.

Sunday Morning in New Hampshire

Time isn't really different here.
The sun creeps up in his usual style
Smiling over the horizon
"Are you ready for me?"
No, not yet!
Dreams, music, and poetry
Are still swimming in my mind
Crowding out coherency
Must I wake up? Be gentle, please.
Let me dream a little longer.


I have a tanka roughed out and in need of editing but I will save that and the other one for next month. There is only so much pain I'm willing to inflict on others.