Tag Archives: bad poetry

Poems from the Weekend (Oct. 31- Nov. 2)

Halloween, all-saints day, day of the dead, time-change, and I need more sleep.

There are probably a thousand places I could navigate again without thinking about.
A whole big long list.
I wouldn’t have to look up maps. I wouldn’t have to double check my direction.
I’d just know.
I know which direction to turn in my house without thinking about it, even if I haven’t been home in years.
I wonder what my brain is doing with all that knowledge while I’m forgetting I know it.

He was the sort of man who I could have told to go to the store for me,
Who would have forgotten what exactly he was supposed to buy, and get beer instead
And I would lightly yell at him,
Just glad he’d done something for me. Because sometimes I don’t like being strong.

I wish I just had one problem, like the women in novels
A big, honking, thing of a thing
That could be easily solved by a man,
A sense of humor
And really good, very detailed, sex.
Then I’d be perfect after that got solved.

Every time I go back to visit my family
I see my mother involved with my brother’s life.
She can name all his friends, all his friend’s moms.
She knows which colleges he applied for,
She knows how much homework he finished,
And what he has to get done tomorrow,
And how much gas is in his car.
And which of his friends are dating, and when play rehearsals are.
It makes me want to cry.
To say,
Why didn’t you care so much about me?
Why wasn’t I good enough?

I pack my books in old Keurig cups cardboard boxes.
That way they’re stackable, and not too heavy.
I have to decide:
Am I taking Tolkien, or would he be ok by himself?
Matilda is coming, there’s no doubt about that.
Leaves of Grass I can find online, but I like holding.
Auden has to come, he’d be lonely otherwise.
Princess Bride is comfort self material, check.
Eyre, Emma, Pratchett, and O’Henry are a shelf by themselves.
Dianna Wynne Jones got me through the summer of ’11
I can’t leave her.
My people travel well. They don’t complain unless it’s raining.

I told you,
You’d leave me,
Don’t you remember?
I said, you’ll get tired of me,
Like they all do,
Up and down you said no.
But I waited.
And there you went.

I like being up early.
I don’t like waking up early.
My time of day is when it’s quiet.
And dark.
A couple bugs still up,
And twelve dollar Target lamps,
Laptops, and wifi,
And Arnold Palmers.

I had someone to meet at 6:45.
I got off work at 5.
I couldn’t afford to get something to eat,
In a café where I could sit.
Starbucks. I could sit and work, but not get anything cheap to snack on.
I brought a book with me, if I could find a place.
I drove around and got lost,
And my phone kept telling me where to turn.
I can’t afford to waste this gas,
But I couldn’t find a place to pull over,
And sit.
Is this what it’s like being homeless?
Trying to find quiet, where no one will bother you
Until you have somewhere to be at a specific time?
Shampoo aisles suck up a lot of time.
So do craft stores.

Poems from My Day (5/19)

i wrote ten of them. you know why.

My dog led me along a thin and narrow path.
I followed her into the deep woods, into rivers
Under trees, I followed her.
We walked up a hill steep and narrow.
She yanked my arm,
Shot into the brush,
And brought me out a little squeaking groundhog.
I followed her while she buried it,
Then we went back to the car.
We had such a lovely time.

She told me I have too much personality. These, hand brush, are cookie-cutters,
Like those boxes that only change from beige to brown,
You, you have too much you in you.

If I wanted to,
I can find all your secrets. Anything you’ve tacked up.
It’s all still there.

Who’s gonna pay for this?
Look at all this damage.
You did this to me.

Tried a new place where the old Thai place used to be, had good drunken, sloppy, noodles.
I wanted to like it, for the spirit of the thing.
They showed off the same dusty black candle boxes, the same Vishnu painting with a mint tint.
The noodles were gummy and the chicken chewy.
I started singing Joni’s “don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
And I didn’t laugh at someone else’s joke. I’m still going through my, I want to be stoic and not laugh all the time phase.
My cheeks hurt now when I smile.
Their sweetened condensed tea wasn’t bad. One day, I’ll be on time. I’ll find the place I love and it won’t close before I’ve had my fill.
Too fancy philosophical for closing Thai restaurants? Yeah, I thought so.

I drive over the limit when I’m surrounded in traffic.
But when I drive at two, after a Saturday of whatever it was,
I go the 55 exactly. I’m accountable more to myself than to the waves, then, I suppose.
I hear as my car starts to struggle with the second switch, my second switch hasn’t worked since I have to be exhausted to sleep.

One of these I wrote for you, you know.
I’ll give you a hint. It was a love poem. Not that I write a lot of love poetry, or good love poetry, or good poetry at all. (I’m not fishing, don’t send me things, you butts)
I just want to talk with you. But I don’t know how to get you to open your instructions.
And if you do start talking, I don’t know what to say. I’ll say something to make you go away again. I always do. Then I miss you.
You said that to me once. I missed you. It made my day, you know? No you don’t.
I’ll be flying with my fancies over this way. Belittling myself again.

I had to tell a story about something fun I did with my best friend from childhood. I couldn’t think of one.
And I started telling it and got that feeling of being boring, and made it worse.
I trapped myself, then got mad at being trapped, then made myself stuck.
We must have done something that was nice, that I don’t associate with embarrassment, shame, penance and disgust. And now I can’t think of any gleeful memory.
They’re only happy when I’m in a certain mood.

So, then, big power in my mind.
I just get the one, then?
She gets me. She’s smarter, and funny as hell, I want to write down everything she says,
Mystical magical.
Same soul.
I just get the one though? I need another, please. Where do I fill out my form?
I’ll get on stage and recite lines for you. I want someone to know me.
Someone I’m not scared to hide the sections of me I only tell the dogs and strangers.
I tried to give it to someone else, pushed it, dropped, stained my floor, still there now, part of the furniture.

I’ll never be good enough. Enough for me.
The competitive me wants more.
The styrofoam container kid in church, says you work for goodness.
But I still take comfort, sometimes, in thinking that the meek have something.
We’re supposed to get the Earth. I think I have that on a magic card as manna.

10 Poems in 20 Minutes (Day Fifty)

I wrote five hundred poems in fifty days. Each set of ten I wrote in twenty minutes. Today makes five hundred poems total. To mark this momentous occasion, I decided to break with my standard verse, and rhyme. God help me. Other gods help me. I am no rapper with mad skillz.

I Wrote 10 Poems in 20 Minutes
Day 50

Poem 1:
He chastised me
Saying, not everything has to be defended
I did not mean to seem
As though I constantly intended
To be offended

Poem 2:
My mind types alone
Sometimes without me in it
It won’t take more toner
It doesn’t need to quit
I can just phone in what I’m supposed to say
Heys, unknown to my own

Poem 3:
There sits on my desk a flower
It does not cower
Without much power
It flops over on itself
All alone on my shelf
Waiting to die in water

Poem 4:
I have to shush myself down
Calm down, sit down, lie now
After I remember a past
A moment ago when, last
I embarrassed me
I cast this memory in iron

Poem 5:
I took a walk once near some trees
But books to be had turned the leaves
And the green had started to fade
I turned old and gray in that shade

Poem 6:
Stop for a second and
Tell me what you’re doing
You’re subduing and chewing on fat
Instead of telling me what’s happened
What’s going on?

Poem 7:
I sat yesterday and read
Instead of going to bed
But the book was lovely
Full of bubbly and cuddly
Little bits of flim and flare
So much better than daring to care about where one
Might be tomorrow, undone

Poem 8:
Is two a pack of dogs?
Together they would jog
But after one died
The other didn’t cry
But frog leapt to pack leader
An all around good breeder

Poem 9:
How do I say this nicely?
It’s a perpetual question, I see.
I must tell you what’s wrong
But not string you along
And not hurt your feelings either

Poem 10:
There’s mold above the tub
So everyday I stare
That stub
I try not to care
For black dots of grim and to be scrubbed