Expressing unimportant thoughts concisely
I opened up my jar of Hope,
And found it was a jar of Nope.
The stuff inside was cracked and dried.
Seems to me…my Hope has died.
On this journey through Bad Poetry August, I’d be happy to take requests, I think? Leave them in the comments. Thanks for stopping in.
When I first wrote that thing,
The shiny hurt my eyes.
It was fresh and grand and new
And SO, SO great, you guys!
I wanted to put it out there
And blind the whole damn world,
But restraint finally prevailed
And I left that banner furled.
As it sat, it tarnished,
At first just spots of rust.
Then it sprouted grayish spots
And its luster turned to dust.
I couldn’t see myself reflected
In that thing’s surface anymore.
Looking at my former pride, I
Wondered what I wrote it for.
Maybe I could save this thing!
I grabbed a cloth and paste.
I scrubbed until my fingers hurt
Repenting what I wrote in haste.
After too much time, it gleamed again
Reclaimed its place in the arena.
It wasn’t shiny, but it had depth.
That’s not rust now, that’s patina.
Note: I decided that in August, I’m going to post a poem every day, or as close to it as I can get. Since I haven’t written any of them yet but the above, which I wrote today while my son was kicking me (he’s 7 and does Taekwondo, but this was just him snuggling when he played video games), it should be interesting. Get ready for my not-so-august August. The Tiny Giant is coming along nicely, the big wrassling match ended with me on top, and my shoulders are no longer scrunched up around my ears. Time to play with the words some, since I no longer have to teach them a lesson.
Well, I spent a couple years,
Pilin’ up a mess of words,
But when I read ’em back,
I didn’t like what I heard.
Those words were too simple,
Those too flowery.
These sound like I made ’em up,
And those don’t sound like me.
I grabbed my inky editor
And marked them pages up.
I bled all over those suckers,
Man, I really changed some stuff.
I beavered away at the pages,
Started feelin’ like a pro,
Until I read the new version
And saw how far I had to go.
Well, I sucked it up, my friend.
I wrote the whole thing over.
I worried about the “central conflict”
And what “motivation” drove her.
At the end, I could see
My mess of words was clearer.
So, promise me, you’ll buy my book
When I finish it…late next year.
A Note From Me: I know some of you have been through the process of writing and rewriting novels, and let me tell you, it’s quite a process. The good news? Two-ish years after I started using my 3 hours a week on The Tiny Giant, I finally know what the finished product looks and feels like. This 4th Draft is the last draft before I edit and send the manuscript out. It has come a LONG way in that time, and I have a mess of work left, but I can see and feel the main arc of the story, and I know the characters as well as I know anyone. I’m excited to get there, and honestly a little tired of looking at it. I’ll be happy to see it out the door, then turn to some stories aimed at adults while I wait for responses.
What do I expect? Nothing. Hope for everything. The young adult fantasy market is more open than ever before, I think, and more crammed with competition as a result. But…back to the work, which I need to get done before I do any dreaming…
(Bonus points to you if you heard Baxter Black in your mind as you read the poem.)
I thought it was me
but then your Dear Jane letter
was in Comic Sans
I used Comic Sans for years as my professional e-mail font. While it may have been seen as a clever manipulation meant to tempt people to underestimate me, it was really because I thought it looked nice and I had no idea. It sort of worked either way. Now I’m getting attached to Ebrima, which probably telegraphs that I’m a circus clown, or that I’ve been underwater for the last 40 years. *shrug* I like it.
You came into my room last night
Your body woke you
Clutching the tiny flashlight we gave you
In front with both hands
Braving the journey one door down
Body quieted, you climbed into my bed
Mind unsettled
Unaware of your own thrashing
You pulled the pink blanket up to your nose
The one I fetched without request
Sank into my sanctuary and
Breathed in my sleep
As fearless as my tiny Thing Two is, she sometimes needs to borrow some of my brave to get back to sleep. I wrote this after one of these nights when she uncertainly came in, not knowing what to do, and let me take care of her. I don’t mind if she steals my sleep. I’ll sleep later.
This is in no way inspired by my actual table which is only 4 years old.
If you give a Mom a dustrag, she’s going to want to clean the windows.
When she cleans the windows, the sun is going to shine on the table.
Mom will see that the table needs a good going over.
She might get carried away, and decide to clean the whole table.
When she’s under the table, she’s going to see the stickers you put there.
While she’s peeling off the stickers, she’s going to notice that the finish on the table is a little worn.
She’ll want to refinish the table, so she’ll need to go to the store.
While Mom is at the store, she’ll buy a refinishing kit, a gallon of milk, something for dinner, and some cookies.
When Mom gets home, she’s going to refinish the table. The table will look so good, Mom will want to redecorate the whole house!
Dad will say no.
By this time, you will be hungry. You will whine to Mom that you need a snack.
Mom will give you a cookie and some milk.
If Mom gives you some milk and a cookie, you will sit at the newly refinished table to eat it. Chances are…you will spill your milk all over the &^*% place, and Mom will need to find her dustrag.
(My hat-tip is to Laura Numeroff for such a signature rhythm. If you have little people, the “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” series books are very cute and good at bedtime. Pretty sure Felicia Bond will not be contacting me to illustrate.)
This beauty is in front of the stadium where the Portland Timbers play. I have read much, too much, Stephen King to ever think this sculpture was doing anything except biding its time. The chainsaw eyes just expose it for what it really is. I’m on to YOU, creepy happy face. I’ve got your number now.
I like my macaroni,
Better than a pony.
I don’t have to feed it,
In fact, I can eat it.
I have a preschooler, therefore I get all kinds of gifts made of various things that are inexpensive and hard to break. This was a special “surprise,” and I proudly wore it the entire day. It has a magical power. It makes me remember how very small they still are.
I add things, I admit,
To my coffee every day.
But when You decided to add You,
Well…You got carried away.
A tiny exoskeletoned expropriator landed in my morning coffee. Happily, I noticed the interloper before he drank too much. Then we followed the rules for the insect kindom: Is it small? Yes. Is it slimy? No. Does it like to hang around on something disgusting? No. OK. Fish him out and finish your sorely needed coffee.
my legs are corpse blue
NO! don’t sit on the white couch
in your new denim
I looked down in the shower today and noticed, somewhat alarmingly, that my legs were an oxygen-deprived shade of blue. I immediately started thinking that I had done something terrible to myself on my run a couple of days ago, something that was cutting off the blood supply to my legs, or maybe the virus I caught from my husband was some horrible Ebola-like… oh. New jeans. I’m cool.
YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY 