Tag Archives: bad poetry

08.01.18
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Bad Poem-a-Day August 2018

Sometimes, you’re sittin’ on a stump, trying to get your thoughts collected, and Life decides that you will not being doing that right now. Life does the Dance of Distraction all around you, and, well, you fall for it.

I’m finishing up the last leg of a road trip. I have poems. I have limited connectivity, and I had no plan to deal with that.

There will be poems. Probably even tomorrow. I’ll make it up to you. In the meantime, I’ll be riding all night, watching Montana and Idaho and Oregon go by until we are enveloped by our little neighborhood. Then–a shower. After that, poems.

10.23.17
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Signs of Surrender

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I watch from inside
as mortal becomes remains
finally, cede control

I am 44, and my multi-hued hair is turning from primarily dark brown to a sort of salt and cayenne mix.  Someday I imagine I’ll have some pinkish fluff on my head that matches the ill-mannered apricot poodle I also intend to have.  I don’t mean to dye my hair, unless I find some shockingly bright color appeals to me.  I suppose then I’ll have to dye my poodle to match.

Why such a morbid poem about gray hair?  Well, it’s not about gray hair.  It’s about realizing that I can’t control any of this, the riotous hormones, my once luxurious hair, the fluid shape of my middle.  I can only be kind to myself.  I can eat something because it makes me feel well.  I can take a walk because the outdoors sustains me.  I can see people, and write words, and spend several hours hand knitting a dishcloth, though my dishcloths have lives that are nasty, brutish, and short.  I can let go of the frustration of being stuck on the worst amusement park ride ever (Ride the MenoCoaster!  Money back if you don’t feel like screaming!) and just….slowly….breathe for a few minutes.

Just when that quiet wants to turn to tears, the school bus brings the circus back to town and saves me from a surplus of contemplation.  Maybe I should get that poodle soon, and teach it some tricks.

 

10.16.17
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Receipt of Ideas

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Just write it down
No matter where
Card, receipts
Bleed it there

Capture that chaos
Before it’s gone
Scrawl investments
You may later draw on

When it bursts
Don’t edit, censor
The whirlwind creates
Sense comes after

I have little bits of words scrawled in the margins of everything in our house.  Some of it is probably disturbing for my husband, given the horror stories I write.  I’ve learned that I have to write down ideas.  If I think of a particularly poignant sentence construction, a clever rhyme, a novel that will surely both disturb and entertain–I write all that down.  If I don’t, I won’t remember it.

It’s a bit of young writer’s conceit that if an idea is worth pursuing, you’ll remember it.  Sorting your ideas this way is like having your toddler sort the mail.  You will absolutely get some mail.  The odds that it will be the boring looking electric bill are pretty slim, though, and you might need that.

I write it all down.  Some of it is nonsense.  Some of it I can hardly read.  Some of it turns into amazing stories or phrases or entire poems.  I fill notebooks.  It’s my hoard of possible treasure.

Note:  By “weekly,” I meant pretty much every week, not EVERY week, and by “Sunday” I meant around Sunday.  Last week I was finishing the last rewrite of The Tiny Giant and my head was wrapped up in that, as it should have been.  Have a great week.

 

10.02.17
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Light Bright

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cherish the old soul
but diamond dust in my eye
her shiny new one

I am lucky enough to have one of each–a wise little old soul and a sparkly new one.  These littles with the newly minted souls burn fiercely, and she gives me hope that we will find our way, that the mistakes of our past do not have to be repeated.  Love big, cry hard, laugh loud, and try all the things.

09.24.17
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Underclouds

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When the flaming ball in sky
Squints my poor Oregonian eyes,
I shake my fist and yell real loud:
I wish you were behind a cloud!

Stupid sun, enough is enough.
Get thee behind some cumulofluff!
I don’t want to experience your fiery gasses,
And I can’t find my dark sunglasses.

Rain or not, I’d rather post a status
Of overcast with gray-bottomed stratus.
Nothing like some wispy cirrus
To keep that roaster from getting near us.

If you persist, you orb of glare,
I’ll take you all up on your dare,
Call lightning down like Zeus on Olympus
And banish you forever behind cumulonimbus!

I was made to live in an overcast world.  The sun makes me weary, gives me headaches.  I am energized by misty mornings and a sky that doesn’t make my eyes hurt.  I haven’t done the DNA, and my niece says we’re actually Scandanavian, but I take this as confirmation of my Scots and Irish heritage.  Gloomy skies and a taste for morbid stories and whiskey (though I drink bourbon, hence the “e”).

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Be burned by that nasty sun, you will not.

09.18.17
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Microwaves of Nausea

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Permeating the walls and halls,
The fumes worse than bathroom stalls,
You thought you’d have a nice, warm snack—
Instead it’s a mustard gas attack.

The popcorn doesn’t need that long.
The smoke means you’ve done it wrong.
Last night’s curry should have stayed at home-a,
Now we’re sick from that aroma.

And YOU—with the leftover trout.
Pack up your things and just get out.
If nuking fish is your bailiwick,
Find somewhere else to make people sick.

Crimes against noses linger for hours.
I feel like I need a Silkwood shower.
My nostrils are thoroughly defeated.
Are you sure that “food” should be reheated?

I don’t work in an office anymore, but I cook lunch every morning for my sandwich-hating, food-allergic kid.  Fish sticks at 8AM, folks.  Takes me back to my cube farm days, and not in a good way.

The popcorn was meant to be the other child’s snack.  It only took eight hours or so for that to dissipate.

09.10.17
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P.M. S.nack

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you called me crazy
so I made myself crackers
you won’t get any

I dare you to tell me those aren’t crackers. I know they aren’t, you know they aren’t, but we really don’t need to say some of the things we think out loud, do we?

P.S. That deck rail is finally painted a nice gray color.  Five entire days, I painted.  I might be tired and a little short-tempered, but geez, it is nice to remove that albatross.  Of course, I wear albatrosses like an elderly maven wears Diamonelles, but one less is one less.

09.01.17
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We Now Direct You to Bad Poem-a-Week

I did it (again).  31 poems in 31 days.  Some were good and you agreed, some I thought were good probably weren’t, and some of the bad ones were at least entertaining.  

I like this stunt that I’ve pulled, and I appreciate each and every comment or like–they make me feel less like I’m throwing an envelope into the ocean.  Thanks, also, to new followers who felt it was interesting enough to become part of the group.  

I’ve decided to post a new poem once a week from here on out.  The quality should go up as the quantity goes down, but that isn’t a given, is it?  I think I’ll post them on Sundays.  I’ll continue as long as someone is being entertained.  

I also have some book things happening, and school is starting so I can work full-time on those.  Here’s to hoping we all have a rip-roaring finish to 2017.  See you on Sundays.

Much love, Rebecka

08.31.17
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Doggety Dirge

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There is an empty space of bread-box size,
Six inches from the floor and always close.
It was occupied by gentle brown eyes,
Soft nudging on ankles from cold, black nose.
I take my walks all alone and unleashed,
The crumbs under table stay where they fall.
Only the sea smell comes home from the beach,
The bright steel bowls take no space in the hall.
No nails will scrabble to joyfully greet,
The UPS man hears silence, escapes.
Gone, snarfle and crunch of phantom small treats,
The solidity of memory unshapes.
—-Long, small shadow is not where it belongs,
—-At this moment, we are in-between dogs.

Daisy 2000-2015

She was my Special Dog, and really the Best Girl.  We’ve been waiting to get another dog for life things to pass (vacations, etc…) but I am getting antsy for another four-legged best friend.  The empty spot hasn’t filled in, even after all this time.

(And here’s the sonnet!  Some of the iambs are suspect, but hey, we’re working to a deadline here.)

08.30.17
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Retreating

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A writer’s weekend away
Was exactly what I wanted,
But you might have mentioned
Your condo is prehaunted.

It’s a real distraction
To have noises in the night,
And the patting on my leg
Gave even me a fright.

But beyond the Scooby scares,
The worst thing for an empath,
Was the pervading sadness
Lingering in the guest bath.

Despair so deep, it broke me.
I had to pack up and leave.
I fled for home in tears–
It took three days to grieve.

So….thanks for your largesse?
I really appreciate the thought.
I won’t be going back to work
In the Condo of the Lost.

My husband, the Navy vet, tells me that sea stories always start with “This is no shit, man…”  I didn’t think that was an elegant title, so I went with “Retreating.”  I’ve had odd experiences before in my life, but this one topped them all. The pressure of an unseen hand on my leg woke me.  The electrical appliances and lights did a lot of flickering and malfunctioning.  My spare battery pack wouldn’t take a charge (I’m using it right now, it’s fine again).

The hardest part, though, was definitely the emotional imprint left on the place.  I don’t know the whole story, but I can guess.  It still seems very sad, but it no longer seems like my tragedy, as it did while I was there.

I did manage to get some work done, but not nearly as much as I’d hoped.  Next time I get a weekend free, I’m staying in a nice generic hotel, preferably built very recently.