Tag Archives: Poetry

08.09.16
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My Fancy Color Didn’t Work Out

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Never ask a creative
What color you should paint.
The answer will always be
Some color that it ain’t.

You should ask a farm kid.
They’ll say, “Get the leftover stain.”
They’ll get a roller and use it up
And the rail looks nice again.

I’m working on getting that second-story deck rail finished, a year after I started it. I could blame it on the rain, but you’d probably cry fake–mostly the problem is that it’s way more work to “frame my vista in a buttery vanilla color” than it would have been to “slap some stain on the fence that keeps the kids from falling off the deck.” Regrets, I have them. I also have an ugly half-finished deck rail. Not what I had imagined.

08.08.16
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My Voice Is Invisible

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Parenting Today:
I repeat myself using
many decibels

 

Long day. If you are posting Back to School pictures, well, good for you.

08.07.16
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I’m Bringing Pumpkin SpicyBack

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I have decided now it’s Fall.
I’m tired of this hot Summer.
What? Another month, you say?
You better check your number.

I dress us all in cardigans,
We sweat so much, we float.
If I don’t relent soon,
The kids will ruin their coats.

I’m making pumpkin pies,
Enough to feed a horde.
Never mind that no one here
Likes pies made out of gourd.

I took a heat gun to my trees.
The leaves have that autumny crunch.
Thankgiving is next weekend, folks.
We’re gonna thanks a bunch.

When September rolls around,
And the weather actually turns,
I’ll send the kids sledding down the hill!
No snow? Not my concern!

 

The Truth: I do wish it was Fall, because I love Fall. I do not love Pumpkin Spice, in fact, I hate it. The only redeeming thing about it is that it heralds cooler weather and all of the other delicious things about the holidays. I also think that song I referenced in the title is terrible. So, I used two things I dislike to name my own work. Bad.

08.06.16
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Pokemom. So?

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I’m forty-two years old
But don’t you say that I’m over.
You can’t even see my game
‘Cause I take my kids for cover.

I don’t care what it is,
Weedle, Meowth, or Spearow.
I’m gonna catch ’em all.
Hell, it’s my new careero.

I’m looking for that round thing
Covered in wriggly stuff.
Meanwhile, I’ll just grab my ‘balls
And catch this Jigglypuff.

I used twenty Pokeballs
Locking up a Gastly.
Never gonna give him up,
I’m the PokeRickAstley.

I’ve got so much Pokecred,
I’m the yugest Big Fromage.
Honestly, man, I’m so great
I deserve a Pokemontage.

When I finally get them all,
Spots, spikes, and paislies.
I bet they’ll be worth a FORTUNE,
Just like my Beanie Babies.

 

Note: Yes, people are actually selling their accounts full of rare Pokémon on eBay. I do not get this, just like I didn’t understand Beanie Babies during that craze. I buy bags of Beanie Babies at Goodwill, cut the carefully protected tags off, and wash them–then I give them to my kids to play with. Also…. #rickrolled.

08.05.16
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It Takes a Village People

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I told my kids, “It’s time to go!”
They refused to get out of the pool.
“But it’s fun to stay at the YMCA!”
Oh, kids. That’s SO not cool.

Note: Tomorrow’s Bad Poem-A-Day is about Pokémon.  Make sure you catch it all.

08.04.16
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A Little Less Into It

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The problem with young poets
Is that they’re much too earnest.
They emote so gushily, you gag,
But with age, they learnest.

Note:  If I could, I’d record these short poems and put the audio up here, because they have a sort of timing that is a challenge to convey.  Then again…if I was trying to write good poetry, I’d try harder to meet that challenge, I suppose.

08.03.16
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I Do Not Believe You, George R.R. Martin

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I started watching that Game of Thrones,
I realize I’m a little behind.
Y’all are about 5,000 deaths ahead
But you keep going, I don’t mind.

See, I read the books already
So I’m not exactly a newbie.
I’m not shocked by a little blood
Or the sight of the ubiquitous booby.

I’m not scared of your spoilers,
I knew more than you did to start,
But my advantage seems to have slipped away
Because The Winds of Winter are mere farts.

Yes. I’m doubting you, Mr. Martin.
Another book? He’s just pretending.
I’ve given in, I’ll watch the show,
Just so I can see the ending.

08.02.16
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Hope Is Not Eternal

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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.

08.01.16
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Shiny

 

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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.

05.19.16
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Rewritin’

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.)