Discussion in 'Creative Corner' started by tecoyah, Jul 16, 2019.
I really like this. The idea of what we are.
Maybe how we got there?
Some of these have photos I take that inspire the writing. Other stuff I've written can have a not so warm and sunny side to it.
That was actually an abstract explanation of one of our members...@Herewegoagain
You should post the Pics along with the poem.
Some of my favorites are the dark creations.
I try to get stuff down as quickly as possible, but often the original idea evolves before I finish, so I end up with lots of beginnings and not so many endings. I recently found some old, old floppy disks that had stuff on them, and I had to laugh at the way they all just stop, like in mid thought.
This came after having a nasty cold and waking up when the Nyquil wore off. You know, that 'what's the meaning of life' state of mind when you're sick... And it really did happen.
Trace it back to a time when life was one
Cell, the first cell; the creator of all life
That issued its newborn second self
A single command . . . Survive!
Follow those cells as they change,
Each copy slightly flawed, slightly better,
Except for the command, the unchanging command
That gives life purpose.
Continue until this night of stars
And frosted grass under a full white moon,
Lifeless light piercing
The darkness of this cliché:
The forms of cats fighting each other
For the right to deliver their cells;
In some bloody competition, obeying
The demands of those cells.
Feel the maddening urge;
So deadly real it is
That this winner, this Oedipus of cats
Will mount his own mother.
He is divided from her, and she,
Always the good mother, nurtures
Within and without, sacrifices,
Surrenders to the murderous call of cells.
Cells that will define themselves
As mouths, brains, gonads, or uterus.
Each feeling the ceaseless call
That is greater than any religion.
Step forward and watch
The eggs hatch in the robin’s nest.
Hear the chicks call desperately
See the mother cat scoop them out.
Who cares that the cat had kittens?
Or that one mother kills another’s babies
To feed her own?
This deadly commandment can’t be ignored.
The first cell lives and has reproduced;
It plays music everyday on the way to work,
Or screeches like cats in heat,
Or shrieks like dying chicks.
And this moon light,
On finally reaching the ground,
Finds only the frosted grass
Littered with cats
Out of their minds
With lust and hunger,
And has not enough energy left
Dayum….I love it when something forces me to think, that one certainly did...Excellent.
Chilled in breaths mist, muffled by wind
Screaming in your head
Walking with the dead
This darkness breeds a fear, of something near
A child of blood and another a sprite
Dressed as they are to instill my fright
Sweets corrupted by thoughts of monster imposters
All for the fun of imagination
A night of abandon sweeps the nation
Here's a challenge for you--think back on a time in your life that had some meaning you weren't aware of at the time.
This one is from a memory that stayed with me for many years and I didn't really understand it all until after I started writing it out.
Miss Mildred’s Class
Not far from the Trinity River
Back before there was a lake
Miss Mildred’s third grade class
Sat in the afternoon stillness
Looking through open windows
Watching the occasional breeze
Gently nudge the live oaks
It is the quietness I remember most
Silence broken by the warm air
Taking refuge in the shade of trees
Locusts humming from somewhere in the brown grass
A boy scraping his pocket knife on the remains of a pencil
The soft creak of the old wooden rocker Miss Mildred sat in to read
Little House in the Big Woods with her genteel Southern drawl
Each syllable, each vowel graceful and proper…
I took the story and her voice home with me each day
Staring blankly out of the bus window
As we passed the other school
With its single-hoop basketball court on red clay
I thought of Ma Ingalls’s fear and hatred of the Indians
And wondered why Miss Mildred had said we shouldn’t be afraid like Ma Ingalls
When our ‘guests’ come next year
Ode to a bowl-full of candy corn
Frost white tips
orange of a pumpkin
yellow sun setting behind a corn field.
I scoop a handful of candy corn
drop it in my mouth,
and feel the sweetness
glaze my tongue.
The hell with the kids,
I'm eating these.
Okay...now I want some....bastard, I avoid Candy.
Want and desire in my heart, run if you will or be torn apart
Dripping my hands or sometimes paws
Licking the liquid from my jaws
Dog days of summer gone awaiting this darkness spawn
Shreds of the suit of human form linger
A talon of your death in place of a finger
The growl and howl does fine hair arise
Reflection of you appear in my eyes
Final view before …..the cries.
Ha! Halloween poems! I don't have any of those
So...make one, that's the point.
I should have cried, let Grampa see
Something real, a part of me
Even though he may not hear, he may have seen that he was dear
Known a little child was there
Known he loved and that he cared
Now I'm grown and its too late to tell the kindest man hes great
I guess that missing chance is fate
That's what I'm talking about. Most of us can relate to that kind of thing. Such memories are painful. In that sense, I think it's good to keep them short and direct. Any longer and tears get in the way.
I'm trying to post a Halloween photo, but not having any luck. I'll try again later.
Give me your candy!
Now your turn for a challenge:
You mean the candy corn doesn't work for that? Sigh...I'll be back.
Ok, happiness in a moment. Don't know if it explains it, but let's do this.
The Eternal Bliss of Grandchildren in the Early Morning
breathing wakes me
a child through my sleepy eyes
standing by the bed
The old man child
Playing his tin soldiers in the sand
He can be wild when not given a hand
He plays unfair in petulant stand
Expecting the world obey his command
The weak of heart and mind bow to demand
Give the kid his candy...if only to shut him up
When charges filed
Ruin the brand
Tarnished brass instead of Gold
Will adults see what they behold, listen to what they are told
Return to the sanity of old
Or have their sensibilities been sold
Deny the Candy and make him cry
Otherwise my hopes will die.
Awesome and clearly understood.
Wow! Sounds like someone I know.
How about some work poems? I have some from long ago when I worked in a steel mill. They reflect a sense of being trapped in an uncomfortable proletarian existence--a sense of hopelessness in which retirement was the only real salvation.
This is all automated now. It used to have about a dozen workers poking the steel into the rollers.
I wrote this about working there.
In a dim, corrugated tin cavern
a quarter mile of sun fingers
streams through a cloud of steel dust
falling on the furrows of the face,
the ears and shoulders.
Dust that gets sucked into the lungs
of men with long-handled tongs
who poke heavy ribbons of sun colored steel
into rollers turning against one another,
squeezing old rail-road rails
into sign posts, fence posts, and rebar.
Heat blisters rise on the knuckles of gloved hands;
the soles of boots smoke;
muscles and tendons strain against bones.
The sweat of last night's beer flows
from whiskered chins, tempering
the metal in a violent, sizzling dance,
this dance of the mill-hand
this same bending,
the same shoving,
the same turn of the face away from the heat,
the same step backwards,
the same reach for the next bar,
the same heat blistering the skin,
repeating every day,
and again the next;
this workday dance
in the black dust
of white hot steel
to the faulty rhythm
of roaring motors,
blasting a monotone
to dance to.
Separate names with a comma.