When a Poet Writes Immersed in a Toddler’s Universe

You cannot escape me...hehehe!!!

You cannot escape me…hehehe!!!

When a Poet Writes Immersed in a Toddler’s Universe

I just want to write—

a damn poem tonight!

I’m a poet,

and yeah, I know it…

Inspiration seems to be in short supply,

except what is found in this writer’s whine.

Just write, just write—I just want to scream!

Hmm, instead I think—

I’ll just down this bowl of ice cream.

These pasteurized cheese product of rambling rhymes

Simple they are just simply cannot be mine.

I can do better. I think I can-

I think I can, I know I can!

Despite being exposed to too much Thomas the Tank Engine

at my toddler’s hands.

Yes, I am poet.

I am what I am.

A good one too—

even if suffering from reading too many times

the verses of Green Eggs and Ham.

Fertilizer

The following poetic compilation is an incomplete poem I started a year ago. And no, this is not an example of what I would consider my best writing. It is an attempt I made a year ago to re-acquire my voice, and now it serves as my attempt to fertilize my foray into regularly writing and publishing. Though the words of the following poetic thoughts are not as composed to my expectations– the ideas and thoughts are still worth sharing– and will always be there to come back to and play with and fine tune later. Perhaps, they will even seed some poetic inspiration for my readers. One can hope…

Rot, decay–things observed when life leaves astray.

A process initiated by death or an end.

I have witnessed the devastation wrought by this breaking down-

and the resurrected beginnings birthed from such destruction.

Remnants of what was become the fodder of what will be-

the lines between of what was and is are so entwined becoming non-existent

This awareness is not only mine– its so keenly echoed in the mythical account of the Phoenix’s rising and remembered at a serendipitous timing.

Laws of basic Physics prevail: Energy cannot be created or made.

Its source is only transformed…

My Life Poetic– Literally

After re-reading some my favorite poems and remembering the experiences of some the great poetic voices that have come before me, I felt compelled to compose a poetic collage of those poetic moments of experience that  have become relevant in my own actual life experience. And it is only fitting that I felt inspired to write this “homage” of sorts during National Poetry Month…

The following poem is very much  a work in progress–and I can honestly say I am looking forward to this revision process and the possibilities it could transform into.

My Life Poetic– Literally

I dove down into the wreck

And from its depths resurfaced

Alive, exhausted.

Headed into the oven, inhaled its fumes-

Yet pulled out in time

A synchronous timing of oxygenated insight:

The legacy left, an unintentional gift, from another mother’s plight.

Prepared with my flashlight gripped tightly in hand,

And clickity-click heels on my feet-

I un-quietly will find my way out of this night.

See, I have beaten my path on the roads less taken.

I travelled to Babylon, employed as a whore.

Acquired a cumbersome weight, and continued on.

Slouching into Bethlehem, I came to bore my fertile sin.

A “beast” they proclaimed when it arrived.

Still it was mine. I wouldn’t let go-

And I cradled my child close to my breast.

A precious artifact discovered strolling down memory lane…

While performing some archaeological digging into my online publication presence I uncovered this precious little gem. This particular poem holds a great deal of personal meaning for myself– admittedly, it is not written in the style or tone I typically write. In fact, it is full of overdone cliches and metaphors. Despite its flaws, it ranks as one of my favorites. Unknown to me while I was writing this I was in fact pregnant with my 1st child. My son was an unexpected miracle– from his conception to birth. However, while writing this my mind only knew that conceiving a child without medical intervention was not going to happen– but my soul somehow recognized the life growing inside me and gave birth to the poem below.

Written October 10, 2004

Harvesting Autumn in a Word Basket

Only in Autumn do leaves fade into Brilliance-
Each leaf unique, devoid of being purely green.

It is in Autumn a bountiful harvest is celebrated—
Hand-woven baskets overflow with tree-ripened apples,
Indian corn ready to have its colorful kernels popped,
and a variety of gourds that amuse in both their shapes and names.

The Day of the Dead is acknowledged by pumpkins carved
with faces, both light-heartedly mocking and menacing,
displayed in warm soft-lit neighborhood windows.
As the lights from these shallow-shelled lanterns glow-
passerbys ponder what constitutes the soul.
Couples are seen walking, along maple and oak tree-lined streets-
snuggly bound in coordinating woolen sweaters, knit hats, and flannel-lined pants,

still seeking out warmth by holding hands.

A crisp breeze tickles and burns only their cheeks,
Because the tips of their noses are already numb.
Their nostrils still functioning, inhale the Essence of Fall,
an arid elixir of decaying leaves and clear star-nighted brightness.
It instantly intertwines with their innermost membranes,
carried through their nasal passageways, down through the throat, finally settling a flaming chill deep within their chests.
Together the walkers’ shuffling feet and dried leaves meet into a rhythmic rustle.
Throughout Autumn—
Leaves continue to fall off of branches, seeming so high they touch the clear-blue in the sky, dancing with the wind even after they settle to their places on the ground.

The amber-hued Earth is undressing herself during this time of withering fruitfulness— Preparing for the penetration of life still two seasons away.

Poetic Ponderings Fall 2012

October 1, 2012

Respiration

Drowning in the restraints of detachment

Suffocating in the reliance of faulty equipment

A respirator cannot circulate the air due to a tubing error…

when you choke on the forced artificiality down your throat

wake up to awareness that inside your chest are functioning lungs—

The ability to breathe on your own was never lost—

But the attachment to this failing constructed machine feeds the oxygen deprivation

And the sparks of currents flowing through the mind grow dim and slow.

Embrace the discomfort, let instinct take over, choke on the hardness shoved inside and rip it out—

Rip it out, cough up the debris and feel your first real breath—air striking the raw lining of your throat.

Jolting shocks, increased currents all disconcerting, all temporary and momentary.

Too soon this newness will pass, and purposeful action transforms into automation

Another ability taken for granted if not wise, so keep that plastic piece your lips once encased

A souvenir of what was and is not.

November 9, 2012

Quarantined

Despite what may on the surface show,

Underneath, is a heart–

firmly ensnared  on barbs of grief and sorrow.

I am a lie.

Optimistic aloofness, detached candor—all just parts and lines

of a script on a stage where I out in the open hide.

Beneath this resilient facade is a fatal wound—

penetrating and deep.

Inflammatory response brought a flood of white hot rage filling in the gaping hole,

Then encapsulated the afflicted area with Kevlar intent—

no salvage required, only preventive isolation.

Though shielded in hi-tech, hard-core protective gear; on occasion a symptom appears—

A valve loosens

under constant pressure, a serous byproduct of the interaction between rage and injury,  leaks…

But no fear—my responders are most vigilant–

Unwavering in their adherence to protocol, fully carrying out the ordered procedure.

Quarantine efforts have not been breached.

— at present.

(Though rumors fly– an impending pandemic event has an inevitable nature.)