Poet, Redefined

Some poems I jotted down today at lunch. Enjoy.


"my gift"

creators
would be nothing
without admiration.
I am that
admirer, never
creating, always
appreciating.

---------------------------------------------------------------
"untitled"

I don't have much--
--but I have my eyes.
And if that's enough,
If eyes that see beauty
   and call it as such
are even a touch of
   what the world needs,

then I give you
                      me.

-------------------------------------------------------------
"Wrong"

I chose the wrong restaurant today.
And when the time came I had no urge to pay
for such false advertising and terrible food.
It really soured my mood.

I chose the wrong parking spot last night.
And when the time came my car put up a fight
and got stuck, just like my lover and I.
Boy, did that make me cry.

I choose the wrong thing all the time.
And when it's all over I'm left with a rhyme
that's witty and honest and never too long.

Sometimes it's fine to be wrong.

Talent Redefined

I heard this singer-songwriter on NPR one day, and her song was so lovely I knew I had found someone interesting to follow. I know this genre won't appeal to everyone, but she actually has a pretty varied repertoire. Some songs sound folksy, some sound more indie rock. I also like her lyrics--I have lately appreciated any writer who can come up with lyrics that speak to thoughts I've actually had in my own head, rather than impossibly sexy propositions and repetitive calls for club dance moves. So here she is: Laura Veirs. Not the face you will ever see getting 16 million hits on YouTube, but very cute and real. Enjoy.

The 10-Day Redefining Challenge--Day 8

We all have features we would rather keep hidden. Freckles we cover up, noses we fix, bellies we suck in. Most of us have one or two body features in particular that we just hate.

I hate my little toes. My pinky toes. The nails don't grow normally. They grow in a pile, on top of themselves. Gross, I know. I have always been very sensitive about my toenails, even waiting until age 28 to get my first pedicure! I have finally gotten to the point where I can wear flip flops without embarrassment, because I have realized that no one looks at or cares about my little toes.

I need to fall in love with my toes. If I can grow to love one of my "worst" features, it should hopefully be that much easier to love the rest of what I see in the mirror.

The challenge for today is to write a love poem to your worst feature. It can be an ode to your crooked nose, a sonnet to the mole on your cheek, a haiku in honor of the knobby knees you try to cover no matter how hot it is outside...whatever.

Here's mine:

My toes,
my toes,
the nails grow
like a rose
in folds
over folds.

My toes,
my toes,
cramped and hidden
in shoes unbidden
you get stuffed into
fittin'.

Come out, little toes,
you're cute like my nose.
Point and wiggle,
and I will giggle
at my toeses,
my roses,
my "I-help-you-goeses".

You're vital,
never idle,
shoes wide'll
be your home.

My toes,
my toes,
no need to change
or nails to rearrange,
for the range
of strangeness
is beauty
to me.

On the ending of...

(http://www.abandonedamerica.us/)

Lying in ruins
is this once
proud
witness to a commitment
of love and faith.

People gathered
to be caught up
in the song.

Love evident,
joy ambient,
care given
and peace received.

This cannot be enough
when even one grows
weary.
Lays down
a tool or a perspective,
unthinking,
for a moment
of rest.

Then the crows come
in.

How deep
did we dig?
How often did we check
the walls
for proper thickness,
the fabric for proven
and impermeable
protection?

A crumbling
that cannot be dammed will
damn
this shelter, this home.

A week without dusting,
a month without filling in
holes.

A short lifetime
of watching this
beauty erode.

Yes, there is beauty
in the abandonment
of veneer,
of surface perfection.

But there is not
beauty
in the laying
to waste
of a sacred place.

Mending and tending,
this short lifetime
will be work.
The work of restoration.
A lasting work
for us who need
shelter.

Spring is

spring is something catching
your eye
opening to possibility
a peek of purple
a corner of bare earth
revealing
an invitation.

spring is foreplay.
the waiting
the slow touches
buds tantalizingly split
open flowers
pushing gently then harder

finally unable to wait
spring is letting go
waking up
one morning to avenues
lined with so many shades of green
I can only name
a fraction
lime, emerald, bright...
and here I lose words
only a sense of covering
a warm and comfortable
exhale
after the burst
from death to life
first tentative
then hungry