Tuesday, February 04, 2014

Bad Poems of Yore

I used to write poems a long long time ago.  I haven't written a poem now in years.

I am getting rid of stuff, lately, bored, making space.  I don't keep much very long.  Maybe it comes from moving many times.   I don't like feeling weighted down.

I find an old raggy notebook, back from when I was in my twenties.  It has a few hard to decipher old poems I'd scribbled out on about ten ragtag pages left, all frayed at the spiral bound edge.

They're bad!  Here's one:

I stared into the stars for an answer
"Tell me, night, what is in store.
Will my fortune dance lightly in silk pirouettes

Or will I be stomped like some bug on the floor?"

I felt, as my heart began racing
I felt as if lives passed through mine
A shadow crossed the moons' ghostly surface
And the wind through the bare branches whined

A dark figure descended upon me
His hand clutched a glowing sharp blade
Nothing good I knew his intention
I felt concern for my fortunes fade.

It's funny what leaves in a moment
And what quickly can stand in its place
I fought back with mammoth intensity
For now my fortunes writhed right in my face

I turned his own blade into his enemy
Although I'd rather fight violence with flowers
But a Peony makes a flimsy defense
Against night stalkers and most types of cowards.

He lay wounded as I stood above him
(his wound was now mine to attend)
Listen up, fool, be a good soul!
Or you'll face the same music again!

I turned my gaze back to the stars
Ah, my answer, I thought, I can see
The moon shimmered bright on the field
Each moment is all I can be

Here's another old poem, about cats, this one, but written 15 or 20 years ago:

The Mysterious Ways of cats
I say
Are not so Curious nor so Strange
as the Habits of Humans
I'm afraid
What if this World were Rearranged?
And we were Forced to Live as Cats so Bade?
Would our Finite Eyes Remain Focused
on War and Wealth?
Or would we Frolic in Catnip Fields?
Or Nap, sprawled lazily in Sun doused Daze?
Would we earn advanced degrees, in killing fleas?
And if our Lives were so remade
by those curious lower Creatures--cats
Should we?
Could we?
Would we?
Scuttle our Human Rubble Brains
Then cut loose, catlike, with Joy
And Play?

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