Procrastination

Procrastination, it takes imagination
to put off needed chores, for something not to bore.
Who said I had to clean the dishes? Let me now, begin my wishes.
Wish I were with a drink in hand, listening to a timpani band.
Cool water, warm beach, happily, easily within my reach.
Now laundry is piling up, let me go refill my cup,
Oh wait! I see a bit of dust, off to clean it, if I must.
The windows filled with streaks and grime,
Easily forgotten when viewing snail slime.
Since I am now outdoors it seems
my wishes have turned into dreams.
For picking up dog mess, turned into much less,
as I pluck flowers from new budded iris.
These things I must do, nothing ever new,
fill my life with mundane and the drab.
Did I hear mention of housewife rehab?
New ways to clean, faster machine
to sweep, iron, and polish. Oh yeah!

My day is done, I'm through with the fun,
or the boring, and stale and dull.
I put off my chores, and while my husband snores,
must plan for tomorrow, with great sorrow,
to fill one day with two days of chores.

Nothing

No thing. Nothing.

Reality TV shows have things going on, always.

But in reality, nothing much goes on.

No drama, no passions every 5 mins.

No thing, to keep me entertained –

          Every second of every day.

Nothing exciting happens, just life.

Normal, run-of-the-mill life.

No thing to keep me up at night,

Crying my eyes out over what I think

Someone did or said.

No thing to threaten someone over,

To create a false argument.

Nothing worth filming day after day.

Hours, minutes, seconds. No thing

To keep the editors snipping and bleeping.

Nothing at all, a happily normal life.

While nothing worth a reality show goes

On in my life, no thing will stand between my

Happiness, my loves, my life and me.

So nothing can stop me, nothing will hinder me.

No thing will hamper my success at life.

How to Read Poetry

I know I get frustrated with poetry that doesn’t make sense. I wonder what I’m missing, so I re-read, and find I’m still at sea, floating in a mess of words I do not understand.

And, after a short time of wondering where my brains went, I realize my confusion is the fault of the poet who did not make the poem clear enough to understand. I do also realize that I may just not be smart enough for that particular poem.

As a poet, I try to be clear. Or at least clear enough to lead the readers mind to intended destinations, sometimes with more than one route. Each person might walk away from a poem with a different thought; culling personal experiences and inserting them into what is read. If the reader cannot relate to the poem, the poem should at least allow the reader to easily step into the poem, be led through the poets thought process. 

A poem should be engaging, thought provoking, stomach churning, funny, deep, and something to make you cry. You may also dislike the poem, too hateful, sad, unkind, disturbing. That is fine, the poem has created feelings in you, the reader. That is good. A poem may also me a non-emotional response poem, an "eh, whatever" poem. Those can be good poems too, just not something that stirs a response.

Not everyone will like every poem, there are as many types and styles of poetry as there are poems, well, almost. One type of poem may be difficult for you to grasp as a reader, one may have too much rhyming, not enough, too many repetitive lines. Find the kind of poem you like, and read that. Stepping out of your poetic comfort zone can be fun, finding something different may open new worlds for your enjoyment.

So, how to read a poem? Sit back and read. Let the poem speak to you. Enjoy the experience, weep with the words, laugh with the language.

For me, as a poet, if my poetry leaves you stumped, I have failed. If I did not get any reaction from you, by the words I put together, then my job of creating needs some serious revamping. 

Freaks

I have posted this before, back in 2010, changed a bit of it, thought I'd repost -

Beard droppings.  A bone of contention between the newlyweds.  “Are all women this messy?” he wondered as he cleaned up around their solitary bathroom sink.

After living as family and traveling with the carnival for thirty plus years along with the other freaks they had grown to know each other well.  However after reaching old age at 45 (for 45 is old for a carney), Reginald the Strong and Barb the Bearded Lady decided to marry and leave the fast paced life behind.

Their carnival friends threw them a party and bid them luck and happiness.  What they hadn’t told them however, was what to expect now that they were married and how to adjust to life outside the carnival. 

Reginald the Strong wasn’t considered to be quite as freakish as the others; most of the stunts performed were really staged.  Now Barb the Bearded Lady was one of the carnivals biggest freaks; she had been born with extra male hormones, her voice a deep alto and a fine beard were her fate in life.  She hated the affliction, rarely spoke and now that she was rid of the carnival, shaved every day.

In many ways they were like a normal couple; Reginald worked at the local gym as a trainer and Barb stayed home to cook and keep their little one bedroom apartment tidy.  She tried to get a job, but employers wanted “qualified people”; being a Bearded Lady didn’t bring many qualifications to a job.  After all, knowing how to pitch a tent and stand up to the jeers of an audience didn’t count for much in the real world.

They found they missed their carney family, but not the frenetic daily life.  They had quiet dinners talking over the day’s events and spent evenings-sitting hand in hand on their postage stamp sized porch.  Life outside the carnival was hard to get accustomed to; being freaks and never living long in one place they didn’t know how to belong, how to be neighbors.

They thought it would be easy, leaving the carnival, but taunts of freak echoed as neighborhood children played.  This hurt Barb the most, as she had been a freak in the carnival, and thought that this ugly name would be left behind; she knew she was different, but not a freak.

Reginald and Barb shopped together and went to late night movies every so often, but they avoided really public places like the park or the mall.  Fewer chances to be ridiculed.  Freak was the most common taunt with weirdo and alien coming in close behind.

They became twitchy living in one place; with neither space to spread out nor any place to get away from each other.  Barb missed the constant hum of carnival life and grew lonely.  Reginald, enjoyed his job, but started to detest coming home to the neediness of Barb; bear droppings littered the counter, and he wondered why she couldn’t get them all picked up.  Reginald took on extra work as a personal trainer and spent several hours each weekend at homes other than his own.

Barb discovered soap operas and lived to watch fictitious families survive, started loving them like her own family.  These people made up for all she lacked in life.  They never called her a freak and accepted her quiet intrusion into their lives.  She soon took on characteristics similar to those she watched and for a time, their married life settled back into one of normalcy.

He began to have hope for their future although Barb still left those damn beard droppings around the sink.  But as weeks went by her shaving became obsessive and she began spending all her time watching her boxed family, completely ignoring the house keeping.

Reginald had had enough and told Barb they needed to talk.  She reluctantly turned off her other life and heard him say he wanted to leave.  She knew he wouldn’t really go and she told him so.  Said he’d never be happy without her.  They went round and round, as Reginald explained that it just wasn’t working, trying to be as nice as he could while he tossed what had been dreams out the window.

Barb just didn’t get it.  He went to their bedroom, packed a bag and walked to the front door.  She laughed her deep throaty laugh, knowing he wouldn’t turn the knob.

He did, and as he walked through the door out into yet another life, he turned to face Barb.  “You know,” he said, “you really are a freak.”

Clowning Around

The prompt for this little bit was - I really shouldn't have been wearing my clown outfit...

Full swing at the party, I was just making rude balloon shapes for the birthday boy who was turning 45, when my cell phone buzzed, tickling me in my green and purple clown skirt. I fumbled around in my pocket passing over limp balloons, fake flowers and a seven foot multicolored handkerchief, finding the offending phone. Peeking at the text message, I found a disturbing 911 with a number I did not recognize.

I excused myself to loud hooting at the bare-chested balloon lady I plunked down in the birthday boy’s lap and headed out back to find a quiet corner. Dialing the number, I tugged on my too tight orange, pink, purple and silver glittered shirt, wondering why I had taken this adult party on. True, I enjoyed the challenge of getting adults to laugh at my clown antics, but sometimes, the outfits and guests were a little hard to handle.

A Sergeant McNally answered my call, and after introductions, calmly said that my husband Josh had been injured in an accident and was at the hospital. He said he would wait for my arrival to give me more details. Assuring him I would be right there, I spoke to the hostess of the party explaining my plight. Jumping into my old VW van, painted a myriad of colors by the neighborhood kids, I sped the few blocks to the hospital.

Parking as close to the emergency room as I could, I ran into the ER lobby, finding a too long line waiting for registration, and information. As I waited for my turn with the receptionist, I garnered snickers, and looks of wonderment at my outfit. The wait gave me much needed time to calm myself down to a not quite so frantic panic. I also thought of the things I could, and should say as I walked into my husband’s room. Knowing Josh, I needed to keep it light and optimistic which is one reason he said, he married a clown.

My turn at last. I was told Sergeant McNally and Josh were in room 4, just down the hall to my left. Donning my squeaky nose, and a dumb smile, I sauntered into room 4. In a clear, take charge voice, I said I heard the patient needed a real cut-up for a doctor, as he’d broken his funny bone. Squeezing my nose and pulling out my handkerchief pretending to make it into a sling, I started toward his bed.

Stalled halfway there by the serious look on the Sergeant’s face and gasps from others in the room, I suddenly felt awkward and very much out of sync with the rest of the hospital.

As I lovingly looked at my dear Josh’s face, I noticed the faint tint of blue to his lips, and noted the lack of blips and hums from the machines attached to his body. McNally rushed over as I fell into a colorful blob onto the hospital floor, starting to cry. Easing me into a chair, he explained it all, and that Josh had passed away saying my name, with a big smile.

Mother, Daughter

Why couldn’t I have been the person I am now, when you were alive?

We fought, a wasp you called me.

Ice and fire. You always seemed cold, I was young; filled with heated passions.

We clashed fiercely. Like wild big horn rams. One victorious. But of what? Emotion? Love? Stupidity?

Why couldn’t I have been patient?

I read your journals – your papers. Found a woman I never knew, would never know.

I regret so much, my impatience, quick anger, the things I did, said, didn’t do, and should have done.

Too much alike?

Too different?

I loved you, unaware of that fact that I may have been. Did I tell you? I hope so.

You pop into my life at odd moments. A phrase or action that is so you. How could I not have been kind enough to let you give me the gifts of you? You taught me well, kindness, and couth, strength. Why could I not see it then, and shown you a kinder me.?

Your New England proper tempered with my southwest ease. Our passions (for you had passion too) created the person I have become, will be.

I regret so much, I see now who you were, just a bit, and see you as a person who formed what, and who I am.

Ice and fire.

Mother and daughter.

New Year

It is time once again to complain about time, or lack there of. Another year gone and none of my check list accomplished.

My check list this year is short - 
  ✔   throw away the list from last year.

I will have accomplished something, simple though it may be.