Saturday, May 20, 2017

A myriad of poetry

School is over and I finally have an opportunity to write on here. I'm grateful that I was able to have another successful semester. I'm also grateful that I only have two more to go in order to finally gain my degree. Wow!! I can't believe it's actually going to happen. It only took what...10 years! Trust me, you aren't the only one that's judging me a little for taking so long to get a bachelors.

It is Saturday, which means that it's time for "writing day". I want to share with you a collection of the poems that I wrote for the final portfolio in my poetry class. There are 12 of them, so if you can't be bothered to read them all, that's perfectly understandable. It takes a person of great patience to make it through a large collection of poetry. The only premise for the portfolio was that it had to follow a time line, meaning that each poem had to build upon another. In my collection, I've tried to take the reader through the life cycle of a single narrator. It might seem that a different narrator is speaking as you progress in the piece, but it's the same one who is growing and learning about the world.


Growing up

When I was young I’d play
with shellfish and plankton
and whales.
They’d sing me their tunes
as I’d lie in bed, softly
listening while creating their ocean
from my eyes.

I knew their language- I
tasted their skins. We became one
sort of being and it was fun.
Fun to dive into a life not my own,
exciting in fact, I’d go there to
feel at home.

The whale was my mother,
the shellfish my friend.
The plankton was the dinner
that’d we chase until it was dead.
We’d dance around lava flumes,
they were our campfire, I’d stay
there until my brain got tired.

Blue kazoo

I am five years old
and I have my
first kazoo.
It is a deep
colour of plastic…
Blue is my
favorite colour and
this kazoo is now
my new favorite

My mom and dad
would find no interest
in this pretty little object.
They’d just tell me to throw it away.
That is why I am five
and this blueberry flavored
noise-maker is my life.
It has to be blueberry!
Everything blue taste like

It might look weird,
with its long body
and hollowed out center,
but I promise that it does
not taste like daddy’s cigars.
I tried those once and they didn’t
taste like anything yummy.
This kazoo though,
 tastes just like the colour blue.
A blueberry tasting
An instrument making
a pretty little noise.

But, what is that noise?
Where is it coming from?
Is there a bug trapped inside
of my blueberry kazoo?
A buzzing bee trapped
at the top of my fruity noisemaker?
That has to be what’s
making the noise.
Inside that turny
wheel thing.
How can I get
that buzzer out?
I know!
I open the wheel!
The door to see this…

Wait! There’s no bee in here,
only a piece of thin paper.
But now I can’t put this
door back on.
It won’t close!
It’s not working now.
My blueberry flavored
blue kazoo is now gone.
And I am all alone!


They used to call me young man.
I didn’t struggle to hold things.
I was strong. I was bold.
My youth caused people to
flock to me. They’d laugh
when I’d walk in.
I found that I had
strength in their laughter.
I’d put it in a cup and take it
in one shot.
I’d dilute the powder,
the fruit-punch color mixing
together until the cup was
a perfect color of blood-red.
I’d swallowed it down and leave
 no drop.
The bitter taste was
like crab apples touching
my innocent tongue.
I kept drinking however,
until it was gone.

Three thoughts in one poem


The catskin garland
freshly hung
around the penguins window
with a rusty tack
smeared from the glaring.


You prance in pudding
but demand I soar with cotton.


Does your cup depress,
like a bag full
of dirty laundry filled
with a sugar-coated heartburn
that’s empty like your soul?


The silence is deafening.
An aching from ear to throat.

The words expressed,
a tongue that’s burning,
your moment of light attuned.

Allow for the thoughts to tire-
to breed, seed, and bloom.

Plead for the humbling experience-
a breath, a sigh, a relief, a cry
a sorry passage won't do.

Swallowing glances,
Blurred through vision,
Shadowed from what's now askew.

Peace, a luxury unafforded.
Hope, dashed by you.

The silence is deafening,
A moment you've now gone through.

In order to avoid a family reunion

You see it glancing your way
that potato salad winks at you.
Your aunt Ruthie made it…
three days ago.
Now, it stares in a greasy manner
begging for someone to take a bite.
Don’t mind that it’s been sitting there
basking in the hellish sun for over
four hours.

The bugs fly high, searching for a target.
They need to lay their eggs
and your hair looks like a mansion.
They quietly fly low, make their landing
and inject their gooey eggs deep inside
your arid scalp.
You can’t scratch them away
that’d make you a bad host.
They’ll be born soon and they’ll
soar away, leaving behind a kaleidoscope
of disease and bacteria.

Should you go, or should you stay home?
If I were you, I’d just say you have diarrhea.

Giving it up

As the chicken fades away
from the butchers last cut
on its carcass that’s just been chopped,
our love has died.
Nevermore to return
to the lustful depths
of youthful intent.

We were honorably discharged,
like a soldier saying farewell
to the flowerlike grass
of a weed-topped hill.
Our affections hollowed out by
those long nights of
blood and acid tripped exposures.

Our romance began in
 bowl of pride-filled
pudding-like glitter.
We glistened through the waves
that hid the lies
of your puffed up
secreted torture.

My love for you, like a band,
has stretched to the limits
of a world of ignorance.
 My eyes have been peeled,
and the revealing fruit
is not plentifully appetizing
like the yellow outside covering.

My new lifestyle

Someone threw my food away.

The tub of lard I was saving for later,

 the glistening fat that shimmered in delight.

It’s only food-but God it’s good.

That chicken carcass, already prepared.

It’s seen better days

but I’m sure it’s still good.

Is that mold? I’m just going to say it’s parsley.

It smells like it’s been in the fridge for a while.

Fridge smell, a mixture of spoiled milk

and all of the crusty stuff that collects in the back.

Plants fail in comparison to chicken,

already prepared and begging for attention.

What’s Kale? Why does it taste so…green?

Earthy, like smelling into a cloud of dirt.

Tofu, lentils, beans, and quinoa, they all

sound like a fun night with the butt-trumpet.

They don’t wink, they don’t nod.

They just sit in there


waiting for me to prepare them.


You’re a fly, I shoo
you away, but you keep
coming back.

My hiding place won’t hide
me well.
I’m a camel with my head
in the sand but ass in the air.

Losing the last
marble of my childhood-losing
my actual child, my gift
from the Gods.

I’ve fallen into a
glitter-filled bowl of pudding.
I’m stuck in the shimmering lights
that blind me from the exit.

My world will change if
your youth is taken
and your candle
is snuffed out.

Hidden message
            It happened on an average day
          the excitement bursting like stars.
           It’s late for saving the begging child
         who promptly stomps on fire.
               I mention this to cause a stir-
             to excite the pot to scorn,
            no protection is given to the innocent-
           the lost or sacred sheep,
        from empty hands that sin has touched
             to assault the harrowing feet,
             to snuff the precious light,
             to execute total control.
                I involved myself with the dirty animal
         who met me in a dingy bar.
            By losing dignity I lost it all-
            an oppressive chain now blooms.
          My strength has all but left me.
               I try and yell with no success.
This poem is meant to make no sense
but, does it maybe, to you?

The Sparrow

The little life drains
from the sparrow's
tight throat,
as she cranes her
head to the sky.
She prunes out her clothes,
puffs up her breast,
spreads out her pride,

Down to the feet
that the cobbler protects,
with his hammer, tacks, and cloth.
Down to be mended
with life-giving touch,
and ready to soar anew.


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