November 15, 2016

closet poet? probably not.

I am feeling extremely frustrated at the measly 486 words of my fiction piece for creative writing. I sat in the library and started it over and over again. I hated it and deleted it at least 4 times. Finally I gave up and went on a run hoping the fall air and probably the last bit of sunshine for a while would clear my head. Sadly inspiration didn't come on that run. When an idea (thanks to kira) started to appear on my word document I realized- of those 486 words not a signal one of them so far is made up.
Let's face it... making up stories isn't one of my talents. I have been nervous for this unit in my creative writing class all semester. I ate up the non-fiction like dinner on a fast Sunday. I gritted my teeth through the poetry assignments. I'm not a poet but I loved the reading my professor asked us to do in preparation for class each day. I didn't always find the confusing stanzas so incredible like many of my classmates and chuckled as my friend Matt whispered "do you think they would say the same things if I wrote that?" No Matt... if your name was E. E. Cummings you could write "red rabbit run" and they would say it was original and profound but until then, no.
And with that said here are a couple of my poems from class.

Inspired by Love Poem with Toast by Miller Williams
Love Poem with (Chocoloate Peanut butter and Banana) Breakfast Essentials Smoothie

Some of what I hope, I hope
to see shoot star wishes come true.
that I’ll get an A, that I’ll find a job I love,
that I’ll have a happily ever after.

The rest of what I hope, I hope
to come out on top.
that I’ll graduate without too much debt, that depression will stay where I left it,
that old wounds with new layers of skin heal completely.

With hundreds of forks in the road
shaping my journey through life,
I make decisions, the best I can, experimenting.
deciding what to eat,
deciding what to wear,
deciding who to love,
deciding how much or how little,
deciding to keep trying,
deciding when to quit,
deciding what time to set the alarm,
deciding to pick up an extra shift,
deciding what is appropriate,
deciding when to make the jump,

as I wonder and worry
not knowing what to expect,
as I evaluate the coming day,
as the to do list gets longer and the dreams get wilder,

I sip my breakfast drink and anticipate.

One of the many things I planned on but never got around to blogging about inspired this "imagistic poem"

The lights go down slowly,
as energy quickly rises.

Hundreds of strangers
brought together for a few hours to never see each other again,
standing shoulder to shoulder anxiously gazing into glaring lights.

Lights flash first blazing white then fire red,
blinding and mesmerizing.
Burning your eyes but holding your gaze.

Soaking in rhythmic drum beats
enchanting hips and heads to sway left then right.

The mood drops to something sentimental.
Stars twinkle from iPhone flashlights
as robotically arms go into the air.

Throats soar, feet aching
backs and necks sticky with sweat.
The final cord is struck in a fireworks of lights
and fan girl screams.

The lights go back up,
the energy  drops,
the arena empties.

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