Two BRIK poems

For those of you who do not know, a BRIK is a modern poetry form which requires the poem to be typed in courier font (so it looks like a rectangle) and each poem should be 13 lines, each line being 22 characters across.  Also, if you choose to title the poem, the form also requires the title to be 22 characters.  Here are two new ones I have written. 

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a BRIK poem and report back.  Happy writing.

 

And The Dust Cries Out

 

Ripping her small womb

was just the beginning

It was only a pittance

of the full charge she

was to pay You desired

everything that wasn’t

hers to give Too young

to decide so you chose

Mirror says monster so

you smash it to pieces

and the shards testify

so you sweep them away
The dust cries unclean

 

 

Mocha-Choca Latte YaYa

 

It is almost delicious

I can nearly taste the

timbre of his voice as

he speaks It is packed

with flavor hearty and

satisfying like a rich

espresso foaming in my

cup but his singing oh

his singing it is lava

hot molten flowing and

with blistering energy

scorches the landscape

I called my best friend from college today.  I had forgotten how much I had missed Joel.  I had actually wanted to call him for quite some time, but the last time we spoke was over 4 years ago and the conversation seemed awkward and forced.  Tonight, however, it seemed like one of those magical talks you have with and old friend where you fall back into the same comfortable patterns as if no time had passed.  We talked for over two hours about our lives, where we were now, who we are married to, and what occupies our day.  It really did my heart good.

By the way, the lady I was bitching about a few posts ago, the one who talks and whines about her personal life during class, wasn’t at the lecture today.  Needless to say, we got out almost 90 minutes early.  Maybe before next class I can find her neighborhood and slash her tires or something….

Have a good night,

Jan

Fun music facts about Moi

My day was not particularly
interesting or noteworthy in any way so I just totally ripped this off
from Lady_Songbird.  Read her post too while you’re at it. 
Here’s my answers.

1. What is “your song”? 

   Tie between “Could Be” from West Side Story and “Alive in the World” by Jackson Browne (who is my secret boyfriend, you know.)

2. What song always improves your mood? 
   Hmm…”All I Need is a Miracle” by Mike and the Mechanics and
   “Footloose” by Kenny Loggins and “High on You” by Survivor (yes, cheesy
   80′s music in general)

3. What song makes you feel all romantic? 

   “Crash” by Dave Matthews (if you mean romantic in the lets-get-it-on
   kind of way) “Change in My Life” by Rockapella (in a romantic-sappy
   way) and “Sky Blue and Black” by Jackson Browne (in a romantic-sad way,
   and did I mention that Jackson Browne is my secret boyfriend?)

4. What song gets you ready for a good time (i.e. partying with friends; save the Barry White for the previous question)? 

   For hanging out with the girls, “Dreams” by the Cranberries, for
   partying in general “Play that Funky Music White Boy” by Wild Cherry
   and “Somebody’s Baby” by Jackson Browne (who is, ironically enough, my
   secret boyfriend.)

5. What song makes you feel introspective and slightly melancholy? 

   Oooh…so many….but here’s my short list:  “Strawberry Wine” by
   Deanna Carter, “Just When I Needed You Most” by Randy Van Wormer,
   “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” (can’t remember the artist so if you
   do, please let me know!), “Almost Doesn’t Count” by Brandy, “In the
   Shape of a Heart” by Jackson Browne, and “Late for the Sky” also, by
   Jackson Browne (I love him, you know, and as soon as the restraining
   order is dropped, he’ll be my secret boyfriend.)

By
the way…totally kidding about the restraining order.  So, now
tell me your songs.  By the way…you should get “Late for the
Sky,” it is by far his best (althougth all of his stuff is good.) 
What I love about JB is that his lyrics are some of the best poetry
I’ve ever heard.  Plus he’s a great
singer/guitarist/pianist/songwriter.  And he’s DEAD SEXY in that
hippy-wounded-poet sort of way.  No, yesterday’s post was not
about Jackson Browne.  Was I going somewhere with this? 
Probably not.  Signing off now before I blabber about nothing some
more.

Crushes

Ok…so here is an open forum question…

Am I a really bad wife because I have a major crush on someone I know or does this happen to everyone?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I would never pursue it, would never dream of being unfaithful to my husband, and certainly wouldn’t make my attraction known to the gentleman in question, but I do feel guilty about it. 

So…are crushes still legal once you’ve tied the knot?

How do you spell BOO HOO

This is a bitching blog, so if you are looking for some poetry, check my last two posts.  Especially my last two posts, as those two poems are works in progress and I’m looking for feedback.

Ok…back to bitching.

I am taking classes at school and I am a returning student.  I am having a good time for the most part.  In my Intro to Professional Writing class, there is this one woman in class who seems to be using the lecture periods as a forum to tell others about her morals, religion, lousy personal life, and physical ailments.  This drives me absolutely batty.  Most of the time the crap she has to say (and I do mean crap) has nothing, completely totally and utterly NOTHING to do with class.  I felt like saying, lady, if you’re looking for sympathy, its in the dictionary between the words SHIT and SYPHILIS.  Go look it up.  In the mean time, the spelling for whine is B-O-O H-O-O.

Okay, done griping.  Thanks for listening.

I am sorry, beloved,
that I am not a Stepford Wife,
immaculately groomed,
perfectly trim, long flowing
blonde hair cascading in
chaste waves to my
pretty round pink ass.

I am sorry, beloved,
that I was not cloned from
Donna Reed or June Cleaver.
I cannot sew, make quiche,
properly light a cigar, or laugh
at jokes I think are infantile.
I do not possess that X chromosome.

I am sorry, beloved,
that I am not a puppet or robot.
My brain was programmed wrong,
my wiring is all screwed up,
no matter how I try,
I don’t take orders well
and I often think for myself.

I am sorry, beloved,
that I blackened your eye.
My dear, I didn’t realize
you were standing on
the sidewalk below
when I tossed your suitcase
out of the window.

I guess I’ll never learn.

New Poem

I am really struggling with this one and before I abandon it for greener pastures, I am posting it for feedback and suggestions.  I am drawing a blank as far as titles go, although I have a “working” title for the time being that I don’t like very much…will Lady_Songbird or Cassildra work their magic touch again or will it be someone new?

Better Luck Next Time

I can’t quite remember
what I went searching for
as I stoop, collecting memories
in the shadow that is us.

It is strange to be alone again,
stranger still that I don’t mind.
I feel a melancholic happiness
with my newfound solitude.

I blow the dust off boxes
planning a new life without you,
nothing left now but the details
as we sort out our divorce.

Which books are yours?
What inner dreams belong to you
and which are mine?  Our end,
so common place, so extraordinary.

The worst of the controversy is past
and our contact now is minimal.
I feel exposed in the sunlight, taking
the last of your clothes to the porch.

I watch in silence as
you walk across the yard,
pick up the laundry basket
muttering, better luck next time.

 

For the poetry challenge “tag” look at the entry for 9/1.

Here is a poem I started writing a year ago that I reworked and I’m kind of happy with the result.  Please share your comments as they are always appreciated.

El John

There is something about
women and horses
how they are pictures of beauty,
a representation of
the wild untamed beast
hidden inside of us all.

On the back of my horse
I was invincible.  El John
would tear up the hillside
his hoofs pounding the ground
in sweet rhythmic cadence
to a natural, earth song.

The smell of corn growing
and hay, freshly mowed
in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands
filled my nose and lungs
like an intoxicating drug as
the wind whipped his mane.

It was the closest thing to flying
you can feel while on the ground
a kind of safe danger,
he would reach a naked gallop
with joyful abandon, his mouth
foaming at the exertion of his power.

I think of El John now
as I sit beside my dying father.
Smiling weakly, he closes his eyes.
Every breath is labored now
as he becomes a shadow of
the man he once was.

One summer, the rides with El John
and the innocence of unstoppable youth
came abruptly to an end.
Unlike his thunderous hooves,
death came quietly and peacefully
as he did not wake up one June morning.

Holding my father’s aging hand
I cherish this time to say goodbye,
a luxury I did not have with El John.
As his minutes on earth ebb away,
I realize that the hardest and rarest
part of love is in the letting go.

The Chaste Love Affair Poetry Challenge

Richard Brautigan, a tortured albeit popular Beat poet in the 1950′s and 60′s, had what he once called a “chaste love affair” with a young lady named Linda Webster. She was several years his junior and therefore prohibited by her parents to be involved with him.  Emily Dickinson for many years wrote love letters and poems to a married man that she cared for deeply but her religious beliefs would never allow for impropriety.

For the purpose of this exercise, I will define a “chaste love affair” as a romantic relationship that is unable to be consumated due to social or religious mores.  As of late, I have become enamoured with Richard Brautigan and wrote a poem recently on the subject of a chaste love affair.  The poem will be attached. 

I am going to “tag” several people, but even if you are not tagged, please feel free to try it.  Should you wish to accept the challenge and write a poem, please let me know and please let me read it.  Maybe the subject matter will get your creative juices flowing.  Here’s mine:

Open Stage

I want to see you naked
is what he said and I knew
that we weren’t talking
about the theater anymore.
Our eyes locked on to each other
lost in hunger and forgotten dreams
and I saw him for the first time,
not as an instructor of knowledge
dispensing wit and wisdom about the arts
but as a man, a beguiling creature
finely muscled, skillfully cragged
in the full glory of his middle age,
eyes the deep blue of cornflowers.
I felt color rise to my cheeks,
cast my eyes politely downward
and felt his fingertips brush mine
for a moment as he cleared his throat
and whispered, I want to see your soul
naked on the stage.