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Posted: |
Dec 30, 2017 - 5:07 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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We have LIMERICK and HAIKU topics for those poems. This thread is for other types of poems be they Free Verse, Shakespearean or Petrarchan sonnets, Clerihews, simple rhyming couplets or any other kind of poem. I only aske that we not criticize what members share, and that we follow FSM rules, so I won’t use “isms” or politics in my poems. It is hard to get teenagers into poetry, so I wrote this first poem because it was relevant to their lives. In our state, teens must first get a Learner’s Permit and drive with their parents for 6 months before they can apply for a driver’s license. LEARNER’S PERMIT Your long fingers circle the wheel, nails chewed, carefully crimsoned. Dad in the passenger seat calmly calls directions. I, nervous mom, fasten with palsied hand the thin belt of security We parents, like heavy hailstones bursting crops, issue orders, gasps, and hisses until you brake, commanding us to stop! I sense the learners permit trembling in your pocket. In promised muteness, I stare only at the back of your head, High ponytail tail quaking in sync with your long, silver earrings. Turning left into heavy traffic, you ease into the nearest lane, turn on the signal, glance over your shoulder, and easily slide into the right lane. Suddenly my seat is a down comforter, my foot no longer braking the floor. You know to look for danger, safe openings and necessary stops. I’ve learned to hand you the keys, permitting myself to finally hitchhike a ride in the opposite direction. TICK-TACK-TOE My father’s broad forehead, striped with deep horizontal and vertical lines, forms many tick-tack-toe puzzles. Ancient maps on parchment skin echo his travels through years of six day work, family disease, pride and failure of progeny, and the simple trails of daily discoveries. To him these wrinkles are ugly as he now stretches shunning hands to halt my camera’s intrusion. He’s blind to the beauty I see in each pattern of sharps and to all my X’s and 0’s that fill every open square. Members, chime in.
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Two magic poems. Joan is the FSM Poet Laureate.
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Nice stuff Huey.
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Posted: |
Dec 31, 2017 - 11:29 AM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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THE FORSYTHIA Even in March’s frigid air, the forsythia blooms first, a gold unfurling among bushes of naked twigs and dead straw grass. Like a singular shaft of sun, it stands amidst gray skies, a precursor for others’ blossoming. Grass, tulips, roses and petunias delay, waiting for the accepting assurance of April irrigation, a stronger fist of sun, and the ramps of sprays and fertilizers. How I ache to emulate this first forsythia, risking my blooming before others have packed solid once slippery trails of spring mud; instead of always being a June geranium, seasonally rooted in my red envy of its yellow courage.
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Bill, add your own poem. i do comedy. And i do annoying. But i dont do poetry. Tho this doesnt prevent me from admiring others' talents in this field.
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Ok here goes. Show me a home where the buffalo roam... And i will show you a house with a lot of shit on the carpet!
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Posted: |
Dec 31, 2017 - 11:29 PM
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By: |
joan hue
(Member)
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TO MY SON’S WEDDING Newly single and alone, I drove to my son’s wedding and hit a fat black dachshund, red chum spattered in a circle, a ruby ring around my front tire. The owner carefully offered, “Not your fault. Female across the road. Never could teach him the dangers of these mean streets.” His young son opened their screen door, an older sister instantly retrieving him. My sudden remorse for the boy’s strings circling his flattened heart elicited no permanent pity. Next year a new puppy will enchant his eyes, ensconce his heart. Maybe sooner. Driving slower now around normal curves and smooth straight highways, I ponder what to say, my son asking for last minute advice. Hand him the ring. Proffer platitudes. Let him discover soon enough a dog pound’s renewable love purchased for only forty dollars and a can of food. DEATH OF DOXIE For the first time in years, my dog didn’t dash out to dance his greeting around my car. Unable to hurdle the barricade of pain, only the drumming of his incessant tail lead me to the corner where he’d dragged paralyzed hind legs. Called the vet, told the nurse, “It’s time and I need to stay with him.” She snapped “No appointments left, drop him off. We’ll finish it later.” She didn’t understand this singular dog who was only mine, who feared a broom casually leaning on a wall, who cowered from large tumbleweeds summersaulting across my lawn. So I sat in the office, holding his vibrating body, waiting for the attention that should be paid to one so timid and loving. He would not have understood my absence. The doctor muzzled his Doxie nose in blue Velcro, unnecessary for a dog ignorant of cruel jaws. As the syringe shot relief into his paw, I held his face close, mumbling litanies, “Just look at me, no more pain.” His faithful eyes fastened to mine, and then his kind heart stopped, no glassy fading look, just brown open eyes still trusting. Only the silence of the stethoscope and the protruding tip of his wafer tongue signaled my invisibility. At the desk, I paid with a check and my heart, and left, trailing the loneliest objects in the world, a disconnected leash and a collar circling air. At my home, I tossed in the garbage a warm, odorous dog bed and stained food dish. At times I managed a smile when thinking of his eyes that reflected no betrayal because unlike Candy, I didn’t, “let no stranger shoot my dog.”
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That Joanie we're going to have to teach her shes never seen .. a St Trinians feature!
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