Friday, March 06, 2009

Flex Your Muscles

Go Ahead. Flex those muscles. I meant your creative muscles. That's right.Now get your creative juices flowing. Very nice. Alright, ready? You have an assignment for tonight. In my poetry class a few years ago, we were given a series of words that we had to include in our poems. We could create whatever poem we wanted as long as we used each word listed once and only once. (That's right, don't repeat any of the words.)

Anyways, it's been a few years, so hopefully I'll have every original word listed and you can work your magic. After you're done, you can read my original poem that I created from the list of words.

  1. O’ Clock
  2. vole
  3. politics
  4. candle wick
  5. blue jay
  6. phone
  7. tenacity
  8. bowl
  9. pears
  10. stetson
  11. west wind
  12. interstate

Ok, scroll down for my poem!

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Sundays at Mr. Boulderfield’s (2006)

Using the phone only once a week, four O’ Clock to be exact Mr. Boulderfield calls his grandchildren to come hear stories about the runaway vole who bolts across his kitchen, stuffing stolen crumbs with a wee hand into a make believe pocket.

And they love to come, as soon you’ll catch my drift. Despite their parents’ drawn out conversations about politics, which they patiently endure in the long drive along the interstate sitting as stiff as a candle wick that knows it’ll soon be lit

They know it’s only time before they’ll run through the doorway, begging their grandpa to join them on the old porch, a practice which has become law, with the hope that a blue jay will mingle in their presence as they picture the tiny mouse in the comfort of their imaginations

And they always believe their favorite storyteller Who gives out peeled pears to accommodate his audience. And wears the stetson hat over the shiny baldness of his head a smooth, glistening bowl surrounded by stark white hairs

Yes, they always believe their favorite storyteller Who hugs them with the tenacity of a west wind And because the slight curve in the bill of his hat always gives credence to his stories

Oh yeah, It's Poetry Time!

I know what you're thinking...

"Oh maaaan. Poetry? Who does she think she is? Why is she doing this? Doesn't she know how much she sucks at this?"

Well, here's what I'm thinking, "I don't care. I'm puttin' these badboys out there cause I got a blog and I got time. Oh yeeeeeah **Kool-Aid Man breaks through my wall**

First up:

Concrete Wall (2006 )

Oh hideous wall, sprayed phrases and pictures yearn for significance Ushering for the world’s ear, begging for attention to their plight, a red alert to the insanity of it all

“Freedom”, “truth”, and “occupation” cover the grey concrete, Concrete that reminds me of sloppy wet days when I can see my breath. The rusty steel juts out in all directions, wild and apathetic Just as the wall juts out between generations of homes and olive groves

The words are in all sorts of colors, Yet it’s always the red that stands out. Whether on grey concrete or punctured clothing, Red haunts those left to mourn the pale and silent faces.

The wall moans in indignation, trash piles up closely beneath it With the stench of rotten vegetables and thorny weeds. Flies circle in lazy indifference and can’t make up their minds. All they know is misery loves company

Such a slow death for an already wilting nation, Draining the light, it eats at the life of all who see it Cancerous and vile, separating all from loved ones Making it harder to breathe in without exhaling in grief

Their hearts break over and over again, Withering away, harden and crack to become ashy and grey. Like the remains of some burnt up corpse Once lively, now kept hidden in a misleading vase Just like the color of concrete

Torturous in its taunting, embarrassing in its existence, Promising a life filled with remorse and pangs in their stomachs from disgust. Deceptive in its purpose, walls never keep us apart They’re meant to be torn down, not embolden our distrust. Separate never makes equal, but ignorance makes it tall. Oh hideous wall

Like everyone else, I am going to die. But the words – the words live on
for as long as there are readers to see them, audiences to hear them. It is
immortality by proxy. It is not really a bad deal, all things considered.
-J. Michael Straczynski

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