So the project of yesterday and this morning has been to gather up all my available poems and start a Scrivener document to put them in. I had already been thinking of them in context of periods of my life. They are currently broken into: Caterpillar (1997-2002), In Chrysalis (2000-2007), Here There Be Dragons (2004-2009), Beauty Time (2007-2011) and Lucid Dreaming (2010-current). Eww, that looks pretentious, doesn't it?
A couple of my baby poems are corrupted files. I pretty much have those memorized, though? That's what happens when a short verse is your prayer to get through things. (Also, I have the originals, the double decades old pencil and paper originals.)
It seems like a thing to do.
The last decade has a lot of missing poems. That's because most of them are what I dubbed PFED, "A poem for every day." So, garbage, basically.
- - -
It shouldn't be so hard to write
a poem for every day.
Pen to paper:
wouldn't you like to say a few words?
So much starts to spill out of your head,
Your crowded, noisy mind,
So many things your spirit wants to speak.
So many complaints of the heart.
It shouldn't be so hard to write a poem
You do lesser things, and harder things,
You get up: that's something.
At least have a poem in your day.
One soft, crisp, uncomplicated thing
One thing that is only yours
Where to start? You wonder.
Just tell me three things that come to mind
because the appointment is tomorrow
but the message says
as soon as possible.
That is why you walk
uphill, in the rain,
or an umbrella
He weighs twenty pounds
He is not sick
or he is
he is not well
It may be a common thing
based on the common signs
but then, his age --
who can tell with a domestic predator
They take his blood
He hides behind your legs
and doesn't bite: one thing easy
You are glad for the downhill
take careful, tired steps,
in the heavy rain,
but you do what you must
for the small things you must
In the roar of the Twelfth Man she hears the sound of the distant, deep ocean
of her sisters, in the crashing waves, singing from the foam
crying, calling: come home, come home
the Siren peeks over the top of her tower; she whispers as rain mists over Elliott Bay,
I have emeralds to watch over.
In the shriek of jet planes descending, she recalls amorous pleas
of sailors as she pulled them into the embrace of to gray death
gasping, gurgling: a breath, a breath
the Siren’s crown is a compass rose; she surveys from Leschi to Harbor Island,
I have a map to treasures.
In her clock tower, high above the streets, the Siren watches scenes
of bicycle couriers dispatched by smartphone, meal desires to fulfill
huffing, heaving: a hill, a hill
the Siren looks over the lights of Magnolia; she sighs as dusk settles,I have a bejeweled city.
Cris de Borja
I learned a new thing: the short code for embedding audio into Wordpress. I have successfully 1)used the voice recorder app on my phone, 2)sent the file from phone to computer 3)converted to mp3, 4)discovered how to embed into a Wordpress post, and 5)fought and won in the formatting battle for the text spacing. Wordpress doesn't even need the file type conversion. OTOH, I *always* have text formatting issues with Wp.
The assault of chiming alarm and crying cat,
Arrives with the regularity of a freight train;
On this timetable, I am never ready to wake.
Afternoon sleep is easier than night's
A few hours privately enjoyed
Closing my eyes to sun and finding sun again,
or sometimes twilight, when I am ready to wake.
The most delicious hours are those
Between dawn and eight, or ten
After premature birth into to the day
Going back to bed again, until I am ready to wake.
Living becomes a butterfly's flight between rests,
Within the fractures of dreams, my life,
But oh this craving for more of both sleep and life,
To leave the things it loves most, my soul, unready.
I can't escape you
scintillating in gold
uncaring of my fate
I am one more notch
just another mortal lay
and now they laugh, saying
This is worse than death at sea.
Leda is famous art.
No one laughs at Io,
that fat cow.
Neither one, the deserved
And what of all the others?
But me, I am recalled
not as princess in a tower
but some girl
droplets still falling
over the spelling of my name.
a boy outgrew his friend
But new beginnings bite the tails
of even that tale's end
When Jack became a father
as boys, grown up, will do
He named his bright-eyed daughter
little Jackie Paper, too.
When he put his child to bed
the stories that he told
were of adventures out at sea
in search of pirate gold
and treasures such as sealing wax,
or fancy stuff like giant's rings
and how he had a mighty friend
who earned the bows of kings.
Then on he started making up
more stories for her just the same,
And somewhere in a deep dark cave
a dragon heard his name
A dragon's love lives on and on
and waits to roar again someday
so even if you have grown up
dream again, make believe... and play.
Little thefts of forgotten things
Unmissed, unnoticed, for the taking:
Rhinestones plucked from crushed earrings
A dime left in a drawer of junk
Batteries from a broken clock
An ribbon dropped along the street
A key far wandering from its lock
Scavanged out of dusty corners
A sticker sheet, a post-it pad,
A journal, words scrawled on its pages,
I didn't know that I still had
A fragment of an old perspective
Out from underneath your lies
My worth stolen back again
And my reflection, from your eyes