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February 17, 2014

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That should be "peeking" at poems, and not "peaking".

We will publish every Monday, Wednesday and Friday....the B O D Y way is becoming THE way.

Well . . . Julia, Stacey . . . I tried this exercise, which I can see would give someone some good results (potentially). I say I tried it, but couldn't make my way through it because somehow the work of it all just simply wore me out. Which is probably why I may never be a 'real' poet.

When I do write what other people call poetry (I don't call it anything, usually, aside from 'those words that popped out of me today') it's always been just that. Popped out. Zoom.

I'll keep checking back to see if there is an exercise I can make it through, because of course I'd like to learn things. :)

It came to me though that I do have something from a few years ago which fits the title of the exercise ('The Secret Life of . . .') so I'll post it here, just to fill up space and because I feel all efforts to extend the ways poetry can exist in anyone's life - as this blog post does and as this blog does every day - should be answered with equal energy. ;)

Here it is, hope you enjoy it!


The Secret Life of Socks

I stretch myself thin to embrace your sharp ankles
Shake bits of grace from aromas obscene

Constantly flattened my pride pricks and rankles
My lifework to nurture
Yours, to preen

"Keep Dirt at Bay" states "The Sock’s Rules" yet
Incessant attempts leave me crumpled and muddled

In Hot-Dryer Hell I toss round with damp fools
Till we all finish, spent, dejected,
flat-huddled

But sometime quite soon on a silky-mooned night
One heel will giggle and
slide
from this pile

Soft pooling white cotton
radiant in flight
Mysteries in the making! (stories to beguile)

Adios! Fat bunions calloused warts itchy creep!
Lay still lay
barefoot
naked toes,
weep.

- Karen Resta

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Radio

I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark
                   

from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman


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This Way Out

THE RULE OF THUMB
by T.P.Winch

Ringfinger was nervous
Pinky terrified
when they learned
that Hand might succumb
to the rule of Thumb.

 

 


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