Happiest of First Aprilian Fridays! (No, I'm not TOO excited about spring.)
Admittedly, I'm wearied by the whole struggling-to-push-through process this week. The glorious sunshine and (finally) rising temperatures are perfectly timed, and rabidly welcomed.
That, and I'm so delightfully consumed by my WIP that I almost feel like one of *those* authors. You know. The kind of author I'm not.
(Except, I never--NEVER--forget to eat. I will obsess over an empty stomach before I obsess over finishing a chapter.)
So, it's Poetry Month. In honor of such--and of having written my Very First Kiss Scene this week--I offer you a poem by my younger self. And I would love if you'd share lots of fun things today, poetry or otherwise. You've all been amazing this week (when aren't you?), so let's kick back and have some fun. Revel in the amazing-ness of the group, as it were.
*Hem*
BOYS
by Authoress, age 8
Boys are rough, boys are tough,
Boys are never sissies,
But when they grow, they will know
Girls like lots of kisses.
*curtsies*
Miss Snark's First Victim
*laughs, applauding* 8-year-old Authoress is now my favorite poet! <3 That's adorable.
ReplyDeleteFor my fun bit to share, a darling recently cut from my manuscript. It's from a rough draft (as you'll note by the lack of polish) but it makes me smile and hope it sets your lips a-twitching as well:
"The nobleman glowered. "What in the name of the silent hells is your son doing here, diAran? I thought you said you'd ditched him."
"That's a good question. Bart, how'd you find us?" The amount of genuine surprise in his father's voice was a bit insulting.
"It was no great difficulty." He tossed his head lightly to flip a lock of wet hair from his vision, still keeping his grip on the sword. "Once I learned of your deceit, I returned to the inn. Since you said you drank at the Peacock's Folly often, I asked the barkeep to describe the company you kept. It was a short list. And of the names upon it, only 'diMontaigne' was dishonorable enough to stoop to kidnapping a Hala. So I came here, to their old manor. The wet hoof-prints in the hall confirmed that either my squire was here or the Baron diMontaigne had chosen to dine with a goat this evening."
"I thought you said he was a moron, Ranulf," diMontaigne snapped.
"He is!" his father protested. "I assure you this is entirely out of character for him."
Bartolomei frowned. That went beyond 'a little insulting' and straight into 'offensive'.
Bartolomei took a step toward the door without taking his eyes off the guard. "And now, we will be leaving." Even as he spoke, however, the sound of a door closing contradicted him."
You must have been adorable at age eight, Authoress.
ReplyDeleteAnd as a mother of a nine-year-old girl, I can so totally relate.
; )
So cute (and true)! I'm game for a poem. Spring brings out the romantic in me, anyhow. Here's one:
ReplyDeleteTitle: Game On
I love your shoulders.
Making the shot.
Holding your niece.
Rising above the pew.
Shoulders of a well rounded man.
Rippled like topography on a map.
The first to be asked to help move
A piano or desk or desperate friend.
And now
from behind.
Comfortable against the afghan
on the back of my couch.
Game on.
Watching something with
jerseys and a ball
and a different kind of back,
this one named Adrian Peterson.
Your arms reach back
and lock behind your head
as you shout to a player
who can’t hear you
and could never appreciate
the soft skin
on the back of your neck
the way I do.
From behind
I kiss that skin
I trace my hands
across your shoulders
and down, down, down
your chest.
Game on.
P.S. HAPPY SPRING EVERYONE!
Princess! I like that!!
ReplyDeleteOh what the hell, in honor of the upcoming swimsuit season- here's another poem (Sung to the tune of "Bye Bye, Miss American Pie"):
ReplyDeleteA long, long time ago...
I can still remember
how those Dove bars used to make me smile.
But now I’m such a wide expanse,
that I can make my arm flab dance.
(Maybe I should exercise a while.)
So bye-bye, Cheetos, Krunchers and fries.
I’m as heavy as a chevy
And the stairs make me sigh.
And the most exercise
I get is blinking my eyes.
I’m thinking, this should be the day that I diet.
This should be the day that I try.
Can you barely lift your leg?
And do you have faith in Jenny Craig?
Cause Bertinelli told you so?
Do you like butter on your roll,
And guacamole by the bowl?
And do you jog around the block- reeeeeal slow?
Well, you know I’m trying to get slim
`Cause you saw me limping in the gym.
I kicked off both my shoes.
God, I wish I had some booze.
Once I had a skinny waist and a small stomach
(like a starving Haitian with a tummy tuck),
But I knew I was out of luck
the day I had to diet.
I started singing,
Bye-bye, Cheetos, Krunchers and pie.
I’m as heavy as a chevy,
and the scale makes me cry.
But Marie Osmond said to give it a try,
Saying this should be the day that I diet.
This will be the day that I try it.
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I heard some chimes and I ran to score
Off the Good Humor guy I’ve used before,
But my neighbor said the truck just pulled away.
And in the streets, the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken,
My willpower had been broken.
And the three men I love more than myself,
Ben and Jerry and the Keebler Elf,
I finished the last of off my shelf,
The day I quit my diet.
And I was singing,
Heeeeello, Cheetos, Krunchers and pie.
I’m as heavy as a chevy
And the stairs make me sigh.
But I need my fix
Of chocolate candy and chips,
So tomorrow I will start a new diet.
Tomorrow is the day that I’ll diet.
(What can I say? Blame it on Spring Fever ;) ...)
@Princess
ReplyDeleteBWAHAHAHA I love the American Pie remix!!
Well, I didn't write this, but I remember it fondly from my childhood. It changed my life,really.
ReplyDeleteBeans, beans.
Good for your heart.
The more you eat them,
the more you....
How profound.
Okay. I'll play. Since it's spring, and fishing weather, and since there's a thunderstorm going on right now outside my window, I thought this might be an appropriate poem. Just so you know, my parents loved to fish, and they are the stars of this poem. It's a bit lengthy, but I noticed there are others of some length posted.
ReplyDeleteTHE LEGEND OF OLD GUY
Michael C. Broadway
The forecast wasn't wonderful for fishermen that day.
Dark clouds on the horizon were a-movin' toward the Bay.
But two stout hearts were very set on going, anyway.
So, out they went at morning's light and packed up all their gear.
They drove on down to Cookeville Bay with sunrise drawing near.
Guy said, "We're in for a quite a blow. A hurricane, I fear."
Into the boat he placed their kit and thereby sealed his fate.
The wind picked up, and Vida yelled, "Let's go. It's getting late."
A limb blew by and struck Old Guy upon his reddish pate.
So, out they sailed into the Bay with whitecaps and black sky.
"Oh, hurry up. I want to fish," said Vida Mae to Guy.
"This weather's bad," Old Guy replied. "Methinks we're going to die!"
And soon, the two of them arrived upon a favored place.
Guy racked the oars and anchor weighed as rain poured in his face.
Then lightning started flashing at a very quickened pace.
"Migawd, my dear," Old Guy sang out. "Be handing me a towel."
"I can't. I'm fishing," she yelled back, and only tossed a scowl.
But thunder muffled her reply, as Old Guy wiped his jowl.
"I'm rigging up, dear," Guy yelled back and grabbed his favorite rod.
He wrapped a glob of worms around a big hook, in a wad,
And tossed the whole mess overboard, saluting, with a nod.
More lightning flashed, and thunder rolled. The wind was at a gale.
The water started pouring in, and Vida had to bail.
Then, all at once, the rain had stopped, and turned itself to hail.
"We'd better leave now," Vida screamed. "This storm has drawn too near.
"I do believe, Old Guy, that we should get away from here.
"For as you know, this weather's bad, and I can't swim, my dear."
The swells grew higher 'round the boat, and she began to roll.
"We'd better leave now," Vida yelled. "This storm will take a toll."
"Not yet, my dear," Old Guy replied. "There's something on my pole."
And, all at once, Guy set the hook amidst the hail and rain.
A grimace grew upon his face, the look of shock and strain.
Then Vida yelled, "Old Guy! Old Guy! I spy a hurricane!"
Old Guy just grumbled, scowled, and spit, and furrowed up his brow.
The fish began to pull and Old Guy soon was at the bow.
And Guy yelled out, "No way in Hell that we're a-leavin' now!"
And hail as big as baseballs fell. The wind, it railed and roared.
Old Guy yelled out, "I've seen the fish! It's big! It's huge! My Lord!"
When suddenly, a giant wave washed Old Guy overboard.
Well, Vida learned to swim that day because it was a must.
And all of Old Guy's fishing books are covered now with dust.
And their old boat's with Davey Jones, a crusty hulk of rust.
But, it's been said in these here parts that when the storm winds blow,
And fishermen go out to fish wherever waters flow,
Old Guy's been heard a-yellin', "I ain't never lettin' go!"
I wanted to post this one, too. I hope I'm not hogging space here. It's also about fishing, written shortly after my father died.
ReplyDeleteOne Moment
Michael C. Broadway
January 25, 2001
The first time my father took me fishing
It was a crisp and shivery spring morning.
I felt a frisky, young breeze inside my khaki jacket.
I was six years old.
I got awfully cold when I was six.
I told him I wanted to go home.
I heard him say,
“One moment, son.”
We fished for the next forty years
We melted together in the summer sun.
We weathered the thunder of passing storms.
We shared many moments.
The last time I took my father fishing
It was a dark and dreary autumn afternoon
He felt a chilly, winter hand inside his flannel jacket.
He was seventy-six years old.
He got awfully cold when he was seventy-six.
He told me he wanted to go home.
He heard me say,
“One moment, Dad.”
That one moment seems so long ago.
Michael --
ReplyDeleteYou are a VERY GIFTED poet! The first one has impeccable rhyme and meter, and the humor is delightful. It's REALLY tight, REALLY well written. Flawless in form.
The second one is profoundly moving, a lovely use of minimalistic language.
Thank you SO MUCH for sharing these!
Authoress,
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for your kind words and for providing such a great venue where we can all share our work, our hopes and our dreams.
You are truly appreciated much more than you realize.
Love the poem! So cute and so accurate.
ReplyDeleteIn honor of April Showers and National Poetry Month, here's one of my own poems:
Reflections
Red sneakers exchanged for red galoshes,
I wander in the hungry rain.
The green clouds in the stormy sky
Light the lazy edge of the sidewalk;
And my dog a dusty wolf
Stalks the myriad puddles,
Hesitating when he finds himself
In the depths of their dim waters.
But I, in my new galoshes,
Lose myself in the worn rain.
I enjoyed reading all of these, but I love your eight-year-old poem and Michael's poem about fishing with his dad.
ReplyDeleteI want to play. Here's one of my riddles.
What Are We?
We are many.
We are green.
You should know
we're not a bean.
Eat our pod
or shell us first.
When you bite us,
we will burst.
What a fun idea! I love that 8 year old poem. So cute. And that American Pie rewrite had me in stitches.
ReplyDeleteHere's my contribution - I wrote this as a teenager one summer - so here's in anticipation of lovely days to come:
End of the Day
The fire crackles
with all its might
The moon grows misty
throughout the night
With the day as busy
as it has been
It's nice to sit
and relax again
And gather 'round
the fire and chat
And talk of this
And laugh at that
With Grandmas and cousins
and uncles and aunts
To watch the firelight
flicker and dance
The perfect end
to a busy day
To sit and talk
or have nothing to say.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteLOL in the spirit of fun.
ReplyDeleteI have a little alter ego. He's called Avery with an A. He's a baby boy with attitude. He can't talk. He's too little. But he thinks. And if you can talk 'thinking' then you can hear him. He and his sister are three dimension resin dolls which I photograph to illustrate little Avery with an A stories. But I don't have the luxury of showing you the pictures that accompanied this last Xmas.
‘Tis the night of Christmas eve
And Santa’s flying high
With a bunch of reindeer
Through the dark and starry sky.
Lots of kids are waiting
Including little me
I can’t wait to open
What’s under our Chrissie tree.
My sister said she’s waiting up
To catch the big fat man
But she’s fallen fast asleep
So I don’t think she can.
Sssh there’s something coming
Down the chimney hole
I think Santa’s crazy.
Why can’t he use the door.
Then while I’m waiting Dad comes in
Looking very weird
He thinks I don’t know that it’s him
Disguised in a big white beard
Santa never came that night
I know ‘cos I was awake
But my sister thinks he really did
‘Cos somebody ate the cake.
So I hear you asking Avery A
Then what came down the chimney?
I’m really glad that I can’t talk
‘Cos nobody would believe me.
Mom and Dad were yawning
When they came downstairs later
And I was anxious to open the presents
‘Cos I wanted to play with the paper.
Stay tuned. I will reveal what Avery saw tomorrow.
ReplyDeleteYou will be amazed and shocked
And ...
You will wonder whether the earth can ever remain the same!
I liked several of the previous posters' poems very much. Here's why I hardly ever write them:
ReplyDeleteSweating Poems
Believe me that I do know naught
'bout poems, rhymes and rhythm.
Poetry
is strange to me,
cannot be learned or taught.
It seems my Muse is better here,
thinks poems by the minute.
Plainly and
with practiced ease,
she makes a verse appear.
With awe I see her aptitude
for coming up with new stuff.
While I pine
for every line
and word that sets the mood.
Without her help I cry and grieve
inept at writing ballads.
Luckily,
she's part of me,
I'll never let her leave.
LOVE the poem! Here's a haiku.
ReplyDeleteThe sky was cloudy
but I paused to look at it
and now it is clear
What did Avery with an A see?
ReplyDeleteI s’pose you’re curious to know
What came down the chimney hole
And if I tell you you’ll think that this
Is a tale a little too tall.
Dunno whether I should reveal
What I know to be fact
I might be told I am totally mad
And upon this you will act.
You’d put me in a funny farm
And throw away the key
‘Cos what I saw coming down
Was a big fat Easter Bunny.
This is one of my favorite poems which shows what level of intellectualism I'm at but it's by that famous poet ANONYMOUS.
ReplyDeleteSpring in the Bronx
Spring is sprung
Duh grass is rizz
I wonder where dem boidies is.
Duh little boids in on duh wing -
But dat's absoid:
Duh little wing on on duh boid.
Happy Easter everyone! I must admit poetry has never been my favorite subject, but the poems from Authoress, and the American Pie remix really made my day. LOL! I do have something to contribute, although it’s not as amusing I’m afraid. A few years back I had to write two poems for a creative writing class. This is the sonnet I wrote. I can’t tell you the hell I went through trying to get the structure right, but here it is.
ReplyDeleteFutility
The vanity of life is promptly stowed
And echoed clear in death’s profundities.
Here held by dazzling trivialities,
A farce erected by unwritten code,
Parade of pomp a fleeting episode.
Are fate is tethered, handed destinies.
We cling to myths and lies of liberties,
This cup is yours, this cross is mine to tow,
Who holds the cards we play, the said divine,
Or luck? What turbulent emotions rose
With truth, defiance, wisdom, riots, trees.
The ignorant do live In peace, serene.
Embrace your powerlessness and repose,
We’re blameless, faultless, meaningless, and free
Rose I did like it. I'd have given you an A. But remember I liked Spring in the Bronx so I'm not sure if it's a backhanded compliment but nevertheless... Yes. Clapping.
ReplyDelete