Heading Back to Westville

     The revised fifth workshopped poem from Dr. Mackie's Poetry Writing course.

Wishbone could be narrating the scene;

at least, in the mind of the small boy,

he could. They explored through the stream

pretending to be Lewis and Clark,

Brad and Rosalind; hoping to blaze a trail

to the Pacific in their jackets of blue jean.

It’s what happens when Amelia Bedelia and Corduroy

live at Grandma’s trailer; pretending to play on the high school team

while shooting baskets at the hoop ‘til after dark;

a place where imagination takes full sail,

a rodeo chute out of the washing machine

as Brad(on his bucking bronco stickhorse) played cowboy;

where bowls of late-night strawberry ice cream

could be devoured alongside tales from places like Denmark –

this was well before Mimi grew so frail.

The farm’s run down now, no more the clean

and orderly neighborhood of cats, horses and Happy Meal toys.

Well, no, it’s still alive in memory, it seems –

Once in a while you run into Arthur the aardvark

or those pictures of cats perched atop a hay bale.

Okay, so now there might be baked beans

at supper, forcing you to employ

a distractification scheme

to hear anew about that Melville – shark?

Just listen to relatives’ stories for a spell.

Memories are here for a moment, before the ghosts possess

the places once lived in by those we loved best.

By all this verse a message I hope to imply:

Don’t let the stories die.  

Relative Yuletide - Revised Version

     The revised version of the workshopped villanelle for Dr. Mackie's Poetry Writing course.

Gather ‘round the Christmas tree

while we swap stories and sing carols;

our life as we celebrate the Nativity.

May be the season, or maybe just Kerri,

but fun is spats with Aunt Sheryl

as we gather ‘round the Christmas tree.

Baking pies and the double chocolate chip cookies,

Tim’s feeding that barn kitten – probably feral? –

our life as we celebrate the Nativity.

Grandma clipping coupons with Hailey,

cat claws putting ornaments in peril

as we gather ‘round the Christmas tree.

While the rest of us watch Jimmy Stewart on TV

the boys hang out at the burn barrel;

our life as we celebrate the Nativity.

“Just one more picture!” - Mom’s incessant plea,

“…Don we now our gay apparel…”

Gather ‘round the Christmas tree

as we celebrate the Nativity.

Sqaure Dance O'Clock - Revised Version

     The revised pantoum for Dr. Mackie's Poetry Writing course.

 It’s time for the dance!

 Bring out the banjo, fiddle, mandolin;

 fix the place all up,

 folks are comin’ from afar.

 Bring out the banjo, fiddle, mandolin;

 then tune ‘em to sing of Carra Lee!

 Folks are comin’ from afar,

 hear ‘em jawing merrily!

 Tune ‘em up to sing of Carra Lee;

 young people, unsure of their steps,

 hear ‘em jawing merrily.

 Parents recall their courtin’ days

 as young people, unsure of their steps –

 wallflower gardens grow on the porch.

 Parents recall their courtin’ days

 stirring up the Dog Branch

 while wallflower gardens grew on the porch.

 Fix the place all up,

 stir up the Dog Branch;

 it’s time for the dance!

Runaway Boomerang - Revised Version

     The revised version of the workshopped sestina for Dr. Mackie's Poetry Writing course.

Mom was the doctor’s daughter,

Dad was a welder’s son;

But you knew that, and what I’m gonna say:

they fell in love, there was a huge scandal;

but it didn’t matter,  they were each other’s everything.

Happens most places, but just seems distinctly “America.”

Fast-forward to my generation’s America;

I’m the Starr, the Bon Jovi runaway daughter

who embodies everything

that no self-respecting preacher’s son

can look at without feeling scandal.

I feel shame, I say,

at some of the things my parents say –

it’s stupid, but this messed-up America

makes giving any opinion at all a scandal.

Much less the tatted slut daughter

whose past is brought up like the rising of the sun;

my misdeeds are seen as everything.

But Mom and Dad did everything

from the stories I’ve heard ‘em say,

too… Dad’s dad went postal, threw his son

out, even. It was the age of rebellion in America

where if you weren’t a dove daughter,

now, that would cause a scandal…

Now there’s all these Clinton scandals,

I swear, lost my faith in basically everything…

My parents see their daughter’s

life I’ve patched together and say

that maybe there’s hope for America

after all. As if. I take my six-string Gibson

and ride like Billy Dean into the sunset

trying to make sense of my parents’ town’s scandal.

I just don’t understand America,

or how twisted everything becomes

that it’s reported people say.

Guess I am my parents’ daughter…

Now my son is my everything;

I can’t care less what those scandals say.

I may damn America, but I’m still its daughter.