Lost In This Moment

     For Dr. Dial-Driver's Pop Market. This flashfiction assignment was a romance, and the structural commands were that it had to be exactly one page long. So I snuck around the double-space-everything-in-MLA-format rule by writing half of this story in poetry, because poetry can be single-spaced. Because it's me, I knew that the title would be influenced by country music somehow, so the title is borrowed from a Keith Anderson song that Big & Rich later covered. The cover is the better-known version of the tune.

While the swing goes on in the predestined way –

endlessly pacing, like all such furniture must journey –

the background  fills with our friends’ chatter,

someone’s klutzy dog makes quite a clatter,

and I’m one lucky dog with a brand-new fiancée. 

Clasped hands and hearts on that old porch swing; Desiree,  

is it this song that’s such an enchanter?

Don’t answer aloud – let your gaze say

while the swing goes on.

Years from now, this moment will stay

in my favorite memories, thinking of last Saturday,

and though in years ahead we’ll weather paint splatters

and deal with your mom – drat her -

but they’ll be counterbalanced by moments of play  

while the swing goes on.

      This was the rondeau that Mike wrote for his wife Desiree in their hotel room one night on their honeymoon. He had proposed to her while they were at a Fourth of July party hosted by friends; they were snuggled on the creaky porch swing in the Allans’ backyard, and it finally seemed like the right time to ask – they’d survived their first year of school, (they’d figure out the transfer details later) and there was family housing. Most people would say they were crazy, but if their grandparents had made it work so young, why couldn’t they? He set her guitar back into its case (he’d been using as a desk) and tucked the poem between the strings where she’d notice it first thing. Then shaking his head, wonderstruck that this was real life, he slipped under the covers. She grunted sleepily and loosened her grip on the comforter. 

We Need to Get Home

     I didn't quite take this assignment to parody a well-known poem quite far enough. But I think I get the concept, at least.  The poem this is based on is Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." For Studies in Poetry.

We are standing here in snow.

I don’t much like this – no, no, no.

Too cold and dreary are these woods

to pass such silent interludes.

Nay, I much prefer stable

living, consuming warm oats at my table.

So, let us be off, master;

frostbite is merely one of the dangers we might face tonight.

He has now realized that I do not share

in his pleasure, nor recognize the beauty of the snowflake so austere.

I must remain practical as a plow-horse,

(for that is what I am, of course)

and there are miles to go before we sleep.

Yes, miles to go before we sleep. 

Self-Written Elegy

     This was definitely one of the more difficult poetry assignments this semester. It's uncomfortable writing about yourself. Especially if you're supposed to be dead. The full title is "On the Cutting of a Second Pine Tree in the Western Meadow Near Rooster's Creek," since that is the meaning of my name when it's fully sketched out.

So now another has left

this world, and those bereft

remain behind, lamenting

his passing and cementing

the temporary memory of his life

before it washes away amidst the strive

which living brings.

Wesley was known to frequently sing

while enduring the stings

and arrows of travails

which are part and parcel of this teary veil –

Others went on to fulfill bigger dreams

but someone needs to make sure things

run smoothly back at home.

Perhaps there is a kind of glory

inside even such a mundane story. 

I'm Sick of Politics

     For this assignment, we were supposed to write a poem to match the melody of a song. It goes with Owl City's "Fireflies." It was due on Super Tuesday, so it became a rant on politics.

Yes, indeed this world is strange,

things move and get rearranged

so you never know quite where you are.

Just try the best you can

and make a backup plan,

pray hard and keep going for another day.

I find it tempting to believe

That this world will improve

But human nature won’t work like that, and something about those

laws of Newton’s keep the downward spiral going.

It doesn’t really matter who wins the elections

(Please, talk about something else now)

Cause we’re still going in the wrong direction

(Please, talk about something else now)

Why must we argue, spit and fight

(Please, talk about something else now)

At each other all the time?

Not Quite a Sonnet

     For Studies in Poetry. Dr. Mackie gave us the endwords to a sonnet, which were (purposely?) impossible to create a proper Shakespearan iambic pentameter with. So we all got really creative and progressed slightly in our floundering toward understanding how poetic meter works. (There's three guys who understand it out of fifteen people.)
     I focused on trying to tell a story, because that's what I do. The last line is sort of a copout, but I was stuck for how else to finish. The title got a laugh.

These walls are far too quiet,

speaking of memories of a kiss

while the icebox holds only leftover rice

within its closed-door dark abyss.

Out in the fields the trees

were growing nicely for it being June;

and next week was for harvesting peas,

seeing which oak branches he could prune;

it kept him from thinking. Crystal

left their vineyards and the bar

packing her low-recoil pistol;

and left behind was a well-used guitar –.

For too long his ire has brooded,

and now this poem has concluded.

Ballad

     I don't quite have ballad format down as much as I'd like, but for a first try I thought this turned out pretty well. For Studies in Poetry. The very-long-but-functional title is "General Opinion in Town Following a Home-Grown Murder Case."

News headline says he’ll soon confess,

apology or saving grace,

won’t matter none around this place

when it comes to murder.

The facts are these: Pam strangled late

last summer down by the river,

September can get pretty dark

and Todd’s soul’s bent to slivers –

The scandal horrified our town,

First Baptist and the bars

were full, as folks tried to understand

the darkness in men’s hearts.

This tale’s on its way to legend,

one girl, one guy, depression –

we maybe won’t know if – why? – he was predestined,

committing this deed of fatal aggression. 

Sestina of Ron Swanson

     For Studies in Poetry. We were supposed to write a sestina, I think the assignment was, and I was out of ideas for endwords. But then I remembered that Ron uses all these random words when he's annoying everyone with that typewriter, and so for the first stanza I used his list in the exact order of the quote. And then I needed one more endword, which became "bacon" since that is quite Swanson-ish. The Parks fans in class LOVED it: "Yes, that was literally Ron Swanson." I loved writing it. Dr. Mackie was so astounded she told everyone in the English department about it.

1 I have a typewriter. It is a rectangle

2 just like my land mine. I love America!

3 And puzzles. I am joyful right now, so I shout like a megaphone

4 and no one can get any work done. This is fun. Monday

5 I have a lot of meetings with buttholes

6 that April couldn’t get me out of. So I shall eat bacon

6 and drink whiskey and then devour more bacon

1 while I doodle little rectangles

5 in a notebook to pretend I am paying attention to anything that butthole

2 is current saying at the moment. America

4 is being ruined by the government, so last Monday

3 I retreated to my cabin and built a deer-antler megaphone

3 so I can drown out whatever crap Leslie is shouting on her megaphone.

6 Then we’ll go to JJ’s Diner and eat waffles and bacon

4 and ignore the showdown with the library on Monday

1 over a lot near the nurse’s house. This rectangle

2 will soon become a public library if we lose. America

5 is being destroyed by librarians – they are the spawn of Satan’s butthole.

5 Or at least, my ex-wife Tammy is a butthole.

3 To say more would be revealing personal information via megaphone,

2 which would be appalling. My vision for America?

6 Everyone minds their own business, eats bacon

1 and construct beautiful handcrafted rectangular-

4 shaped desks out of mahogany. The most useless days of the week are Mondays.

4 Duke Silver is playing in Eagleton on Monday

5 along with Mouse Rat – Andy’s a good kid, but he and those buttholes

1 in his band are nearly as lousy as Jerry. The guy’s so square, he’s a rectangle!

3 Chris Traeger is Talking Very Loudly. His lungs can produce megaphone-

6 level sonic qualities. I respect that. Not as much as bacon,

2 he’s too cheerful most of the time. America

2 needs more libertarians. And mini horses like Li’l Sebastian. America

4 shall mourn the day that glorious equine goes to the pasture in the sky. It’ll be the Monday

6 to end all Mondays. Worse than rabbit food. Or fish meat. Or turkey bacon

5 Have I mentioned that my other ex-wife Tammy is also a butthole?

3 Oh, how I do love a good piece of meat. I’ll scream into Leslie’s stupid megaphone

1 if it be to praise the efforts of the cow which became this delicious rectangle

21 of steak, grown in the only state in America that is a perfect rectangle,

43 Wyoming. Though I suppose Mondays and megaphones

65 exist there, too. Yes, I require bacon now. Go interview someone else, butthole.

Cliche Poem

     This assignment from Studies in Poetry was to use as many cliches as possible, along the lines of Brad Paisley's "Come On Over Tonight." This was really fun to write. I gave it the astonishingly long (but descriptive) title of "Advice From a Single Guy when His Brother and Future-Sister-in-Law are in a Fight Near Valentine’s Day.” This would've been fun to do as a sestina or villanelle, but there wasn't time for either of those. 

Into a corner you been painted,

guess you’ll just have to eat that hat,

because since y’all were first acquainted,

it’s pretty obvious curiosity killed the cat;

so go ahead and call her, maybe?

You gotta either fish or cut bait

if you’re “made for each other”. Ew.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Kate’s

pretty much the one for you, brother,

and when the going gets rough, love her like crazy.

Apologizin’ late’s better than never,

looks pretty cut and dried;

she’s your Wonder Woman, you’re her Steve Trevor;

That Midsummer Night line springs to mind:

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

Observation Pantoum

     The final part of the observation assignment, taking the poem we translated the prose into and then further translating it into a pantoum format. The numbers aren't actually part of the poem, just a reminder to myself what the order of the form is.

1 Tuesday morning in late January,

2 the birds are too cold to fly in formation

3 Everything looks the color of cement

4 and it would be ideal for hiding with a book.

2 The birds are too cold to fly in formation

5 and the parking lot engines snort in reluctance.

4 Hiding with a book would be ideal,

6 but living requires dealing with people.

5 The parking lot engines snort in reluctance

7 while the solitary hikers prove

6 living requires dealing with people

8 everywhere you look.

7 The solitary hikers prove

9 there’s nothing worthwhile outside today.

8 Everywhere you look

10 the sky, sidewalk, even buildings –

9 there’s nothing worthwhile outside today.

3 Everything looks the color of cement,

10 Sky, sidewalk, buildings –

1 It’s a Tuesday morning in late January. 

Observation Free Verse Poem

     This assignment was to sharpen our observation skills. So we were set loose to wander around campus for ten minutes and then write a couple paragraphs describing what we noticed. Then we were to turn those paragraphs in a more poetic rendering.

Tuesday morn in freezing January,

I don’t mean to be contrary,

it’s just…everywhere you look, you see cement,

and even the birds overhead are spent.

I don’t hate winter, it’s just natural weather

that happens every year, so you just wear that old leather

jacket all the time, then conserve body heat

as much as possible.

That’s probably why everyone else is staying indoors,

looking out from window-warmth near the printer;

not like those isolated and independent souls

trudging along to destinations in the cold.

Do the dead leaves get lonesome?

And if so, how could you tell?

From somewhere distant a motor hums,

Taking its occupants to the post office or Taco Bell.

EADGBE

     For Dr. Mackie's Studies in Poetry, this assignment was to take an object and build outward into a metaphor for life in general.

Those dull guitar strings lost their stress,

it’s no wonder the sound’s a mess –

optimum performance comes only with tension,

so there’s no need for such apprehension;

challenges stretch them, but that’s by design,

it’s the same thing with bones –

they grow stronger through cracks in the fault lines.

We’re all playing down a few pieces in this game of chess,

let’s just face it – much as we’d like it to,

life can’t be a permanent recess. 

Sarah's Life

     This was a fun assignment. I tend to use allusion in most of my writing; so for a whole poem to be based in allusion without quoting, and especially for specifically focusing on songs...this was too easy. Although, technically it wasn't, because the hard part was deciding which songs to allude to. It was supposed to be a song of our generation that other generations might not catch, but written in such a way that they understood what the song was about. After a careful survey of possible candidates to reference(about forty), I finally whittled it down to ten, because if one is good, then more is much better...particularly if they're mainly country, which only like two other people in the course listen to. But they know that I tend to allude to pop culture in my poems, so that made it easier. But Taylor Swift, Garth Brooks and Carrie Underwood were all way too obvious, though they all have tons of story songs.
     Also, it was almost like writing a song, blending all these different scenes into the larger story, which was really fun. If you stack them on top of each other into a literal timeline, the details don't all mesh, obviously, but just taking the main threads, it seemed to work out okay.
     Allusions classmates caught: "Boondocks", by Little Big Town; "Independence Day" by Martina McBride; "We Danced" from Brad Paisley, "A Thousand Miles" by Vanessa Carlton; "The Letter(Love, Me)" by Collin Raye, "Fireflies" by Owl City and "The House That Built Me" by Miranda Lambert. They missed "The Little Girl" by John Michael Montgomery, "Travelin' Soldier" from the Dixie Chicks, and "Vanilla Twilight" by Owl City. I suppose Avril Lavigne's "Darlin'" and Jason Michael Carroll's "Hurry Home" could be implied, too.

It happened out in the boondocks

where y’all all learn about life,

lust, discipline and Jesus Christ. –

Sarah’s folks shot each other, burned down their house,

that Fourth of July she was eight.

Lamberts took her in and raised her right –

Ten years later Sarah’s a waitress

at the diner, she played piccolo in the high school band,

and met a boy waiting for the Army bus.

They exchanged letters, fell in love,

But his return was wooden, not with that velvet box –

Dave was sweeping up the bar early one morning,

when Sarah walked through that door.

He told her “We’re closed, now, ma’am,”

She said, “Yeah, but I lost my purse-“

Don’t worry, she got it back

But not until they danced across those weathered floorboards –

Now I’m downtown, walking quickly homebound

with Vanessa Carlton piano chords in my head,

Darlin’, I wish you were here,

Helping take care of Grandpa Dave now she’s dead…

He told her, weeping there,

“I dunno how long I’ll be…”

I left the hospice in a milkshake-colored mood,

And began this email to say please come home soon.

Because nothing is ever quite as it seems,

I realize, clearing out this house that built me.

Love you - Dad.

Shadows

     There is absolute zero meaning to this rondeau from Studies in Poetry. The assignment was just to craft evocative imagery; and so that's what happened...

Shadows are evaporating into the dark,

while the tune of the meadowlark

slips away into the night.

Caress the face staring in fright,

Inhale the perfume that is her trademark.

Eat something exotic, like aardvark,

try to ignore the current plight -

In the neighborhood of the trailer park

shadows are evaporating.

Sure, there’s the lousy job at Hallmark,

And glory days from high school as a Knight,

they’re gone; but there’s this campsite

and the flame’s arc

lighting up the space under the stars with sparks.

Shadows are evaporating.

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.

Orange and Black

     Homework for Poetry Writing during the Bedlam football game.

OK State’s orange and black –

on the field, it’s not hard to track;

cheering on the Cowboys

as the offense destroys

opponents’ defenses with the relentless attack.

Similar-colored schools out there can be a drawback –

say, Oregon State or  Illinois –

but the Pokes can take a lot of flak.

It’s OK State orange and black.

Sure, an Eskimo Joe’s knickknack

makes a great present, as do Garth Brooks soundtracks.

The underdog attitude we employ

heightens the rare victory joy.

The Pokes’ colors are all over the Pontiac; 

It’s OK State orange and black.

Crimson and Cream

     Homework for Poetry Writing while the Bedlam football game was playing.

Long live the crimson and cream;

our rows of trophies gleam

and when someone calls out “Boomer!”

It’s a given the reply is “Sooner!”

It’s what makes us Oklahoma’s team.

Did you see the latest Mike Gundy meme?

Maybe he’s getting run over by the Schooner,

or that could have been just a dream.

Long live the crimson and cream

Memorial Stadium will teem

with fans, all with crimson bloodstream

with the sky-light in lunar

while some country crooner

sings the Anthem, our land reigns supreme.

Long live the crimson and cream.

Just Another Thursday

     Thanksgiving was pretty quiet. So the pantoum for Poetry Writing homework describing it was pretty quiet, too. I kind of broke the format apart more than I should've, but the words wouldn't quite cooperate. And besides, it was just a draft. I can revise later if necessary.

As rain falls outside,

it’s just another holiday.

Ham bakes in the oven,

along with the pecan pie.

It’s just another holiday,

football plays on the TV,

along with the pecan pie

go sandwich leftovers.

Football plays on the TV -

the dogs are begging, but

sandwich leftovers go

well with board games.

The dogs are begging -

maybe next year will be something special.

For now, break out the board games.

It’s just another Thursday.

Maybe next year will be something special.

Ham bakes in the oven,

it’s just another Thursday

as rain falls outside.