Once I wrote a lot of poetry. Now I don’t write many poems. Actually, I write almost none. Prose has supplanted poetry in my life. However, becasue today is National Poetry Day in the UK, I decided to share a poem I wrote .
I’m not very happy with the formatting. I can never get poetry to format correctly on my blog. My apologies.
My dad said
a cowboy never sits
with his back to the door.
Now it’s called situational awareness.
We make the same mistakes
again and again—
search for love, affection,
We’re aware of our
but what can we do
Today I am once again happy to offer poems written by my friend Laura-Marie.
Will vinegar kill the fern
I’m trying to kill this winter?
Awake but still in bed.
Sitting on the ottoman.
Welcome the stranger,
welcome the stranger’s phone call.
Our beliefs about our hair.
She thinks music is noise,
and she doesn’t want to hear it.
some did wrong
Some did wrong,
a hushed crime,
secret and cruel.
A single man
spoke the unspeakable.
Others joined in—
the infiltrating agents
had their evidence.
It was over.
Dream dystopia again.
Naked people gathered
around the piano
sang, waiting for
death the inevitable.
All of the babies are girls.
I bent down to kiss one.
She slipped her tongue into my mouth.
It turned into a thorned vine
and forced itself through my body.
Thorned vines like sleeping beauty
Laura-Marie is a zinester and peace activist living in Las Vegas, Nevada. She likes cold brew tea, writing letters, and visiting friends.
I wrote another poem. I went from zero to two in a couple of weeks, which isn’t a bad speed as far as poems go.
I was writing a letter to my friend and told her I didn’t have words to describe my campground. Then, as is my way, I fired off some words to describe my campground. I contemplated the words and decided they were quite poetic. So I added some words to the original words, then played with the order and finally turned it all into a poem.
I think of it as a poem that resembles an impressionist painting.
Trees tower green.
Campfire smoke tickles nose.
Surrounded by songs of invisible birds.
Occasional mosquito buzzes and bites.
No noise of cars.
Sinking sun illuminates vibrant, verdant meadow.
Gentlest breeze whispers through leaves.
Sky high above crowns, blue one step from grey.
Temperature slowly dips.
Squirrel scampers on the outskirts.
I took this photo of the vibrant, verdant meadow.
My friend Laura-Marie Taylor wrote a poem about stealth van living. Although Laura-Marie doesn’t live in a van (and I don’t think she ever has), I think her poem shows a clear understanding of how not to call attention to one’s van home.
Without further adieu, here is Laura-Marie’s poem:
Make your van forgettable
so it blends in–buy
no bumper stickers or weird
patterned curtains like leopard print.
Don’t do it.
Yeah, Eve was framed
and your silence will not protect you.
But you need invisibility
more than to confuse
the strangers behind you.
No painted peace signs
Thanks to Laura-Marie Taylor for honoring me by allowing me to share her poem.