Poetry: Do not Sleep!

it’s nine o’clock at night again. some are dressing to go out, not me—too tired.
too tired for anything but sleep, yet, here I sit
writing this poem about being too tired to do anything,
including write this fucking ridiculous poem
or prose or whatever the hell it is.

it’s absurd to fight off sleep like this, like a child fighting the inevitable,
but if I give in now, I will wake at two or three in the morning,
in the middle of the night, flummoxed.
I’ll sit here and drink water (after I pee); wishing I was sleeping.
maybe there’s an unused nightmare out there waiting for me,
to give inspiration or whatever nightmares do for us.

why? tell me why. I want to know why it is that I will try for a few more minutes
to pretend that I can…what? what can I do?
is there a world full of people out there who cannot
or will not do what I can do?
bless their hearts as the conceited among us write away
nodding at the overstuffed closet.
who needs competition from hidden talent?

right here and right now, exhausted with limited cognitive ability to crank
one out by jerking off my brain and spewing words to the page and saying,
fuck yah, man! a poet. I write this sputum. so what?

it turns out that how I feel and what I say, I am—
and you are too—holy shit, that is exactly how I feel!
am I pissed off about nothing? just fucked up and angry
for the very reason of no reason. we need help. are we crazy?

it sucks for me and I’m sorry it sucks for you, but it’s so fucking true.
it’s us. not me alone. not you alone. misery love, love, loves company.
that’s how it works to be human. nothing can save us except writing.

Look both ways. It’s the middle of the night and every form of refuge has its prison.
Mind the gaps and the sidewalk cracks for the want to—the reason of no reason.

Monthly Report: June Poems

I write at least one new poem each day. On most days I spend time working on draft poems, ideas, essays, or whatever the wind blows up meh kilt.

The halfway point of 2019 is July second. Therefore, I have written at lest one poem each day for half the year. Crossing this halfway point is like crossing the 13.1-mile mark for a marathon (done 15 times). It’s not the same, but a milestone, nonetheless.

I may start using some online prompts and writing challenges that look interesting. While I won’t run out of ideas, rubbing some change into my work may serve to stimulate me in the coming months.

Here are the titles of June’s poems, some of which I posted.

Date        Title

  1. Manifestations
  2. Awakenings
  3. Library Lady
  4. Sound
  5. Glad I Could Help
  6. Old Lions
  7. Right Here, Right Now
  8. Faults and Gaps
  9. Henry’s Harpoon
  10. Infernal Inferences
  11. Feeding Fawn
  12. Tolerance of People
  13. Simple Question
  14. No More Emily Days
  15. Patent Flattened
  16. Ain’t No Nevermind
  17. What Does He Want?
  18. Born Blood
  19. To Be Chosen
  20. Kitchen Visits
  21. A Little Off
  22. Last Call
  23. I Like to Save
  24. The Deluge
  25. Mooned
  26. Strike Two
  27. Good News
  28. It Snowed in Binghamton
  29. Carefree (Sammi’s challenge prompt)
  30. Jeremiah’s Mighty Fine Wine

As we prepare for our Independence Day celebrations this week,
perhaps it is appropriate to look both ways at 2019.
What is passed and what’s up next.
1776 was 243 years ago. Here’s to 243 more.
Mind the gaps.

Poetry: Linguistic Serengeti Maps (NaPoWriMo) Day Twenty-four

Today’s poetry prompt is to write a poem inspired by a reference book.

Today, I learned what I am.
I’m a Stan, no longer a mere fan,
I’m a Stan—the man.

Normal words
help me each day, also
clever and unusual, obscure (and obscene),
preposterous; the strange,
curious, and lovely lexicon.
In a word: troublesome!

Secretly, I hide in a closet
(or bathroom) where I read
books — about words,
of their history, called etymology;
how to say them, and maybe see
an idiom for future reference.
The meaning of words, the lexemes.

Every word has its morphology,
its synonymy family and
antagonistic antonymy gangs.
Some are humorous, others so literal,
I like snarky things and even
the devil has his own dictionary.

Semantics are arguable,
but without words there is
nothing to say, to communicate
we’d have to find another way.
Do words grow in semantic fields?

My blessing upon the wordies,
the lexophiles, logophiles,
lingua-(and lingo) philes, also
called word buffs.

A poet without a word is like
a seashell without an ocean,
a cow without a patty,
a day without a sun.

© Bill Reynolds (word-Stan) 4/22/2019

Mine. Raven printed on page out of dictionary.

Front to back, or look both ways, books about words have much to say.
Mind the gaps or stick in some adjectives.

Poetry: May I try?

 

Why can’t I be a poet?
What is that anyway?

The maker of sounds
and finder of words to say.

Poems à la muse must
be creative and see
imaginative ways,
to say,
expressively,
what we,
so capable and specially
can feel,
in a poem’s
certain way.

Poets are
sensitive.
We read (love)
dead poets!

Good at it? Yer a poet.
Writes poetry so well?
Maybe yer the bard
who shows the way.

Poetry is verse.
‘tis a versifier ye are?
Is it not?
How to tell?

Not up to par?
A poetaster you are.
If that’s in me,
a lessor poet’s what I’ll be.

What is inferior?
My poem, or me?
Or is it that my verse
is just too dern terse?

Write a poem of wit
and magic,
or a salty limerick
of some jester’s
funny verse.

Be the bard yer born to be.
Sing like a minstrel
along with me.

Be the poet
and you will see.

© Bill Reynolds 10/8/2018

A note from Johnny Cash.

If yer gunna try, look both ways and mind the gaps.
Let us feel the poems as you write.