A Poet?

Just finished reading my old journals and came across a few poems (and I use that word loosely) I attempted to pen in a couple rather awkward and emotional “I’m a person with deep feelings who feels things deeply” moments.

Since they will never be published in real life, and rightly so, I’ll share them here and hope that they don’t leave you with a slight sense of dread at the thought of me possibly asking you, the next time we meet, what you thought of them. What’s funny to me about the idea of “publishing” them here is that true poets spend a painstaking amount of time carefully selecting each word down to the and or the. Whereas, these poems, written under the circumstances described above have not had such a thorough editing. Me, a poet? I think not.

Nonetheless, on with it . . .

This one was written, it appears, after an argument with Chad that, even after re-reading my journals, I cannot really recollect:

The way you say the words,
The disdainful tone of your voice,
Has more meaning, cuts deeper,
Stinging my soul, taking my breath away.

Like the time as a child
I fell off the porch deck
Knocking the wind out of my body
For the first time.

The shock of the impact,
Then surprise after a moment
That I had survived.

The throbbing pain that followed,
A lump forming in my throat,
Tears welling up in my eyes,
Reality setting in.

Best to just keep moving forward with this painful exercise. This next one is a love poem of sorts, written during the time that Chad and I were doing the long distance relationship thing; He in Seattle and I still in Georgia:

I know exactly
What I will say
The next time
We are together.

I imagine how it will feel
To hug you
To kiss you
Once again.

So fleeting, I do it again and again
Kisses melting like snow.
Another, but it is gone too soon
And does not linger.
I cannot catch it.

Is this starting to feel like one of those bad perfume commercials that’s trying to hard to be . . . poignant?


Okay, last one. This one is an acrostic poem, meaning it uses a topic word, in this case “Papa”, as the theme of the poem. The papa, I’m referring to was my papa, my great uncle, whom I saw as a grandfather and whose really very good poetry I published over on my My Papa’s Poetry blog a while back:

Pipe smoke lingers from days gone by

Already clouding memories of unpleasant things;

Perhaps retreating from the fresh

Air of a new day.

***

Do you ever think to yourself, as I do, that on the day the comma-police find my blogs, they’ll be handing down a life sentence?

Leave a Reply