~~ a journal of observations and thoughts ~~
I haven't posted any photos for a while, and I took a few nice ones today, so I thought I might as well. Even though many trees have lost their leaves already, there are a few hardier species that are still just changing. There hasn't really been a hard frost yet, so that's not surprising. I hope it get's cold enough this winter to run across the streams.
Tired
By Ben Scheele
I move along peacefully, following my life's purpose.
I grasp the object that my life, and hers, depends upon.
As the miles slowly roll by, I become more tired,
and grow weary as I feel the world pressing down on me.
I exhale, and my bounciness flows away from me.
As my back sags, I sense a fever brewing inside.
My balding head becomes molten like magma,
and my steps become wobbly; I can't walk straight.
My eyes are filled with a smoky haze, and I lose all hope.
I stop by the side of the road, and flop on the ground.
I've carried this wheel so far, but I will soon be replaced.
This is a very quickly written poem, although it's been forming slowly in my mind ever since I watched that woman's tire go flat and just about fall off as she drove by me the other day. It was fascinating, and a little scary, since I had just had that same tire on my car patched a couple days before that. That could have been me. Even though I wrote it quickly, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's more about the idea than about polish, and I think that came through pretty clearly here. What did you think? Kind of fun, huh?
After some very helpful peer-reviewing from my friends Chris and Cameron, I made some changes to my poem. I think it has a better flow to it, the imagery is a bit more clear, and the style is more contemporary. I removed and rearranged some lines, and it feels a bit more balanced structurally, now.
The Mug
by Ben Scheele
I stretch and reach for a cup with which to ferry
water to my parched mouth in the morning, though not early.
I settle upon the ceramic mug I bought on that holiday,
when I found a student selling his wares at the university
while strolling along with my dear Maggie, carefree, or were we?
I touch it gingerly through its handle curving elegantly,
and let it fall into my palm, where I hold it firmly.
I realize that I am always careful with this piece,
shaped with skilled hands, spun on a flywheel,
glazed and baked at furious heat, unique.
I grasp and flip open the valve,
and the reverse osmosed water slowly pours.
The mug catches the trickle,
like lakes collecting the late fall rain showers.
I cease the flow and lift the mug to my lips,
when I notice a thin black strand of hair,
as if from her head,
draped along the vessel's interior.
I grimace, pinch, sweep it away, and take a drink.
The taste is faintly bitter, as if tainted by my harsh memories.
I set down the empty ware, and the hair is still there
on its wall from front to back, not a hair but a hairline crack.
All I can do is let out a sigh and set it aside,
as I don't yet know how to say goodbye.
Space Pirates. Who likes them? Me! Or at least, I like to blow them up. In the Metroid games, that is. Well, I was playing around making anagrams of those two words, and got enough good results to piece together a fitting description of them. Here is my anagrammatic poem.
Space Pirates
Species apart,
Parasite spec,
Persist apace,
Airspace pest,
Peace rapists.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Labels: poem