A Couple Poems

Alas, my sister is demanding to get on the computer (the only one in our house with Internet capabilities), so I shall use pre-written materials. Let me know, as always, what you think!

*listening to: Merchant of Death from Iron Man soundtrack, which came out yesterday. Contains amazing guitars*

*is excited that Iron Man is coming out soon and has potential*

*is also excited that Speed Racer and Prince Caspian are coming out*

*is wondering if anyone else blogging likes action/adventure movies*

*is hoping lots of people will comment*

*is shamelessly borrowing Anilee's one-sentence posting tactics*

*is finding it lots of fun*

*is craving chocolate*

*is craving vanilla frappuccino from Starbucks more*

*is trying to work up the courage to post her query letter*

*is hoping people will either encourage or discourage it*

*is enjoying this*

*is being threatened with death if not off the computer soon*

*is begging for five minutes*

*is denied with fierce scowl*

*is skipping awful Alicia Keys song on iTunes in favor of Race Wars by BT (electronic)*

*is sighing, and saying hasta la vista*

*but not baby*



(Idea)Spark

Just like a spark it comes and fires in my mind,
A single flame that falls from space and rests upon
My thoughts. It touches down and lights a flame, does start
A little burn. I stop right there and listen as
The flame begins to speak. Sometimes it talks of lands
That do not yet exist. And some days it will tell
Me of new people, kings and beggars, girls and boys,
Computer geeks and cops. Sometimes I sit and hear
This, fanning flames into a blaze, but oft I know
I do not have the time. So on those days I let
Real life extinguish the idea. But now and then
It speaks insistently; I hear and smile, and write it down.



Shallow Pots

So bloom! She said, Where you are planted for
If not you’ll wither quick. The novelty
Of being new will only shade you for
So long from sun of loneliness and sighs.

The soil is too hard, I whined, the ground
Unyielding still. The people do not see
Me; I am like a potted tree that is
Not flow’ring bright for bees to see and come.
I’ve been here for a year and yet I do
Not belong still. This place is not for me.

She looked askance at me, her shaking head
To tell me how she disapproved of that.
You answered it yourself, my dear, when said
That you’re a potted plant. Those trees, you see,
Have roots that do not grow. To be in life
And live and love and laugh, you must break out
Of shallow pots, and struggle through the rough
And rocky soil ‘til you find the soft
And tender ground that’s somewhere underneath.