Recent Rhymes

I used to write poetry, A LOT.
When I started writing short stories and self-assigned essays I determined that I had formerly written mostly poetry because I didn't really understand how to put eloquent sentences together. How to carry them onto each other in a relevant and smooth transition. I thought I wrote poetry because I could only express in short fragments that were often altered from the original thought for the sake of rhyming. But now I know that my poetry is something I write when full sentences are too much, too stiff and stuffy.(and of course cause poetry makes life sound prettier) And though my poetry is very rare these days, here are a few rhymes that have popped up amidst the stiff and stuffy documentations of everyday life.

(1)
For about two weeks I bought into everything you said
I let you flatter me
let your sweet words go to my head.
I laid in our crib of curious desire
forgot how to walk
convinced myself I slept cause I was tired.
The mobile of your words tinkered round
above our heads
its tune, melodramatic
its colors, passionate shades of red.
I'd whine for your attention
and cry for your touch
I never came right out and told you things
I was afraid of talking too much.

(2)
"Where are these little tears coming from?"
He swore he wanted to know
he begged as he held me
I wouldn't speak but I wouldn't let go.
They're every fear I haven't voiced
and a few I should have explained
They're things I'd tell him if I had no choice
but I'm still scared he'll call me by her name.

(3)
If I was more unaware then
I'd be more like you
I'd run raging, rampant and
oblivious
to who I am.
That's still the mystery for you:
who was I when I was someone
before you ever knew?
That's the case you've yet to open
yet to realize it holds discussion
If I follow with the stats
you'll be much like him
where we're at will be the place
I've already seen her in.

(4)
You tell me stories about Happily Ever After
In earlier times I would have responded with laughter
Now I just listen for the sound of pretense
for that misguiding pause that always says
It's not coming to you naturally
you have to try
you don't know what to say to me
you're bordering lies.

(5)
"The thought of you with another guy makes me sick."
Tell me why, for some reason, I don't buy it.
Why since you lied about your ignorance
everything you say is lacking substance.
Suddenly I'm hearing the uncertainty in your voice
and now what should be meaningful is an irritating noise
Until your motive is absolutely clear
my affection is drenched in fear.

(6)
Stranded in lines sketched across
my sectional
spun till I'm dizzy around this
perpetual
E6B, which reminds me,
I move at inconsistant speeds.
Plotting courses on busy maps
add the weight and then subtract
anysort of skill from the route to
my destination
just moments from the touchdown flare
with no room for hesitation.

Distractions are Dangerous

Alright, here's the thing...

I want to own a typewriter and put it in an empty room with an unevenly stained wooden floor. It would sit on the floor and only occassionaly atop a crate or whatever else I choose to elevate it on. It would be constantly on the verge of running out of ribbon or ink or whatever else necessary to keep it useful. Windows would be the only light and therefore any writing done in the night hours would be completely void of editing, frustrating marvels the next morning.
And this all stems from my age old dream to successfully write a novel... a goal I've shoved so far back in my mind that I almost forgot it until recently.
Recently, when prose of Timothy Sweet ran through my head and I remembered how dear he'd been to me. Timothy, who was "not a man of courtships and romances..." flew back into my head and I wondered where I'd left him. Wandering a park in which sat a girl in a pink coat reading a collection of the cambridge poets, I believe. I tried to reimagine him, reach into his character and pull out words, sentences, paragraphs that would define him... and came out with nothing.

A typewriter came to mind and I wanted to leave this life of propellers and centerlines for that ancient mechanism and a solitary room. The truth is, I'd last maybe two days, crank out perhaps fifty pages of stream of consciousness bullshit and then progress would go to hell and I'd sit, face out the window, typewriter at my back wondering if the ceiling would permit a vfr flight. It doesn't stop there. I'd find my way out of that room and back into this damn, addictive cockpit and then... the pen in my hand would start scribbling nonsensical poems onto my kneeboard originally intended for atis weather updates and radio frequency change reminders.
This indecision over what I want to spend my time doing causes me to never be more than mediocre at anything I attempt to do. Because I can never dedicate myself to one craft... I have goal reaching ADHD