This is for Tory Inglis, one of the stongest and bravest people I have ever known. I love you gal!
Some lines are excerpted from the song "I Believe in Love" -Dixie Chicks. PLEASE don't anybody sue me.
For Tory
Upon his name I spat
My tongue escaped the cat
Countered with my tit his tat
After on your rep he shat
His words were crass
I'd kick his ass
But I believe in Love
He said that you should go
because he didn't know:
you are filled with light, it shows
glows from heart, to head, to toes
You are golden
we, beholden
For you believe in Love
You faced a scornful squad
Winged angels will give nods
When you see the face of God
Sweet, so trusting, you were trod
But you had right
and Tim false might
for He! believes in Love
Love is real
Love is strong
Love will live on and on
Beyond the reach of hate
which will, in time, abate
Leading us will be your fate
like The Son you were the bait
To me you flew
I never knew
the power of such Love
It rings so true
My heart needs you
You, my friend, I Love
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Day 14/Day 15 - ♫Workin 9 to 5♫ (...but not really)
A couple limericks I wrote as part of whoring myself out for the ladder game at the PNE. Although this particular whoring is actually quite fun.. but that's another story. Just read the poems.
Note: In terms of the first line of No. 1, the best prize at my game is an ipod nano, its not just some random line.
The last line of the same poem, on the other hand, IS just some random line.
1
It's ipod nano time
Three dollars for a climb
Or five for two
It's up to you
Just hear this silly rhyme
2
Come here and climb the ladder
The wobble doesn't matter
A prize to take
A piece of cake
Miss out and you'll be sadder
Note: In terms of the first line of No. 1, the best prize at my game is an ipod nano, its not just some random line.
The last line of the same poem, on the other hand, IS just some random line.
1
It's ipod nano time
Three dollars for a climb
Or five for two
It's up to you
Just hear this silly rhyme
2
Come here and climb the ladder
The wobble doesn't matter
A prize to take
A piece of cake
Miss out and you'll be sadder
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Day 13 - Voicemail
I wrote this like three days into this project to use as the greeting for my voicemail, but because I'm a ditz I'm only just now realising that I can use it as an entry.
To answer the phone is my plan
I can't always, I'm only a man
Please say what you need
Though it's not a live feed
I'll call you as soon as I can
(As an added bonus, call my cell - 778 327 8619 - to hear a perfomance of this limerick. I might actually answer the phone, but eventually you'll hear the voicemail)
To answer the phone is my plan
I can't always, I'm only a man
Please say what you need
Though it's not a live feed
I'll call you as soon as I can
(As an added bonus, call my cell - 778 327 8619 - to hear a perfomance of this limerick. I might actually answer the phone, but eventually you'll hear the voicemail)
Monday, August 23, 2010
Day 10, Day 11, Day 12 - Argh! Am I caught up yet??!! :S
I wish I had a witty intro in me, but I just don't right now. Unless... was THAT witty? I certainly hope so, or else I've lost my touch.
Cinnamon Bun
first, the smell
strong and sweet
the kind that drifts to you
then slowly fills the room,
fills the house
next, the sight
bouncing toward us
on plates in her hands
twirlyswirlywhirly
sugar glistens, icing gleams
third, the texture
hot
steaming
and pillow soft
smooth
melts to nothing in your mouth
last, the taste
beautifully delicious
lingers on the tongue
fresh to the last bite
sharp cinnamon
sweet sugar
too soon...
it's gone
A Meal (this is dedicated to Tory Inglis)
Puzghetti,
long and tender.
Garlic oil
fresh basil
and vegkebles:
tomatoes and spinach.
Twirling, slurping, chewing, tasting.
Polished off so quick.
Bellies full,
faces smiling,
hunger gone...
for now.
When it's a Ode, you know it's bad. I would not reccomend reading this one. If you ignore that advice: no, this was NOT written by my 22 month old niece, it just seems like it because its so dreadful.
Ode to Plant
Tall brown stem
Big green leaves
Sun lit gem
Picked fresh please
Smooth round pot
Cool black dirt
Takes it's spot
Now inert
A beautiful flower
Cinnamon Bun
first, the smell
strong and sweet
the kind that drifts to you
then slowly fills the room,
fills the house
next, the sight
bouncing toward us
on plates in her hands
twirlyswirlywhirly
sugar glistens, icing gleams
third, the texture
hot
steaming
and pillow soft
smooth
melts to nothing in your mouth
last, the taste
beautifully delicious
lingers on the tongue
fresh to the last bite
sharp cinnamon
sweet sugar
too soon...
it's gone
A Meal (this is dedicated to Tory Inglis)
Puzghetti,
long and tender.
Garlic oil
fresh basil
and vegkebles:
tomatoes and spinach.
Twirling, slurping, chewing, tasting.
Polished off so quick.
Bellies full,
faces smiling,
hunger gone...
for now.
When it's a Ode, you know it's bad. I would not reccomend reading this one. If you ignore that advice: no, this was NOT written by my 22 month old niece, it just seems like it because its so dreadful.
Ode to Plant
Tall brown stem
Big green leaves
Sun lit gem
Picked fresh please
Smooth round pot
Cool black dirt
Takes it's spot
Now inert
A beautiful flower
Friday, August 20, 2010
Day 9 (well... perhaps that's debatable. POEM 9 for sure though) - OHSHIT!
Okay. Don't panic. I'm two days behind. I'm probably not going to get another one in today, so then I'll STAY two days behind.... but DON'T PANIC!
On a lighter note: every poem I've done so far has had some kind of a form to it. But I have always loved free verse, so here is the first of what will be many freestyle poems.
How (an obvious title but, well, AHHHH SOO BEHIND!!!!)
How do you clutch a moment?
When every sound, every smell, and every touch is a grain of sand
how do you stop them from slipping through the cracks in your mind?
The sound of her breath, the smell of her hair, the touch of her warm, soft hand.
When they are all so strong that I sense them in my soul
how do I grip them,
keep them and hold them so they won't escape?
Please.
Tell me.
How?
On a lighter note: every poem I've done so far has had some kind of a form to it. But I have always loved free verse, so here is the first of what will be many freestyle poems.
How (an obvious title but, well, AHHHH SOO BEHIND!!!!)
How do you clutch a moment?
When every sound, every smell, and every touch is a grain of sand
how do you stop them from slipping through the cracks in your mind?
The sound of her breath, the smell of her hair, the touch of her warm, soft hand.
When they are all so strong that I sense them in my soul
how do I grip them,
keep them and hold them so they won't escape?
Please.
Tell me.
How?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Day 8 - I am slovenly, hear me "meh"
Okay. It's late, I'm tired, but in order to avoid becoming complacent about this project, I hereby PROMISE that I will post a much longer poem tomorrow (ie. NOT a limerick) But for now:
These poems are getting quite lame
The form of them mostly the same
I need to find guts
To get out of this rut
Or risk my invisible fame
These poems are getting quite lame
The form of them mostly the same
I need to find guts
To get out of this rut
Or risk my invisible fame
Monday, August 16, 2010
Day 7 - A Quickie but a Goodie
A few months ago I accidentally wrote a limerick. And when I say accidentally I don't mean I fell on my keyboard, I mean I opened my mouth and puked up a complete limerick which (apparently) my subconscious had written without my knowledge.
For a writer, when your subconscious writes an ENTIRE POEM (and this one was pretty clever, if I do say do myself,) that is basically the climactic moment of artistic achievement; a creative orgasm if you will. That poem went like this:
-An Ode to Bad Poetry-
So many poetic monstrosities
Stop the linguistic atrocities
The rhyming is bad
The metaphors sad
They lead me to growing ferocity
My point is that I fell in love with the limerick form, because it's not only simple, it's VERY easy (at least, it is after a few months of practice. So the new limerick, the one that actually counts as today's posting, is one I wrote while walking from the Vancouver Library to the Skytrain (actually I was halfway there when I had to stop and write it so I wouldn't forget.) Anyway.
There once was a man set on fire
To water him was my desire
I searched for a bucket
Found none and said "fuck it"
'Twas sad when he burned like a pyre
Gruesome, I know. But sometimes my mind just takes over and I have no responsibility (at least that's what I keep telling myself... and everyone else)
For a writer, when your subconscious writes an ENTIRE POEM (and this one was pretty clever, if I do say do myself,) that is basically the climactic moment of artistic achievement; a creative orgasm if you will. That poem went like this:
-An Ode to Bad Poetry-
So many poetic monstrosities
Stop the linguistic atrocities
The rhyming is bad
The metaphors sad
They lead me to growing ferocity
My point is that I fell in love with the limerick form, because it's not only simple, it's VERY easy (at least, it is after a few months of practice. So the new limerick, the one that actually counts as today's posting, is one I wrote while walking from the Vancouver Library to the Skytrain (actually I was halfway there when I had to stop and write it so I wouldn't forget.) Anyway.
There once was a man set on fire
To water him was my desire
I searched for a bucket
Found none and said "fuck it"
'Twas sad when he burned like a pyre
Gruesome, I know. But sometimes my mind just takes over and I have no responsibility (at least that's what I keep telling myself... and everyone else)
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