I had started out thinking about writing a poetry blog but that didn’t work. So here I am, a couple of years later, borrowing this blog and in fact hijacking it so that I may use it for my literary projects. I will use the private setting to organize posts about a story that I am conceiving. And I will publicly talk about literary experiments. But nothing too crazy.
Dodeca what?
So many sides to this dice, it’s unbelievable.
Abilities articulated by the dungeon master,
Potions, combat determined by numbers and fate …
The probability increasing with each side …
12 sides is never enough,
Never enough.
Halfling or hobbit, hard to define.
But wizards and goblins, easy to conjure
In my mind, the dwarves and elves run free
With special abilities tucked behind their ears.
Seafaring or flying, my skills grow with each roll,
But the numbers tell you everything.
For some people, Valentine’s Day is a day to spend with the one you love.
For me, failing that, it’s the birthday of the state that I love.
You can take your chocolate candies and singing gorillas and pinks and reds;
I’ll save the calories and money and stress and think of the place I love, thank you very much.
The reds of the canyons and the whites of the snow,
The heart-shaped cacti and the adobe pueblos,
The chilly early mornings and the searing afternoon heat of the summer,
When the rays of the sun nearly blind you and cut your skin like a knife.
No, there won’t be any sappy cards or overpriced dinners in my future,
Nerves, candles and awkwardly fitting suits, no, that won’t do.
Take your high expectations and shove ’em off the shortest pier;
Instead, give me the open spaces and the wide, blue skies;
Covered with orange-cream sherbet sunsets veiled in pink;
Dear Arizona, at age 99, you’re quite a lady, or a man, which one I’m not sure,
But no matter where I wander throughout this world,
My heart always bleeds for you.
Atlantans run freely in the sunshine
Thinking of BBQ ribs and fun times in the summer
As the promise of spring looms over like the hot white sun
All the while wondering if it’s a naughty ruse of the waiting clouds
Revealing a little of the barren blue, only to cover themselves up again.
Philly cheeseteaks with peppers and Cheez Whiz wafting over the park
Fruit smoothies and a chilly iced tea, unsweetened.
Will it last?
All we know is, we’re free at last.
To turn around,
To change, rapidly,
Much as the earth spins around,
Things move quickly,
The night and the day,
Change happens swiftly
From night into day;
When the change happens,
What will you say?
Tick, tock, tickety-tock,
The hands go round and round the clock.
Tickity, tockity, tockity, tickity,
Constant speed; won’t the hands go faster around?
When you’re waiting, so frustrating.
Each tick is eternity.
Can it go faster?
Will it go faster?
Two ticks forward and another two back,
Time stands still or runs behind;
Tick-tick-tock, tick-tick-tock
Thinking of other things,
Waiting for the clock to go faster,
Faster, faster, faster, faster.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tock, tick,
Doubling speed, hands faster they tock.
When a frost rolls through the farmland of the Midwest
And over the pancake-flat landscapes dotted with barns and rolls of hay,
The chilly winter breathes a blast of breath over the ground.
It’s a wintry chill cold enough to solidify viscous liquids
Leaving an uncommon stillness about the snow
Lacing spindly barren trees that break up the encroaching sunset.
Cold enough to freeze a fluid moment in postcard-perfect time
Make hammers out of bananas and skating rinks out of streets
As the wind whispers silently over the snowdrifts.
To be or not to be–
Enthralled with iambic pentameter
Butchering haiku formats
Self-conscious ramblings about the meaning of life
Sneaking in an internal rhyme or two
Words could be used as a weapon or tool
Waxing poetic like burning candles from the blue
No wonder poetry gets a bad rap
Who’d ever want to read that crap?
Well I’m out to prove poetry doesn’t have to be boring
You needn’t be left snoring when you pick up some Frost
Or dozing off at the sight of Faust.
A good poem is something to look forward to–
Like a cupcake instead of a layered creation
Lovingly made to be eaten in bites
A dab of recreation for the mind’s muscles
Snack on this, dear reader
One poem shall be written per day
So long as I can muster
No rules on rhymes or meter
Just some good words together each day.
It is probably organized differently than you would expect.
Nicoleodeon 
Written
on January 21, 2013