Pocket

Lots of love poems lately.
Darn this Kate Nash obsession. So no, this isn't based on a real person. No really, it's not. It's inspired by this. Isn't that cute? I think it's just fabulous :)
The poem has odd rhymes because it was written at 1:30 am. Someday, I might give it a severe case of the edits. As for now... If you want to see normal rhyming go back to February or March... Or December. That works too.

Pocket
Those dark brown eyes, and soccer guys--that's how I think of you
And wishes upon fireflies--dreams never to come true
Beyond your odd no-soul facade, you had something I sought
And somehow I would bring it out--at least, that's what I thought
Between your nonsense talks with friends, I gave you a small gift
Hoping to view the best of you--praying you'd catch my drift
"Please take good care of it" I said, turning to walk away
But you must not have heard, caught up in your too-busy day
And rushing off to get things done, you couldn't know to fret
About the delicate treasure left in your coat pocket
Practice begins, ball hits your shins, you trip but you're just fine
But I see something else get hurt--something that once was mine
Play continues, more dirt, more falls, practice comes to an end
You walk right by, for to you I was never more than friend
You never knew, but to you I'd laid down my sword and shield
Surrend'ring all, I walk alone onto the sandy field
I find it there, though it is bare, stepped on, and torn apart
It's fine, although I'll have you know that was my only heart

Hatter

I saw Alice in Wonderland the other day. Everyone told me it was terrible, so I was pleasantly surprised. Not that the plot was very good (and, as one friend pointed out, it's Alice in Wonderland--it's not even supposed to have a plot), or that it will be on my shelf forever, but it made me think quite a bit, and that's what I like in a movie.

ALSO, did you notice how similar it was to the Wizard of Oz? I noticed that near the beginning and after that I couldn't get the thought out of my head, it just kept being similar. I s'pose that's a good thing--I've always loved the Wizard of Oz. Well, here's my first poem based on something else. Heaven knows if you'll like it and, like the last poem and perhaps all of April's poems, it's a bit unconventional in format. Well, Alice in Wonderland was never meant to be conventional anyway :)

Hatter
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Time passes so quick
And I mustn't be late
For such a crucial date
Tock. Tick. Tock.
And so goes the clock
But I'll throw it away
Who needs rhythm anyway?

Tick. Tick.
Whooo are youuu?
And what's up with you two?
Tock. Tock.
I didn't know that caterpillars were blue
And while we're on the topic
Why red and white? Why not red and black? Like cards?
Tick.
Why must they always be fighting?
Tock.
Poetry or prose? Are they fighting too?
Wasn't I rhyming?

Well, nevermore
...quoth the raven. Who is like a writing desk, I've heard
But all the reasons are absurd
So in ignoring them, we'll spite them
Nay, we've always got to fight them.
Off with their heads!

Mmmmm
That hatter fellow
M m m m m
It must be the glue
M
And all its Mercury
Making him so Mad
But really, he's not so bad
Besides, all the best people are mad
Or is it only the most productive?
Or the most remembered?
Who are the "best" people?

Tick tock tick
Who are the good people
Little sisters?
Biased parents?
What about the ugly grandchildren?
Nobody chooses to be ugly
Well, nobody chooses to be pretty either.
Alice.

Tick tock.
Maybe appearances deceive. Like those roses.
Tock tick.
But maybe red really is unfit
Why hearts then?
I'd rather be loved
They will respect you if they love you
...Won't they?
They respect her
Appearances indeed

What about those roses?
They don't know they're white...
Are they white?
Which alice?
Um...
A lie? Or did you even know to begin with?
Tick.
Well that was a very very very long time ago
Tock.
Time so much has happened, how could you remember?
Tick.
It happened all the same, how could you not?
Tock.

And that cat.
No obligation to anything
Space
Time
Clocks
Tick Tock
But as for the rest of us
We must indeed prepare a response
Ugly grandchildren it is
Perhaps ugly children are the root
Or no grandchildren whatsoever
What does it matter?
Tock tick

So we draw to a close
And we might as well
You've lost your muchness anyway
And up we go
Or is it down?
Darned elixer
And cake, or mushrooms
Mmmushrooms
Mmmuchness

Well, what's it all anyway?
And see you soon
Though heaven knows why I'd return
What heaven?
Whooo?

Magnolia

If you have been to my house, you might know the tree/house to which this refers: our house was remodeled ten years ago and we lived in the house two doors down (by the cul de sac) and there was a very nice magnolia tree that bloomed in the front yard every spring and left beautiful flowers, with which my sister and I used to pretend to be everything from flower girls to fairies.


Magnolia
Within our yard, some years ago, a tree of flowers stood
Being a tree, desire-free, it only brought us good
We'd climb way up and jump way down, and read beneath its shade
And from its bright magnolias, bouquets we often made

Papa built us a swing there once, but it did not last long
My brother sat, the rope collapsed! The tree, of course, stayed strong
I used to dream of growing tall and climbing to the top
Until I'd reach the highest branch, and then I'd have to stop

One April day, my parents paid a gardener to come
To help the front yard brighten up, let in a bit more sun
"Some orchids here, and lilies there, and there's a guy I know
Who'll cut down your magnolia- that tree just has to go"

And such became, without our say, the great tree's dreadful fate
As when, uncrowned, a king falls down, warned only by "checkmate"
Face-first upon our perfect lawn, that piece of beauty fell
Goodbye great climbs and reading times, goodbye to floral smell

Laid out all nice upon the grass, I fin'ly reached its peak
But I could hardly bear to touch, to see glory so weak
The sun still shines, the grass still grows, the bumble bees still buzz
And in my room, there still can bloom painted magnolias

Amor Descoyuntado

I started this quite a bit ago... for some reason or other I really like the word "descoyuntado"
I think it will be quite a while until I write a love poem that actually applies to me, but I do like this one. It does, however, have little to no relevance to my own life.

Amor Descoyuntado
En algún lugar de mi mente
Sé que no funcionará
Que tú nunca me vas a amar
Con todo tu espíritu
Que nunca puedes ser el mío
Y nunca vas a decir eso

Pero en mi corazón
Nada lo puede creer
Yo sé que no voy a ser tuyo
y honestamente,
En ese lugar de mi mente, yo sé que no quiero eso
Pero mi mente no controla mi corazón
Nunca ha sido así

Pero hay algo que sé
En mi mente y mi corazón
Nunca puedo amar a otro, con todo lo que tengo
Porque una parte de mi corazón
No importa cuán pequeña
Siempre va a ser tuyo

Pues
¿Qué voy a hacer, con este amor descoyuntado?
Que no puedo aumentar, ni disminuir,
Que no vas a devolver, ni concluir
¿Qué podría hacer?

Así es nuestro amor
No, no es nuestro. Es tuyo y mio
Así es el amor que una vez compartíamos
Sólo una vez...
Sólo un momento...
Pero en este mundo de "siempres"
Era una vez que durará para siempre
Un momento que durará por toda la eternidad
Un amor breve hasta eternidad
Descoyuntado por siempre

Esta Ciudad

Sincerest apologies for not having written in two and a half months. I am extraordinarily busy but I have missed writing. We'll see when I write next... could be in an hour, could be a couple months.

Esta Ciudad
Las aves discuten en voz alta, en voz muy alta
Hay pan en la tierra y todas lo quieren
Pero nadie les manda que se callen, y algunos les dan más pan
¿Por qué? Pues, son aves
Y nos encantan las aves en esta ciudad

Un hombre toca la guitarra en la plaza, y otro toca un saxofón en la esquina
Una niña empieza a bailar a la música y la gente se ríe
Hay pescado aquí, frutas frescas allá
Los músicos y vendedores son pobres y poco extraños
Pero nadie les manda que salgan con sus sonidos y olores
¿Por qué? Pues, traen cultura
Y nos encanta la cultura en esta ciudad

Hay ricos aquí y pobres aquí
Hay gente de China, India, Europa, México, y Tombuctú
La ciudad es grande—no todos se conocen entre sí, pero todos somos amigos
No hay ni tristeza ni ira aquí
Es imposible fruncir el ceño en esta ciudad, y el miedo sale corriendo

Una joven se sienta en un banco y escribe poesía
Lleva una chaqueta lleno de color y una sonrisa llena de amistad
Algunos le saludan y algunos conversan con ella
Pero todos devuelven su sonrisa
¿Por qué? Pues, ella es una persona
Y nos encanta toda la gente en esta ciudad 

Piece of Peace

I started this after a church choir performance in the heart of the Christmas season. The first stanza is a verse of a song that we had performed that day.

Piece of Peace
Green and silver, red and gold
And a story born of old
Peace and love and hope abide
This Christmastide, this Christmastide

Choirs singing songs of praise
To our God, each voice we raise
Bringing Christmas joy to all
The young and poor, the big and small

Service ends, the choirs leave
Congregation may believe
So do we, for one moment
But soon enough we will forget

Go back to the choir room
Met with the sound of a vacuum,
Younger singers making noise,
And loud, pretentious choir boys

I hope we brightened someone's day
We are good at that they say
But you couldn't ever tell
From the way we talk and yell

If that's so, then is all lost
Once the exit door is crossed?
Somehow I do not think so
For somewhere inside I know

It's worth all that practice time
Worth each rhythm and every rhyme
For whatever small release
Comes from that short hour of peace

Frost

I started this quite a while ago, on a day when it was- you guessed it- frosty. At the time it was completely true, but I was busy and didn't finish it. I worry that the end, therefore, isn't as nice as the beginning, but that's up to you to judge

Frost
It never snows around these parts
Though we pray for it from our hearts
But it'd be easy to get lost
Within these forests full of frost

It's far too cold and far too bleak
For people to come out this week
So I alone may sit and swing
Free to do nearly anything

What a big deal a child makes
Of sugar coated frosted flakes
But frost alone, or flakes of snow
And no one dares outside to go

I love it, all pristine and clear
They're all afraid to come out here
But should they all choose to come out
Their noise and crowds would make me pout

Just sitting here is such a thrill
The world stays absolutely still
Because the frost has glued it all
How powerful, and yet how small

So many fear the solitude
But it brings me a perfect mood
Some joy and peace and almost pride
For finding what is just outside