Word & Question 12

Here is my long awaited (if not anticipated) entry in this month's Word & Question. For the rest of the entries, visit the lovely Lindsay over at Very Sleepy People.

I fear I have mixed metaphors. I know what I'm trying to say, but question the marketability of this word I would give you. Inconsistent throughout, I never waver from the resolution to use exactly the wrong word.

When whiskey sooths the aching heart
And blues like storm winds howl and sigh
A longing for domestic arts
Or artless trust to walk beside
Is lightened by a choir's praise
And tulips fresh from cool spring rains
Bloom from death, and give away
Instead of grabbing at the reins
And though consolations pass
As flowers fall to rise again
They leave their mark upon the grass
Each petal soft with hopeful stains

Word: domestic
Question: When do the tulips bloom?

Word & Question 11

I'm always late to my own turn at hosting. I apologize for the delay, but here it is. If you're curious about the game, check out this page. Next month's host will be Lindsay over at Very Sleepy People. Maybe I answered the question, maybe I didn't. It's all very interpretive.

Day, Night, Morning
Carrots and hummus one warm afternoon
Humid spring breezes that search out the room
Playing cards, music, and crape myrtle blooms
Spiced Cajun rum and a hot air balloon

Street preachers call out the sinners who pass
Doormen in tuxes sell gold made of brass
Drunk in a doorway a man sleeps with trash
Somewhere down the street fly beads and a flash

Glowing lights advertise unseemly things
Trumpets play Armstrong and other jazz kings
Hurricanes dance the piano bar swing
Strippers walk home wearing t-shirt and jeans

Early next morning in Jackson Square
Readers and painters set out all their wares
Sinners drink coffee, eat beignets and stare
At penitents climbing up cathedral stairs.

Word: carrot
Question: Have you noticed?

Word & Question 10

With head hung low in shame, I drag myself in, late, but here.

In which I borrow liberally from sources historical, fictional and musical. Part I of several (maybe):

I'll Call Her Jenny
Across the room you glanced at me
And whistled your way so casually
To where I stood, and gracefully
Endured my dancing disability

You whispered your name soft in my ear
I smelled the perfume of your hair
And ordered us both a beer
Shamelessly starting to stare

You laughed so effortlessly
Charming in your youthful ways
I asked you to play, you asked me to stay
I nodded and whisked you away

All night I lay awake in bed
And contemplated what you said
But so many roads cried, "move along"
So I slipped out the door with the dawn

On the road, in the train, I saw your face
I heard your voice inside my head
A laugh, and a wink, and a stolen grace
And a wallet I'd left by your bed

So carry on, move down the line
Let there always be plenty of beer and wine
And my boots, and my hat, are ever signs
That I'm not the staying kind.

Word: disability
Question: Why can't I remember your name?

Simple Life

I dreamt I had a simple life
Sons and daughters all around
A porch, a pipe, a dog, a wife
And warm spring rains upon the ground
To put an end to winter's strife

Word & Question 9 (or Requiem for a Fantasy 2)

So here I am, the host and all, and I'm late. Sorry 'bout this. I hope the poem makes up for it (though I can't promise it will). On the bright side, this poem adds a little bit of hope to the story.

Word: flour
Question: How did you get so filthy dirty?

The Cabin in the Storm
Another log to feed the fire
Sparks burst out and fall in showers
Another meal of water and flour
Another night alone and tired

Outside the storm rages on
The wind howls about the shack
Searching every hole and crack
He longs for peace to come with dawn

A thud sounds through the night
Softly again, then all is still
He shivers against a creeping chill
They shouldn't be out, but they might

Knife in hand he moves to the door
Throws it open and steps aside
Then yelps and leaps back in fright
As a figure falls onto the floor

Covered in dirt and frozen blue
Hands bloody and battered
Clothes torn and hair matted
If she was alive, God only knew

He gathers her up in his arms
Laying her down by the flame
He does all he can to bring warmth
Back to this girl with no name

So he waits through the night
And prays for dawn to break
To drive off the storm, and see her awake
To bask in the clear morning light

Requiem for a Fantasy

Head down she trudges alone
Through sleet and wind, on ice encrusted paths
In the distance lights twinkle
Tempting her to think of home
A rest for her tired body: food, fire, a bath
But her weary mind is wary
That way lie traps and lies

Step in front of painful step
The sting of icy pellets long ceased
Her face too numb to feel
She struggles on toward the glow
Hopeful that this time she might find peace
And kindness in a stranger's home
Instead of blood and death

Still a hundred yards, or more, she cannot tell
In her mind she hears the distant peel
Of a ghostly requiem bell
One step more, she trips and falls
She lies there on the ground, too weak to kneel
And whispers prayers to saints
Who never seem to hear

In the dark she reaches for one
Who'd been with her before the storm
Who once in brighter days had clasped
Her soft waist in his arm
But he had gone, had yielded form
Back to dust, in the beginning of the end
While she was left to survive

The numb begins to warm
The ice is softer now, the wind sings
Pleasant songs instead of ghostly howls
A wisp of hair, a chestnut strand
Blows across her face, as the requiem bell rings
Loud and clear across the barren wastes
Of a post-apocalyptic fantasyland

The Euphemist

From a misheard song lyric:

He softly spreads the niceties
The quiet lies that try to be
Inarticulate and meaning free
Lest someone somehow truth might see

But spurting blood and flames
The burning of innocent names
The bastards called heroes who came
To blot out all mem'ry of blame

The sun never sets on evil
So name it whatever you will
While with sultry voice she instills
A longing for something harmless to fill

The euphemist may call it love
The harlot may say it is just
But innocence ne'er once killed a dove
Though murderers justify their bloodlust

Shot in the Dark, and You're Insane

I broke a pair of rules this weekend, and while I didn't gain anything tangible by doing so, I'm still glad I did. Speaking of poems being set to music, this one actually has a refrain!

A clumsy dancer she was, but pretty
In an unassuming way,
For unlike all the others
She was not here for show,
But to show us ourselves at play.

The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw.

A clumsy asker he was, uncertain,
But resolved to take a shot.
Simply asked and simply answered
They had no game to play
Though the answer he wanted was not what he got.

The documentary maker
Could have been a photography major,
But the picture behind the camera
Was finer than what the lens saw

A pleasant evening it was, and merry,
Had the answer been different
He'd smile a little more
But for that dance with a pretty girl
He'd no regrets for an evening well spent.

Word and Question 8

 Hosted again by the lovely Enbrethiliel over at Shredded Cheddar. Go read the rest of the entries here. She wondered if I could write something that wasn't musical. Since I never thought what I wrote was musical in the first place, I don't know if it's even possible for me to oblige. It must be something about the way language works in my ear.

I can say, though, that this post is at least musically inspired. There were a couple of directions I could have gone with my prompts. I've been a little sober in my poetry, lately, and that is the easiest path to take. There was also the possibility of some political allegory, but I spout my opinions enough in other venues. Poetry should be about beauty, not politics.

At the risk of prejudicing your reading, I'll post the two songs that I've got in mind as I write this







And now, enough putzing about.

Word: heavy
Question: What are we having for dinner?

Homemaker
Heavy knocking on the doors
One final glance all round the house
Chairs in order, lamps all lit
Stew singing songs to the goose on the spit
And her husband has thrown out the mouse

Brush the skirt, fix the hair
Glance at the man in the old rocking chair
Beaming with pride, flushed with delight
Blush at his smile as he lights up his pipe
And open the door to the guests in the night

Snow

It should really be the title of a story, that, but since I'm too lazy and distracted to tell proper stories anymore, I'll tell 'em in verse instead. These prompts struck me odd, so you get two stories - the same question, with two different answers.

Funny thing about the word. It was going to be the word I submitted for this round of Word & Question, but I was afraid someone might find it too cheap, so I gave instead a word that Dylan handled wonderfully. In return, I got the word I actually wanted, and was immediately excited about the possibilities.

The answers, though, were harder to find than I at first thought. Still, I found them. And here are the stories, in the order I'd like you to remember them.

Word: Snow
Question: Is this not something more than fantasy?

The First Story
Crunch, crunch, crunch
Virgin snow defiled
Purest white destroyed
Innocence beguiled

Darkness falls
Barren, dirty lands
All around is death
Bleak, the fate of man

Blackness burns
Fantasies to ash
Lost beneath the weight
Beauty turned to trash

Spring arrives
Snow dissolves away
Has no memory
Life fades into day

Hope, hope, hope
To find redemption
In love's glowing embers
I, I remember

The Second Story
Alone he sits and waits
Thinks of her, and oceans
Lying past the gates
Somewhere in between them
Waves that stir like words unspoken
Words yet understood
That rise, fall, dip and swell
A gently rolling token
Of the dreams they've yet to dream
Of stories yet to tell
And softly blowing fairytales
That swirl and whisper in his ear
The warmth of fires hid in winter
Hidden from the driving snow
Hidden, burning ever quicker
Leaping flames that long to go
Across the air, across the sea
To find the arms of which he dreams
At last to rest, at last to be
Alone at home, and love to know
As something more than fantasy

W & Q Teaser

Quite by accident, this old poem of mine happens to do a decent job of using my word and answering my question (of course, it only answers the question if you know the poems history... and the question). I will, of course, post an actual Word & Question original poem some time in the next week (I'm hoping for inspiration on my caving trip this weekend). Until then, enjoy this little throwback to my college days of versified romance. Cheers.

Snow

Falling snow, fall softly down

And sparkle in her raven hair

Winter wind, slip carefully

Across her face so fair

And bring a rosy glow

Into those cheeks as white as snow

Stars above, look tenderly

Upon this pretty lass of mine

White moonlight, glisten now

Shine in her kind green eyes

Oh show me nothing lovelier

Than this soft and glowing sight

Falling snow, fall softly down

And warm this chilly, winter night.

Blues from San Jose

I'm late, I'm tired, no clever header. This is word and question.

I really, really hate the word plenitude. It's one of my reactionary habits.

My question is probably obvious.

On my way from San Jose
My mind on blues and sin
I met an ass with much to say
Of what he'd done and where he'd been
He sought "a plenitude of drink and lights
And debauchery in San Jose"
And asked me, whether left or right
To send him on his merry way
I thought it odd, this prating ass
And the city of lights, or death
Was, I suppose, his way to pass
For something human, something with breath
Though from his tales he seemed
A dark and wicked, violent thing
With little air of kindness, and in his eye a gleam
I thought he'd gladly tear me, and all the while sing
Of thirty-twos and twenties,
And break my back in two.
But he'd not seen the dark behind me
And in a fit of orn'ry, loathing blues
I spit upon the ass's face
And prayed to San Jose
A good death to die, in grace
For I'd not show the way.

Word and Question 4

&

Welcome to Word and Question, and to Crosses and Cradles, if this is your first time here. Please, look around, I haven't written as much as I'd like, especially lately, but perhaps you'll run across something you like. For more information see one of my previous W&Q entries, or go to Shredded Cheddar. If you're playing, post a link or a poem in the comments. If you aren't, please go read the poems that others have written as well. They're always fun.

As usual, I'll be awarding phantom points if you can guess the question (the word would be nearly impossible with this one). I'll reveal it in the comments later. I think it's more fun that way. Here goes:

The Litany of Apathy
Upon the fields of war it stands
Walks beside a lover, hand in hand.
It kneels on cold, cathedral floors
And dances on the open moor.
Beside a stream, it sleeps
In peace lies down, in sorrow, weeps
But the lonely ones, the tired
Sit upon a stone. The souls no longer fired
With intensity or love of beauty
In despair, or apathy await
The fealty they've sworn to fate
They find no joy, no sense of duty
Nothing but the patter of the rain upon the rock
Soaked and broken, no heroes, they
Solitary souls they sit, and say
The litany of apathy, "No good has come to me
No good of me shall come, but waiting
I shall stay, upon the rock, beneath the rain
And let the souls more brave than mine
Carry on their show, for they but feign
To smile on those stone cold floors
And dance upon the barren moors
And hand in hand they're all cut down
In fire they burn, in blood they drown
And whence their joy, their hope?"
So, bent and alone, without a care
No gentle touch this soul can stir
For he alone may foreswear
A foolish oath, and stand a man
To be, and hold, and dance, and kneel
The truth to seek, the sun to feel
And love to know at last, and understand

Word and Question

&

I came across this little game on my friend Enbrethiliel's blog (well, I seem to remember she prayed for me at least once, which makes us friends, even if that mostly consists of me stalking her on her blog :P). The rules and original post are here, and the latest round was posted last week.

The general idea is that each participant puts a word and a question into a virtual hat, and then gets one of each in return. Then, everyone writes a poem that uses the word and answers the question.

So, without further fanfare and adieu (yes, yes, I know), I give you:

Matrix Analysis

Always planning everything

Chasing notions round

Never doing anything

Staring at the ground

Thinking through the angles

Rhymes and imagery

And decision matrices

Trying to untangle

Every little signal

That I'm sending with a word

Plotting looks and tones

And drowning out the drone

Of voices saying "overthinking

Is all you ever do"

But know that simpler, pretty verses

Spring from moments unrehearsed

And in an hour, maybe two

Thought fades into beauty

And ponderous soliloquies

Of what is, and ought to be

Are tossed aside for hope, and you

Did you know it's social protocol to tell me it's wonderful and you can't wait to read more of my poetry? Really, it's what you do when you have a friend who's proud of something they really suck at!

I will award points for the first person to correctly identify: what that last paragraph was a reference to; what my word was; what my question was. These are fiat points, and like cloth money, they have no intrinsic value, but they're fun.

Poetic Interlude Number II

Sorry for not posting last week. I've been having minor writer's block, primarily due to spending all my free time watching Arrested Development with my roommate. But we finished it last night, so I should be back on track next week. Hope you enjoy the seamonsters. Until then, here's a little mood music for ya.

In a bar down the street
There's a lass you should meet
With her hair tied back
Red ribbons on black
Her hand's never shaky
A smooth pour she'll make ye
And ye'll never wait
When your maid's bonnie Kate

Oh bonnie Kate, another round
We'll drink the night away and drown
Our sorrows and our joys as well
With a pint of Guinness in our hands
We'll take our fall and never stand
And laugh at the devil in hell

She'll never twist your arm
Just use her Irish charm
And soon you're drinkin' more
Than you ever have before
To prove to all your friends
That you'll win her in the end
But she's better than ye, lad
Though ye think ye aren't half bad

Oh bonnie Kate another round
We'll drink the night away and drown
Our sorrows and our joys as well
Oh bonnie Kate, our lovely lass
Pour yourself a pretty glass
And laugh with us at the devil in hell

Sure it's all you can think
Not to think but to drink
She said any man
Must drink two times ten
Just for half a chance
To get in her pants
But hold onto your shirt
'Cause, lad, she wears a skirt

Oh bonnie Kate another round
We'll drink the night away and drown
Our sorrows and our joys as well
And slap that silly lad right there
We know your bed you'll never share
Until you've heard that wedding bell

So bonnie Kate come laugh with us
And drink a final pint with us
And share our times both good and bad
So she flashed a wink and poured a round
And we'll drink one more together now
Our bonnie Kate and her brave lads

A Poetic Interlude

With a nod to John, I give you a foray into poetry. I have also a story in the works; I shall post it soon.

Turn about; check behind
Try not to rewind
Forward in your mind
Looking for a sign

Catch me grinning; faces sallow
Fingers dipped in tallow
Burning till I'm hollow
Learn to lead and follow

Doors unopened; broken windows
Moonlight o'er the meadow
The red of glowing cinders
Light enough to wander

Burning man, whence art thou
Whither the wind, the howl
Lone night wolf, alone you prowl
And alone you take your bow