PODM Number 7

The Seventh Poem on the 7th Day

It's my birthday, no party, lots of strange mixed messages from my parents
The girlfriend is still not talking to me
the suspense would be killing you if you even guessed that I am telling the truth and a lie.

No that wasn't the poem even if it looked like one.

44
There are numbers always numbers in our lives
if there were no numbers then would I still only be
44?
I am 5 7 1969, 6 4 365 and 125 above normal
I am past 12 above 12 more that makes me a master
but not a doctor.
I am 16060 days later, 2294 weeks beyond,
happy I got over the 385, 440 days since it all began
I have got 1927200 moments of surprise
and only 5 moments of truth to show
for the numbers that mean little to anyone but me
1 in 3 people in my family tree, 1 in 2 with any practicality
sometimes I feel just 1 in 1 when I remember those that would
take the responsibility. I am the 1 that Diogenes
went looking for in the dark 2425 nights before this one
sometimes it is good sometimes it is just strange
that 44 should mean more or less than the answer
to the universe, life or anything
by the way, it does not.
but it might still be worth a shot.

PODM still running 1 poem behind

Keeping up is hard to do.
No I mean it.


Keeping up is Hard to do.

With friends, it is so easy to promise but fail in the end
with family, it is often a jerk response to the guilt that only you can see
with me, it is all I ever wanted from you to think of us as we.

I want to sing to you like Billy Joel would do
but the tune escapes me leaving me lost empty blue
there is seldom one when we almost always want it to be 2

With you, I gave you my word and hoped it was true
with my followers on twitter- the blog- the others too
well meaning and well meant, keeping up is hard to do.

I want to run in this crazy race
I want to keep up this maddening pace
I want I try I seem to have lost my place

Keeping up is hard to do, I can run only so fast
I can type everyday, trying to make the magic last
I survive I endure I post I consider the cost
but the effort is too much, even when I win, I have lost.

Another great entry from my favorite You Tuber

Poem 5 several attempts later. Bigger and Bolder

Make it bigger and bolder

The secret a friend once said to me
to all things that center around poetry
is to make it bigger and bolder
for anyone who finds it to be 
something else on a table in a book
or carved into the trunk of a leaning tree

You want someone to like what you write
make it look honest avoid the white-
washed indifference of the daily thought
make it reach someone, make it out of sight
make it the font, make it all about the type
find a picture, make it a picture sunny and bright

The secret is not to make the world a better place
rather sell your ideas, sell your space
make it bigger and bolder
so that everyone will remember your face
this is not your song, your poems are not the way
this is how to win the ever loving god forsaken race.

Making a poem bigger and bolder is a lie
much like engineering an emotion to comply
in order to force a rhyme over the reason
that you came here to give this a try
words without wisdom are just empty passions
without form nor understanding, no reason
to break away from expections, to walk
to run, to make a moment in time to take the wings
of the imaginary things that fill my mind
coming out of my fingers onto the blank
page then passion of truth, the marks of 
my misspent youth, I am poetry I am song
I am the music from the places I want to belong
I am the words, I am the tune I want 
a moment in this life to become someone more
I want to dance under a poetic moon.

Today I spent the first part of this process writing to form, I tried writing an Ode to my cat. Imagine that I almost tried to Seuss my Cat. You have been spared that unfortunate structure
as ode writing is mostly annoying since I had to stop and reference Keats and Shelley and
go mostly willy nilly in hopes that I could hold up the old forms with updated content. We can't all pay homage to the Grecian Urns that we want to. My cat Yorick showed his contempt of what I was writing  with a stretch and a yawn, licked himself and stretched before giving me a disdainful glare and strutting off to find another place to sleep.
I started this piece instead, caught myself checking on the rhyme structure, cursed a lot and finally left my mind and fingers write what they wanted and then end comes out truer. I have decided to leave it intact since we all need to be reminded that sometimes it is best to trust in our instincts for the word, the form, allowing the poem to write itself.
Now I am going to shut up and leave the rest to you.

PADM # 3 down and 2 to catch up!

Back to making up for being a slacker.
3 down and 2 to catch up to Monday


Saturday Haze

I looked out at the rains that came after I finished
the mowing that was really a race for me to finish
thus to prove that a little rain would not drive me
to a craze that comes with getting things done
without anyone without help without the 
time it takes to keep switching mp3 players
to keep my mind in the game row by row
circles cut into the grass 
I ran I run out of gas in more ways than
one but it is finished it is done
and now I can sit here inside and look
out at the Afternoon sun in and out 
of this maze I created with my certain
kind of madness in the Saturday evening
haze.

should have called it A poem every other day in May

Same Old Story

It's the same old story, I will repeat it again
since you didn't get it the last time I told it
to my friend at the end of the street
Whom I would like you to meet
She is quite nice, I think she is pretty sweet

Anyway, I told her about my need to express 
the way things stay the same no matter how
I try to change or even compete
with the inevitability of defeat
She agreed, and that made my thought complete

What is it like to find someone who can make
my day shine a little better like the sun
make me forget that I am unhappy for awhile
it's the way she makes me smile
we two are one, freedom without denial

She looks at me and says "It's the same old story"
it might not be great, but it's not boring
its my life filled with moments of bliss
like the last time I remembered that I miss
the day at the end of the street we kissed.


I missed getting it done yesterday, I was mowing and since I am not William Carlos Williams, I can't get Mowing into a poem so I won't even beat around the bush. So keep in mind I am not Robert Frost, but I am Ogden Nash and something a little too sweet.

Here's my shout out to my inspiration for doing this:

Wow, I just have to say wow.

and also her Brother, Alex

He's got a great voice.

Making up for lost Time APADIM!

Words with Friends

I play, you play, she plays, he refuses
mostly I suspect because there is this lack of any
real ruse to get friends to play games
without end.
It's a game of words, but there is no real point
since winning is not anything but the trick
of starting another round of the same
scrabble of letter to form moves
that prove little victories in a game
with friends
Bragging rights? no bragging rights
around here, 30point achievements
like double dailies with no rewards
save for another means to an ends 
when you play this game
of words with friends

A Poem a day in May

Might be starting a day or three late but better late than June.
After watching the effort being made by Danna Richards and her friends for the Song a Day in May: Song a Day in May
here is a direct links for a few of them:
Paper Dragons

Well you get the picture, anyway, I hope she will allow me this small promotion of her ability.

and now to business.

A POEM A DAY IN MAY!!!

(3 DAYS BEHIND)

Poem #1 

Hard

Like rocks, like stones, like chalk white bones

my emotions fall against the wall of the world

with thunderous rush of impact 

 like water, like balls of icy hail in the howling wind

Like tears, like the passage of years, like days in the rain

any sense of reason, decisions are blocked 

with cold precision of well placed pain

like repetition of the ever present prescience of the fall of rain

I am hard, I am hard

on the street, under the heat of the unforgiving sun, 

I am hard, I am hard

without humor, without joy, I feel nothing but the passage

of my feet on the run

Like the fleeting footfalls fleeing my own despair

my soul would retreat, retrieve what is lost

with the heavy heartbeats as my blood is spun

out of control out of my control

Like the end of life worth living, like the fear that cheats my breath

all chances of ending are little more than futile

without any mending this ruin of rending

like the droplets of words written without wonder, without death.

I am hard, I am hard

like a rock, like a derelict house on an abandoned island

I am less, I am less

than perfection allows, I hold within me the haunted 

shadows of the meaning this poem demands.