Quill #55 - Hand-made (2010)

One letter chains
To the next, words
Stringing along, a
Symphony of loops
And lines, a single
Piece of string that
Grows into an afghan
Crocheted by sounds,
Hooked by pencil.
One lost link
And
The
Whole
Thing
U
N
R
A
V
E
L
S
.

Quill #44 - Challenged (2010)

"Write something humorous," he says,
"Not so depressing."
I frown at him and sigh.
Toy planes could land on my nose
And he would grin,
But I never know what is funny.
Whole audiences at theatres
Consider me warped.
And I'm always in the
Most
Visible
Spot
When laughter catches me
And tears me apart,
Helpless to defend myself.
It's always a wry moment,
A peek into painful,
Something revealing,
Poignant,
Stubborn,
Childish,
A human moment
That unguards me,
And every row of heads
Stares
At
Me.
I snicker at my own thoughts
And he says, "Yeah!"
"Write about that."

Quill #34 - TMI -TMI - I'm not kidding! - You were warned! - TMI - TMI

My lungs are rattling so low down within my chest that my stomach gurgles when I try to breathe. Also, when I repeatedly cough hard enough to pull some of that deep congestion out of my lungs, it smells like stale cigarette smoke, non-menthol. I haven't been near cigarette smoke, even second-hand, in too long for that to be happening.

Chest rattles go deep
Stomach makes gurgly sounds.
How long will cold last?

I've coughed convulsively so many times that I have a cut on the underside of the tip of my tongue from where it has been flung against one of my lower teeth. This tooth is not that sharp. I get spells where I need air, for some reason, and my chest heaves ten or twenty times in a row - not exaggerating - trying to put air into my body but the fluid acts like an oral dam. So, I'm working hard at expelling, then trying to inhale air that gets trapped by the gunk in my chest before it gets inside my lungs which, because it vibrates, causes more coughing. Each time I cough, my tongue hits that tooth, cutting the exact same sore spot even deeper.

Cold sore, sore tongue,
Strong desire to avoid speech,
Husband wants to chat.

The cut hurts my mouth and makes me talk funny. Trying to communicate with my husband has been a trial. He can't understand what I'm saying and I end up repeating myself several times, trying to speak more clearly without cutting myself again. If I wasn't sick and hurting, I'd play with him, pretend to be the priest in The Princess Bride or something, because that would be a whole lot more fun than actually having a speech impediment caused by pain.

I tell my husband,
"Phlease toon uff de DFee, dere."
He doesn't do it.

To make matters slightly worse, it's too dang hot in the house! We keep the lights and other heat producers off, including the stove. We have central air, three other window air conditioners, three fans running constantly, and we're lucky if we can keep the internal temperature under eighty degrees, fahrenheit. I've sweated and chilled in my bed so many times, with nobody in the house feeling well enough to change sheets, that every breath I do manage to pull has a funky odor to it, not assisted by little accidents caused by coughs that could scare a bull elephant into fleeing. I don't even notice how loud these eruptions are anymore. I just see the stares from horrified family members.

Three ac's, three fans,
Nothing making heat inside,
My world is still hot.

Eighty in the house,
With fans, no lights, no hot food,
Still fighting a cold.

I'm supposed to be writing new things for my blog, not just posting older stuff that is sometimes, rarely, good work, and more often crap I just keep for purposes of nostalgia. So, while sick, I've written some haiku-shaped "poems" because I can't concentrate on what might actually be worth writing. I hope you'll tell me they're crap and that I should get better because, honestly, if being this sick was the only way to be a writer, I'd be an accountant.

Quill #25 - Poe'er (2010)

Free verse or rhyme,
Rhyme or free verse,
Which is the better?
Which is the worse?

Most of my teachers,
Most of the times,
Said, "It's not poetry
Unless it rhymes!"

Those that rate free verse
As poetry, too,
Think themselves 'lightened,
Diviners of true.

This little dog'grel
Will not mend a fence
'Tween those that want either
To make better sense.

Symbology rules
In the p. p. o. view.
You might as well spell
'Leaves of Grass' I. O. U.

We're not going to solve this
Ridiculous fight
Till God reaches down
To put out the light.

Suffice it to say that,
Whatever you use,
You're likely unpaid
And seeking a muse.