More Mush

Maybe it’s my impending nuptials…
Maybe my hormones are out of whack…
Maybe I’m turning into a sap in my old age…
But this stuff is gettin’ me lately!

But this one is definitely more the style of me and my fiance:

😀   Happy Friday!

Little Singing Bird

I’ve been reading up on some poetry lately, specifically Edgar Allan Poe, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the darkly twisted romantics of his young love lost writings have effected me.  As usual, I had a short phrase come together, unexpectedly and out of nowhere, in my mind that sounded beautiful to me.  I memorized it until I was able to jot it down, then I built on it to create a whole story.  A whole story that took an unusual, and again unexpected, turn about midway through.  It was even surprising to me, as I had no plans for how this would turn out and was just writing whatever came to my mind.  I think I quite like it, though…

Good day little singing bird
Whose feathers gleam soft cream.
It seems he’s left without a word
And I am left to dream.

 

To dream the day that he returns
Or dream what could have been.
Deep inside my longing churns
And all I ask is “when?”

 

When did he change, and why?
Little bird, why aren’t you singing?
While all my plans have gone awry,
Your sweet chirp keeps me clinging.

 

Clinging to this future
Of my fairytale I’d planned.
But I’m only clinging to this creature,
Falling lifeless from my hand.

 

Scoop it up and sweep it,
I won’t need it anymore.
Put it where he can keep it,
Beneath my feet, beneath my floor.

Copyright © 2012

Related articles

• A Dream Within A Dream (rhubblog.com)
• You Don’t Know Poe: 10 Weird Things About Edgar Allan Poe (tor.com)
• Edgar Allan Poe – Writer, Reviewer, and Relative (fallsintowriting.com)

The Takeover

I feel comfortable in saying I have a way with words in writing stories or articles or opinion pieces.  I never thought I would write poetry.  I absolutely love reading poetry, but I often do research after reading a poem I particularly enjoy to make sure I am fully understanding all the intricacies.  I had this idea of what poetry was, all flowery words and debatable representations – ala Dickinson, Poe, or Shakespeare – and it all seemed far to deep for me.  But one day, several years ago when I was wasting time in a general education class in college by doodling around in a notebook, a statement formed in my mind.  I don’t know where it came from or how it came together, it just did and I felt compelled to write it down.  So I did, but it didn’t stop there.  This one random little sentence, lines 3-4 in the following writing, sparked even more bits and pieces that started falling into place and by the end of this useless class I was stuck in, I had completed what I never thought possible: a poem that wasn’t completely terrible.  I am not knowledgeable at all about poetry.  I know none of the technical terms or the different styles still to this day, but that’s the closest thing I can think of that this fragmented little story could be, and therefore that’s what I decided to call it: my very first poem entitled The Takeover.