Just a quick note before the poeming today, but if for any reason your poem/comment says it’s awaiting moderation, don’t worry, I’ll get to it and approve it. I’m not sure what triggers the moderation system, but I’ve been jumping in a few times each day to moderate (approve) comments. Just don’t want anyone to stress out over it.
For today’s prompt, I want you to take the phrase “Sort of (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles could be: “Sort of cool,” “Sort of strange,” “Sort of not into getting out of bed in the morning,” or whatever! It should be sort of fun to read all the poems today!
Here’s my attempt:
“Sort of like kids playing with harmonicas”
I start, then stop, and start. Each sound a lie
against intent. What I think should happen
versus what does. There’s what comes natural–
blue eyes and big hands–and everything
else. This slow tongue that trips over itself
just wants a chance to play around with you
and, perhaps, create some sort of music.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
And tweet your progress on there and communicate with other poets using the #novpad hashtag.
Also, I’ve “sort of” been growing a moustache this month for Movember. Click here to check out my progress.
*****
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SORT OF IN THE GROOVE
It flows.
I don’t know how or why,
but I know its festers.
All the jesters who said I had lost it?
I found it. Tucked safely away
until all the poets come out to play!
SORT OF in the groove? You’re on FIRE, mister!
Love this.
I love it. Can Walt come out to play?
Enjoy your internal rhyming of jesters and festers–
LOL!
SORT OF A SHAME
Oh misery, thy name is laptop!
Portability gave you prominence,
but my dependence upon you
has found you over worked
and over played. To say
you’ve served me well, Dell,
is an understatement.
But dying on me on Day 1
takes all the fun out of my challenge.
So now my work is cut out for me
as long as my work computer
keeps its head. Otherwise I’d be dead.
And that would be sort of a shame.
*laughing* Sort of a shame? We’d be lost without you! LOL
Yikes Walt. Hope all goes well with your computer issues. Hate to see the flow interrupted.
Enjoyed your poetry.
SORT OF IN SOLITUDE
Sort of in solitude.
Just me and “the Dude”.
I am here when the prompt appears.
And Robert is there
keeping things on the square.
But, where, oh where are the rest
to put their muses to the test?
It’s sort of quite in this place.
I hope my muse can keep up this pace!
Patience, patience. I’ve got to get my coffee first.
I live in Arizona. I get my prompt at around 8:30 or 9:00 a.m. (11:30 or 12:00 Eastern.) We’ll get there…
Whoa! Them sound like fightin’ words….
A SORT OF SORT OF
It’s a sort of sort of
That’s sort of funny.
Because when I say, “sort of,”
I mean sort of really,
Not sort of kinda.
So it’s a kind of sort of,
That doesn’t mean sort of at all.
So when I say, “I sort of like you,”
I sort of really mean it.
CUTE!
I sort of really like this!
That’s sort of fun!
Delightful – Moskowitz
Just to keep you company, Walt, here are my first thoughts on the prompt:
X
It’s sort of a thingummyjig
you know what I mean
a whatchamacallit,
something between
a whatsit and a how’s your father
or if you’d rather,
an unknown quantity.
I think we’re kind of sort of on the same page!
Ha, it is sort of great
Fun, Viv. Reminds me of my dad. He will be talking about someone–can’t remember the name– so it’s “whojigger”.
Love this whatchamacallit poem thingamajig, Viv!
Precisely.
love it! how fun.
SORT OF OKAY!
Feeling better than I’ve been
listening to friends and people
who dare to care too deeply.
It is sweetly conveyed
when said with concern
and compassion. So allow me
to convey that I’m sort of okay.
At least today is bereft of sorrow,
and things can only get better tomorrow.
<3 (Kind of like a heart)
Everything’s crossed for you.
I sort of fell in love with this poem; especially the last two lines.
Sort of Like, Yeah, You Know…
Teen Girl 1: “I was just gonna call YOU!”
Teen Girl 2: “No way!”
Teen Girl 1: “WAY! It’s like…”
Teen Girl 2: “I KNOW!”
Teen Girl 1: “Sometimes it’s like, you know…”
Teen Girl 2: “It TOTALLY IS!”
Teen Girl 1: “You were NOT calling about, you know …”
Teen Girl 2: “You KNOW it, girlfriend!”
Both Girls: “Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
OMG! It is soooo totally, you know… Wow, sort of typical girlish
OMG! It’s like, I totally forgot the OMGs!
!
I love your teenagerish stuff M.E.
i did one like this, it’s so fun to, you know, mock the teenage lingo!
totally awesome, dudette!
You were listening when my daughters were talking to each other, weren’t you?
Wow, this is like SO totally awesome girlfriend!
After the unmitigated assault of F-bombs by college girls, I’m a little nostalgic for the Vallley Girl speak.
How sad is that. Sheeesh … and I’m right there with you, Nancy.
Love the both girls–where do they learn that scrreeeching? Splitting eardrums? Totally!;-)
Sort of Out of Sorts
When the coffee didn’t brew on cue,
I should have seen the signs,
but I’ve never been as attuned
to foreshadowing in real life,
with nowhere to pencil notes
in the margins, as in books.
No newspaper waiting in the drive—
or in the bushes, under the car—
no doubt a substitute on the route
took wild guesses as she threw;
otherwise, I might have read
my horoscope and learned
exactly what kind of day to expect.
The neighbors waved wildly
as I passed. So friendly, I mused,
unaware my coffee cup still sat
on the roof—until I heard the thump
on the trunk lid and crash
on the street behind me.
I realized my coat was caught
in the door, the hem flapping
against the side of the car
I’d meant to run through the wash,
but for once, all the lights
stayed green, giving me no chance
to stop, open the door, tug it in.
Orange cones blocked the entire row
where I usually park, forcing me
to circle around and round, giving up
and driving to the lower forty,
requiring me to hike, out of breath,
the goat track up the hill in heels.
No major mishaps marked the day,
just minor glitches, setting my day,
not my world, slightly out of kilter.
If only I had kept from probing
the worry, like a tongue returning
to a tooth’s rough edge, I might
have focused on a forgotten five
folded in the pocket of the coat
I hadn’t worn since last winter,
or the sound of your voice
on my machine, when I checked,
seeing the ominous flashing light,
relieved to find you’d called me
just because.
Uh-huh … love it.
I love the lights staying green — a stroke of good luck on any other day.
I hope you soon get everything sorted.
I’m glad it was the coffee cup on the roof and not a briefcase filled with student papers. I recognize this day sort of. Well said.
Now, honestly, Jane, would losing a briefcase full of papers be a tragedy? Only if they were already graded.
*snicker*
Nancy…you’ve totally captured the feeling of that kind of day, and how a kind word makes a huge difference. And don’t get me started about coffee on the roof…
Well worth the read – why didn’t you just pull over? –
Mosk
Sort of Grey
Overnight rain has made the leaves slippery
and I almost come a cropper on the flying walkway
that connects the park to the town.
My pack is heavy – full of boxes of dog food,
cat biscuits and two-litre bottles of milk.
Multipacks of crisps for the brat and a Lego figure
in a sealed pack. I couldn’t tell which model it was.
She’s having a bad time at school. She twitters
updated from her phone onto facebook.
She’ll be home in a minute. A chance to let off steam
to me while she gobbles down a bowl of cereal for lunch.
I have to take her into town later – a boy
broke her glasses and now she needs new ones
from the opticians. That’ll cut into my purse.
I’m fairly sure cat biscuits aren’t made of cat
but they do feed chickens to chickens, don’t they?
I feel the grey. Well done, and the last sentence is a wow.
leatherdykeuk, I love where these poems seem to be going; it feels like you’ve already got themes emerging.
I liked how you brought me along there. Well written. – Moskowitz
PS I’ve been out all morning, and now I have to go fetch the wallbuilder from his work, seeing as he kindly lent me the car. So it is sort of ad hoc-ery poetry
There may be more later at http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com
Wait, viv – what morning? Aren’t you located in Europe?!
Thursday morning: I don’t get the prompts until lunchtime, and today’s been sort of fraught in France.
SORT OF DYSLEXIC
Things are not what they appear to be.
I can see where it’s going,
but it’s showing all wrong.
Somehow along the way
I’ve managed to stay on course
forcing my muse on the masses.
I have taken classes to aid
my affliction with diction a close second.
But as God is my witness,
and Spellcheck is my proofreader,
I’ll succeed as I have, glad for the chance
to let my words sort of dance just fine
(as long as the letters quit jumping line).
SORT OF SILLY
The way we leave X’s on our cheeks
and encircle each other in O’s
The way a drawn heart
resembles more an inverted nose
The way we share emoticons
when our faces are stiff
The way we love without
allowing our worlds to shift
So true.
“The way we love…” Enjoyed this so-not silly poetry
Thanks!
Beautiful.
Robert: Yours is sort of yowzers!
Sort of Hot
They thought when Vesuvius erupted,
Hey, it’s sort of hot
And it’s sort of smoky and, hey,
You look sort of burnt.
I sort of loved you,
Because you were sort of cute
And I was sort of lonely
And we sort of got along together.
We sort of got married
And sort of had some kids
But then you sort of left
And I was sort of sad.
I sort of found out,
You sort of cheated on me
And I sort of wanted you dead.
But now, I sort of don’t even care.
Sort of.
Ouch!
This story is so like so many others’, including my own. Adding the sort-of make it a story of a past hurt, though, and one you’ve gotten over. I like it a lot. ^_^
I love that this one looks like it’s going to rhyme and then doesn’t, as if it can’t be bothered. It’s so apt.
Home run. I’ll think about this one – a lot. Thanks, Bud the MOsk
SORT OF SHERKING WORK
Enough for the moment,
back to the grindstone
no time to tarry, for this scary
behemoth behind me expects
me to work for a living.
Just happy he’s giving me slack
to get back all I’ve lost.
Only it can’t cost my job.
So this poetic slob will toil
until his words start to boil
and Big Boss Man is back at his desk!
Go work and be productive in a, you know, different sort of way.
“Sort of Like Life”
My eyes follow
the descent of a leaf
as it spins lazily down.
Resting,
for a moment
before a cold breeze
carries it away.
I think of following it,
wondering how much distance
we could cover in an hour,
or a day.
Perhaps the breeze would fold back
upon itself
and we would end up
here.
No wiser
but happier for the chase.
I always think (and often express) similar sentiment about you and your work, but if only everyone in the world was just like you. I am completely enthralled with your thoughts. Always.
Thanks Marie but if everyone were like me the world would be a dull place.
I think a couple hundred of your “closest friends” out here would say otherwise.
Again, such a lovely deft touch with words. I’ve always loved best the poets who can make such ordinary words sing so beautifully.
Spot on, and beautifully stated.
just gorgeous.
This makes me want to rest a moment from the word-chase and just breathe in the moment you’ve described. Lovely.
Not to put too much pressure on you, but I’ve come to expect brilliance from you and you never let me down. Thanks – Mosk
Have to agree with the gang, Jerry. I always love your work.
Sort of, Kind of Like, You Know?
So, the thing is,
well, it’s sort of,
umm, I don’t know.
It’s kind of like,
gah! It’s crazy.
I can’t quite
get it out. I,
uh, wait, ok,
I think I’ve got it now.
It’s sort of a, uh,
wow…know what I mean?
‘xactly! LOL!
Haha, reminds me of Gingy from Shrek
Sort of Doing What You Want
Somewhere between doing what I should want
and still hearing what you want me to do
lies a list of procrastinated needs
that festers and simmers and boils over
till you finally come and do it youself.
My devious plan all along, my love.
Patricia, Patricia, Patricia!
So very true!
Very crafty, Patricia. <3
The irony here is:
I misspelled: yourself
…and I had to be the one to edit it MYSELF!
(YOU guys are the crafty ones. HA!)
Sort of strange it feels
joining in to write,
honing all my might
with a happy smile
Last “submit” was hit
Thirteen hours—sigh
Other comments streamed
save for one of mine
What of that—I thought
Don’t know what one thinks
Tried to get a shot
Didn’t get a shot
What’s the point of that
though approved today
what was yesterday’s
entry for day 2
Yet I’ll try again,
’til I’m told not to
Sort of strange it feels—
submit a poem again.
Keep after it, a.paige. It’s worth it.
And you’ll never be told not to. Not here. <3
I’ve been there too – you nailed it. Keep writing! You’re great! – Moskowitz
Sort Of…..
Happenings today are
In simple terms
Sort of familiar
Wouldn’t you say
Been there
Done that
Didn’t work before
But got the T-shirt
Sort of peculiar
Wouldn’t you say
That our bad history
Is repeating itself
Class warfare
Entitlement mentality
Take it from the haves
Gimee, gimee, gimee
Really sort of sad
Wouldn’t you say
People no longer take
Responsibility for themselves
Nation sort of split
Conservatives and libs
Pulling right and left
No more middle ground
Freedom on the gallows
Liberty being trashed
Politics running rampant
Tearing America apart
All sort of expected
Not surprising at all
We sort of kicked out God
We sort of have to fall
Until the last stanza, I thought you were talking about Britain! Well grumbled!
Sadly, it seems we are following their lead.
Sort of Awesome
First a glance
Then a smile
Give a hint
To a friend
Send a text
Make a date
Catch a flick
Speak a word
Feel a breath
Hold a hand
Get a chill
Make a wish
Share a kiss
Be in love
Aw! So contemporary and just adorable : )
luv’d it.
Sort of Dylan with a Hint of Wry
I watch your fingers when you talk, try to see them
bridging an octave or arching over frets,
long and graceful and in constant motion. I’ve heard
you play but I can’t see the way your jingle-jangle pieces
fit together to create the magic others see in you.
Don’t get me wrong. At five, you were my beautiful
beautiful beautiful beautiful
beautiful boy, but even then you were more
mystery tramp than child of god, a restless
tripping pulse that built forever to crescendo
and eschewed the momentary harmony
that brings the chords together into
resolution.
Your father tells me that he’s worried for you,
afraid you’ll never settle down into the job
you’ve held for nearly seven years. I take his fear
and break it against the image of my not-so-fragile
darling boy on stage, surrounded by adoring fans
whose constant press leaves no surface
for the moss of everyday to grow.
I could wish for you Sting, or Dylan, but I fear
you see yourself as Hendrix or Cobain —
the flaring star that burns bright — dies young —
and is never reduced to late night infomercials
to flog a flagged career for one more year.
I love this.
Thank you — it grew from a sort of conversation with my ex last night about our son.
Oh, I love this, and I wish I’d written it. I do. Thanks.
That’s a high compliment. Thank you — I’m blushing.
This was great from start to finish. Thanks – Mosk
Thank you!
Sort of reposted yesterday’s entry,
which didn’t make it on the page
Some sort of glitch, I’m assuming
I hope it’s okay.
Tempest In A Cup
“I can resist anything but temptation,” says Wilde—
that’s Oscar.
I start again today, I say,
tight grip on my resolve.
But what’s another cup—it hisses
Just another sip—it whispers.
Too much caffeine
is bad for me;
it lulls me like a harp,
you see.
It taints my teeth,
and my insides burn
from excessive
stomach acid.
But water just won’t do it.
And tea just doesn’t cut it.
You know your thirst could only be quenched
by nothing but dear, old me.
Alright! Okay! I’m in for now.
Just this, just once. A grande cup.
Make it iced, Splenda and cream on the side.
And then I’m sure, I’d be done with him.
Whatever. If you say so. Absolutely!—
my dear, for I’ll always be here for you, you see.
You will realize soon enough, I’m sure,
you can’t possibly live without me.
A little vice is sometimes nice. – good job, Moskowitz
Sort of forgotten
Whatever happened to God?
Without Him we fall
I know this doesn’t fit the challenge, but, for some reason, it just fell out.
Where is my fig leaf?
My shame is overwhelming
I must run and hide
“Sort of Guilty” (?) Not that you are, just a suggested title.
Pingback: Poem: Sort of, Kind of Like, You Know? « Wanna Get Published, Write!
Sort Of Crazy
The alarm doesn’t sound, our hair is unkempt
it’s sort of crazy that we’ve been so lazy.
The children haven’t eaten; we overslept
and the only one sleeping–quiet as it’s kept
says, “Give them some mushrooms and
add some raisins,”
which is….sort of crazy; I don’t think they’re craving
that for breakfast–same as I’m not expecting a call
from ER; Mom’s in the hospital, and I don’t do
hospitals at all.
They’re the cleanest and creepiest by far.
It’s sort of crazy, but I hold out hope
this Thursday won’t end sort of crazy.
In the meantime, I’m going kind of…crazy,
but I’ll cope. I hope the rain ends soon
and the sun comes out or it all turns out
not so crazy.
Is that sort of crazy?
maybe sort of in a hurry, but very very poignant and well done!
I was in a hurry this time. Not as coherent as it should be, nor aligned properly but…
See you guys tomorrow. I enjoy reading all the post; it’s the first thing I do in the morning:-) Take care.
Uh, I’m afraid it’s sort of ve-e-e-ery stupid, yet that is what I came up with:
-
Sort of stupid
To let that boy Cupid
Lead you by the nose
To a paper reading “Diagnose”.
-
Sort of ironic
To see your iconic
Hero end up in a mess
While you look up to him
To take you to progress.
-
Sort of unexpected
We never hoped
To be here so long
So we finished all supplies
And it sort of feels like home.
© 2011 Mariya Koleva
i love these sets !! short and powerful … the third one was very touching..
I liked – mosk
Thank you very much, Nimue and Buddah! You made my day!
Sorta…
If I sorta looked like Brad Pitt
Would you sorta love me more
Or is your love kinda sorta
For the one you sorta adore
That’s sorta righteous
If I sorta had his money
Would your happiness sorta rise
Does wealth sorta thrill you
I sorta see it in your eyes
That’s sorta creepy
If I were sorta like James Bond
Would you sorta tag along
Bad guy killin’s sorta fun
Even though killin’s sorta wrong
That’s sorta thrilling
If I were sorta like James Dean
And I don’t mean sorta dead
Would you sorta be my girl
Sorta do whatever I said
That’s sorta cool
Course I’m not sorta like Brad Pitt
And I don’t sorta have his money
I’m not sorta like Bond or Dean
I’m just sorta like your Honey
And that’s sorta great
Earl, do you write songs? Your poems suggest to me that you might have a gift for songwriting.
Thanks. I have written a few songs over the years, but, just like most everything I write, they go into an archive. As with many, the fear of rejection has moved procrastination and lack of confidence to the top of my life list.
SORT OF LIKE THIS
“It was great! You should have seen him.”
Enthusiasm bubbles over, “It was sort of like this.”
Tapping his left foot, a demonstration ensues,
sliding across the wood floor with ease
in his footed red pj’s, an attempt at buck and wing,
then an off balance spin almost ends his dance.
But he doesn’t slow down, humming to himself
with an occassional “yah, yah” thrown in,
absorbed in interpretation, biting the corner of his lip,
all focus and concentration, a 4 yr old does his best
to honor a great performer and his work.
How adorable! Your visuals have me there, smiling.
cuuuuteee ! am all smiles imagining that look !
This brought me back to when my own were young — adorable!
Excellent!
note: okay so this is one of my pet peeves when I hear it on the radio..sometimes appropriate, most times a “sort of” verbal tic…
Sort of…is sort of
a problem for me,
because it means things
can’t quite just be.
He’s sort of a you-know,
and she’s kind of what.
And then there are others
that aren’t quite so hot!
They talk about books
that are sort of on cooking,
do they change into poems
when nobody’s looking?
And what about Facebook
what’s up with your buddy?
Do you sort of like
friending or is that
sort of a muddy
concept for social–ummm
sort of trending,
the new kind of cultural
melting pot blending?
It’s a sort of grammatical
issue, you see
why can’t we be certain —
or is it just me?
Carol A. Stephen
November 3, 2011
Sort of Syrupy. I’m A Grandma. Deal.
(A Shadorma)
She smiles with
Her pumpkin-sweet face,
Chubby legs,
Bouncy bum.
Outstretched hands beg, “Pick me up,”
And I live for this.
Bummer. Formatting didn’t work. And speaking of work … I best be heading out!
A SORTA SANTA SESTINA
November’s early chill does not sway this warm heart
from the task at hand. Kind of a dress rehearsal, sort of a role
reversal from the other ten months of the year.
Around here, hustle and bustle are the norm and true to form, I see red
and green. A controlled chaos, laced with love
and a true sense of the spirit that fills me. Christmas spirit.
That is not to say we are not thankful, because Thanksgiving Day is where that spirit
really shines. A gathering of family in celebration of that relation fills my heart
because it is the essence of the long holiday season born of love.
And let’s not kid ourselves. We are nothing without it. When I roll
out my list for the second time, I am reminded that within each heart, red
and full of life, lives a passion that lasts throughout the year.
And it shouldn’t be only one day a year.
It should be a daily diversion to pass on that spirit
in every word ever written or read
on the subject of our fellow men and women. It does my heart
good to know that the initiation of these feelings comes from the role
I play everyday. It’s not to say I take the credit, it just comes back to the love.
Many people ask, “What is love?”
It may be a forgotten art, but it is never lost if you yearn
to give of yourself. Of this gift, you have full control.
For keeping the smallest spark of this spirit
will go a long way in igniting your heart.
The first step is the start of a life’s journey; immortality in red.
It is not so much the color of the heart, but red
is the hue of the blood that courses within us all, a sign of life; a life of love.
So as I near the start of my work, I can feel my heart
expand in proportion to the sense of wonder this time of year
places in a young child’s heart, and the sense of spirit
that comes with the territory. I fill this role
the best I can. I am “The Man”. That’s how I roll!
So before I don the jingle bells and that suit, bright red,
I will bow my head and ask that I never lose this spirit.
As I hear, it gets harder to come by these days. But I love
the challenge. I’m sort of in my element this time of year.
As the big day draws near, it will fill my heart.
It warms me completely. It is the role I take on gladly.
For no matter how badly things go each year, I will be here dressed in red
full of love and holiday spirit. After all, I am Santa Claus…sort of.
I am in awe.
True to form as well was the cable music channel flipping the switch from the ominous “This is Halloween” music, and directly into Happy Holiday fare. It was there that I was reminded of my Walter-ego, of whom I have written much. Not out of touch in a Nepolianic way, just the way I like it! Don’t look now, but it’s coming…
A sestina, already? Now you’re just showing off, Walt.
In Marie Elena-ese, “Ruh-roh!” Not showing off, Nancy. Just wit lifting.
Wit lifting?
Grooooooooooan …
P.S. Astro-ese.
A sestina! Ouch!
Pingback: X | Vivinfrance's Blog
Oh, heavens — a sestina?? Does your talent have no bounds? These take me days to craft!
Tell me about it. *sigh*
Ladies, ladies, please! There are plenty of words to go around!
Yes, I’m officially going to go hide under the covers now. Sestinas, on a Thursday morning? Oh, heavens!
“Sort of Just”
Sort of and just
and maybe okay.
Not half bad and
alright with me.
Perhaps and mostly
and mainly usually.
Truth and Reality.
sort of don’t care about anything today
sort of don’t care about anything
won’t be a funny one today, no
humor in these bones, salty
brittleness that’s all, no
laugh to muster, distraction
too noisy, muscles flaccid to
a smile
went back to sleep, willed
a new dream, even
that didn’t seem to help
hot shower, warm
scents, pancakes at IHOP, who
cares
she said beautiful words in her e-mail today, but
penetration met a steel wall, the
armor has no chinks, another
she called to say hello, fakeness
kept her at bay, I wonder
if I pretended when I was a kid
sort of don’t care about anything today, the
red gerbera wilts from the snow, honesty
is a new word in my dictionary, doesn’t
feel good to most, a funny
word, honesty, don’t lie, it is a sin, except
when you speak your truth
Sort of Out of Sorts
Not really under the weather.
But, not on top of things.
Your normal pleasant voice,
rasps rather than sings.
Not cheery and not chipper.
Not yourself but not depressed.
Things are a bit clouded.
Perhaps just slightly stressed.
Feeling sort of out of sorts.
Disheveled with malaise.
Get moving then and focus
on brighter happy days.
By Michael Grove
Sort of Angry
Am banging on the dishes
Wondering how I got to this place
The last time that I wore lace
I should have pulled it apart
now my heart is ripped apart.
And am sort of angry;
Sort of happy, sort of glad
sort of sad, Sort of relieved
sort of bitter, Sort of heartsick.
Sort of wanting to crawl back into your arms,
And kiss away this pain
Instead I am washing dishes and
Wondering how it is that we could let us go
So easily
Quietly powerful – thanks – Buddy M
With props to the Sound of Music…
A SAD SORT OF CLANGING (AUF WIEDERSEHEN)
There’s a sad sort of clanging
from the clock on my wall,
and the bells on my cell phone too.
And out in the living room,
an absurdly cute puppy
keeps waking up to ask,
“Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
Regretfully I sit up,
so sleepily I stand up,
to say good morning
(good morning) to you.
So long, my bed.
Auf wiedersehen, my night.
I hate to wake-
the sun is oh-so-bright!
So long, my bed.
Auf wiedersehen, my sleep.
Asleep, asleep,
is where I’d rather be.
So long, my bed.
Au revoir my fluffy pillow.
My bed head makes me
feel like an armadillo.
So long, my bed.
Auf wiedersehen, my night.
I leave and heave
a sigh and say goodbye.
I hate to go,
I will not tell a lie.
I sit, I sigh,
I slowly stand, un-spry.
The sun has come
to light and so must I.
So long, my bed.
Auf wiedersehen, my pillow.
Bravo!! Bravo!!
I like this, it travels with the rhythm.
Dee-friggin-lightful! – Moskowitz
Sort of Blue
Not any of the shades of blue
you see when you wake up,
look out your window
in the morning, or while
walking with your wife
after dinner, but the blue of
Miles Davis, of Bill Evans—
right before they stop
playing their solos
signaling the rest of the guys to
come back. That blue.
That’s what I’m talking about, when
you’ve got something to say
but she’s already gone, when
there is too much on your plate
but you can’t bring yourself to leave.
I like this one a lot (not just sort of).
Thank you.
Wow- that was a surprise kick – great – thanks – m
thanks for saying so.
This is wonderful!
thanks.
Has anyone gotten this message: “You are posting comments too quickly. Slow down”? I just did. Bummer.
Many of us are getting it. My first actually came the moment I logged in.
I’ve found if you hit the ‘back’ arrow, you will get back to where you were, and if you hit the same comment button you did the first time, your comment is still there
Seems to be a regular thing, Nancy. I’ve gotten it repeatedly.
Yeah, me too, but Penny’s back-arrow trick does save your comment.
I got that message once. I found that if I typed slower, I no longer got that message. lol
Sorta
I’m sorta out of sorts
this morning, sorting
out what I should sort
through first
or get to second
or second next.
There are, after all,
so many has-beens
and wanna-bes among
the bins in my closets,
so many beings unworn
and hardly loved.
It’s sorta hard to toss
them or even sort them,
sorta hard to sort out
one from the other,
if ya know what I mean.
Pingback: Sort of Like Butterfly Feet | Soul's Music
Shhh, nobody show this to my wife….
Sort of “Blue”
Not quite sure why I woke up so pissed,
Might be due to going to bed without being kissed.
Trivial I know, not much of a reason –
But, hell, I’m a man and always in season.
She is well within her rights to decide to pass,
Knowing in advance that I would act like an ass.
Better get over it, start to kiss hers soon
Or I’ll be lonely tonight, sleeping in another room.
Ruh-roh …
Is it bad that I giggled?
I was going for giggles! One point for me!
Sounds like you’re working toward getting that man-thing down.
Sort of Kind Of Girl
He says I’m indecisive
Sort of wanting this,
Sort of wanting that.
I guess I am a sort-of-Kind -of -Girl.
maybe you are not his sort of girl
SORT OF GRAY
This morning between whitewash
and the slate-gray sea, a child
has left a scatter of toys. Silent
figures under streetlights disappear
into dark.
There was a man who could dream
so beautifully, life became an artifact
of words. You could hold it
in your hand, on your tongue. Where
did he go?
I step down off the boardwalk
onto sand; listen to the sea slip up and
down its changing shoreline.
First light turns the breakers gray
as ocean sings
to itself, lonely, not alone. Gray light
tarnishes to silver a bit of driftwood
or is it bone? smoothed and beveled,
worked by sand, salt, water into
something
different but the same.
It glows of its own light forced
from its form till it becomes
nothing but itself,
its own.
Hauntingly lovey. An overused phrase, but the first that came to mind.
*lovely*
Beautiful. Especially love the line “life became an artifact/of words.”
This one is really good.
Like Sort of, Yeah
A Princeton graduate, she had somehow failed
to master clarity, settling instead on fillers
to her otherwise cogent sentences,
peppering logic with really, like, you know,
totally, yeah, and sort of.
Listen up, people, for this is really like the most totally important information
you can like get before the exam, you know, and that little exercise is sort of
major to your like gpa, yeah.
From that I gleaned nothing beyond Listen. I did. For one hour.
And then I divined that reading text,
joyful interest-led research,
and discussion with classmates
might constitute a meaningful course in history,
and she was sort of like relegated to the back burner
of my you know educational endeavors.
SPOT. ON.
Ha! This is great!
The quote I should have used yesterday–from Lord of Discipline, Conroy’s “Great Teacher Theory”
***
sort of grief
***
a sort of
human
grief
in the dog’s
mouth-
a stick man’s arm, or leg, or crutch.
something
from the world of sticks.
This moves me.
Mine may sort of be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/sort-of-like-butterfly-feet/
Elizabeth
Sort of sorted
————————-
there you stood,
In the box,
in the corner that shone
as the love hormones
were pumped in there
by the mere mention
of something so trivial
that I should have missed;
but Its official,
some things just remind,
me of you, just you alone,
those sorted well,
make the boundaries
of the corner where you stand,
shining always.
Your poem, Sort of Sorted is beautiful, Nimue. It is quiet, yet poetic and sticks with one long after reading. In fact, I think I’m sort of loving the sort of poems–both the humurous and serious ones. Thus, I have a newfound hobby for the days my brain sort of won’t cooperate; this is the perfect exercise for writer’s block!
Thanks so much for the kind words !!
For the first time I am able to decode these prompts and attempt writing .. much thanks to reading some of the responses !
SORT OF SAD
It’s sort of sad,
seen through a mother’s eye,
how silly Grandmas are.
Stick an eight year old
in their house and wham!
they slip into childish skin.
Mothers say ‘use your fork.’
Grandmas throw grapes.
Mom’s words remind
to brush teeth, hang jackets,
study history
and sit up straight.
Grandmas’ words rhyme
and twist and climb
to imagined worlds.
Mums can’t bat beach balls
while wet wash molds
just past the spin cycle.
But its sort of silly
for them to be all sad.
Their turn will come
to be silly and bad.
Watchu talkin’ ’bout, Willis? LOL! Love this!
so true !! no wonders we all love our grandma’s a lil more wen young
Pingback: Sort of sorted – #novpad day 3 « Pages from my mind
SORT OF WONDERFUL
‘s wonderful,
‘s a grand sort of wonderful,
the things that make me smile.
His gaze on me, his lips on mine,
his scent on me, his hands on mine.
Light through the leaves, sun on my face,
golden green trees, giggling with grace.
Big mugs of coffee, sweet’nd and creamy,
welcoming morning all cozy and steamy.
Waffles with friends at midnight or after,
silly surprise parties bursting with laughter.
Lyrics and lines, phrases and rhymes,
rhythms of life in worded design.
‘s wonderful, a grand sort of wonderful,
these few favorite things of mine,
these happy things,
these smiles.
This lovely-sweet piece made me smile.
Sort of Romantic
I never felt so alone
as I did on the beach
at the Gulf in Mississippi.
I could be abducted
and no one would ever know.
But who needed a villain?
My broken heart could have killed me
right there on the rough sand.
I watched a couple
playing in the water.
They were into each other.
Not just physically.
I could tell by their laughter
and teasing, they enjoyed
each other’s company.
The water wasn’t deep.
They walked together
toward the horizon
until I could barely see them.
I thought that’s how it
would be for us.
And the grief
began to dig and stab,
but then I heard a voice
from within,
“I’m with you.
“I love you.”
I thought of Hagar
in the Bible,
ready to die in the desert
when God spoke to her.
She called Him,
“The God who sees me.”
He is the God who sees me,
and the God who loves me.
It was sort of romantic.
I love that story of Hagar, and that name for God. Well poemed.
nice, Connie. Are we still with the girl in the novel?
Thanks, yes, all my poems this month will be from my character’s point of view.
Very nice – Moskowitz
Beautiful. Warm smiles to you, Connie.
SORT OF SEEDY
The seaport
was a little run down and not well lit.
We pulled in late
Boats thumped against
the docks
and I didn’t like the way
people looked
or the way they watched us.
A highway bridge
ran close by full of traffic:
car horns blah-blahing
a train whistle
sirens
There were no showers
but there was a bar
a band and people singing
The wind turned
blowing in from the north
and the halyards jangled
like wind chimes
To the west sunset glimmered
on the water; moonrise to the east.
I love this picture. Evocative and sort of ominous.
Sort of Blue
Depression comes in all sorts of packages
Quiet weeping,
life-weary staring,
head-splitting hoping,
poem-writing soul pain,
smile-faking covering up,
and some days that are just
sort of blue.
She wants me not to notice,
and so she takes my hand
and smiles that old apology and says,
Do you ever have days when you’re just
sort of blue for no reason?
Just crucified by everything and nothing?
When you wonder what the point of living is
and nothing seems to be worthy of any sort of maker?
Do you look at yourself sometimes and see nothing at all
of any note and think of your passing as the absence of nothing?
Hearing the news, wars and cruelty and corruption,
do you feel ashamed of being human?
And seeing the beauty of the world, the birds and flowers
and wonders here, do you feel ashamed of being ashamed?
Is it just me or
do you ever feel this way?
Yes, all the time. I am my mother’s daughter.
Nature? Nurture? Neither? Whatever it is, I empathize with this poem, and I suspect that a lot of others do as well.
I see your heart and I think it mirrors many.
It takes courage to be so honestly vulnerable.
Are you sure you weren’t sharing my mind for a while?
Calendar
A dreary sort of day–
November- we rise is darkness;
Darkness follows us as we make our way
into the world of artificial light
Now the days are lit the same as nights
Those who work by night and spend
their days in sleep will sort of note
the lack of difference.. Now they march
in step with the rest of us. If anyone hoped
to spend some time in sunlight, sunny hours
quickly fade as winter’s solstice nears
Bringing in the season of good cheer.
Sort of Suspect
I swear,
she sauntered insouciant -
slow shoed
sleek and smooth.
It seemed
she signaled.
I sort of smiled
a shy salute.
Strangely, it was
seen as
something
slightly salacious.
Shaken, she shivered
sudden –snow,
so subtle.
Sort of sibilant!
I should have found a way to get Sibilant into the title.
Its a snake,you seeee.
…or Sestina. I’m just saying.
~ Your quick, ingenious responses to the prompts are inspiring Walt. Perhaps I will try a sestina before it all over.
Sort of Completely Devastated
On a chilly sidewalk
she had said it wasn’t working out.
I just frowned, shrugged
and said “Okay,”
before we parted ways
and I trudged home through the cold.
Back in the familiar warmth of my room,
my daily routine began:
I turned on the power,
picked up the controller,
and shared an intimate gaze
with the flashing TV screen.
Blasting holes in zombie chests,
I briefly wondered
if their hearts felt as dead as mine.
Briefly.
Blam!
Blam!
Nicely done – simple but very effective imagery. Glory
the numbness and then the hurt .. nice …
This is awesome. LOVE the undertone and playfulness.
Sort of Hurts
My name on your knife mouth
Sounds strange like loose teeth
And coins hitting a wall
My skin in your blade nose
Reeks of teen spirit yellowed
Under chalky white cakes
My eyes in your spear hands
Will not hold the shape of slashes
Gouged into hollow rounds
And it sort of hurts
Ouch! The moment after you fall out of love. You got it down.
Whew ! Almost too good. Thanks Moskowitz
Wow! Catherine, this cuts slices (slashes) straight to the heart. So many senses here, so much pain. Have been there, and you have captured it with painful perfection. I have missed you!
Sort of Hungry
Starting to feel sort of lunchish,
A gnawing idea that food would be good.
Something different, not in the mood for fish,
Anything from a drive through should
Be avoided; not on the diet and bad for the heart.
This lack of calories and grease leaves me pallid,
Too much broccoli, well…makes me fart.
Might just slit my wrist faced with another salad.
“Sort of . . . like love.”
You once told me
we could live on love
and the sweetness of our kisses.
But, lately our kisses taste like rocks—
freshly fallen off the cliffs that hover
like dragon claws over Lake Michigan.
On craggy mornings, when Canada
cascades over the border in drifts
and mists, we hear the hushed
thwumps as the boulders hit the water.
I imagine them growing fins,
turtling themselves through the
foam, dragging seaweed and fish
scales, clawing through our front
door, tumbling onto our bed,
fracturing our sleep,
rupturing our hunger
for each other.
We may have lived on love
once upon a time,
but, I’ve learned through the
years that quite often we just
live on . . .
rocks and all,
we just simply
live on.
Great haunting nature imagery, and a familiar melancholy. Love it!
You’re very kind.
I like the spacing in this poem. It adds so much.
“Sort of Musical”
like putting on special phones,
you turn your ears into orchestral composers,
dimensionally condensing surrender of direction:
channel Messiaen’s rainbow and Rachmaninov’s torture
and the interstitial scenes from Bergman films:
there’s the subtle soundtrack of your ears’ world:
Buzz of morning conversation, the libretto carrying
a crescendo of caffeine, and the hum and lull
of the officer printer, the bass section backing
the percussion of syncopated footfalls to and fro,
and above the fluty solo of this scratching Sharpie
telling a story of humble practice
at the beginning of the day
as the tomatoes stretch in their skins one last time
and fall into the planter box with a thud,
pop and sigh…
A veritable symphony of delight! Absolutely witty and original.
Absolutely!
I love the musical notes throughout this piece!
Sort of Mellow
The garden is dying,
around me drifts
of autumn’s gold, russet, burnt
brown crinkled leaves,
all blown by a sighing wind,
to pile into velvet heaps
beneath bare trees, beneath feet
that seek the mellow path
that snakes below a fading sun.
Sort of Close
Sometimes words cannot define
a bond
a relationship
two lives entwined
unconditional love
through ups and through downs.
So were we close?
Sort of.
And maybe that’s why
losing him hurt
so much.
sigh ! Spot on !!
Sort of wanting to know if a person can jump into this challenge on day three? Using a generator right now to have an internet connection, but we’ve been powerless here in Connecticut since Saturday.
Colleen
Day 3 11-3-2011
Write a poem with a title “Sort of ___.”
Sort of Windy and 74 Degrees
It’s a perfect day–so far, with showers predicted–
to spend on the beach.
So why am I not out there yet?
Lounging, reading scripture, eating,
watching the Gulf through glass doors,
praying, crying over “Everyone Has a Story,”
checking the poetry prompt.
In a few, I’ll set this laptop and poem aside,
I’ll spray on sunscreen, pack up the towel,
camera, book, and beach chair,
and hubby and I will slip on flip flops
and slap the walkway to the snow-hued sand.
We’ll glory in the autumn afternoon and the beauty
too real for words, the majesty of big waters,
the multi-blue quilt He’s spread for us.
MUSIC HAS A WAY
Just when the world is turning upside down,
a new balladeer has captured the age-old pain of heartbreak
in a new tune.
So ironic
it is.
JF Robitaille
new young singer from Montreal
sounds like a mix of Leonard Cohen and Damien Rice
strums guitar like Eric Clapton
as he sings
Modern Love, Part 1,
like Sinatra
with lyrics so hauntingly true!
Indeed he has left me guessing
what sort of story
he will sing out in
Modern Love
Part 2.
Will it resonate with the song of lost love that
someone I know is living through?
Music, sort of,
has a way of seeing love
in so many shades of indigo blue.
SORT OF BITTERSWEET
Anxious – an understatement of
how nerve-wracking waiting is to
learn Mom’s fate, disposition if
you will. When will a bed open
up in the home – which means someone
else had to leave or they died, and
isn’t that a happy thought, too?
Life can be sort of bittersweet.
Bless your heart, Willy.
Thank you, Marie E. <3
Sort of thought .,.
Well, I am excited
and a lot fast
to read and write
till this free time lasts..
but you think
I need to be slow
swear I read well
before writing,
you want more ??
Sort of Flatbread
It’s a special sort of kneading, I’m told.
A blanket fold, done in thirds, I’ve heard.
Your worktop and your hands well oiled,
stretching dough out so it’ll spring and recoil,
and then oil the sides so it won’t stick,
nifty I thought, I shall remember that trick.
Popped the dough in the oven, Olive Oil Flatbread,
the recipe read. But the dough kept rising
and rising. A billowy, pillowy flatbread I’d made.
But is it flatbread?
Well sort of, I said.
Flatbread in name! This is very playful and amusing.
Thanks, Nikolas! Here’s the back story, if you’re interested. It’s a post on my cookery blog.
http://miskcooks.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/olive-oil-and-potato-flatbread/
SORT OF SHORT
Not a tall drink of water,
no ceiling scraper am I.
I can’t reach the top shelf
without a chair, I’ve tried.
Or paint higher than
two feet from my hair.
It runs in my family,
runts we are, all.
But it comes in handy
when limbo’s the call,
or in tying my shoes or
propelling a swing.
I have no illusion
of slam-dunking a ball,
but no matter that I still stand tall.
I’m not ‘little people’,
I’m just a tad short.
I don’t smoke or drink,
no time to cavort.
I’m just sort of average,
no more and no less.
There! I feel a little bit better
with that off my chest!
Were you channeling Dr. Seuss a little with this one Walt? I kept getting that familiar bouncy feeling while I was reading this. Painted a nice picture too.
I think the corporate web filter where I work ate the last attempt to post this, so here it is again, for the first time, I hope.
Sort of Metaphorical
The lines lie
They do; I catch them at it once in a while,
making the big middle-of-the-night ideas
explode all over my word count.
But my plot points are pennies
when they should be golden
Krugerrands or Double Eagles
The characters laugh at me behind my back.
Knowing full well they’ll go where they want
when they want. How they want. I am a lie
As an author, I’m a metaphor.
Sort of tired
Walking this road
Carrying the weight of the day,
Looking for strength which looms far away
Grasping for nothing at all
Then you remind me
I’m weak all alone
Powerless in myself,
Your strength is enough to carry me through
All of this life’s wearing days
Amen. Thank you for this.
Good prompt, Robert. Made me think really hard, and dig deep. Thanks for all you do. ^_^ Here goes:
Sort of Like That
Sort of like that shocking vertigo you get when you
walk unknowingly into the spray of a sprinkler
and you wonder why it’s suddenly raining
on such a bright sunny day.
Sort of like that sense of deja vu when you
meet someone on the street or at a café
or maybe at the grocery store, someone
you just thought of and really
wanted to talk to.
Sort of like when you’re laying on your back
in a field or on a hill outside, watching the
clouds flow quickly by, shapes changing
and you see a house or a heart or an
angel.
Sort of like opening a door when someone else
is trying to open it from the other side, and
you meet at the threshold, laughing.
Sort of like when you wake from a dream of
someone you love, and somehow, they
really are there with you, when you
thought you’d been parted for
all these years.
Sort of like that.
Lovely.
Thank you MIsk! ^_^
And a second came unbidden:
Trust is a Fragile Thing
Sort of open,
yet half closed
my heart waivers,
wants to trust
but then it seems
my heart knows,
knows the throes
of
your
endless
anguish;
the pain spent,
worry sent,
trouble lent.
And
scared
to scar you more
it closes once again.
Wow. Excellent job.
Thank you Marie Elena. <3
Sort of Stressed and Sick
Clock reads 1:49 am.
I lie there in the dark,
awake and unable to sleep,
worried that I’ll be so tired
tomorrow; my reserve of
patience to deal with talkative teens
already depleted before starting.
The thought hits me that I have 3 more
sets of papers to grade in 2 days
and grades are due Friday. My stress
soars, the worry compounds.
The clock reads 6:10 am. I
force myself to get up after a few
hours of shut eye. The glaucomter
reads 238,
signs of too much stress,
too much sugar
and not enough exercise.
Sick day?
I must go to school.
The APEs are doing their
first timed writing today.
I can’t miss class. They need me.
It’s nice to be needed,
but do I have enough to deal with the
sophomoric sophomores? Sweet kids but
hard to keep them focused.
Maybe I’ll take half a sick day.
A half for a half.
After all, I’m sort of stressed
and sick.
>Sort of a heart
Pulsating miracle
falls from a
branch, smashes open
on salt-covered rock,
yet keeps beating
as if eternal
Sort of Sick
Sort of achy, got a fever –
never mind, I just heard Justin Bieber.
Kinda itchy, got a rash again –
did someone mention Kim Kardashian?
There’s a roiling in my belly –
makes me think of RJ Kelly.
Sorry about all the moanin’,
I’m turning into Lindsay Lohan.
Gotta get well in a hurry –
Oh, please, don’t call Conrad Murray!
cute!
Sort of Wonderful
Walking at day’s first light
One sees those golden rays of glory
Not till dusk may I return
Dare not share this place to anyone
Every soul would dissolve harmony’s ground
Rather, I keep this hidden, all for myself
Full of warmth and new day’s hope
Uttering no sound, except my thumping heart
Live to love these moments, where peace absolves solitude.
Day 3
I liked this prompt a lot..
Sort of silent…
Sort of introspective – on my site over at http://poems.truckpoetry.net (along with days 1-2)
Sort of Equivocal
But then again, maybe not.
I don’t know.
I guess I could try to be
more decisive, perhaps.
But what if I make the wrong move,
say the wrong thing,
take the wrong turn?
That could be a disaster, possibly.
But it just might work out,
more or less.
You know what? It’s time
to make a commitment!
Stick to my guns!
Take the bull by the horns!
Sink or swim!
Yeah! I’m gonna do it!
Damn the torpedoes!
Full speed ahead!
You don’t think that was too forceful,
do you? I’m not sure.
I should think about it first.
P.S.: don’t forget to visit my Facebook page for my daily poetry video!
“I”m Sort of Sick”
I’m sort of sick but come what may
I’ll not admit to clouds of gray
When I’ve complained brave souls have fled
Or changed the subject eyes filled with dread
They’re sort of scared, few words to say.
With lots of hair and brows astray
Not to speak of how much I weigh
Though it’s the truth, I’m not in bed,
I’m sort of sick
Go down to chemo to my dismay
Your PET scan’s fine the doctors say
We cannot stop or it might spread
With 5 F U my daily bread
I steel myself to greet the day
I’m sort of sick.
Bless your heart!
This has a little twang to it, I think. A little steel guitar.
Sort of Forgotten
I’d closed the door, heading out.
Closed it on your angry shout.
Stood wondering if I’d figure out.
What had angered me so much about
You
The road was there that I knew well
But it could lead me straight to hell
which in my state was no hard sell
Still I stood waiting for a voice to tell
Me
Do this. Do that. Do it now and do it right.
Just because this sucks doesn’t mean don’t fight.
Dark memories can still be washed in light
There still exists, revealed by hope or sad insight
Us
Sort of like Heaven
being in your arms
safe, warm, no pain, no worries
surrounded by love
Sort of That Kind of Day
Today I did the laundry
put away some dishes
cleared up the kitchen
sort of
Made the bed, picked up clothes
ran the sweeper
swept the kitchen floor
sort of
I di some revisions
looked out my office window
wrote this poem
sort of
Sort of Short (a Sonku)
A child assumes life
lolls–a lazy hound
draped on southern porch
of old house–unchanged
as still life in oils.
Teens and young adults,
too busy living
full lives of promise,
are not seers, cannot
see futures fly by.
Somewhere in middle
years, life is measured
in terms of time left.
The ruler shrinks to
a few short inches.
Great sounds. Very nice.
Thanks!
I don’t like the title, but it got me there. Such are prompts: temporary tools.
Sort of a Ghost
In my periphery, St. Matthew’s Cathedral
is a burned-out hull. The shadows have drunk
the light, and all is empty. Alas, poor Yorick–
but no, straight on, it’s still inhabited by God
or the idea of God. John-John, now dead,
toddled on these steps at his father’s funeral.
My not-quite-mother-in-law–gone six months
before I married her son–would have prayed here
under a black mantilla, then walked up the narrow alley
to N Street, back to her third-floor walkup.
So many skeletons now, hollowed, that once
carried souls. Does warm brick hold spirits
better than granite? Or do I just imagine this illustrated religion
shimmering behind the flat red facade,
now living, now otherwise?
Pamela Murray Winters
Back. Now that I can THINK somewhat straighter…
Sort Of Crazy
The alarm doesn’t sound,
our hair is unkempt,
it’s sort of crazy
that we’ve been so lazy.
The children haven’t eaten;
we overslept,
and the only one sleeping–
quiet as it’s kept
says, “Give them mushrooms
and add some raisins”
which is kind of…crazy.
I don’t think they’re craving
that for breakfast;
Mom’s in ER. I get a call.
I don’t do hospitals–
clean and creepy–
but it’s my Mom! after all.
It’s sort of crazy,
I hold out hope
Thursday won’t end up crazy
in the middle of Fall.
Feels like I’m going…crazy.
The weather is rainy;
I will the sun to come out,
for it all to turn out
not so crazy.
Isn’t that crazy.
???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
definitely crazzy .. but the day is past you now .. so smile
Sort of Like a Death
Your belongings were returned to you in a box;
someone from HR picked up your shoes,
your books (no photos—you grabbed those),
sealed the box shut, wrote your name
for the last time, your address, so you could
open the box once, pull out anything
really important, then put it in the basement,
too ashamed to ever open it again. And yet,
how can you throw this box away?
Everything is haunted, the final shipment
from a life that never can return.
You called your wife, said you’d been let go;
she misheard, thought you’d said locked out.
In the gap before understanding, she wondered
where you were calling from, how you were lost,
how she could open the door you’d found locked.
Sometimes she still wonders.
I think too many people can relate to what you so beautifully expressed here.
Thanks! I’ve lived this for almost 2 years — I’m “the wife” here.
Looking at it from a different point of view helped me get at some of the sadness and shock of it that I find hard to express otherwise — because it’s not directly my tragedy, so I feel self-centered complaining about it.
Sort of Like Dancing
For a poet to share a poem that is well-received feels sort of like dancing.
The full creative expression is intoxicating. You’re floating, prancing.
It’s feels fresh and vibrant, sort of like being young again.
It feels like you find yourself as if meeting an old friend.
The satisfaction from a job well-done is applauded
when the creative self is accepted, even lauded.
Suddenly, the old “not-good-enough” lie died
and something wonderful came alive.
You’re lit from within and from above –
it’s almost like being in love.
It’s wonderful when you have that feeling, isn’t it? You’ve captured it well here.
Sort of Sotto Voce Today
by Rich Atwater Nov. 3, 2011
Last night I stayed up way too late, way past my normal bedtime:
“Seven-Eleven” is my usual motto! “Up by seven, to bed by eleven”.
I broke the rules of “Early to bed, early to rise”, as shown in this rhyme,
My tasks kept me up to 8:30 AM, an all night affair, not about heaven!
Tried to sleep all day, at least until noon, when the phone woke me up,
My college student daughter needs help with academically inclined stuff.
We finagled three hours our way through the maze, to fill her cognitive cup:
Hence, I’m sort of ‘Sotto Voce’ today with a voice that’s sounding quite gruff!
Nice! And you don’t sound gruff to me.
“He sort of… fell and hurt himself?!”
People don’t randomly just fall walking down the hall.
They trip over sibling’s sneaky feet though…
Also, there is no way you can “sort of” mean to
Hit your brother in the nose.
No mechanism by which you can “accidentally”
Spray the (thankfully vinegar and water) cleaner
On someone’s shirt instead of the bathroom mirror
Which you’re supposed to be cleaning.
A hug does not make your dear baby sister cry.
People don’t randomly burst into tears for no reason either.
And smiling is distinctly different
From an unblinking, sinister grin.
Sibling relationships are a wary barrier
Between friend and enemy
Stretched taut across the middle
Of a shared bedroom.
I suppose this poem shows what my morning was like pretty accurately with sibling squabbles! They’re not really this bad though!
My second-grade daughter is doing nanowrimo kids, and I have been missing writing poetry, so I’ve been doing this challenge while she writes a book, but only had time to post mine today. She wanted her screenname and mine to match, so we both have “Agent” something after a character from her favorite cartoon (Phineas and Ferb).
SORT OF LIKE FALLING
Snow and leaves slip lovingly
through the air taking their time
to swoop and dance gracefully.
Delicate milkweed and dandelion fluff
meander on a whim here and there
tasting the breeze as they float.
Stars streak the sky
a timely falling
painting a trail for eyes to follow.
My heart is full
discovering what it means
to be falling in love with you, again.
What a beautiful, light-hearted piece! Great job, Hannah!
Nikki! Thank you so much!
MMmmmmmm … so lovely …
So glad you enjoyed!
this delivers the mix of sensation from floating to streaking – the heart filling as the space fills with falling – very nice
Uplifting comment, thank you, Jane!
“Sort of Living…”
A man cannot be caught in between –
Living life as though it were a routine;
To direction and purpose he must cling –
Live in the moment, yet for a victory ring.
For though he may be caught up in much,
The reins he must pull, with a gracious touch;
For as he watches her grace the blooms,
He feels his destiny in her midst looms,
Not for play and not for jest –
By her presence he is outwardly blessed.
His life is not bequeathed lightly –
For with his heart, he must live rightly.
–I need to write a sestina soon and I love reading this blog to see the different forms that people use; I was almost going to ask someone to please post a sestina – so, thank you Walt, your sestina was absolutely lovely! Also Robert, I searched for your posts on poetic forms but the one for Sestina was no longer active it seems…I wondered if you might post something else about the Sestina sometime again? You guys are all so talented and you dance with your words – I love it (its fun to be a bystander).
“Sort of Like Ice Cream in December”
Timmy Tom ran two blocks
7 at night, unafraid
Gone to the ice cream shop
All his thoughts never strayed
Bright streetlights lit his path
White snow showered the streets
Mum would be full of wrath
But he’s in for a treat
Soon he approach the door
Timmy now face dismay
‘Go away little boy
There’s no ice cream today’
Teardrop he beholds
While left in the cold
“Sort of on Fire…”
In a convergence of modern
Conveniences, leftovers
Dash from fridge to microwave.
That pesky need to eat
Checked quickly off the
List of more pressing to-dos.
Poppoppop.
The sparks and smoke.
Efficiency spoiled by the
Marvel that is aluminum foil.
Dammit.
Thoughtful and funny – thanks Mosk
reminder of – sort of habits difficult to change – like this one for sure
Sort of Annoyed
There’s a million things to do
Only one at a given moment
So, Which one to choose?
brings a smile – like the lightness mixed with annoyed this gives
Sort of worn
The house breathes and contracts.
Cold assails her visage of
worn and faded appendages.
Yet there are years left
in her echoing halls
that wrap like comfortable
arms around her love.
Lost members return
to her hallowed halls
after years searching
for a place to call home
only to remember their first love.
It’s Sort of Old
it’s sort of old
this shared life
You sing
how you came
so long ago
to know it’s sort
of me and you
it’s sort of old
how the years enfold
and sort of grand
how you came
so long ago
to know how best
to hold us close
your song
it’s sort of old
like you and me
Well put!
Toni
Sorta Like the Start of Winter
sorta like the start of winter
even warm rain strips the leaves
drinking coffee by the window
is a little bit like grief.
Sort of a Mess / Sort of a Double Helix Abecedarian
A Zookeeper’s
Biggest Yak?
Constant Xantis
Dung! – Walruses!
Elephants! -Voluminous
Fecal Undertakings!
Goat Turds!
How Should
Intentioned Rookie
Janitors Quarantine
Kangaroo Poop?
Lesson One:
MANDATORY! Never
Neglect Monkeys
over Long
Periods. (2.) Koalas,
Quetzals – Just
Robustly Insist:
Shit How
Those Gracious
Unicorns (Feeling
Very Enlightened)
Would Do.
(3.) Xylene Cleans
Your Biggest
Zebra accident.
Very clever!
Well, my first post of this poem is still caught up in moderation, but I’ve had a bit to think on it and edit it, and I like this better, so I’m reposting. Also, it’s hard to write when children are squabbling with each other!
Sort of fell and hurt himself?!
People don’t randomly just fall, kid
Unless sneaky sibling limbs are involved.
Also, there is no way to “unintentionally”
Punch your brother in the nose.
No mechanism by which you can “accidentally”
Spray the (thankfully non-toxic) cleaner
On her shirt instead of the bathroom mirror
Which you are supposed to be cleaning.
A hug does not make your dear baby sister cry.
People don’t “mysteriously” burst into tears either.
Also, smiling is distinctly different
From an unblinking, sinister grin.
I know well how siblings tightrope
On the thin line between friend and enemy.
I have two siblings of my own you know,
And I was once seven too.
Sort of stupid
“How about Vanessa?” Colin asked me
walking home from school. “She’s all right, eh?”
A bead of sweat rolled slowly down my back
as I imagined her in Chemistry,
the way she brushed against me at the sink,
her golden hair, the curve beneath her tie
that charmed the eyes of all the fifth form boys.
I hesitated just a beat too long
and Colin punched me with a leering grin.
“Vanessa, eh? You dirty rogue! It’s her
you fancy, then?” I shrugged and heard myself
admit the news he would not keep: “Sort of.”
Awww! This happens to most kids, doesn’t it now? Brilliantly worded, Andrew.
Not sort of – I’ve been there! You hit the nail on the head! – Thanks Mosk
Sort of Strange
My husband gets better
looking to me the older he is
though we’ve been together
over 40 years.
I have a passion for
my creative work,
it doesn’t even seem a choice.
Love for my son grows,
it’s stronger than his death.
I am calmer now, more so
than when I was twenty
or fourth or even fifty.
That the world’s situation is
as dire and shocking as ever,
but if I can’t change it, I let it go.
Isn’t that strange.
Sort of Weird
He’s not the sort to comb his hair.
He’s not the sort to care.
He’s not the sort for matching.
He gulps, he burps, he stares.
He has a sort of side wink
that really brings a chill.
Maybe I won’t look at him,
but I sort of think I will.
by Pam B.
Adorable. flirty and fun and a great use of the prompt.
With little revision, a poem from fatherhood experience.
Sort of Dinner
The fight has gone out
Of me and it spills into
The kitchen, across
Carpet and tile and table
Onto a small waiting
Plate that my son aged
Three, busy with anything
But food, sanctions as the U.N.
Does a hostile dictator.
Paragons of valor and bravery,
Mother and Grandmother,
Respond with vegetables.
I will capitulate Doritos
To lose the battle but win the war.
-Cory Funk
“Sort of ready”
Feel how November settles in
with a gentle encouragement
to surrender your dearest plan.
It renders your life transparent
as you look out, expecting rain.
We say The Veil wanes thin and gaunt,
but when sunlight fills every day,
we don’t speak of it at all, caught
under the thick blanket of rays.
But now, I’m ready and resigned.
Last summer, we had so many
apples, we left dozens to rot
that we might have eaten or saved.
That’s how June arrives, like a knot
untied, loosing a bridled colt
who eats the apples on the spot:
hoof, bite, start, trot, ready or not.
Sort of Tossed Away
like a tube of toothpaste rolled up ;
like a half eaten bag of chips stuffed in a child’s jacket pocket ;
like an oil rag used to wipe off dip sticks and carburetors one time too many;
sort of how life feels somedays.
Then I dig through the garbage and drag it out one more time.
When It’s Urgent
It’s sort of
like needing a pee
but you can’t
crawl over
the knee of the passenger
sleeping next to you
Sort of What?
Do we know or
Will someone tell us?
Is it a judgement
Based on ourselves?
Is it a look, is it a stare
Or words from somewhere?
Where did it come from
Her mind, rambling, like mine?
Thoughts pouring out
like water from a vessel.
Who decides, you, me
or she?
Sorry. Try again.
SORT OF URGENT!
It’s sort of
like needing a pee
but you can’t
crawl over
the knee of the passenger
sleeping next to you
And then, there’s the whole baby diaper thing and you can’t get in line….
Or you’re sort of elderly and unsteady on your sticks, and the plane hits turbulance.
Gotta go when you gotta go…
My dad, bless him, always said the same as he’d disappear behind a bush along the highway.
LOL
Sort of Done
I sweep the corners
of your room—
ashes, tissues, objects
I refuse to touch,
a yellow baseball cap.
From the closet, I gather
blocks and robots
and dinosaurs,
and put them in a box,
snapped shut.
I wipe your desk clean.
Oh, you’ll be back
to kick the blue quilt
to the floor, leave socks in
sheets, and slam the door.
The smells and moods
will be the same: hard to take
and precious, too.
Even then, I’m sort of done
My hands are free.
The day is mine.
So real. Love it.
Nice!
SORT OF MASHED POTATOES
I fed my husband
beef and gravy over mashed
Gerber baby rice.
*ahem* I think I’ll be heading to the grocery store now …
At least it was healthy.
Heehee! My sweet hubby not only did not complain, but he actually thought it tasted like instant mashed potatoes. Who knew?
Sort of Struggling for Inspiration
Sort of tired, sort of bored,
Sort of at a loss for words.
Sort of wish the muse had stayed.
My poem sort of got away.
Sort of had the same problem! But hey, I guess that was your muse the genuine struggle expressed in simplicity.
Sort of Famous
I Google Buddah Moskowitz
and am immediately
second-guessed.
“Did you mean
Buddha Moskowitz?”
in that snotty italicized font
with its implied superiority.
No, I intentionally misspell it
like the 1970’s record label.
Then I see
all the sites where I have
scattered my “poetry”
to the winds,
my mutant seed spread
in the hope
they’ll find forgiving
and fertile land.
I tell myself
it doesn’t matter if I’m “famous.”
I have followers
from all walks of life,
and some even part
with their hard earned money
to buy my “poems”.
So what do I want?
An Oscar?
A Pulitzer Prize?
The respect and admiration
from some obscure
“poetry” “journal” publisher?
Nope.
I just want one of those
seemingly in-depth
interviews
like I’ve seen in
Rolling Stone,
where they try to discover
what drives me
what excites me
what disgust me
what inspires me.
They’d make me sound
important
relevant
and essential.
But,
I know the odds
of that ever happening
so,
I keep adding
to the interview
I am conducting on myself
one poem at a time.
Google did the same thing to me once when I tried your name, Bruddah dear.
Love this idea that your autobiographical poems are a self-interview. Nice take, Buddah! The fame thing leaves me cold, too. I know some famous people and they get all jaded and above it, like somehow knowing someone from their old haunts (or “street” in this case) brings them down in stature. Blah. Let’s stick together in obscurity!! Love, Ameleh
I.LOVE.this. So much.
Add me to the love it list.
You are important, relevant, and essential! I look forward to reading the rest of your interview, one poem at a time.
Love this comment, and in full agreement.
This was a double prompt; We Write Poems wanted a Trick or Treat theme. I decided that it’s never too early to get on Walt’s “naughty” list!! Amy http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/trick-or-treat/
Trick… or Treat?
He sort of eyed her across the bar
“Have we met?” he pretended
She went along – a good-looking guy
His line was comprehended
They went to her place that same night
In heat, their bodies blended
At dawn, he left her fifty bucks
Hoped she’d not be offended
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
“I know I’m ugly – why a hooker once told me she had a headache.” – Rodney Dangerfield
Great poem Ameleh
Sort of Like Italy
All the day I longed for Italia
remembering the blue green sea.
I thought if I could purchase
Parmesiano from the grocery
or drink Limoncello, tart and cold,
to cleanse the palate and soothe the throat
or eat aciuge, salty and bold,
or read tales of Dante I could quote,
Ah, then, I’d be in Nervi for sure;
the olive groves, the vines of grapes
where on terraced hills a warbler trills.
But to be in the Italia I know
Stop ‘n Shop is not the place to go.
I love this! I miss Italia too — and I’ve never been there…yet.
Put it on the top of your list, Chamie…..you’ll not be sorry
Jealous, regardless!
Sort of Salty
with a chance
of sun
northern breezes
blowing (partly cloudy)
helter skelter skies,
green eyes
somewhat sunny
with a chance of
tears.
Like this fresh weathered poem
Oh De! We both had the same thought! I was just scrolling up after I posted–quite a lovely poem, my friend, beautifully done
Gorgeous! Just gorgeous. – Moskowitz
Hi De jackson!
Sort of Salty? Wonderful.
See ya.
Stunning, as usual.
Sort of the best I could do today:
Sort of Sick
Not ill enough
To go to bed,
And yet I would,
If only I could,
There’s too much to do,
On my plate,
And my in box is stuffed
Like my nose,
Files clogged,
Like my ears,
Itchy eyes,
Aching head
Chores done,
Deadline met,
Poem written,
Check!
Not bad for
Sort of sick.
Not bad at all
Way to go Sort of Sick!
Sort of Salty
Cruisin’ the waves
Slicing the sea
Sitting front and starboard
Avoiding the lee
When the captain took
A sharp turn
The boat shimmied and shook
Sea spray hit the bow
And now
I’m brinier than I look
Pingback: November PAD Challenge 3 « Yay Words!
Robert, I loved your poem, the images, the flow–really spoke to me
Had to write another–
Sort of Turquoise
Green mixed with sky blue
And rays of sunshine
Dancing on wavelets
A touch of breeze
Turns the sea
Aqua that defies
The painter’s palette
And
Begs a finger to trail in it
love the way this moves through – especially from touch of breeze into finger trailing image – yes lovely
Just lovely!
Sort of Awkward
like the time I went to visit
the wall-sized mural of Poe on 7th street
and it said Why do you come here so often?
or when Alicia caught me off guard
with a hello at work
and it took me almost six seconds to say hello back
or when I see my neighbor
and he talks about the millions he is trying to make
and I can only address Ally,
his bear-like Saint Bernard
because hers is the name I know.
I’m sorry if you don’t understand
but this seems to only makes sense
when screamed into an exhaust pipe.
It’s been weeks and I still can’t shake this cough.
It used to be that such awkwardness could ruin
entire seasons
but carelessness is a learned attribute
and we are all students,
and I, my dear, excel at studentry!
It was before the Introduction to the inventor’s
biography that he spoke about changing the world
and you thought he was speaking right to you
and had to finish the book that night
just to make sure he never mentioned your name.
You Sort Of Remind Me
You sort of remind me of someone I knew
A long time ago when I was just two
She was much older, sort of like me today
You remind me of her, in a weird sort of way
She watched me, I think, when my parents went out
She fed me and cleaned me and chased me about
She read bedtime stories that put me to sleep
And if I had nightmares, she’d help me count sheep
You sort of remind me of her, yes you do
I can still see her face, even though I was two
You bring back the memories, just as they were
You must think me daft, of course, you’re not her
So, pardon me please for my interruption
I meant no harm by my obvious presumption
But you sort of remind me of someone I knew
A long time ago when I was just two
Sweet…
I enjoyed the rhythm very much.
I love this Earl.
That Sort of Day
I’m sort of tired
but I can’t fall asleep
although I want to.
I’m sort of hungry
but I can’t afford the calories
although I want to.
I’m sort of inspired
but I can’t find the words
although I want to.
It’s been that sort of day.
Hang in there, friend. We’re not going anywhere.
Sort of new
Frost hangs heavy
on the grass
at morning light,
reflections of impending winter
fill my eyes
I long to return
North, where the cold
winter staked
claim months ago
in my heart
The land of snow and
ice beckons me;
its frozen finger traces
a line down
my spine, shivers
Grass is still green,
bees are seen on flowers
and sun warms
the earth in my new
Nova Scotia home
Life is sort of new:
difficult for me to embrace,
to fit in, and yet
I know
if I tried, I could belong
Quite lovely Carolyn, I’m still adjusting to going from 4 seasons to 2 (in the tropics…) Love the words “frozen finger traces a line down my spin, shivers” very nice
Such beautiful imagery.
Pingback: Sort of Sunny | Prose Posies
Sort of Okay
I’m not sure I can remember
life as it was before.
I can still see December.
The tree, the presents-
I know they were there.
The winter coats and hats
back when you had hair.
Life started over
the day we carried you in
loving arms, seeking answers,
to those who give answers.
You slept in Daddy’s arms.
He held you so tight
while nurses and doctors
ran circles around us that night.
“Are you okay,” they ask.
They who I don’t know
but somehow cling to for life
in this very moment for life.
How okay can you really be
when your son, whose all of three
is rushed in loving arms
seeking answers
and the answer is brain cancer?
I sort of remember who
I was before then.
Staring at the same tree-
looks so different to me,
hoping this isn’t your last December.
Slip a hat on your bald head,
so innocent, so clean.
It’s sort of cute.
If not for the truth…
Leenadria
Oh, my … I wish I had words …
Heartbreaking.
Good work…
Incredibly sad…
Thank you. True story, unfortunately. It was very difficult to write. But, my son is 5 now and 17 months in remission.
beautiful poem. I hope he stays that way.
Crazy busy with work these days, barely have time to unwind with poeming. Oy.
…
(A Loud) Sort of Quiet
Once you live in the city for long enough,
it gets impossible to curl yourself up in the long, still dark.
That velvet bag is sewn shut with headlight needles,
with threads spun from the sudden shock of broken bottles
ringing in the alleyways, sirens a few streets over.
Night becomes a pool to be submerged in, the color of
closed eyelids, coppery and unknown. Even sleep carries
rhythm after that, like the tracks after the train comes.
The edges of it hum as you roll past them, dreaming.
And then when you wake up, break your face through
into the day again, there is no shock at the sudden
white cracked out of the sky, no surprise at traffic, garbage
trucks, crowds of thousands: only a feeling of welcome,
something sonic and comforting that you slip into
easy as an old pair of jeans. (Whereas the suburban night
becomes a beached thing, dead and still and sorrowful.)
Joseph, if this is what happens when you’re “crazy busy” then just go with that – there are so many powerful, beautiful images here – some favorites:
“velvet bag sewn shut with headlight needles” and “the color of eyelids, coppery and unknown.” I’m so glad you found a few moments to grace us with this.
I love that sleep carries rhythm, like train tracks…and so many more images here. (Rural nights are filled with tree frogs and cicadas, fox barking and night rains…and yes, I sleep just fine;-D) A beautiful poem, Joseph
That’s why I picked suburban: city and country have their own kinds of noise, but the in-between is too quiet for me anymore.
Sort of out of Sorts
Sort of… out of Sorts
You could say
From the break of dawn until the end of the day
Out of whack, twisted, and all deranged
I often think my life is kind of strange
Bewildered, befuddled a little confused
By the time I reach my computer
To stir up some muse
like old peanut butter in need of a stir
add the oil, elbow grease
It’s all been a blur.
Sorting through words to express my commands
Observing at a distance
The PAD in the stands
Sorting through poems, comments, replies
Sifting each prompt with a smile, with a sigh
Sorting through feelings across many heart strings
Staying in the challenge amongst so many things
Steadfastly unwavering ever constantly
November PAD challenge
It’s only day three!
Love your heart, your encouragement, and your words.
Hey, how are ya?
It’s mutual…
Us PAD poemers have to stick together.
Sort of Leaving
Said he was
but stuck
only one foot
out the door
the other in his mouth
choking on steel
-toed sole
and words
hurled as weapons.
It’s okay
she thinks
I’m only sort of staying.
Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant. I would know this was yours if it was among thousands with no names attached.
I love that: One foot out the door and the other…..
the disconnect another way to stay and go – like this one a lot
I love it. So much said in so few words.
Sort of thought I would always love you
Sort of thought I would always love you
Thought that we would always be together
The rain came swiftly after the pain
I ran from the nightmare of you, never to look again
He came along and I didn’t know what to do
He healed my heart with one word; he said ‘strength’ and it made me whole
Never did I expect to fall in love once again
But he was patience, he was kind, he nursed my wounds, he fixed the broken door
Never did I know that happiness like this could truly be
My own personally fairytale, my knight and shine army; from day one he never fell
Now I get to ride off into the sunset, happily ever after, we have finally met
As the light get brighter my heart melt, and then my alarm destroys the dream
I wake up next to you, my hell, my endless nightmare
…good night fairytale.
Holy Fairytales! you had me going!
What a contrast. What a suprise ending. That was almost like reading a novel.
Pingback: Sort of Like White-Out (NaNoWriMo – Day 3) « echoes from the silence
I’m always going to be sort of late posting…my computer at work doesn’t like the cookies it finds here. Hmm…I’ve done my fair share of baking, perhaps I could offer my services!?
Anyway…here’s my poem for the day…finally.
SORT OF LIKE WHITE-OUT
Time and again
I am found on my knees,
at the foot of the cross
asking, “Forgive me, please?”
Your sins are forgiven
the slate, wiped clean;
but the Father doesn’t forget…
do you know what I mean?
One day you will answer
for all you have done,
just remember to tell Him
you were saved by His Son.
2011-11-03
P. Wanken
Amen Sister,
and by the way, God has amnesia when it comes to your sins. Read Hebrews 8:12.
another reason for a position of great gratitude too
Why do we even use simile?
It’ s kind of like married couples
Sleeping in twin beds. My love
Is not like a red, red rose.
It’s more like a sunflower
Flagging in the sun.
I am more interested
In things are not alike.
I’m kinda like Billy Collins
Only poorer and shorter.
Though I still have my hair.
Everyone knows you can’t be
A little bit pregnant
You either are or you’re not
Most things except maybe crazy
It’s kinda like shaking hands
With your neighbor of twenty years
Above a barbed wired fence
Amen Sister,
and by the way, God has amnesia when it comes to your sins. Read Hebrews 8:12.
Amen, and amen! Both of you just warmed my heart richly!
Thanks Benjamin…and Marie Elena…your “amens” encourage me.
That last comment was meant for PM Wanken.
Sort of Repressed Memories
Sour breast-milk, dirty diapers, and tears
Of bitter hopelessness
These are scents –
Tastes really that formed
On the back of my tongue –
With which I sometimes awakened
And all I knew was: they were not mine
Also, impressions of being rocked hard
then not so much
And hearing a voice I didn’t recognize
whisper-singing
“Lullaby and good-night…”
Being clutched and cradled in arms
alternately loving and despairing
I always came awake before
I could dream of much more …
I know I began life in an orphanage
I know my birth-mother did rock me
And sang to me, even breast-fed me
As it happens – all of which I learned
Long after I began having the dreams …
It’s sort of interesting in a heart-breaking
Sort of way – at least that’s how
It felt when she told me,
And even now, years later again
When I picture her and the babe
There, in that place at that time.
Powerful. It’s amazing how a poem can be so short and yet so full; managing to tell a complete story. This was nice.
Sort of Stacked
Round and tender, they
spoke to me, come eat, come eat.
I grabbed the syrup.
sweet – sweet
Heehee!
Thanks, Ladies.
sorta kinda broke i am
sorta kinda broke i am
no money in my pocket
sorta kinda broke i am
i just can’t seem to hack it
sorta kinda broke i am
busted my knee in bad weather
sorta kinda broke i am
doc’ll put me back together
Sort of Like Leaving
Things behind and unfinished
when I do really want to stay behind
and not let go
of the fact that he doesn’t want
things to work out
and end up cutting me off
in every way: not an email here,
a dial tone there.
Instead I am left
in thought wondering
on every holiday and birthday
if he thinks of me and what
should and could have been.
But who am I kidding?
Happiness is only worth more
if I move forward because he wasn’t there
to refine the definition
of love or romance.
It’s sort of like leaving
parts of myself behind in search
of something I can’t quite grasp
or articulate but all the more
worth searching for.
Sort of Sunny (a triolet)
The weatherman says sort of sunny,
bees and honey, and all that jazz.
Yet it’s raining now and not at all funny
the weatherman says sort of sunny.
His predictions are never right on the money
but does that stop all his razzamatazz?
The weatherman says sort of sunny,
bees and honey, and all that jazz.
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Sort of Wishing
For the smell of the salty sea
Warmly washing o’er me
And the brilliance of the bright green meadows
With soft white sheep in the shadows
For the yellow cottage so pristine
Perched perfectly there by the seaside stream
And the tethered old, red wooden boat
Idling it’s time away afloat
For the seabirds on the quay
Whilst precious Nicholas shared our tea
Brian generously leaving us fish
True friends were made and forever missed.
For the voices that sing perfect harmony
My heart does long to return to thee
And walk the ancestral coastal path
That gave me roots and love to last.
“Sort of like Tuesday”
Stranded
Somewhere between the
Memory of the weekend
Past and the pipe
Dreams of the weekend
Ahead. Just shy of
Halfway, hoping past
Accolades can carry you
Along until you dig
Deep enough to strike
Greatness again.
Good stuff, Nikki. Good stuff.
The Last Re-Sort
Sort of nervous
Sort of scared
Sort of slightly unprepared
Sort of jumpy
Sort of flighty
Sort of something-isn’t-righty
Sort of sorry now I started
Sort of– Whoops! (I
Sort of farted)
Sort of naseous (nauseated?)
Sort of wish I’d
Sort of waited
Sort of anxious
Sort of ready
Sort of dizzy
Sort of steady
Sort of– Hey, was that a locust?
Sort of struggling to stay focused
Sort of shocked I made it here
Sort of sad the end is near
Sort of eager
Sort of wistful
Sort of ignorantly blissful
Sort of calmly confident
Sort of glad the panic went
Sort of up for what’s to come
Sort of frightened; mostly numb
http://trollpants.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/the-last-re-sort/
GREAT rhythm and rhyme! Fun, fun stuff! I’ll be watching for you, papa!
Sort of wished I’d have come up with that one. Love it.
OK, I strayed from the prompt a bit, making the first line start with “Sort of”. Call it poetic license. This just way to accurately describes my afternoon
–Von
Two Boys After School
Sort of like a flash flood they
rush through rooms randomly
depositing a 40 pound
backpack, a left shoe (size 13), a
cat, who objects, a right shoe (size 5), a
bowl of Lucky Charms and then a
bowl of Mini Wheats and a glass of
orange juice and the carton it came from, a
different cat, who does not object, a
permission slip for the trip to the
Museum of Flight, a dirty but must be
clean tomorrow team uniform, a picture of
7 zombies battling a squid, a list of
spelling words, addition flash cards and a
note with a negative lunch balance, two
mismatched socks, one with a hole in the toe,
broken pencils and finally their bodies on the
couch in loose-limbed abandon.
SORT OF LIKE DANCING
Among the elegance of trees,
The calm breezes build,
Bows and curtsies,
Ebb and flow,
Tall and giant branches,
Find their crescendo
As if some silent orchestration.
Reigns high in the sky,
Winds of change usher in,
First November storm in the mountains,
Waves on the lake,
Shift their fluid momentum,
Both their flow and surge,
Aiming higher,
Lapping beyond where they were before,
Everything appears to be swaying
By some unknown tune,
To a soft but mighty hum,
Natural enough,
Yet to what end,
Will they acclaim to,
Before the still silence follows,
When the music slows,
And the dance of the trees,
Fade back,
Into a new accepted beauty,
Of a perfectly snow flocked order,
Standing still,
With only the signs of their,
Past harmony,
Now wonderfully attuned,
With winter appearing on time,
At my door,
Our house by the lake,
Now part of the glory of nature’s song,
Reminding me of the majesty,
Of an endless cycle,
With the soundless music!
Of a beautifully natural and,
Welcomed change!
THERE YOU ARE!! Welcome, Janet! Lovely and uplifting as always. SO glad you made it!
kinda sorta (it means the same thing)
sorta, but not exactly – welcome to the mystery
of the men of the sorta wild West who still
cherish the local lingo – and vaquero style
riding – with the hats but without the heavy bits.
ride ‘em – or sort of, cowboy. we know you’re
heavy handed for the good stuff. but that’s
okay – you can text your riding instructor
when shove comes to push. off you go. sorta.
“sort of in love”
that
almost
kiss
at the
end of
our
kind of
date
in my
borrowed
car
after the
OK
movie
made me
feel like
we were
sort of
in love
Clever!
SORT OF LIVING
I sometimes wonder what
It would be like to
Live
Full out
Pedal to the metal
No holds barred
Play to win
Life’s arms open
I hide
In someone else’s
pixelated fantasy
I imagine myself
Gaga-esque
Singing torch songs on a piano
Living the unimagined life
Out Loud
And somedays I think I just might
Dare – sort of
Sort of Loving Me
in spite of my looks,
my plainness, my short fat legs
and sad saggy bum
in spite of the lines
that criss-cross my face like some
giant chequerboard
in spite of my chest
where certain things have flown south
for a long winter
in spite of the moods
and hot flushes as hormones
drive us both crazy
in spite of all this
you’re still here, holding my hand
loving me – sort of
Northern Lights
I have wished to see
The Northern Lights
All my life
The crimson
Just above the mountains
Was sort of like
What I think
The Northern lights
Look like
The Northern Lights
Colors dance in the sky
Seen in Northern climes
This morning
The crimson
Above the mountains
Completes my desire
I will call them
The Eastern Lights
Sort of middling
Just a middling sort of day
Where you are happy to see the end
Watch the sun set into darkness
And catch the A train to sleep
Happy to see an end
Where memories are fused
Catch the A train to sleep
And dream of you clear sharp focused
Where memories are fused
I watch the fading
Dream of you clear sharp focused
And wait the good days
I watch the fading
When sun sets into darkness
Wait the good days
But know it’s just a middling sort of day
Megan
“Sort of a Pattern”
His fingers
pluck at my insides.
His tattoos
chronicle
the depth of his suffering.
I’ve fallen again.
Sort of Enjoying Autumn
Trees dressed in electrifying hues,
temperature perfect for snuggling at night,
harvest plentiful –
Use to be my favorite season,
but I can’t help wondering if it’s my last.
Besotted
It is sort of like fishing
you gather bait.. set the hook
Then you reel them …..
wait where did I leave my pole?
Pole cats.. Pole ax.. Pole vault too..
that was my second carreer choice
Ballet was my first…. but..
Daddy said I needed to be a writer.
Writers.. My brother Jimmy said
were everyone single one.. a liar!
I was paid a few times for my lies..
and I am proud to have given it a shot..
A shot.. that’s what I was about to do
get a shot.. That flue shot is a nasty thing..
but a tequila shot is another ballgame
Now.. Bar tender… where did I put the lime?
Sort of Khaki-colored
Each day I look at a Great Lake
(Michigan, to be exact) just five
crow-flown blocks from the pane
of my sixth floor window. Never
the same, some days it’s sky-blue
as we’d expect a lake to be: some
variation of that shade. Not true.
As elusive as hand-held water, is
this water’s color. Some mornings
I open the blinds to silver plate. I
shut them at dusk on petals of rose
ranging from purple to pale pink.
On occasion, the lake looks like
someone spilled buckets of milk.
An autumn chill can turn the lake
pied, floating light green patches
atop steel-blue surface. I scarcely
know the color to expect. Today
for example, the water is sort of
a strange khaki-color, I suppose,
from yesterday’s churning waves.
Marian O’Brien Paul
I’m Sort of Pissed
I’m sort of pissed.
It is hard enough for artists
To receive any understanding
In a capitalistic society
Where praised names like
The Redskins and the Yankees
Are more popular than it’s
Cultural institutions like, say;
The Metropolitan Museum of Art or
The Women’s Museum.
But when all our money
Goes to the rich it becomes
Impossible to even see any
Future for our children who
Would be the future artists.
I’m just saying.
I’m sort of pissed.
Sort of a trend
Open eyes and find a couple
sitting on a sofa,
too lazy to eat dinner at
the dining room table that has now
become cluttered with circulars
and political mailers.
Blink, and then move into a room
with the sound of television
and heat pushing through ducts,
they sit on opposite ends with
their backs to each other.
Blink again and find them
motionless, under layers of blankets,
a wide gap separates and keeps them cold.
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Sort of Sanguine
Ruddy, bloody,
cheerful and bright.
We’ll paint the town
quite red tonight.
A pint for you,
and I’ll take two,
the last man standing
gets the loo. Before
you fall they yell “Last Call”
Everybody hit the bricks,
it’s a quarter hour past two.
Running late tonight–been enjoying my next-to-last day at the beach!
Day 4 11-4-2011
Write about finding something unexpected.
Unexpected
I’d given up.
Resigned myself
to life as a single,
though my heart’s desire was to marry,
to raise a family with a man I loved and who loved me.
A chance photo in the paper,
my mom recognizing the young pharmacist
from the neighborhood drugstore,
my taking it to show him–at her prompting–
led to our first date.
I’d never met someone so easy to be with.
Our conversations never lagged.
We survived my craziness over a previous
broken engagement,
and his kind, good-humored, intelligent ways
convinced me he was a gift from God.
One evening eight months past our first date,
we chatted on the phone into the wee hours.
He’d given me a standing invitation, so I said,
“Let’s do what you suggested.”
Unexpectedly, we became engaged over the phone.
Thirty-two years later,
life is as stable and predictable as is safe,
yet every day we find greater joy and more surprises
than we ever expected.
Wrote poems on the previous days, but only used the prompt on Day 2. ‘Thought I would catch up by writing some on days 3-5 today.
Sort of Bliss
by Rachel Hyde
I am sure this is some sort of bliss,
this thing we have that is not misery—
a wrapping and unwrapping,
chiming years at each rotation.
I am sure this is some sort of life,
our gentle turns and trades:
who is the beloved one today?
Peace comes with ablation.
I am sure this is some of love,
the training of a heart to care
too much, of an eye to slowly soften,
the mutuality of youth’s cessation.
Grrr. Keep getting a “posting too quickly” error message. I’ll try again. 2 down, 2 to go, working backwards.
Sort Of Works
Autumn squeezes the last light of the day
over ochre and amber-tipped trees
that shiver along route 81 North. Eighteen
wheelers, commuters, and tourists roll
with the last rays seeping through rear-view
windows. Shadows stretch and the couple
eyes the horizon, she feigning deep sleep,
he avoiding conversation. She closes her eyes
behind sunglasses, craving night. He grips
the wheel, watches the fading foliage, craving her
sort of
short and
pointless
this
sort of
“sort of”
poem
I am playing catch up and a week hasn’t gone by… I hope to continue.
Pamela
You are Missed
SORT OF HINDENBURG
It’s such a beautiful day, they’re
washing the hearse, it’s sleek black
skin getting polished to perfection
while I drive past whistling the
theme from Star Wars, admiring
(in abstract) the commitment of the
Death Star, the massive labor and
expense just to make the universe
stand to and shout Yes, SIR! or
else. Lately I’ve been feeling that
cocky, like a bird perched on a
strand of barbed wire fence
I keeping landing in between the
points, singing while the cattle
all get herded towards the
slaughterhouse. Everything is
on sale for me, 50% off the
markdown price, and I got my
golden ticket tucked safe in
my pocket. Yet I can’t stop thinking
of those passengers in pressed
suits, awed with the excess of
chrome and comfort, taking their
seat on the dirigible, thinking This
is the life, while a pretty little spark
prepares to do its work, to remind
us every floating moment is some
sort of Hindenburg
Sort of
a side
tossed off
bit of
a piece of
a little
later bit of
a day of
peace.
OK… jumping over day 2 (for now) and hopping into day 3 with this one:
Sort of Blank
Multi-colored pens linger at my fingertips.
Pads of empty pages loiter close at hand.
I tarry, awaiting some hint of a whisper,
wisp of a notion, vision, image, idea
Something
Anything
but,
my mind,
(and
the paper),
remain
blank
Sort of Magic
The way the cardinal calls each morn
The way the flowers turn to face noon
The way the mountain melts each eve
Sort of magic, the way your kiss
transports me to a place
only the two of us can find
Sort of…but not quite
It’s like that,
well, not like that,
but it’s like that.
Not that.
I mean, not actually that…
…but like that.
It’s sort of, well…
…you know what I mean
It’s like that,
well, not that.
But like that…
…sort of!
Iain
Sort of beautiful
The way the edges of clouds turn pink
just as the sun drops out of sight,
their centers gaining weighty purples
and grays, gaining extra dimensions
like the world just slipped on 3D glasses
waving good-bye to that shimmering yolk
sliding down the blue albumen of sky.
The way she bites on her tongue
when she’s bored and sucks in air
between her teeth, filling the silence
with the whistling noise of concentration,
working a Sudoku with a blue pen,
feet tucked beneath her on the couch
so her toes stay warm.
How it rains every day in the Caribbean,
just long enough to rinse the heat off the breeze,
clouds marching like white and purple freight cars
in an endless train whose engine has vanished
beyond the horizon, where the rainfall darkens
like a bruise on the arm, leaving a humidity
that fogs up windows with a lover’s passion.
When her smile pulls one from my own face,
turning all the lights on in my head,
those twinkling spots of brightness in her eyes
the place where my sadness goes to die,
hooking her pinky finger around my own
in a moment of quiet tenderness that needs no words
to describe the perfection of perfection.
drifting, sort of
by juanita lewison-snyder
everyone should have
a voice of reason in their lives,
someone who can calm their ass down
with a single word, look, touch
when bullets are flying
vehicles exploding
bodies in impact mode all around.
my saving grace is my husband,
my ground wire when i short out.
he’s good at what he does,
keeping me in long suspended animation
between panic mode and pure euphoria
-a little like “drifting” in motor sports,
that very moment when your car is going
sideways around a corner sharp at high speed,
front wheels polar opposite of the turn,
control and traction duking it out
with gravity and asphalt,
and you feel this close to flying apart.
but then a warm touch on your arm
happens and he’s suddenly there,
smiling, reassuring, asking
how you’d like to take your tea today.
and all that smoking, burning
uniroyal squealing
edge of your seat foolishness
matters no longer.
everyone should have
a voice of reason in their lives,
someone who can calm their ass down
with a single word, look, touch
when bullets are flying
vehicles exploding
bodies in impact mode.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Sort of the Last
Thing I thought I’d be doing
Word I said (or was it words)
Book I read
Song I heard
Game I played
Thing I touched
Picture I saw
Time I thought of you
Lie I told
Of course you’re not in my head all the time
Sort of Participating in No Shave November
Millimeter by millimeter,
Fuzz sprouts under the chin
of the pasty teenager;
creeping outward
like a slow smile to a lousy joke.
Thirty days without shaving.
Today is only the eighth day;
But…
the teen has gotten a head start.
Early summer and the razor gone;
But today
the teen only has fuzz.
And this saddens the teen.
Friends embrace the challenge!
Eight days in
and there are
rugs on their mugs
like homeless men on a city street
And as the teen sits there,
sad with the fuzz
sprouting slowly under the chin.
Only sort of participating in
“No Shave November,”
She wonders why
she couldn’t be like the rest of the teens?
SORT OF WET
the pond skater
skimming over the puddle
cannot understand wetness
in her world where water has skin
hands rinsed without soap
shake dry in a jiffy.
Clothes washed
need a wetting agent
to become clean
in water. Only dry cleaning
wets without help.
To be truthful
maybe it’d be better
to say water is runny
and sort of wet?
(Paganini Jones)