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Fragments - Pre-1995
Contributed by
3660days
on
Friday, 17th April 2009 @ 04:04:24 PM in AEST
Topic:
Lifepoems
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I remember lots of things from that time before,
when life was young and simple
that time so star-spangled-spectacular
I sometimes wonder if it ever really happened at all.
that time in my life,
which may really have been before my life,
cannot be remembered now
as days and months and years,
(which had no meaning then)
but only as hundreds of moments,
suspended and scattered through time,
each one independent of the rest...
...and yet, somehow, all bound together
by their common significance
as the definition of who I was.
during that time...
...which was not really time, but only moments...
I knew many things,
and even now, so long after those lingering memories
I can still almost touch the lovely elements that manifested them
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known an old country house,
nestled away, deep in forests and fields,
and the day...
oh!
...the day
my parents painted it blue.
who ever said that blue was for sadness?
no, blue was for gladness,
for hop-scotch-childhood-happy,
young-summer-joy!
my father stood on a ladder, paintbrush in hand,
converting our house to the color of the afternoon sky,
one graceful stroke at a time...
(I do not believe
that Da Vinci himself could have done it better,
not in a million years!)
...at least, that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the deepness of the grass-green carpet
that spread across my parents room,
tall dressers, emerald walls,
and to top it all off,
the crown and glory of that room...
a genuine waterbed!
I remember the lateness of nights
when I jumped on that bed,
until the sunrise began peaking up
over the fields outside...
...and I remember the melodies that poured
from the ancient record player in the living room,
while I beat dust out of the couch,
and watched it float up through the windows streaming light...
... and the smell of fresh-baked-cookies
wafting in from the kitchen,
where logs were burning in the old woodstove
I am lying on the kitchen floor
surrounded by two dozen plastic toys,
and Dad has just come in
from taking out the trash
his face is darkened
by the five-oclock shadow
that has always hugged him close
like my mother, who now
is painting apples on the cabinets and walls,
warm red against the whites and browns
of that ancient house
but the best room of them all was my very own,
cluttered with toys and books and things,
the door covered with stickers,
and missing its knob.
on one side was a giant blue toy box,
and on the other side a bed,
and in between, a hundred or so
other magic things...not excluding
the circus that dangled from the ceiling,
or the ancient rocking horse
who sat lonely in the corner.
upstairs, my father had another kind of room
where locomotives chugged in endless circles,
past grand junction, under mountain tunnels,
and on through tiny towns
and next to that, another room
where a crazy troll was rumored to live,
and only the very brave dared to enter.
my best friend, Bryan
came over one day, as he often did,
and we sneaked a peak through the lock in that door.
we let out a shriek
when we saw that crazy troll,
strolling and strutting, back and forth,
in endless circles across the floor...
...at least, that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have know the softness
of sitting at the bottom of the stairs
on Christmas eve,
listening to records play
...and the strangeness of the moonlight
reflecting off the snow,
and floating in through the window.
the Christmas lights were glowing gently
around our evergreen tree,
while outside snowmen flirted oh-so-casually
with the beautiful snow angels...
...and my mother was singing
...silent night, holy night,
all is calm, all is bright...
...at least, that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the freedom
of looking through my window pane,
to the spring-green grass outside,
where frogs and lizards used to hide
along with the occasional box turtle,
or my favorite creature of all...
my very own bunny rabbit!
white as snow, and soft as cotton.
still, even she was surpassed one day
when our house-cat, plump and fat,
gave birth to five purring kittens...
one,
two,
three,
four,
five!
and my mother presented one to me,
its eyes still closed, shaking like a leaf,
and asked me what Id like to name her.
Her yellow fur reminded me
of the golden straw hats
I had seen in the stores in town,
and so I christened her
Hats.
she lived with her four brothers and sisters
underneath my parents bed,
until they had grown older, bolder..
brave enough to play.
...then one by one, they went away,
five
four
three
two
one
til only little hats remained,
kept home by my own love
and the occasional bowl of kitty-milk
...at least, thats the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the wonder...
yes, such pure wonder
I still cannot believe,
what happened this day
while I was with my aunt, E.K
(that stands for Elizabeth Karen, by the way)
playing in her backyard,
and a really-truly-living-doe
came waltzing in...
just like Bambi!
and would you believe
that she even walked right up to us...
...I mean, right up to us...
and let us pet her soft, white-spotted fur,
completely unafraid,
before she turned and trotted slowly away?
and no one ever believed us,
not even when we crossed our hearts
and hoped to die
...at least, that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the beauty
of the giant white rock
in grandma bettys yard...
...I used to stay with her, from time to time,
until she died
her funeral was my first.
...and my second was in my front yard
the day Hats, my golden-yellow kitten
passed away, quietly...the final victim
of our overly playful puppy.
E.K. came to mourn as well,
and we made a half-dozen crosses,
using sticks and string, and then
we scattered them over
her grave at the edge of the field...
...at least, that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the warmness
of my paternal grandparents,
bob and carolyn
pa-pa and ma-ma
telling me stories as I drifted softly toward sleep...
...and the night they took me to the hospital
to await my brothers birth.
and the lateness of nights,
eating M&Ms, and watching
late-night TVand wanting
never to leave
they had a rabbit in their backyard,
(brown, not white like mine)
and she was the mother of what must have been
a dozen baby bunnies.
sometimes, while she was absent
ma-ma and I would go out and pet them,
until one day, when they learned to hop,
and dashed away, underneath a pile of wood
I spent a full hour trying to coax them out...
...at least, thats the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have know Ms. Floyds preschool,
with a giant mural on the wall
two squirrels dancing
in a shower of butterflies.
once, while I was outside playing,
I found a robins egg,
fallen from its sanctuary in the trees.
the others tried to grab it from me,
and when I ran away, I dropped it...
(we all felt a certain sorrow
when we saw it, cracked and broken on the ground...)
it was only one year later
that I graduated to kindergarten,
where I met freckle-faced Christy.
we arranged a signal with each other,
a sort of early-warning system,
that whenever the big kids came out to play
we would drum our fists on the silvery slides
to give each other a quick heads-up
...at least, thats the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the giggly-fright
of spending the night in a tent,
in my backyard, with a friend named Jermey,
until bigfoot came, and chased us away.
and then, in second grade
there was this girl named jenny,
who was my very-first-girlfriend
and even more, my first fianc.
I even bought her a golden ring,
which I presented to her at lunch, over a PB&J,
while we were discussing names for our children-to-be.
and then, one winter
the fifth-graders began construction
of what would go down in legend
as the great and almighty Superball.
it was the greatest snowball our eyes had ever seen,
and once they could not make it any larger
they began to dig away its core,
creating a series of caverns and slides within...
...at least, that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known the fun of nights
when Bryan and I ate soggy honey sandwiches,
staying up til daybreak,
high on sugar, or life, or both,
talking about how we would someday make our millions...
and, more importantly, how we would spend them.
the next morning we went to the store
where we bought a dozen donuts, and one gallon
of extra-rich chocolate milk.
then carried it back to Bryans house
where we reclined in front of the television,
watching Saturday morning cartoons.
later, we went to the park across the street
to buy cinnamon ice cream,
ate it too quickly, on the swings,
and fell over in the sand, moaning of headaches...
then off to ride the antique go-karts,
and walk down to the zoo,
where we listened to the monkeys chat...
...at least that is the way
I remember that day,
if it ever was at all.
*~~**~~**~~*
I have known a million moments...
the squeaky white screen door in our kitchen
scraping my knees on dusty country roads
my mother watering her flowers
shooting marbles on the kitchen floor
jumping on a trampoline
birthday parties
haunted houses
thanksgivings pumpkin pies
walking to the little cemetery down the road
the ghosts I met
the tall, winding curly slide on the school playground
the wooden benches where grumpy old teachers sat
the hole we dug looking for gold
sitting on bleachers during sleepy mornings
swinging on a scratchy yellow rope
the snake my father killed
chasing lightning bugs on warm summer nights
humid, crashing thunderstorms
climbing trees
tractor rides
anthills in the backyard
the wind blowing gently against yellow sunflowers
cowboy hats
library books
running through the sprinkler
breaking my bedroom window
caterpillars and cocoons
a box full of action figures
hunting for mushrooms on the mossy forest floor
the monsters who lived under each bed
my father working on the roof
losing toys down the well in our front yard
the rumbling of the washing machine and dryer
piggyback rides
puzzles we never finished
building igloos in the snow
our mailbox down the lane
a ceramic Indian-girl, whose paint got chipped
purple mulberries
an old tin-roofed shed
the picnic table in our front yard
making delicious mud pies
playing on my swing set until nightfall
jagged barbed-wire fences
exploding patriotic fireworks
itchy poison ivy
the kite my mother lost
blushing peaches from the tree in our front yard
so many things, so many things
I have known the glory of gorging
a million, billion raspberries,
which never ripened fast enough
the pure joy of splashing
through endless mud puddles,
after soft spring rains
the intoxicating aroma of walnuts, fresh and green,
newly fallen from a tree that brushed the sky
and I have touched the golden sunset,
swimming in a sea of pink and blue,
so long
oh!
so long ago
and sang a since forgotten song,
which echoes still
through yesterdays skies and memories
Copyright ©
3660days
... [
2009-04-17 16:04:24]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Fragments - Pre-1995
(User Rating: 1 )
by Matariel on
Friday, 17th April 2009 @ 04:31:33 PM AEST
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Wow, what a beautiful poem! I loved it. Though it's a bit lengthy, that's okay. I really loved the part about the kittens, and especially Hats:
"…‘til only little Hats remained,
kept home by my own love
and the occasional bowl of kitty-milk…"
It has really cute and nastalgic imagery I like. |
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Re: Fragments - Pre-1995
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Friday, 17th April 2009 @ 05:34:54 PM AEST
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I had a best friend Bryan and still do. What a coincidence. Spelled the same way too.
So when you guys were moaning of headaches, did a tummy ache ever sneaks it's way in there too?
As I previously said, I rarely critique... I did not say never.
I'll start by saying thank you for a very enjoyable read. If I were to critique anything, I would critique that apparent desire, not obvious desire, that you don't want to hear things like that. I would urge and even suggest, then don't post. I have seen people, here and there, at ol' YPDC elate to the possibility that people leave "hollow" or empty comments. They even go further to say that some don't even read the poem. While I do not entirely agree with that, I do not entirely disagree either as it cannot be a blanket statement. There are definitely those that do leave empty comments and I would venture to say do not read the poem at all. I have a comment out there where the person quotes a stanza that isn't even in the poem, so, yeah, what a laugh. I can speak personally for myself, however, I do not leave hollow or empty comments. I will admit that there have been times I have been at a loss for words and maybe leave those one-three word comments, but they were sincere as to my enjoyment of the poem. So I strongly urge you to realize that there are simply going to be those of us that are simply going to enjoy your talents. Either get used to it and respect them for that, because yes, you definitely have talent in my humble opinion, or simply go somewhere where they will pick it apart for every "T" not crossed or I not capitalized.
I personally think most critique is for those who would think that poetry is some sort of science and needs to be analyzed. Rules need to be obeyed. Meter, rhyme, rhythm all need to be set in motion and their rules obeyed for it to qualify as poetry. While, I have a tendency to agree with some of that, I am not going to say rules need to be strictly adhered to. For example... those very periods put there to indicate a pause are throughout this poem. Is that a rule to be obeyed because if you don't some professor somewhere will slap you on the wrists and give you a "C"? Too many dots, too many commas, yet not enough? Whatever. If Shakespeare was worried about rules, would he be as great as some believe? I don't know and I honestly don't concern myself much about it.
Perhaps, that's what you need. Take that class. Maybe that's what you're really looking for. Not everyone is in it for the analyzation. There are those who are, so seek them out.
Before I forget here, I am a stickler for spelling. I think it indicates pride in your work. But am I going to chastise someone else for it? No, I just get frustrated and won't read their work. Thankfully you take pride.
Anyway, yeah, the ... caught my eye. You did not capitalize words at beginnings of stanzas and sentences. Does that bother me? Not at all. Is it your style and with analyzing, perhaps an effect you were looking for to convey this was from a child's mind. I don't know but it works and I liked it. Would I do it? Most likely not. Would others do it? I don't care. :-)
Is it damn long? Yes. :-) I know some people would say it's too long. I wouldn't because whether I read three short poems or one long one, I am still reading. And look out...here it comes, I enjoyed this tremendously. Thank goodness you do not submit journal entires, as I really hate journal entries being submitted as poetry. I loved you taking us back into that childhood memories. I am getting up there in the years and had actually forgotten a lot of my own childhood. When I read this, I was happy to know they are still there. I so loved it, I did not want to stop reading. Is that bad? No way. Do you think it's bad for someone to simply enjoy your poems? I have no idea but the implications seem to be there. So, if I say, I loved this for the sheer emotional memories and your obvious great imagination, is that critique? I think in a way it is. Because this poem is a success in every which way in my opinion because poetry is about the mind, imagination, heart, emotions, rythym, and life. This has it all.
Oh, and I disagree that it's quite terrible but I guess that gets back to, I enjoyed it, don't read to analyze, and well, what all I just wrote about.
I had one thought, however, again, I don't know if I define it as critique as it is your work and not mine. What came to mind was, and especially so since I thought Fragments - Final was the last of the series, I would suggest another title. Suggestion, yes, critique you are looking for? Probably not. You have a grand, great imagination. The title caught my eye as "Hmmm... the last one was "Final"... so now not so final". I would speculate that all poetry is fragments of our minds.
Take care and I am almost afraid to say, keep up the good work. I loved reading this. I mean that. Just maybe, maybe, get a little closer to reality and open your eyes to the fact that there are those among us that simply want to enjoy and nothing else.
I have suggestions on who to ask for critique but you need to send a PM for that.
Tim
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Re: Fragments - Pre-1995
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Friday, 17th April 2009 @ 05:36:11 PM AEST
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Back again.
That probably qualifies as the longest comment I ever left.
*whew* |
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Re: Fragments - Pre-1995
(User Rating: 1 )
by shelby on
Friday, 17th April 2009 @ 06:10:42 PM AEST
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I will follow Tim's lead lol.
I do agree it is a bit long but to me if it has caught me at the start I always follow it to the end, which I have done and you know what? Fantastic! I think you are a good writer and I felt this poem. I repeat myself a lot when it comes to the feeling side of poetry, if I feel it I am right there!
Bravo! Thanks for sharing not only this write but also your life!
Hugs
Michelle |
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Re: Fragments - Pre-1995
(User Rating: 1 )
by Mars on
Saturday, 18th April 2009 @ 02:01:58 PM AEST
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| Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! To me, there are a few places where the flow isn't as great as what I'm expecting, but it's far better than much of what I write. I congratulate you on such a magnificent piece. I look forward to reading more =). |
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Re: Fragments - Pre-1995
(User Rating: 1 )
by ever1der on
Sunday, 19th April 2009 @ 09:16:16 PM AEST
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| At this very moment, jst at first glance I will say that it is toolong for my attention span and could probably made into two really good poems. I will c ome back when I am feeling better and try to make a decent comment. |
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