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Contributed by Muppetman on Sunday, 29th September 2013 @ 02:48:17 AM AEST
Topic: short


Curvature lettering, curvatures never ending,..
It started all of it with loops, they eventually leaned right all the loops,
I wrote down, probably because I was writing with my right hand all kinds of words
words that weren't words, sounds of words I thought I heard, sounds of words looping
a's to looping p's, and i's looping into t's, always looping, hopefully with flair...
It was like drawing waves, it was drawing waves actually.
Every once in a while a rhyme would come out of the blue.
I wasn't really trying to sell anything. I was just, you know, fascinated with
the communication of it all.
Then, one night. before I fell off to sleep, the middle brother who was in
second grade back then, explained to me multiplication and how it works.
At first, I had no idea what he was talking about, so he slowed down.
First, he added a few things. Then, he did the same thing again with a multiplier.
And now, you're way ahead of the pack he said with a smile.
I never forgot that.
My Aunt, the Nun, was staying with us that night. This was probably 1965.
This was probably a few days before I sold my first real poem.
I sold it to my Aunt for a smile.
She took it with her, that was part of the deal. It was hers forever
to have and to do whatever she wished with.
When she died I went to her funeral.
Everything she Earthly possessed was on a bed, her bed,
the last one she ever lived in.
I expected to see it there, my poem somehow, even though I was then,
twenty five and it was twenty years later.
And I thought there would be a rolled up piece of paper,
Sitting there. She died of cancer I knew. The other nuns said
she suffered a lot but was never alone.
Later that day she was laid into the ground.
I believe the year was 1985.
On her bed sat a few keepsakes. all she had. A picture of her
dad, a picture of a man I never met standing in a doorway somewhere
in Europe during WWI. A rolled up pair of socks from a pro
athlete she knew who was quite famous, the crucifix she wore around
her neck, and a few books she'd read. There was also a few dollars,
and some greeting cards she had received over the years she held dear,
as well as some letters from my father. Also, there were her shoes and a picture
of her with my dad on the day she graduated from high school out in front of
the apartment where they lived - probably circa 1941 or so.
The poem I wrote was not an imaginary boast, but not what I think
of a poem is now either. But I wrote it for the same reason I'm writing this now.
Only back then, I didn't know how to spell or how to even form a sentence. I just
wanted to write to someone to somehow make them smile through writing. But not like others had done
the same for me. Because this was back before I really knew how to read. So now, I gasp, I swallow in
a thin air, because the symbols are all there, and anyone who knows how to read can write. And once you write it's there, you can't take it back. On a mantle above a flat screen television that sits on my wall sits a stuffed dog that looks just like Triumph, The Insult Dog, similarities in a way to Mr. Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street, I suppose.
Sesame Street came after my young self, first time I saw it, I was baby sitting younger kids.
I was a little jealous of them, I didn't have that myself.
People my age, I didn't know about them so much until later. Comedians, people my age, we lived through a lot
of boring time. We were missing, seemingly invisible, caught in between things.
I read Charles Bukowski's novels and poems by accident. I happened onto Faulkner's works before I ever cared to
study any history.
I didn't understand my parents life's or their times even when I lived with them.
I couldn't actually sell anything I'll actually write, nor want to do so, I think.
But I will still write. Hopefully tomorrow it will get better and make some sense.



Peace!






Copyright © Muppetman ... [2013-09-2902:48:17]
(Date/Time posted on site)


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Re: I Sold A Poem (User Rating: 1)
by Former_Member on Monday, 30th September 2013 @ 12:21:46 AM AEST
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I liked reading this. So I guess you never found the poem? I am also guessing you're about as old as me or maybe, shall I venture to say, maybe even a bit older.

Thanks for sharing.

Tim

Re: I Sold A Poem (User Rating: 1)
by softerware on Saturday, 23rd November 2013 @ 04:22:19 PM AEST
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You have a wonderful memory for details. I can picture the scenes you describe and it brings them to life. Easygoing and a comfort to read and enjoy. Your story makes sense; you've polished all the sharp edges off of it and left us with a sweet memory.

thanks for sharing it!
Jaye

Re: I Sold A Poem (User Rating: 1)
by kmec1990 on Monday, 24th November 2014 @ 02:35:18 PM AEST
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Beautiful write. Your imagery took me to a memory I hadn't thought of in many years. My dad's twin was an alcoholic who alienated most of our family, except for pretty much me and when he passed he too had only a few belongings one of which was a framed picture I had sent of my first born son Dan at about age three. I would have sent more had I ever realized how much he had appreciated my gesture. Anyway, sorry for the ramble, touching story, thanks for sharing.
K



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