The Whirling, Swirling Words

I've been a writer all of my life. I wrote my first "story" in the third grade. It was called "Thumper the Boy Frog." I think my Mama still has it packed away somewhere.

Several years back I found out I was a "real" poet of sorts as well.  While I'd written poetry before, you know...teenaged mushy stuff about boyfriends and what not, I always blamed "my muse" for not being able to write all the time.  I'd write here and there when something came to me, but nothing much beyond that. Actually I wrote mostly horror stories. I may post one some day. We'll see...


I became really interested in poetry in the online community I was a part of.  They had what was called "theme poetry."  It was mostly an invitation for all would be, wanna be and actual poets to create pieces of poetry around a common theme and then share them with the community. The theme would change weekly. Sometimes they also added the challenge of writing in a particular style of poetry.  Eventually I became the coordinator of that group resulting in my now having over 180 pages of poems. 


Am I a good poet you might ask?  I dunno. Sometimes I think 'hell yeah!' even though I'm very critical of my writing.  But really what I think doesn't matter, the worth or level of meaning in a poem is definitely in the eyes of the reader I think.  Besides, I fancy myself more of a story teller than a poet.

Being a theme poet did teach me quite a bit though.  I learned about different poetry styles, which was very cool. I learned that writing was NOT dependent upon my muse. I found out, much to my surprise, that I could take a theme and write a poem about it on demand. Sometimes ideas and words would come tumbling out of my head like cornflakes out of a cereal box.  At other times it was like mining for gold, I had to dig a bit to get at the really good nuggets.


When I started this blog I decided to add some of the poems I've written from time to time. They're always up for interpretation, and as always, comments are welcome.

I seem to write a lot about love, relationships and the like.  Many of my poems are completely ripped from my imagination.  Others were written in my blood, images carved out of my own joys and sorrows. Either way, I hope you will be entertained.  And while I'm at it, let me officially thank you for being here reading my little blog.  Out of all the hundreds of thousands of blogs out there, you are here, reading mine. I'm honored, flattered and I truly appreciate your presence. 

Now on to my whirling, swirling words.  I hope you enjoy reading them.

NOTE: In most cases, the title of the poem reflects what the weekly theme was at that time.

 Epitaph Explained

When I’m dead…

What will become of all my poetry?

Will it be used to immortalize me?

Will you remember me when it you read?

Will you see all of the wild and wonderful things I’ve seen?

The reality is that in spite of, or despite me

when I’m dead,

my poetry

will

live

on.

© TDM 06/22/08

Helplessness
Mirror, mirror on the wall
who is the most helpless of them all?
Is it the boy with a grown man’s face,
the little child standing
in a grown man’s place?

Made me the object of your desire
didn’t look before you leaped
into the fire.
Now you’re feeling all confused
the game is played out,
now who is feeling used?

Asked for honesty and
damn you panicked,
had you shuffling and stuttering
like a tweaked out
crack addict.

So I ask you-
helplessness what does it really mean?
to be tossed and manipulated
by nebulous forces unseen?
to be slayed and laid terminally low
dragging a wounded heart
perpetually in tow?

You were the one caught up in wrong doing
I was just listening
hoping
looking-
being tried and tested yet true..
so tell me boy,
what wrong did I do to you?

Now I sit here-
cigarette smoke curling around my face
shaking my head
too late to pick up the pace.

Does helplessness have any other name?
does it hide behind the masks
of grief
or embarrassment

or shame?

I want somebody who is
in it to stay,
not a man-boy changing his mind
every other day
letting his man meat pull him into the fray
born out of cheap, late night talk
and all too irresistible forays.

So if I risked my heart
and gave up some of my ability
to reason,
in light of your transgressions
who is really guilty
of emotional treason?

I’m about to bounce
without a trace
leave you standing
with much deserved egg on your face
but it isn't me
who is the disgrace
or settled for less-
it’s you.

And you can act like you don’t care
but honey pleez, I’m already there.
Yeah you can act like that
if you want to
but as Celie said to Mister-
“everything done to me,
already done to you…”

You’ll have to face Karma...
she’ll want blood
nothing less,
and that my dear, is the essence and form
of true helplessness.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
who is the most helpless of them 

all…
© TDM 01/03/06

Style Challenge-Shape Poetry= Shape Poetry is also called Concrete Poetry
"Shape is one of the main things that separates prose and poetry. Poetry can take on many formats, but one of the most inventive forms is for the poem to take on the shape of its subject. So if the subject of your poem is a tree, then the poem's lines would be written so that the poem appears to take on the shape of a tree."
(http://members.cox.net/berniehpoetry/type/shape.html)

(note-read left to right, and yes it was as hard to write as it looks!)

© TDM 4/4/2006

Time

(for my loving daughter-RM)

I’m not the woman

I thought I’d be,

but I like who I am

most days.

Granted, I’m a little crazy

in the head,

but I’d like to think I have

some good ways.

Time has sometimes

been a friend to me,

sometimes she had me

all mixed up.

The wine she served

was sometimes sweet,

at other times I wanted

to pass the cup.

Like blood oozing through snow

or black cherries ripening

on a grey green vine,

we all savor, yet resist

the passage of our own precious time.

I am no exception

with my dreams and my daughter in tow.

After I’ve walked the way I’m going,

I hope and pray I’ve shown her

the right way to go.

Because isn’t that really what time

and life is all about;

to live, to learn, passing on what we know

without too many regrets, or too many doubts?

No, I’m not the woman I envisioned I’d be-

I’m a tad crazy, by now a little worn.

Yet even as I mourn the passing of some of my dreams,

I joyfully shout and celebrate hers being born.

So when my time is truly over,

I can go in peace because I know

my sweet daughter will be the grand harvest

of all the faith, hope and love seeds

I’ve sown.

© TDM 5/6/2006

Well that's all for now. Once I get to posting poems, it's hard to know which ones to pick, or where to stop. There are so many I like. So yes, there will be more posted in the future. Stay tuned.

MistralWind whirling and swirling thru till next time...