April 24: Poem 24

Baby Bunny Butternut
    wore black and spikes, oh gosh.
One time she fell into a pit
    and therein she did mosh.

She spraypainted the milkweed
    Some say she tried it, too.
But when you are a bad bunny
    That's sometimes what you do.

Folks gave a lot of reasons why
    she really didn't care:
Her mom, she was a wild rabbit
    her dad, he wasn't there.

They all thought she'd never
    grow up to do some good
she would always be the one
    from the bad side of the wood.

So all were quite surprised indeed
    at this recent event -
Instead of causing anarchy
    she's now our president!

I guess when youth get wild like that
    you have a choice to make
you can choose to freak and rage
    Or just give them time to take.

Notes

Strange things happen in my head when I am mowing the lawn. STRANGE THINGS. By the way, the milkweed is an intentional allusion to Dylan Thomas, a poet who was also the mosh pit kind. He never became president of anything. 

April 22: Poem 22

Oreo the kitty cat
    was very bad you see
That Oreo the kitty cat
    oh she was quite naughty

she clawed upon the carpeting
    to wake me up at three
and as she just kept ripping it
    I sprayed water with glee.

The water did not dampen her
    more than a little mist
and she soon returned again
    I started getting pissed.

This time I threw a pillow
    to shoo her fast away
But soon she did come back again
    determined she would stay.

Again the sound awakened me
    from my slumber there 
and this time I got throwing stars
    She didn't even care.

Next I tried a flamethrower
    to force her soon to leave
but she just jumped around the flame.
    It was hard to believe.

I called up for a missile strike
    to try to restore peace
but she evaded everything
    that fuzzy little beast.

Twas about to summon nukes 
    to blow it all to bits
But my alarm went off at last
    and I fell into fits.

So now I must be off to work;
    my eyes can take no more.
But Oreo is on my bed.
    She has begun to snore.

Notes

Kind of a true story.

April 21: Poem 21

With apologies to Emily...

Hope is the thing with talons
    that perches near my heart
waiting for me to have a chance
    for something good to start.

And frequently I try to shed
    that monster from my side
but ever has it come again
    my peace of mind to hide

Often have I asked for it to go
    to leave me safe at last
But for the pain it brings again
    There seems no true repast.

Notes

I am so sorry, Emily. I truly am.

April 17: Poem 17

I woke to snow on Easter Day
    And that somehow seemed wrong.
This day was deigned for daffodils
    And silver sun and song.

And I remembered of the time
    Now twenty years long gone
When I once trod as Jesus trod
    I hope you’ll tread along.

‘Twas under glare of ERS
    With pancake makeup on
That I donned Nikes and tie dye
    To perform for the throng.

Much Matthew I did memorize
    To give my Lord His tongue.
Beatitudes I struggled with
    And often got them wrong.

I asked for Grace and for Mercy,
    For Him to keep me strong,
For His voice was to be my voice
    His song to be my song.

I felt the fear of failing Him
    Sharing His story wrong
So I asked God to let me bear
    Some suffering along.

Thus when amid the passion play
    I felt moments prolong
And prayed in my Gethsemene
    Felt angels ring the gong

The judgement that I knew was mine
    How right was made from wrong
The burden that my Savior took
    I took some sliver on

The tears I shed were not some art
    A mask that I put on
‘Twas fragments of what Jesus felt
    A gift that’s made me strong.

I bear it still inside my soul
    A place with walls quite strong
And there I sit in reverence
    And know that I’m God’s son.

Notes

This was both the most difficult and easiest poem to write of the series so far. A production of Godspell 20 years ago is my own genuine 'come to Jesus' moment. I have had pieces of this in my head for days, but woke up with it almost finished in my subconscious - and about 75% of it was in the first draft that I pounded out in fifteen minutes this morning. I asked God to help me write this in the same way I asked Him for help two decades ago, and He answered both times. 

I hope you have (or have had) a blessed Easter.

April 16: Poem 16

I do not do not
    want to write
a poem today
    or tonight
if you make me
    I just might
just to hurt you
    out of spite
pretend to think
    pretend to write
in my journal
    clean and white
but all the while
    in plain sight
I will scribble
    left and right
up and down
    in dark and light
and you will think
    you won the fight
you made me made me
    made me write
inside my journal
    clean and white
but it is nothing
    no poem in sight.
and that will fill
    you up with fright
how bright I am
    like anthracite
that I fooled you
    I won this fight
creativity 
    you did ignite
but not for poems
    you luddite
instead for wasting
    of graphite
but now I see
    there's no respite
ack! my poem
    I must recite.

Notes

I am thinking about all the ways my students are going to avoid writing poetry next week, and I suppose channeling some Shel Silverstein in the process. The funny think is that I'm avoiding, and have been avoiding, writing the poem I need to write this week. I also know that, since tomorrow is Easter Sunday, I have to write it. So, procrastination has bought me another day, but that's all I'm going to get. 

I almost want to do a Shel Silverstein-inspired doodle with this one.

April 7: Poem 7

When Davey Boy Smith

Threw the Hammer into the corner

And the Dynamite Kid 

Delivered a headbutt

Michael T. Desing Day 

was born.

It is here, yes today,

Michael T. Desing Day.
Huzzah and Hurray.

All the kids say, 

- I say that they say -

Today is the day.

Michael T. Desing Day.

***

But thirty-six years later

I see the drug abuse;

The way Dynamite 

broke his back

in an unplanned fall.

We didn't know if yet,

But his career was over.

And I know now

The Dynamite Kid

would kill a cigarette 

in a single drag 

before matches

And Davey Boy

once got milk 

injected in his ass

because he thought 

it was steroids.

And I

Doctor Michael T. Desing

am a collection of

scars and bruises

of losses and disappointments

of folly and fear.

As are we all.

As are we all.

We are not superheores.

None of us.

Our superheroes

are not superheroes either.

And today is the day.

Michael T. Desing Day.

Notes

Well, then. This is all a true story, by the way.

I remember so many images around Wrestlemania 2: April 7, 1986. I was fourteen, and pro wrestling was my world as much as comic books, GI Joe, and Star Wars were. They all eventually merged into Army Ants, which had a 12-issue storyline centered around my love of pro wrestling, becoming the first graphic novel - the first long work of any kind - I would finish. As I watch the match again this morning, as I do on every April 7, I feel both sad and nostalgic. Hence, the poem. I decided after that match that, since my birthday was the day after Christmas and I always felt like I missed out on something, that it was appropriate to have a random day in the calendar to celebrate 'me' - that was not so random after all. Here it is, April 7. 

It's Michael T. Desing day. 

April 6: Poem 6

Legolas, sweet Legolas
O cat of midnight hue,
Legolas, my Legolas
'Twas Mary did name you.

Legolas, bold Legolas
Does my mom guide your paws?
Legolas, wise Legolas
She reiki master was.

Legolas, dear Legolas

In elbow fossa hide.
Legolas, sleep Legolas
This moment may abide.

Notes

I woke up with this one banging around in my head at 3:30. It's got a whole Doctor Suess thing to it that I don't mind. Our cat Legolas (named for the Tolkien elf), who never cared much for me to be honest, suddenly has been my best friend since I have been sick. He keeps trying to curl up near my neck and 'make buscuits' there (kneading with his paws - which Mary refers to as 'making biscuits'), which is both sweet and can be painful if I don't stop him fast enough. I wake up to find him sleeping on my belly more often than not of late.

And yes, I looked up 'what the inside of your elbow is called', and 'fossa' is such a great word, I had to put it in. He pushes his face into the crook of my elbow ('crook' is so much less poetic than 'fossa'... I mean, say the words out loud). It is the first time I've ever used the word fossa in anything, but I will keep an eye out for another opportunity.