The Poetic Process

I wrote a poem last week.

It was too long

so I cut it

by half.

But it still seemed blurry around the edges —

metaphors missed the mark

adjectives and adverbs cluttered the images —

like stage light illuminating its subject

not quite sharply enough.

I whittled it down some more

deleted the excess

and the useless

until there were only

a handful of words left.

They weren't quite right

so I crossed them out

one by one

until there remained only

pencil scratches

and traces of erasure

on a blank page.

Run, Run from the Smoking Gun

[I wrote this for a poetry workshop assignment. The challenge was to take a previously written poem and rewrite it from your experience today. The rewrite had to be to the tune of a popular song, using the same rhyme scheme, rhythm, chorus pattern and everything. I chose to rewrite BLAM. (from HeartRape!) to the tune of "The Needle and the Damage Done" by Neil Young. Thanks Bruno for the song suggestion!]




The chair still rocking
By the fireplace
A stunned expression
On your cold white face
Ooh, ooh, what have I done?

You were my blood and
Now you’re on my hands,
I took the money
From the coffee can
Run, run from what I’ve done

Red thumbprints on
These dirty dollar bills
I wander dark
And lonely desert hills
Sell love
To get out of this town

Can’t leave behind the
Dirty deeds I’ve done
From up behind me, bloody footprints come
My downturned eyes are
Like a smoking gun.

Wishes Don't Come True

I wish the poles

stopped melting

and the polar bears

stopped dying.

I wish Hogwarts existed

and that nobody was hungry

or sick

or sad.

I wish that everyone's wishes

came true.

I wish men would stop killing

one another.

I wish I loved you better.