Epitaph (Monostitch)

Imperfections are the dimples on the face of life

♦♦♦

I have frequently told my family that I want this engraved as my epitaph.  They are not amused.

Monostitch:  a one line poem

Span (Reverse Nonet)

Brick

fortress!

Built for time,

weathered by storms

and emissions’ waste.

Utilitarian,

tooled for purpose not beauty,

you loan your helping hand to the

weary traveler, crossing to HOME.

♦♦♦

A picture word poem about a bridge.  Did you guess correctly?

Reverse Nonet: 9 lines with the syllables increasing by one each line.  Normallly a nonet starts with 9 syllables on the first line, I chose to reverse this!

Ode to the Gas We Pass

Ahh gas, a product of digestion:

a measurement of GI health.

Often related to food ingestion’

these bursts of air from our sphincters

are blind to socioeconomic wealth.

Throughout the day, this airy spray

is passed proudly or in stealth.

 

 Individual feelings about gas

sometimes result in ass retention.

Unfortunately, suppressing the pass

has not yet resulted in patent invention.

For the bowel that is suppressed,

more uncomfortable than detention,

will leave the suppressant distressed;

             and no one in range will be blessed               

when, finally, explosively expressed.

 

 Many names are given to gas;

fart, toot, flatulence to name a few.

Each person labels what we pass

a name most comfortable to you.

 Gas comes singly, loudly, softly’ or in chains.

These sneaky tornadic bursts of air,

 a final reminder of digestive remains,

can clear a room in a matter of seconds!

 So be proud of the gas you pass,

a universal shared reminder of living,

for some day you will turn to grass

so enjoy the gift you are giving!

♣♣♣

Gas, in all forms, take up much of our time from natural gas to heat our homes to gasoline to fuel our cars to gas we produce as a bodily function.  Our world as we know it would collapse without gas.  Our intestinal health would collapse without gas.  Yet gas continues to have a bad rap.

We do not like what does not smell good. 

Noxious odors remind us of rot and death and our limited lifespan; therefore they are avoided as a psychological coping mechanism.  Now if I were a psychologist, I am sure I would  be nodding my head assiduously.  But I am not, and the drivel I just wrote came right out of my booty hole.  So gas can also be a metaphor for a whole lotta’ air with no purpose other than to tick me (or others) off.  In any case gas, both real and implied, runs our world.

Until I went to college I was embarrassed by what I felt were crude reminders of functions that should not be discussed, no matter how foul the air.  I met my “yang” in college and my lofty opinions changed after associating with a charming, disarming, quirky and immature boy named Scott.  Scott reveled in his abilities to burp the alphabet,  give a concert with his underarms and “gleep” ( a rare and amazing “talent” to shoot spit out in a forceful arc).

Dating someone so entirely different than my own narrow view of life was an amazing experience.  I learned to laugh at myself, take myself a little less seriously, and revel in the moment.  As a nursing student, Scott’s attitude that all functions were normal and interesting was very important to loosening me up a bit, and I thank him for that.  Due to these experiences, I have a deep and lingering fascination for the underlying humor found in simple bodily processes.  In other words, to “dum it down” I am a 10 year old in a 40 year old body.  So I dedicate this humorous poem to Scott, the king of malodorous intestional  air.  Bless you for bringing me down to earth a little.  The following poem addresses the bodily function of gas. Return to the age of ten and smile…..

                             thejigglybits.com

 

Obsession (Free Verse)

I am seized with ailing thoughts

as my synapses loop masochistic hindsight.

I drift in hazy dreams of If-Then……

These fragmented sentences and words unsaid

give weight to thoughts forever unanswered.

These layers-on-layers of half-written plays gather dust

and I cannot brush away the scattered pages.

I glide through present day untouched by feeling,

for fear of feeling the pain of a life shattered

as it slowly circles the drain.

Oh! Tether present day to hopeful tomorrow!

Or I shall drift into meaningless past,

undone by its incomplete script

and tomorrow shall see today’s loss.

I must release this unchangeable past

or go mad from wasted hope.

♦♦♦

For introtopoetry, Day Nine: Apostrophe.  An apostrophe is an exclamatory figure of speech, sometime started with “O”, often directed to a third party.  Im not sure if this “hits the mark” but it suited my plea.

I wrote this some time ago, in a state of passionate exasperation, in less then five minutes one day when I was just fed up with ruminating over what was and creating dreams of what could have been.  My struggles with obsessive thoughts have, thankfully, softened with time.

Picture: psychology today

Cling (Anaphora and Three Word Line Poem)

My grief clings

to your memory

in the alcoves

of my mind

where echoes of

a silent lament

whisper to you

my smothered potential

 whisper to you

my ungraved progeny

and I weep

with dry eyes

and unvoiced remorse,

solely for you

my unfilled arms

solely for you

my blighted soul

solely for you

wholly for me

∞

For intro to poetry, day seven: Anaphora.  Anaphora is a method where words, or cluster of words, are repeated at the beginning of multiple lines of verse in the same poem.

 

I have never had an abortion or had to give up a child.  But I know the grief that persists for some women who have had to make this choice.  And this grief is the stepchild of our culture, who celebrate the act and ignore the regret.  This is my personal epitaph to all the women who spend decades in regret for choices that cannot be undone.  I know so many of you who grieve alone, feeling that you cannot voice your sadness for choices made in your youth, for arms that are empty but did not have to be, for potential that you didn’t see until the perspective of age opened your eyes.  Whether in adoption or abortion, to some, the grief clings, an ever present shadow.

And for you, whoever you are and wherever you are, THANK YOU for giving life to my husband, who epitomizes the renaissance man.  You would be SO proud of him!

The Sinews of Peace

A shadow has fallen

upon the scenes so lately lighted;

an iron curtain has descended

but now war can find any nation,

wherever it may dwell

between dusk and dawn

∞

For Intro to Poetry: day seven, Found Poem.  From the lips of my hero, the incomparible Sir Winston Churchill.

Found Poem is the idea that poetic verse hides in many speeches.  Finding these gems and changing the sentence structure can bring new insight.

“Ode” to the Middle Aged Size of my Thighs

There is a body part I do not prize

and that is the lumpy size of my thighs!

For while getting older makes one wise,

it spreads the body to a larger size.

My thighs always won the humor prize,

with varicose veins as fat as French fries.

And no matter how many stair steps I try

they look like lumps of lard, no lie!

Age makes one laugh when once I cried;

Now I just look, hide them and sigh.

I sure hope that when I die

God has planned a thigh surprise

for it would give me a total high

to have thighs that are a perfect size!

♦♦♦

I have Lidedema, a condition that causes arms, hips and legs to collect diseased fat.  One the fat is deposited the only “cure” is liposuction.  Dieting will not reduce or eradicate this process.  Little is known about the condition although research is ongoing.  There are 4 stages and 5 types.  The vast majority of healthcare providers know little about it outside of lymphedema centers and a few progressive physicians.  I guarantee you know someone with this condition who suffers silently with many other health problems, as it is really a syndrome.  While I chose in this poem to find humor in it, it is one of the chronic distressful situations that underpin my Borderline Personality Disorder.  For more information, see Lipedema.org or fatdisorders.org

Screen (Ode)

O soulless sage of current age,

O heartless seer of thought gold-mined;

all the world sits on your page

coded to your unbound spine.

You, O idol, our obsessive shrine,

replete our worldwide ravenous greed;

a universe of captured thought

is ours to own with uploaded feed–

with empowered masses now self taught!

Yet my hands yearn for tactile feel

connected to each page I read;

yet I fear this thought reveals

a nostalgic antiquated need

to curtail this warp-read speed.

My soul yearns for knowledge gleaned

from digging through the finite print;

for light seen through that crystal screen

imprints with bleary optic squint.

In this current age, your visage is all the rage

through which captured trove of secret lore

illuminates this moral plagued age–

exposing hearts rotten to the core,

a Trojan horse of thought-waged war.

For I see clearly through the vail

this, our fifth dimension most foul

and we have gone beyond the pail

and tarnished mortal souls afoul.

Written for introto poetry: screen.  Ok, this is not really about a screen but more about what is through a screen.

Normally I write tongue in cheek humor odes like my priceless “Ode to the Gas We Pass”! So writing a real ode was quite a challenge as I was continually tempted to design a line with humor instead of passion.  I followed these basics:

Real Odes, written by real poets like Keats or Shelly, follow a varied beat but iambic tetrameter is most common with ABABBCDCD.  Of course, Keats and Shelly made Odes with great complexity but for my first real attempt I kept it simple and true to form.

Iambic tetrameter has four such feet, for a total of eight syllables. A line of poetry is in iambic tetrameter if it follows this pattern:

ta TUM ta TUM ta TUM ta TUM

 

Imperfect (Limerick)

There once was a woman who feared

her man would not shear his beard

and so for fun

she got her gun

and it quickly disappeared!

♥♥♥

 

Limericks are not really my thing, I prefer “odes” for humor but I had fun with this one, written for Intro to Poetry: Imperfect.  It is also autobiographical, as I detest my husband’s beard and refused to date him until he shaved it off.  Now, as the shine has gone from marriage, he dares to wriggle out of our deal.  So writing this has given me an idea, LOL!!!

Of course, I read it to hubby and he Was Not Amused……

Limericks are traditionally composed of five lines of verse, with a common rhyming scheme of a a b b a — the first two lines rhyme, then the next two, and the final verse rhymes with the first couplet.

Passing Through

My misty life,

whispy as a cloud,

swirls on air-tossed eddies.

Directionless,

unfavored and invisible,

I turn toward and away,

unweighted by resolute boldness,

unchartered by Divine Hand.

I drift, ever seeking

my lodestone, my compass,

that elusive guide,

that unswerving arrow

pointing to my True North.

 

I feel that my purpose will always elude me……

Written for Intro to Poetry Day Four:  Journey.