My latest poem for Poetry Pot Luck http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com is really depressing. Just warning you. It’s about death, not my usual fare. No, I’m not suicidal, but if you don’t want to hear something unhappy, really don’t read this.
Here is a helping of poems for this week’s Poetry Potluck. http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. Tell me what you really think, will get around to changing “freaking’ on my last Potluck offering and answering everyone too!
An Ambidextrous Life
My interests are like my hands, ambidextrous;
And I have never met anyone else ambidextrous.
I take up my pen with my left hand,
but use my scissors with the right.
I think it’s day but secretly wonder if it might be night.
Okay, I will try not to write more ‘kill a buzz’ poetry next time, though y’all were awesome about the last one. It even got published on http://katemclaughlin.net, a successful author’s mental health blog. Coolest. Thing. Ever. Y’all won’t hold it against me if I break out into a stirring rendition of “Fame! I’m gonna live forever!” Shoot, I even feel as though I’ve got “Bette Davis Eyes” and that “I’m Walking on Sunshine, baby, yeah.”
I’m feeling so magnanimous today that I’m going to share one of the things that OCD does to virtually everyone who has it: Rabid perfectionism. Cujo-trying-to-attack-style. Just when my mind thinks I’ve figured out a way to do something, that I’ve planned it out perfectly, Nervous Nelly will interject, “Nah girl, you ain’t doing that right. Try harder, loserrr.” If it ain’t Nervous Nelly in my head saying such, my mother is apt to say something that I will misconstrue as a criticism, which will turn me all ‘Sybilish’ and my mom and I end up having words. I want to be perfect and as good as everyone else, but my standards for myself are wayyyyyyyy too high. The really fun part is therapy and antidepressants just dampen it a tad. I can’t seem to stop. Irksome! But anyway, here I drop a rhyme about it for this week’s Poetry Pot Luck at http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com . Tell me the truth if you don’t like it , in a nice way, of course!
Some people ask me why do you do such a thing?
Can it really be a comfort, or are you just not listening?
Are you just being difficult?
Are you just trying to make us mad?
No, I’m not. Yes, I am.
No. Yes. Maybe.
I’m not sure? I hope not.
I don’t think so…
I am difficult and I am crazy
in my own convoluted way.
Well, you should stop, they say.
I don’t think you understand.
All people are driven forward by their minds.
I move forward but I’m three steps behind.
You go your way, but I must stay and listen to my mind.
As a little girl, I had no idea I was mentally ill. I just thought I was of below average intelligence and different. My mother even saw a patient or two at Mental Health with OCD, never thinking I was one too. I think by at least 8, I knew on some level the frightening thoughts weren’t real, but then I would think, “but what if my fears are real?” Anyway, enjoy and please let me know what you think. I know it isn’t my best effort.
At the age of 3, I look longingly at the sea.
The wet sand is quicksand ready to swallow up me.
At age 6, the devil might come up when I flush.
I learn this truth from a teenager,
and teens are like adults,
they never lie.
At age 7, everything I eat will cause me to choke to death,
and if not that,
I will die of a heart attack.
At age 8, I just know the former owners of our car were drug dealers
who left their stash hidden inside so we’d go to jail.
The other shoe will somehow drop without fail,
and I’ll be locked up, no bail.
And I am afraid my grandparents will die,
or maybe I’m already dead?
These notions just won’t leave my head.
At age 13, I’m afraid of everyone my own age,
so as a hermit I try to fade away.
I think in unwanted blasphemies and ask myself is red the color of the devil?
At age 14, I worry that thoughts can cause action,
s and if I’m not careful I will cause people and animals to die.
I’m afraid of men.
At age 15, I think my mom is going to die.
The man she’s dating will kill her somehow I’m sure .
Maybe he’s a rapist, a murderer, or just a bad driver.
I will be left to my grandmother and nothing I ever do will be good enough.
Combining http://magpietales.blogspot.com and http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.wordpress.com/ this week. The first poem is right depressing, so if you’re already in a depressed mode you might wish to skip it because it’s pretty dark. The second poem deals with the so-called “War on Christmas,” and I don’t mean to be sacrilegious. The third is my favorite poem, a slice of that tasty ghetto/trailer park-style pie some of y’all seem to like…Anywho, enjoy and comment, trash it, or ask questions about it as you may.
A Very Depressing Christmas Poem: Nola Leigh’s Christmas
Nola Leigh, age 43, virtuous virginity.
It is Christmas Eve and she is alone,
She can’t bear to go home.
All of her relatives are dead,
So she goes to the church instead.
Open door but no one here,
She looks to the window and sits at the rear,
Thin stain glass, the virgin and her baby as before in the past.
Mary is benevolent, Jesus is sad in his innocence, looking even then for divine penitence.
Nola Leigh, 43, virtuous virginity.
Mother Mary, where were you 40 years ago,
When Nola Leigh needed you so?
Sweet Jesus, did you not see your young servant in desperate need?
While you were in the glass, Nola Leigh just had no chance.
But that’s all in the past.
Nola Leigh, 43, virtuous virginity.
A Very Controversial Christmas Poem: Merry Holidays, Jesus!
I think you should know, some of your Father’s creations are a little slow.
Or is it me who’s a bit dense? I’m not sure, but all this to me makes little sense.
It all has to do with a little word called ‘Christmas.’
Apparently there is a war on the word. Have you in heaven heard?
Being a mortal, this I can’t understand,
Did you actually make the demand
to nick-pick on a word not even invented when you walked this earth?
When you were old enough to say it, did you cry out “Merry Christmas!”in Aramaic?
Do you spend time between listening to prayers despairing, perhaps even swearing, that ‘Xmas’ does not bear your last name?
Or are you in on the joke that the Greeks often use the ‘X’ as the abbreviation of Christ?
Is it really a vice to say “Happy Holidays!” a couple of times a year?
Or do you say, “Your inclusiveness should fry with you in the lake of hell?”
Is it bad for me to say “Merry Christmas” too?
Truthfully, Jesus, I’m all in a stew,
so I guess I’ll leave it up to you.
A Semi-Festive Christmas Poem: Our Christmas Tree
Oh Christmas tree, lovely Christmas tree!
Chopped down in a forest of plastic at a Chinese factory.
That year, 1987, was the first year your blessed bough hung before us,
Joy to the World and the rest of the chorus.
That first year, do you recall?
We broke your stand and had to nail you to the wall,
tied with festive utilitarian string,
A live tree stand for a metal trunk is an interesting thing.
We Wish You a Merry Christmas and colored lights
Trying to put you up is liable to yoke a fight.
Complicated, lopsided, daring you to fall,
Well, we said, at least you’re tall.
Jingle Bells, dust, and left over tree icing,
Damn I wish it were spring and gifts weren’t so high in the pricing.
But I love your ornaments, indeed I do,
Even if you look like you were decorated by monkeys in the zoo.
Martha Stewart would cry if she saw this tree where ‘Taste’ goes to die,
But two ornaments per limb here means pleasures double,
Memories good and bad, triumph over trouble.
Gold garland and silver star, thoughts happy do not tacky mar.
Image is this past week’s Magpietales.blogspot writing prompt.There’s a door that separates you from them. It is a cold world outside, snow and ice. You want to go inside and you’re trying to turn the doorknob, but the door is locked, turn and pull as you may. As though God mocks you, there are glass windowpanes in the door. You see everything going on inside the illuminated room. But they can’t see you. You bang on the door and try to break the glass, anything to make them hear you. You now feel as though you aren’t real. Are they a figment of your imagination or are you a figment of theirs, a random irksome thought consigned to the dregs of someone’s mind soon to be forgotten altogether? Look at them, look how the beautiful people reside in there. They are perfection, they are you if you could stop being you. If you could have done anything you wanted, if you could have been loved…
“Oh sweet and gracious heavens! What is this crap?” asks Nervous Nelly, looking over your shoulder.
“You know what I mean. THIS IS CRAP!”
Well, crap seems a bit harsh. I was trying for a delicate, sensitive piece about…
Um no. So I am feeling a bit down and thought I would impart my sorrows on my blog. That isn’t a crime is it?”
“It is when you write CRAPPP! And W. T. F. is it with this writing in the second person shit? You this, you that, YOU CRAP!”
Well, thought it would be different and doused in melancholy it would be poetic and….
Yeah, whatever, Sybil.
‘Oh, woe is me, I’m turning 33, and I still haven’t lost my virginity.
My life’s a mess, Oh distress! Oh distress!
OCD and melancholy in an ugly dress!
Even Jesus Christ, at age 33 could walk across the sea,
but alas not me, never me,
I haven’t saved anybody.”
I’m not that bad of a poet! You protest, but Nervous Nelly continues to fuss about addressing yourself as ‘you.’
Here is my latest post for http:// jinglepoetry.blogspot.com. This week’s theme is emotions. So I began writing this poem, the emotion: frustration, and before I knew it I wrote an extremely depressing version of this poem, superbly self-loathing and terribly annoying. So I took my literary jujitsu knife and cut, cut. Even I hated the emo trash which had sprung forth from my brain’s murky depths. Hope y’all like this version. My grandma and I didn’t get along so well the last 13 years of her life , which I feel guilty over 9 years later. I was never good enough, and great, I’ve started the violins playing again, but that’s the poem’s back story.
Oh and another thing, I have the final episode of Rumors of My Death finished and just editing and tweaking this masterpiece. Look for it really soon if you’re big into 2500 word tomes on kidney infections in soap opera/melodrama format. Good times!