Final Poems

Here are 10 of my poems to be submitted as my final work. Most of them aren't finished yet but then again, I don't ever really think my work is finished so...I guess it is what it is. Enjoy!


Snow Walk
Vacant Home
Quote
Lamp Unto My Feet
Disaster
After Tricia's Lazarus
Valentine's Day
American Sonnet
List Poem
Easter Occasion Poem

Caitlin

Easter Occasion Poem

Crowded pews, huddled masses
of still and silent sheep
surrounded by spring flowers.
Followers?

Or lives spent floundering
in muck and mire, aimless
wandering in an empty tomb,
searching for a body
in an abandoned grave?

Perhaps they fell asleep in the pasture
and did not see their shepherd ascend.
What will it take to awaken them;
to resurrect them?

List Poem

Going Home

Miles of road passes beneath our wheels

like an unraveled roll of film.
It spans the route 

between here and there and

my side window plays a scene
from that old film being rewound.

Objects pass quickly through my lens--
familiar, distant sights: 

a rusty blue tractor, a muddy pasture,
a telephone pole,

an old, tied-out retriever, an abandoned sugar shack,

a nondescript convenience store,
a telephone pole,

another telephone pole,
a man and his wife walking along side the road,
children playing in a field,
their mother leaning outside of a red, side door
calling them inside for dinner.

a telephone pole. 

Miles of old footage spans the route

between here and there;

between the present and past. 

American Sonnet

Famiglia Festa

As ziti is passed about the table
the sound of Papa's voice stills our idle
chatter. Our storyteller offers wild
stories of past adventure; embellished,
affirmed by few remaining, aged brothers.
Evening deepens as we listen and laugh.
"I'll have just one more piece of bread," Sal claims.
"One more glass of vino." Connie echoes.

Though our group strives to will time to delay
we all know this communion cannot last.
When scattered crumbs and empty glasses stand
untouched on the table, our group must part.
Withdrawn, we part with bellies and hearts full,
to perform the duties of life, alone.

Valentine's Day

Savory, sweet

honey date pancakes
are the fruit of her morning rush.

She dashes around the room

instinctively; preparing

knapsacks for the day ahead.

Dreams of a different life

have been dead for many years,

lifeless as St. Valentine himself.

They leave--bags packed and bellies full.
Devotion to her family consumes her as

she loves and is loved.

After Tricia's Lazarus

Lazarus

the tree still has berries,

little purple globes
nestled in clusters with their nightcaps of snow
alive
only sleeping

_________________________________________________

Spring

Once vibrant hills,
now pale and lifeless.

We look on-
Weeping, Longing, 

Mourning, Loving.

Cold foliage lays rotting
in an earthy grave.

We wait for a time;

the clouds roll back as the stone
Hope is lifted with the
coming of the sun

Lazarus, arise!

Remove your burial garments

Be clothed anew.

Disaster

Selfishness
evident in deed;

leaves her defenseless as 
she drowns 
in her sobs.

Lamp Unto My Feet

Dim, golden light
disturbs darkness;

Incomplete,
adequate sight.


Psalm 119:105

Quote

Curved marks
encompass expressed thought;
hold it fastened in place.

Inspiration passes
from the page to the mind.

Vacant Home

Four walls
contain secrets
of people
departed,
yet reveal none.

Snow Walk

Along the pathway
up the rising hill

biting, bitter winds whip
through the trees, 

ascend the path,
and force snowflakes
from the ground
to mingle
with those from tree
limbs and sky.

The air at the summit

is much kinder.

Evening breezes

encompass

passersby;
a friendly embrace.

Fog and mist:

an almost tangible blanket

covers the ground
lingers in the branches of trees
as leaves in summertime.

Original Paragraph:

In winter, the pathway juxtaposing the rising hill is usually the most unpleasant portion of the walk from there to here. The biting, bitter wind whips through the trees, ascends path and causes me to gasp and gulp as I struggle to catch my breath. Tiny snow pellets of sleet collide with my susceptible face and hands and I tear up. Something about traversing on that particular path causes me to unintentionally weep. Is it as a result of the pain of the ice on my eyes or the stinging air? The roughness of the hillside has a way of doing that whether I expect it to or not. Tonight is not like other winter nights. Descending the hill is warmer and much more pleasant. The air is much kinder to my eyes. The evening breeze seems to encompass me in a sort of friendly embrace. Fog and mist form a physical, almost tangible blanket that wraps me up and hides me from the outside world and the outside world from me.  A refreshing evening rain drizzles down as the sky exhales its wealth of water. The night is cool still but something is temperate about it too. Walking the path tonight, I am not choked by the wind, rather I find myself breathing in deeply the entirely of what I am experiencing. I inhale again and again, slowly. My pace slows to a stroll in the moment and I am hoping that I won’t soon return to my retreat inside. 

When considering how to go about the  two "2nd task" poems assignments, I attempted to maintain as much of the individual paragraphs' integrity and detail as possible all while trying to limit the number of words used to tell the stories. I tried to condense as much of the speech as possible and present what was important in a way that was more rhythmic and concise. As I began to work at this, I found that both paragraphs broke quite naturally into stanzas which each emphasized different elements of the stories being told.

I also shortened or lengthened certain lines based on what I felt were key ideas or details that I though should be points of emphasis and what I felt were not as much. For example, most of my stanzas in the poem about the witch have a single line with only the name, Peggy Clevenger. I did this because I thought that her name was good thing to continue referring to as the poem progressed. If I were to do a third edit I would attempt to include her name in all stanzas to add some consistency. Likewise in the poem about the blueberry harvesters I intentionally sought to place emphasis, through the construction of the lines, on any reference to berries. This technique for me was a way to enhance the natural repetition of certain words or phrases already in the paragraphs. 

Blueberry Harvesters

We approached a clearing

where thousands of blueberry bushes grew.

In the center was

the packing house--a low building

with open and windows on all sides. 

Parked outside was a school bus

marked "Farm Labor Transport."

The driver, a tall, amiable-looking

man, with bare feet

 stood beside his bus.  

He wore green trousers and a T-shirt.

The end of the working day had come.

Pickers swarmed around a pump--

old women, middle-aged men, a young girl.

A line was waiting to use 

an outhouse nearby.

Inside the packing house, 

berries 

half an inch thick were rolling 

up a portable conveyor belt and, 

eventually, into pint boxes. 

Charlie's sister packed the boxes. 

Charlie's daughter-in-law put 

cellophane over them.

Charlie's son Jim supervised the operation.

Charlie picked up a pint box

in which berries were mounded high,

and told me with disgust 

that some supermarkets

knock off these mounds of extra berries 

to put them in new boxes,

for three or four extra pints 

per twelve-box tray.

At one window, pickers were turning 

in tickets of various colors, 

and being given cash in return.

One picker, 

who appeared to be in his sixties,

tapped Charlie on the arm and

showed him a thick packet of tickets 

held together with a rubber band. 

"I found these,"

the man said. "They must have fallen 

out of your son's pocket." 

He gave the packet to Charlie

who thanked him and counted 

the tickets. Charlie said,

"These tickets are worth seventy-five dollars."

Peggy Clevenger

The Pine Barrens once had their own

particular witch. Pineys put salt

over their doors to discourage visits

from the witch of the pines,

Peggy Clevenger

It was known that she could turn herself 

into a rabbit. A dog was once seen

chasing a rabbit. The rabbit jumped

through the window of a house and there--

in the same instance, 

in the window--stood

Peggy Clevenger.

A man saw a lizard and tried to kill

it by crushing it with a rock. 

When the rock hit,

the lizard disappeared and

Peggy Clevenger

materialized on the spot

and smacked the man in the face.

Clevenger is a Hessian name.

Peggy lived in Pasedena,

another of the now vanished towns

about five miles east

of Mt. Misery.

It was said that she had 

a stocking full of gold. 

Her remains were found in the smoking

ruins of her cabin, but

there was no trace of the gold.