Muse Persuit

Beginning in black/blue dark

I craft lines like someone processed.

Poem supposed to fit on a postcard,

defies sizes design; no amount of shrinkage

can permit that piece to fit.

Single finger flies

from keyboard edge to keyboard edge

as gray dawn of morning

morphs into unexpected pastel green.

Sigh…

                Save…

Start second stab.

Sparking

Apocalypse gift exchange

brings tidbit excessive kit

complete with reading material,

knife and sharpener, metal rape whistle,

lock/key combo, and compass.

Corded black and orange paracord

make whistle, lock/key, and compass

easier for my cerebral palsy fingers to grab.

Literary muse takes off,

realizing that dystopian angle removes YA lost love story

from copyright infringement territory

though I still plan to thank both gifter

and deceased author hose decade's past work inspired 
what the manuscript involved into in my dedication, 

should I ever get it published.

The Day of Laze

One a day of fire though my airway,
I have written 47 more words
of my novel, zero articles
(even though I have two that are vital to complete)
and finished this poem to support the literacy programming
I respect.

Hopefully,
tomorrow will bring easier breathing
and a re-energized wordsmith.

Power outage

(a Center for New Americans poem)
Pencil gliding across paper,
graphite over smooth, new notebook
is more elegant than the quiet clatter
of laptop keys.
I realize,

as I imitate Susan B. Anthony
crafting word that will beguile
the revolution’s enemies
by candlelight.

Reasons to write

(a list poem)

1. to memorialize
2. to inform self and others
3. to be able to talk to myself without being called crazy
4. to maintain a grip on this thing called sanity
5. for money (I must admit)
6. because spilled ink has always helped create justice
7. because it passes time when waiting for bureaucrats if you have a speaker phone
8. Words last centuries!
9. It’s a better tool for self expression than an Uzi, and more legal.

Nanowrimo Poem II

Today, I worked out my story.
Wrote the ending
in advance,
breaking an unbreakable rule.

Figured out the scenes
and what will happen
when I have the support
necessary needed to spare my wrist
strain it can’t always absorb.

Final research trip is tomorrow,
off to local toy store,
where I will combine
a very cute scene,
that really makes readers believe
in the girl that my character is
with a little real world seasonal shopping.

These 5 scenes will complete
the month long tale in beginning to end
in just over 18,000 words.

Then,
because I refuse to abandon
the beloved little ballerina
I created in this month of thanks giving;
it’s into edit mode.

What does it mean to hit the wall?

(theme: make any question the title of your poem)

The kind you willing run
full force into
like on some kind
of creativity disciple on LSD
just because it’s November
and you find yourself unable
to say no to any of your friends interesting
creative brainstorms?

So, you agree to write 2 two poems a day,
and keep your job examining two topics,
which are thankfully related,
while blogging for a site you pay to belong to
although you barely cover your membership fee
with the money you earn,
and posting for pennies
on a site you enjoy mostly
because of it’s international flair.

all the while creating a 50,000 word novel,
going to the gym to make sure the 15 pounds
you lost stays lost,
and updating your Facebook status
so no one thinks you died
in what used to be
your spare time.

The Writer's Dance

I dance…
the dance of hunted…
words pursue like
beast rapid…

I have no time
to enjoy literary triumphs,
rest on laurels,
it’s always on to next
one step follows another
to breathe or turn muse
break into friendly, creative sister
from the banshee
she’s twisted into
in honor of November.

Exhalations

I woof down a salad.
Forget to by an anniversary card.
Keep typing.
There are deadlines to be chased.
Expectations to honor.

But can I
breathe a minute
before I rejoin the word ratrace?

The muse, interrupted

(a diseased haiku)

Plans for poetic
morning interface with art
disrupted by germs

Hallway Worthy

Coloring with broken crayons
at a gathering of fellow artists
my 34-year-old self remembers trauma;
elementary school art room hallway
where personal creations
never merited placement
no matter how much effort I exerted.

Was that the first place
I learned to apologize
unnecessarily?

To internalize blame
for the wayward movements
of a body I neither chose nor controlled?

Not to do this
Not to do that.
Not to do every possible thing
if certain people got to make the rules.

Rebellion came with adolescence
I turned words into weapons
which I welded against those that bullied
without reason or regard.

I wrote words
that earned me awards, acclaim,
some measure of equality.

But with discovery of self
came banishment of crayons, markers
and moving body for enjoyment.
I lacked desire to engage
in behavior I couldn’t perfect

The loss was tangible and complete.
Periodically reclaimed during some
of life’s moments-
dancing in Oregon,
joining the gym.

I hope tonight
I’ve unlearned elementary school lessons
for the final time.