The exercise:
The Halloween edition of Def Poetry Jam Friday brings us Jamie Kennedy (not that one) and Grim Fairy Tale.
Mine:
A stirring tribute to imagination and a father's love for his daughter.
There are some really great lines in there, but I particularly love the mention of unicorns putting the holes in Swiss cheese. Something about that just makes me happy inside.
There are little fairy tale creatures running around my neighborhood tonight, cracked out on candy and showing off their costumes with pride. Here's to them making it home safe and sound and sharing their enthusiasm for life with their parents.
Happy Halloween!
Thursday October 30th, 2008
The exercise:
For some reason I'm in a haiku kind of mood. With Halloween tomorrow, I thought a good topic would be: ghosts.
Mine:
Did you hear that noise?
Coming from outside the door?
Are we not alone?
Children under sheets
Knocking at our door for treats
Shall we give them beets?
Sit by the camp fire
Tell stories of long lost souls
While they listen in
For some reason I'm in a haiku kind of mood. With Halloween tomorrow, I thought a good topic would be: ghosts.
Mine:
Did you hear that noise?
Coming from outside the door?
Are we not alone?
Children under sheets
Knocking at our door for treats
Shall we give them beets?
Sit by the camp fire
Tell stories of long lost souls
While they listen in
Wednesday October 29th, 2008
The exercise:
Today's starter comes from another walking meditation note: the crying statue.
Mine:
The statue is weeping. I stand silent vigil while the city lays sleeping. The rain hits the tin roof above me more persistently than an alarm clock's beeping.
The street lamp stars are clouded by fog. A bum stumbles by like a homesick dog. Leaves plug the drains of this parking lot bog.
And I bear witness to the tears being shed; for the children without a bed and the elderly who go unfed. For the newly born and the long forgotten dead.
Today's starter comes from another walking meditation note: the crying statue.
Mine:
The statue is weeping. I stand silent vigil while the city lays sleeping. The rain hits the tin roof above me more persistently than an alarm clock's beeping.
The street lamp stars are clouded by fog. A bum stumbles by like a homesick dog. Leaves plug the drains of this parking lot bog.
And I bear witness to the tears being shed; for the children without a bed and the elderly who go unfed. For the newly born and the long forgotten dead.
Tuesday October 28th, 2008
The exercise:
Tonight's starter is from a note I made after the walking meditation during the workshop: an empty stage.
Mine:
The stage stands at attention
Waiting for the mere mention
Of Lights, Camera, Action!
But those three words do not come
The walls are missing their hum
The empty seats remain numb
Where have all the actors gone?
Are there no costumes to don?
No king to control his pawns?
No more kisses to be blown
No more flowers to be thrown
The curtains have turned to stone
Tonight's starter is from a note I made after the walking meditation during the workshop: an empty stage.
Mine:
The stage stands at attention
Waiting for the mere mention
Of Lights, Camera, Action!
But those three words do not come
The walls are missing their hum
The empty seats remain numb
Where have all the actors gone?
Are there no costumes to don?
No king to control his pawns?
No more kisses to be blown
No more flowers to be thrown
The curtains have turned to stone
Monday October 27th, 2008
The exercise:
Today's starter is: the gift of time.
Mine:
In our home whoever makes the meal doesn't do any dishes. On the vast majority of nights Kat makes (delicious) dinners so I do the clean up. I'm not a particularly fast washer; I'd say dishes take up about an hour (often more) of my time each day.
For my birthday several friends (including Kat) got together to buy me a dishwasher. I was so thrilled; why, you may ask? Because I look at it a bit differently than you.
You may see a counter top dishwasher. I see time.
I see seven hours a week, twenty eight hours a month, three hundred and thirty six hours a year. That's two weeks per year of my time that has instantly been freed up. How often are you able to give someone more time? What a great, great gift - thanks again everyone!
I'm going to get a whole lot more writing done.
Today's starter is: the gift of time.
Mine:
In our home whoever makes the meal doesn't do any dishes. On the vast majority of nights Kat makes (delicious) dinners so I do the clean up. I'm not a particularly fast washer; I'd say dishes take up about an hour (often more) of my time each day.
For my birthday several friends (including Kat) got together to buy me a dishwasher. I was so thrilled; why, you may ask? Because I look at it a bit differently than you.
You may see a counter top dishwasher. I see time.
I see seven hours a week, twenty eight hours a month, three hundred and thirty six hours a year. That's two weeks per year of my time that has instantly been freed up. How often are you able to give someone more time? What a great, great gift - thanks again everyone!
I'm going to get a whole lot more writing done.
Sunday October 26th, 2008
The exercise:
At the workshop last weekend our final writing exercise was to write a poem (or something similar) with the theme (and repeating phrase) of 'I am from...' Ruth read us an example but I can't for the life of me remember the name of the author.
I shared what I wrote and it was suggested to me later that I should share it on my birthday in some form or another (I had mentioned that my birthday is today). I thought that was a very nice idea, so here it is with a few minor edits. Where are you from?
Mine:
I am from Laurie and Aggie,
Joseph and Mary.
I am from a Maritime farm
and streets filled with Jamaican charm.
I am from families of nine
and palm trees and pine.
I am from the nearest beach
and the mountains most out of reach.
I am from dinner together every night
and "Go outside and get some light",
from "There is no swearing in this house"
and "You're as quiet as a mouse."
I am from the Air Force
and the teachings of the How To Be A Man course.
I am from the Stay At Home Mom
and the fiercest storms and deepest calm.
I am from Catholic guilt
and the hands that made my bedroom quilt.
I am from the Island of Vancouver
where Snow Birds practiced their maneuvers.
I am from a high school that was filled with white,
where my tanned skin nearly led to fights.
I am from the music and words that move me,
from melting ice in black coffee.
I am from Canada but I do not skate,
from stoic masculinity but "are you really straight?"
I am from van Gogh's museum in Amsterdam,
from Guinness in the pubs of Ireland.
I am from the sinking streets of Venice,
from a Brazilian's unexpected kiss.
I am from the vineyards of New Zealand,
from the smiles of the girls of Japan.
I am from the waters and the trees
but none of this truly captures me.
I am from this and so much more
but I am who I am to my very core.
At the workshop last weekend our final writing exercise was to write a poem (or something similar) with the theme (and repeating phrase) of 'I am from...' Ruth read us an example but I can't for the life of me remember the name of the author.
I shared what I wrote and it was suggested to me later that I should share it on my birthday in some form or another (I had mentioned that my birthday is today). I thought that was a very nice idea, so here it is with a few minor edits. Where are you from?
Mine:
I am from Laurie and Aggie,
Joseph and Mary.
I am from a Maritime farm
and streets filled with Jamaican charm.
I am from families of nine
and palm trees and pine.
I am from the nearest beach
and the mountains most out of reach.
I am from dinner together every night
and "Go outside and get some light",
from "There is no swearing in this house"
and "You're as quiet as a mouse."
I am from the Air Force
and the teachings of the How To Be A Man course.
I am from the Stay At Home Mom
and the fiercest storms and deepest calm.
I am from Catholic guilt
and the hands that made my bedroom quilt.
I am from the Island of Vancouver
where Snow Birds practiced their maneuvers.
I am from a high school that was filled with white,
where my tanned skin nearly led to fights.
I am from the music and words that move me,
from melting ice in black coffee.
I am from Canada but I do not skate,
from stoic masculinity but "are you really straight?"
I am from van Gogh's museum in Amsterdam,
from Guinness in the pubs of Ireland.
I am from the sinking streets of Venice,
from a Brazilian's unexpected kiss.
I am from the vineyards of New Zealand,
from the smiles of the girls of Japan.
I am from the waters and the trees
but none of this truly captures me.
I am from this and so much more
but I am who I am to my very core.
Saturday October 25th, 2008
The exercise:
The topic for this week's four line poem is: getting older.
Mine:
Another day goes passing by
The year turns over with a sigh
Another milestone, here we go
I am just getting started though
The topic for this week's four line poem is: getting older.
Mine:
Another day goes passing by
The year turns over with a sigh
Another milestone, here we go
I am just getting started though
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