megwrites: A pair of brown glasses on a worn wooden table with a shadowed white wall in the background. (glasses)
Day 9: Quickly jot down four verbs, four adjectives, and four nouns. Write a poem utilizing all 12 words.

Cry
Fly
Run
Punch

Savvy
Delicious
Seasoned
Light

Stone
Feet
Garland
Heart



It's not exactly that you run
But you can fly, numbed and sinking
away to another room
rather than break out into a punch
and send your fist soaring through
nothing but too cold air and flower petals

I had plans to be savvy on the occasion
To be the comforting one, not the comforted
I planned it with the assumption
One can ever be seasoned at these things
Like a soldier
That you can eat delicious crackers
- made delicious by grief hunger, grief weariness -
in the coffee break room
You can break up mourning
between jokes that keep things light

That you won't cry out the breaking of your heart
won't wobble on feet made more of clay than stone
When you see the silk pillow and the roses and pictures as his garland
And know you have to leave him alone in the dark 'til tomorrow
When you watch six men bear him to the ground
Six men you love, six men you may seen born away someday, too

You know the truth: death has a right hand of mercy
and a left hand of cruelty and it will
strike you with both equally, whether the sky is blue or gray that day













megwrites: Grace Park. Because yeah, she IS that awesome. (grace park)
Day 8: Write a Cinquain on a topic of your choice (1st line = 2 syllables, 2nd line = 4 syllables, 3rd line = 6 syllables, 4th line = 8 syllables, 5th (final line) = 2 syllables).


I have
written poems
for almost nearly all
my feelings. Still I can't keep up
with them.







megwrites: A moon rising above a darkened landscape in front of a starry night sky. (moonrise)
Day 7: Take a short walk outdoors in your surrounding environment. When you find an object you identify with, write a poem using the image as a metaphor for yourself or your life.


Of no great notice but
shade offering against summer's rage
and firm against all but the sternest winds

At least the local dogs seem fond.

True, there are more spectacular trees.
The oak down the block is 70 ft high if it's an inch.
It turns on the first day of October, perfectly pitched red

Then there's us, still green all too late in the season
unblooming come April, when all others
snow down pink and white petals to delight the world

Outmatched, outwitted, outdone.

But - we are here. We are close.
And we are doing the best with what
ungenerous nature gave to us.














megwrites: A pair of brown glasses on a worn wooden table with a shadowed white wall in the background. (glasses)
Day 6: Write a poem of any length incorporating every word from your latest FB status update in any order.


Memory is just this:
something weirdly true, true in how the smallest moments
become jewels lodged in your mind
about how they sparkle with colors like
peppy childhood-sun yellow, bewildering burial day sky blue
and they think back old music, crystalline and stretched out as taffy
like Johnny Cash's "The Devil's Right Hand" looping over
and over, and whether the moment is serious, not funny, even though
it may be an obsidian moment, it's rather true
that it is life's way, and even then there is pleasure, it's fun to listen
and replay those tapes, to listen and remember a dog hanging
out the back window when the windows are down in the car,
ears are flapping, tongue is hanging out the side of a toothy mouth
happy as a pig in poop flavored poop, down a dusty gravel road
on a too hot Tuesday in a car with no air conditioning
That is a jewel, too. That is the brain's treasure.









megwrites: Beast, from Beauty & The Beast looking coiffed and unhappy. (WTF?)
Day 5: Write a three-line poem about lemons without using the following words: lemon, yellow, round, fruit, citrus, tart, juicy, peel, and sour.


"To A Sun Colored Oblong Lump of Vegetative Matter That I Don't Like"

Why the hell are you always in ice tea and diet coke?
You don't belong there. We use you to make things smell clean,
for crissakes. What? Did all the limes in the world evaporate?











Day 4 poem!

Oct. 4th, 2012 02:03 pm
megwrites: Reading girl by Renoir.  (reading girl)
Day 4: Write a haiku (a three line poem where the first line has 5 syllables, the second line has 7 syllables, and the third line has 5 syllables). Haikus are often about nature, but yours can be about anything.


"Booze"

Demon at the door
a glass bottle full of brown
this is temptation













megwrites: A moon rising above a darkened landscape in front of a starry night sky. (moonrise)
For an explanation of what the heck I'm doing and why the donate button is there, go to the link.

Now onward for Day 3 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge, posted RIGHT on time this time.

Day 3: Find the nearest book (of any kind). Turn to page 8. Use the first ten full words on the page in a poem. You may use them in any order, anywhere in the poem.

Sentence: "In the second it takes you to read this sentence" from "Wired for Story" by Lisa Cron



It takes time to realize that
the larger the pain the more
it will only ever ebb slowly
away like a bathtub overfill
with old pipes that
seem to stop at impasses periodically
and may not restart
leaving the cold mirk there,
leaving the cold sweat still coming
down your skin in drops that roll
disgusting reminders, the finger
of agony itself ghosting
down your spine.
Even with a foretold ending,
the sentence becomes interminable
You believe like the gospel you read
in that you don't believe at all
'til you see that this isn't all of eternity
This is the nature of the long and chronic
of small blossomed seconds or two in
which you can flow forward, in which
the throb, the ache, the burn receeds and you
are this whole thing, not a slow sludge
towards a relative improvement
if it exists, you think, you hope
second over and the truth is, that you
would not be afraid to let the clock stop here, forever
'til you see that old water line
And onward you slurp and sludge and drain
to the never there finish line called "better"












megwrites: A pair of brown glasses on a worn wooden table with a shadowed white wall in the background. (glasses)
Day 2: Who was the last person you texted? Write a five-line poem to that person.


"To My Husband Man"

Back broken: you shouldered my load
Heart broken: you held me while they welded me back together
As light and strong as the titanium you chose for our wedding rings
Happy other half, I love you, thank you
For every big and little thing











megwrites: A picture of a colorful spiral galaxy in space. (galaxy)
In which Meg takes the 30 day poetry challenge this October and sees how many people are still following her by All Hallow's Eve!

Also, I'll be posting the donate/tip jar button at the bottom of each poem, because well, I could use the funds right now and if anyone likes the poem and wants to put in a buck or two, it would really help. Especially since my dog (as seen here) has had visit the vet more than normal lately and right now I'm undergoing physical therapy for a back that is not doing so hot and there are lots of medical bills. Being sick is expensive, y'all.

And also, feedback is really appreciated because I love that, too and as a writer, I love constructive criticism. And I don't argue with them!

Don't feel obligated or anything. I'm just letting you know the situation here at Castle Von Meganstein.

So, with no further ado, Day 1 (belately posted) of the challenge:

Day One: Write a poem where each line starts with a letter from your first name (an Acrostic). It can be about anything, but it should not be about you or your name.


Mountainous rises, then hills, then the flats of gold waving in the wind
Easterly sunrise over over fields of white tailed deer that breathe mist into the morning
Green, verdantly unbound in short spring and almighty, endless summer
Autumnally vermillion, ripe, crisp until the quite white-gray of winter comes
Nothing will ever taste so good as the water from your own well, nowhere else is home



The Challenge list behind the cut for any who are curious )









megwrites: A picture of a colorful spiral galaxy in space. (galaxy)
Dedicated to: @xiomberg for the generous donation in the tip jar for City of the Hand. I hope this poem is worthy of your gift to me.


"Writing Implements"


I miss writing in pencil
the way I did when a student
erases then seemed
a restrain and an insult to
my certainty
I wanted pens, pens, pens!
I bold, in colored ink
mistakes regardless, no, especially!
I treasured my errors then
in the days of pink rubber ends
like a mat to catch me
when I overbalanced, miscalculated
I wanted to let them all stand
even when I fell
I wanted the unfettered tightrope
I wanted the danger of permanent decisions beneath me

Now I use pens and all my wrongs
find inky immortality
the misspellings misunderstandings
mischief misery mistiming
missing words
all forever and ever
incontrovertible and uncorrectable

Older now, I push harder on pens and
my hands ache if I've pressed long enough to
try to squeeze perfection
from my very joints
I try harder, I try with better paper, better tools
I even try to let the lines curl
until mistakes become miracles

And still my teeth ache to bite on wood
and rubber and to find the ease
of wiping any and everything away
to leave a new space and a new start
megwrites: Reading girl by Renoir.  (Default)
"Failing English"
By: Meg Freeman

Fuck English
and it's barely functional
syntax and it's
shitty vocabulary

Fuck making anyone learn
this scumbag of a
tongue

English fails.

For instance?

There is no word
for the color of a pitch
perfect blue sky
over a lawn of still
frosted grass lit by crisp
mid morning
autumn sunlight
as seen through
scratchy dusty school
building windows

but there is no mistaking
such a color when it
is seen.

Nor does my only tongue
give me any
start on how to
properly convey in
less than an essay
the exact scent
of my mother's clothes
and her coat
when put around me
fragranced with
make up and perfume
and a little sweat and her
warm dark hair
and her curvy, pillar-of-the-world
body and
the cigarettes she
smoked and our house
and the dog and cat
and of nothing so much as mother
Put me in a room
of shirts and coats
and jackets and but let
me sniff at the collar
I'll tell you which one is hers

There is no word for the
chest-heart-lungs-soul
ache when you think of these things
It is not precisely
the stretch of tendons
or the squeeze of breathlessness
or a heartbeat happening too hard
It is something that vibrates
on all your wavelengths
when you are knocked out
of oblivious continuum
and know with absolute clarity
that you lost all this time
even when it still feels like you're holding
it in your hand right then
It is still happening to you and it is gone.

These are the realest things in
the world and they remain unnamed.

Fuck English.
megwrites: A picture of a colorful spiral galaxy in space. (galaxy)
"Used to Be"
By: Meg Freeman


I used to want so many things
I used to want
that tall, aloof boy
to look my way
and I used to want
to hear God putting things
in my heart
like slotting a mixtape
into a deck
and hitting play

I used to wish
for a tall dark horse
with a white mane
who loved me only
to ride
and a seashore home
and to have
charming unstrange
strangers to
whisper to me
of my power and specialness
and take my
hand and lead me to
undangerous danger
by way of adveture

I used to want
pop tarts every morning
and all the orange juice
and peanut butter I
could eat
and swiss cake rolls
every damn night
And nothing more
than enough paper
to write and draw
my fill
because that was enough
back then

I used to be the
stupidest saddest
lump of a thing
I ever knew.
I used to be too
goddamn dumb to live

Now, I'm still
a stupid sad lump
but I've gotten
smart enough to die.
megwrites: Reading girl by Renoir.  (green hills)
1. Thank you to everyone who sent condolences, symapathies, well wishes, thoughts and prayers to me and my family. It did more good than I can express right now. I will go back through and thank people in comments, but I wanted to say it now that I'm home and (somewhat) recovered from the ordeal of travel.

2. Day #4's poem from way back on Wednesday.

"Thank you note"
by: Meg Freeman

Thank you for the
balms your garden
grow. - the forbidden
and the simply unnamed -
for your encyclopedic
familiarity with pain
when reference is needed
Thank you for putting to be
a drunk broken thing
and requiring nothing
Thank you for the
creaking floors and the futon
and the wet irises and the
smoke on the front porch
and the colors
and the wild dancing
and the burning smoky laughs
for knowing, for accepting
for the black cat with
green eyes that slept at
the end of dirty feet
like a scrawny guardian
and then having a glass of milk
and a soft blanket
waiting for the hung over
thing that slurped out of bed
the next morning

Thank you for letting broken
be broken and never once trying
grind down edges but rather
meeting jagged side to jagged side
and interlocking where possible.
megwrites: Reading girl by Renoir.  (green hills)
The Wolves That Live Inside - A Series of Canine Haikus
By: Meg freeman

I.

Smelled of you, I chewed
Felt good ripping in my mouth
I love with teeth

Smelled of food, I opened
Entire feast in this big bucket!
How convenient.


II.

I hide from others
when I am going potty
but not you, you're safe

Eep! This place scares me.
On metal table. Okay. I'll stay still.
Because you say so.

We're in the car now.
Where are we going? I don't know.
But you'll be there, too.


III.
You give food freely
And you don't even growl
When I eat it. Why?

If it were my food
It would be so hard to share
I would protect it

This giving of food
Makes you magical to me
How do you do it?

IV.
You were gone forever
was it just five minutes?
time stops without you

V.
Rumble outside. Bark!
You must be informed about it
I will scare it for you

Had to mark carpet
if I don't how will anyone know
that this home is mine?

No bath! I smell fine
Your nose must be defective.
Stupid bubble water

I don't understand
The pillow is soft and warm
Why not chew on it?


VI.

What are you saying?
Maybe if I tilt my head?
Nope. Still makes no sense.

Head tilts the other way
This angle isn't any better
Why are you laughing?

My name is No! No! No!
But you only say it angry.
What's "Coraline" mean?

Nose to butt, you scream
What for? I was just smelling
For what's new with you


VII.

I killed it myself
Look! It's insides are everywhere
Ducks are very fluffy

I sleep with this pelt
Because it's mine, I killed it.
I dream like a wolf.


VIII.

Here. You lost this ball.
What are you doing human?
You threw it again!

Those dogs enjoy it.
I doubt their intelligence
Now, let's play some tug.

Yay! You try to take toy
I try to take it back from you
This is much more fun.

Tail monster appears
Grr! I got it! Oh. Nevermind.
Just my butt appendage


IX.

Hello new dog friend
I will let you sniff my butt!
Can I lick your face?

Slow down! Lots of trees
Lots of pee mail to catch up on.
Smells like Bella got spayed.

Tag, you're it! Chase me!
Run run right to my human
Her legs are home base.


X.


That's all you wanted?
Sit? Why didn't you say so?
Butt on floor, easy.

Oh. I did good. Click.
You say "Touch!". Put nose to hand.
I'd do that anyway.

Stay? Okay. Click. Treat. Yay!
At last you speak fluent Dog.
Now you yell much less.

I see the treat bag!
You don't have to even ask me
Butt already on floor.

Ignore the flying bird
You don't want me to chase it
See? I'm a good dog!

What? No treat for that?
I did real good! Did you see?
I didn't chew shoes!

Didn't you see it?
No shoe chewing! I left it!
So why no "good girl!"?


XI.

You let me on bed
Twirl three times, rest beside you
Ah, yes, belly rubs.

Sometimes I dream
A small bad-smelly scary place.
I wake. Yay! Home again!

Good morning, human!
Huh? What does "ah! cold nose!" mean?
Yay! You love me! Lick.

(c) Meg Freeman.
megwrites: A picture of a colorful spiral galaxy in space. (galaxy)
1. Poems are like, no poems are galaxies. Scientists have found that if you add up all the visible matter in galaxies - dust, stars, planets, ice, gas, moons, comets, etc, it doesn't account for how fast they move. Indeed, the numbers only work out if you a) ignore many years of scientific precedent and flip Einstein and Newton the bird or b) postulate that galaxies not only contain but are made up mostly of dark matter.

The point is: What we can see and touch and analyze of galaxies does not add up to their actual impact upon the universe. They barrel on into the darkness in a way not expected if you only add up the tangible, visible bits. The lights and stars and shiny things are actually a proportional minority. Thus, we must come up with concepts to conceive the unconceivable just to name them properly because galaxies are actually more dark matter than light.

Had these scientists been poets, I think the fact that the vast majority of our universe is moved and shaped and filled with a force that is both utterly intangible and uninteractable and more profoundly real than a desk or a chair or a planet or a sun would have come as little or no surprise. Poets have known this forever. Indeed, it is our sole governing principle.

Which makes me undecided as to whether to pity or envy astrophysicist. After encounters with Pablo Neruda and ee cummings and Audre Lord, I have decided to pity the astrophysicist. Galaxies are wondrous, but useless ultimately, and ill-fated. They have to obey laws and do not control themselves. Poetry obeys nothing and no one and does whatever it damn well pleases, it is wild, it is made of exotic, constantly mutating particles, it defies space-time.

When we figure out dark matter, we will probably not be able to do very much with it.

If we ever figure out poetry's dark matter, we will have become God.


2. Poetry is traditionally a better ally to the oppressed than any well meaning privileged person could hope to be. It isn't just that poetry is neutral, it's not. Oh, it takes a side. Neutrality tends to favor the oppressor, because oppressors require nothing less than total resistance to be stopped. Poetry does just this the way the surface of a body of water can break bones like concrete upon impact even though, at a gentle trickle, it's the most harmless stuff you can think of. The harder you try to hit it, the more you get hurt. Poetry rewards softhandedness.

This allows it to become whatever is needed, keened to the will of those who are in the most pain. It is humble, it is majestic, it is private, it is public. It shapes itself to the wounds in the world, a perfect fitting bandage that lets blood through if blood letting is needed. It can be the ultimate soldier, hiding in plain sight, camouflaged in a way that cannot be weaponized by enemies, speaking in codes that are only decipherable to those meant to hear it. It can be refuge, it can be preservation, it can even be revival of the dead.

And even if the words are appropriated and invading forces lay hands on the text and the speakers and the tongues, the soul of the thing, the dark matter slips right on through, immune to appropriation. Better yet, this dark matter does not idle. It weasels its way in, it infiltrates the infiltrator. It turns the master's tools into to playthings for children of all ages. It turns bullets into building blocks.


3. Speaking of, medicine and poetry are very much alike. Poetry can be morphine, naproxen, steroids, weed, LSD. It can be an external hallucination, it can make you strong, it can soothe pain and let a strained muscle function more completely through practice and therapeutic stretching, it can put you in an ecstatic, euphoric state, it can give you back your appetite. It can even heal - it works wonders for heart failure.

To bolster this metaphor, I offer proof. Consider this. Governments have long suppressed both drugs(medicine) and poetry to control their populations and poetry was the original offender. The world over, power disdains poetry, fears it, tries to create hermetical sealed environments where only "good" poetry gets in, where people have to go to approved sources to get just the minimal effective doses of approved poetry, the kind that isn't harmful when taken under proper supervision as prescribed. Manufacturers and distributors of illegal poetry face punishment. See how they use these tactics now? How did you think such a skill was honed and on what stone?

So I will not be surprised when I hear my government declare a war on poetry. I will not be surprised when the day comes that I am given Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Blake-treatments to cure me of my terrible addictions to the worst poetry, the stuff that gets smuggled into our borders from un-civilization, the stuff manufactured in some basement or back alley by untrained amateurs. I will not be surprised when the government fears the rising epidemic of young people passing these horrible street poems around, warping their minds with it, getting violent and loud and out of line with it, and how it's unwinding society like a ball of yarn until there just won't be anything but messy bits of string all around.

Oh, wait. Some of that is already happening.


4. There is a long kept secret about poetry, one that many poets dare not utter. It is this: Anyone can do poetry and sometimes the best poetry is done by non-poets, un-poets, sub-poets, and de-poets. You do not even need paper or literacy, either. If you can hum a tune with words, you've done poetry. (Oh, yes, what are songs but poems that brought along a friend or two to help them get dressed up for a marvelous feast.)

If you can say something in a way that is just a little twisted or dented or turned sideways, you've done poetry. If you can be so angry or so hurt or so excited or just so that you stand before people and let the words flow out, coughing and convulsive and shaking the way it does when you revive a half-drowned person, you've done poetry.

No length required, no meter necessary, no form mandatory. Four words or four thousand or four million or four billion or for ever. You've done poetry.

If you can sit quietly (or not) and think (or not) until a something comes into your head that doesn't belong there and that bothers you so much that it has to come out, plucked like shrapnel or maybe just a splinter, or else take the rest of your brain out of proper alignment, you have done poetry.

Recording in any medium is entirely optional.

5. This is not a poem. Unless you want it to be. Poetry is half shared agreement, half neuro-linguistic ambush, half dialectical imposition, half moon howling, half mutual, desired misunderstanding. For those playing the home game, yes, I am indeed as bad with numbers as I am with verse. But that doesn't make it any less true.
megwrites: A pair of brown glasses on a worn wooden table with a shadowed white wall in the background. (glasses)
And thus, it's the month when I make you consider hitting the back button and unsubscribing/de-friending me because I post my own poetry. But hey, what's a DW/LJ account for if you can't regale your f-list with terrible verse?


Untitled
by: Meg Freeman

I.

Last night I had a
terrible nightmare that
my mother was dead.
I dreamed my cell
phone rang and my
stepfather's voice
came across the line
like a babbling brook,
near incomprehensible
and only a few words
the worst words got
through. Breaking and
entering. Can't find
who did it. Your mother.


I dreamed I called my
grandmother, and I
wailed, like a wounded
thing. Her voice was clear
broad, vast as a gale
down a canyon.

She said, "I loved her
too,"
in my dream.
And then my mother
was really dead.
I screamed over the
line. I screamed,
pinched my thighs
in the dream and begged.


II.

I awoke. Relief was
cold and painful as my
sweat, as all that pain
evaporating in an
instant.

I was like a newborn
calf, all trembles, and
knocky knees on my way
to the bathroom.

I barely comprehended
reality and looked in
the dimmed mirror,
wondering what would
happen if it was real.
If that was a dream,
what will become of
me when it isn't?

I laid in bed the rest
of the night, willing
the phone not to ring
counting the seconds of
silence like a poor
person counting
their very last pennies.
megwrites: Beast, from Beauty & The Beast looking coiffed and unhappy. (WTF?)
"Night"

Some nights will break you
crack you open like an egg and all
of you will pour you out into dawn
all yolk and whites mixed, crushed
scrambled; tossed around
with a fork
On those nights, hell is high and bright and
it comes down to phone calls, waiting rooms, notifications
it comes down to long-stretched dread
You will be devoured and spit out
on those nights

Some nights will press you flat
oppressive and heavy the darkness will
permit you nothing and you
will bargain a bit of your soul for each breath, all the clocks
will defy you; red light faces and
slow ticks. The very air will
push you farther back.
You will tangle in sheets - sweating or heaving or fevered or aching
Take consolation. sometimes when
morning raises it's insolently tardy head
sometimes then, you get it all back
and swing in the hammock of late morning sleep
and unseen sunlight across your back

But then there are the nights that reward you
when all the rest of the world
is ever so still, and only you exist
you will be alone then
you will hear yourself breathe for the first time
you will speak in sacred whispers
across bedsheets, across backseats
some nights are pure prophecy
the moon will stain you blue and white
grass will rustle, leaves will rattle;
a song from the midnight hymnal

Therefore, do not count your life in days, count your life in nights
count in dreams, count in red-rimmed eyes and thankless wakened hours
count in darkness, count in stars

(c) Meg Freeman
megwrites: Shakespeared! Don't be afraid to talk Elizabethan, or Kimberlian, or Meredithian! (shakespeared!)
I thought about posting this for Technopeasant Day, but figured that I can't really be counted as a professional or anything, so I didn't.

So, here, have some poetry.

Poem: after your guests are gone )
megwrites: Reading girl by Renoir.  (Default)
What better way to further distract myself from one type of writing than to post another!

Originally when I wrote this poem, I wasn't going to post it, because of it's adult nature and because I wasn't sure it was good enough. Well, I let it sit and I polished it, but I still held off on posting.

Then I realized that it sort of made a hypocrite out of me to do so. I can't have a big ol' motto that says "the artist is not afraid" and then be afraid. So, after much hand wringing and fretting, I figured that it was better to be brave and somewhat stupid than hypocritical.

Warning: this poem is of an adult and somewhat erotic nature. Nothing too graphic, and you've probably seen worse on TV. If you don't like it, feel free to go elsewhere.

poem: Landlocked )

Short poem

Jun. 11th, 2008 08:45 pm
megwrites: Reading girl by Renoir.  (Default)
Like it says on the subject line tin: short poem. I sort of let the poetry itch take a back seat in May, because after April's rather ridiculous outpouring, I decided I had Important Prose Things to work on.

But the poetry is creeping back in, and I figured I might as well get it out of the way.

As always, comments, critiques, and other such creatures are more than welcome.

Poem: An Infinite Collection of Masks )

On an off topic note: I'll be in Las Vegas until the 16th, and will probably have moderate internet access. Yeah, I manage to survive the heatwave here in NYC only to have to go to Las Vegas in June. Out of the frying pan, indeed.

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