Final Blog Post

I think that I have a grown a lot this semester. At the beginning of the term, I can honestly say that I had no idea what I was doing. The first poem assignment stressed me out so much that I only ended up writing a few words that had little meaning. Over the course of the semester, I have worked to incorporate magic and science into my work, as well as to "fill out the corners" of my phrases. The techniques that I have gained in this class will help me write poetry for any future class, as I feel that I have a solid foundation.

Last Blog Post

As LHSP comes to an end, it saddens me that I will probably never write poetry to this extent ever again. It has been a true pleasure being in this class surrounded by so many brilliant minds. My peers have demonstrated to me that their are so many different ways to write great poetry, rather it be Hanna's extremely intellectual poems where a dictionary has to be near, or Claire's down to earth style. Through the many poems we have read and analyzed, I have developed more of an appreciation toward the art of poetry. I feel that I grew more as a writer as well and am starting to resemble the deep analytic thoughts my high school English teacher had. After Monday's workshop, I was able to really think about what I want my own portfolio to be focused on and I tailored my poems to fit the theme. Thank you for a great semester.

Poem for 4/15

“Unpredictable”

Life’s too unpredictable,

like “bracetology” of Marchmadness.

I remember vibing to timeless jams ,

then being woken up in a sub.

Blue deep dark bellows,

seemed to fascinate this fellow,

the morning sun shined optimistically buttery.

Underground got jealous,

Killer earthquake said howdy.

Iggy stole the sound of hip-hop.

Yet she aint no rapper,

I’d rather swallow molded pasta

Before I watch her album go yellow

Somewhere in the jungle

There’s a monkey bout to rumble

Sad it won’t be a fair fight

Cuz a snake just ain’t right.

In the beginning I was king

Now I stand on my knees.

Stood tall like a God on a throne

Now helpless so I just roam.

My souls searching for a home

Grandfather always knew what to say.

Wait how did we get here?

I mean is March Madness fair?

Why damsel still in despair?

At an early age,

Grandpa lost most of his hair.

Somethings you can’t control,

When Life becomes ITunes on shuffle

From MJ to Kanye.

How does this poem

end, just like it begins

Life’s too unpredictable.

Poem for 4/15

Look at me now

Watch me annihilate the army ant,

Watch me beat the brains of the buffalo,

Watch me cuss out the cockatoo,

Watch me dream with the dolphin,

Watch me exceed the strength of an elephant,

Watch me feudalize the falcon,

Watch me grasp the neck of a giraffe,

Watch me harness the legs of the horse,

Watch me impart my wisdom on the ibis,

Watch me juggle with the jaguar,

Watch me kick the kangaroo,

Watch the lever the leopard,

Watch me mesmerize the marmalade monarch butterflies,

Watch me neglect the Nile crocodile,

Watch me ostracize the ostrich,

Watch me play with the panda,

Watch me quiver with the quail,

Watch me slaughter the snake,

Watch me torment the tarantula,

Watch me undermine the umbrella bird,

Watch me yell at the Yorkie,

Watch me zip by the zebra.

actual poem

Poem 2: To Cure a Headache

Take the hair of your closest neighbor

Without them knowing

Creeping and sulking in the background until silence returns

Put it in the dog’s bowl

Mix it with the spoon she left 

From that day at the park

The picnic with laughter and ants

Receiving the clock he made

Knock on the counter four times

Count backwards from eleven

Line up the edges and the corners 

Jump and scream when it doesn’t work

Line up the edges and the corners again

Yell and smack at your failure

Take the clock back in the picnic blanket

To the spot on the hill where she first used the spoon

Leave a trail of the hair you cut

From the bowl he calls his own

Cut your own hair

Buy your own dog bowl

Take a new blanket and spoon and clock

And suddenly night becomes day

The ache becomes numb again

Start over as needed

Poem for 4/13

To Cure a Headache 

Take the hair of your closest neighbor 

and put it in the dog's bowl

Mix it with the spoon she left 

and the clock he made you

knock on the counter four times

count backwards from eleven

Line up the edges and the corners 

Feel the pain 

Jump and scream

Then all the hurt will leave

Relaxation will come 

Poem for 4/13 Lamar (sorry for late post)

Outdated Grandpa

My grandpa didn’t want to believe,

He’d soon be outdated, when

Simply thrashing the three inch rusty nails,

With his grandfathers grandfathers initial engraved tack hammer would no longer be suffice. When the least of worries would be cross cutting the wrong colored wires of red, blue and yellow. Many of the skills he acquired by prehistoric Uncle Jack were now worth less than the two pennies he raved to rub together to provide buttermilk biscuits drenched in homemade maple syrup to feed the family of “We are Seven”.

tbh, if anything, most of his old ways are holding him back in today’s world.

He was taught to be stern, to not break or slightly bend. So he refuses to dispose that dreadful, longed antenna so called mobile device that can’t tweet, text, or tinder.

He’s the true definition of #tbt as he still thinks Facetime is yet another way for the government to spy on us. her

Grandma just forced him to get 4G and Wi-Fi so she can see her great-grandbabies more.

Grandpa still refuses to fly due to a Vietnam plane crash. He cranks up his Henry Ford signed truck, causing uproar from every environmentalist and their Facebook friends.

We’ve given up and I guess it’s ok that I know first graders who can make better prezi’s and take better selfies.

The theory has been proven,

You can’t teach an deep-rooted canine innovative tricks.   

Poem for 4/13 Workshop (Hannah)

The Process of Decay

The process of decay must mirror

some behavior of the universe,

sidewalk chalk and dead snakes,

left in muggy air to get bloated and

gradually to decrease in amplitude
deteriorate or become impaired

have patterns reflected in other
processes. So does decay have

certain choice, then skip to a kitchen

just to reach for the bucket on top

of a fridge with no power: the pipes

have no water: thus a bucket

of fluid on an empty utility

the building to be destructed

first the power and water were

disconnected to prevent explosions

one could hypothetically meander

pondering “what sort would leave a

building so stable alone and un-purposed?”

choose to stay, not noticing the windows

had been pried off and trucked away.

then the siding stripped (maybe this is not

how to deconstruct a building)

to lose its characteristic quality,

strength, or excellence; do the ghosts of
snowpeople that shrunk to muddy shadows

haunt us? to be in a failing condition.
reflections of trees in puddles that evaporate.

A grandfather who was so magnetic his
watches lost their delicate accuracy.

The blackboards are only really clean for
the first few moments of a lecture, dead

sea creatures layering to be smeared
with eraser.  When a banana decays, the

most fragile or maybe vulnerable portions
get weathered away first, how a skeleton

is what we dig out of mass graves and

not just empty skin with all the insides

disappeared and recycled to become

matter in a wooden chair from IKEA

that took all day to assemble because
operating on only pictorial instructions

may leave you with too many screws

or an extra plank. Even this process

puts things together in an order that leads

to pieces made of pieces, like a skull

of a tyrannosaurus has several bones,

connecting to several in the neck,

wearing feathers and probably a great

deal more silly than given credit for by

action figures.  falling off from a prosperous
or thriving condition; progressive decline;

there is an order, a next

most reasonable choice to (de)construct

this building or banana: the living

of living may take another away

and it usually saves to buy in bulk.

So, after windows (I hope they are

taken to be reused and not shattered)

the condition of one who has thus fallen off

or declined. recycling costs energy
reusing costs a different energy,

but octopi living in less murky waters
thank the woman who drives the fronthoe

Not-A-Bulldozer for saving the windows

All the blackboards could be saved, if

anyone has use of them. what about the murals

that probably were not on the walls when you

consider the purpose of this building. Yet

the gradual decrease in the radioactivity

spontaneous transformation of a single atomic
nucleus/elementary particle into one or more

different nuclei/particles. I would like to think
that all buildings  get murals worthy of excising

a wall to be reinstalled. “So much depends upon”
whether they wanted to reuse the handles

from all the doors, and the hinges, light

switches. Decaying bananas become

seeds eventually, but maybe not banana seeds. I worry about the crushed frames.

Payton

20/20

If babies wore contact lenses, less people would procreate.  

Not because it would be a choking hazard, the flexible hydrogels slide down the throat like macaroni noodles, sit in the whistling stomach, wait more patiently than the squirming ant she grabbed off the kitchen tile while you were making breakfast.

More than the waste of money from each lens lost, when as she finally neared fingering contact to eyeball she was distracted, jerked to run her palms through the dog’s

lush golden forest, which ran out into the green prickling fur, irretrievable.   

Vanity would not be in jeopardy because babies have no desire to be hipster. None wear square Ray-Bans to complement their cup of coffee. They would burn the buds off the petal that is their little baby tongue.

Tearing fragile plastic wouldn’t be an issue, because as good as these small humans seem to be at destroying, their fat foam fingers couldn’t make the impact necessary for nails to rip the material. Babies can’t even use scissors.

The problem I foresee occurring is that babies will be able to see. I know whenever I wear my contacts, I am awake in the world. We aren’t ready for babies to be awake. She would know to be embarrassed when a rainbow-painted dodge ball half was used as the hair of her clown costume, she would know you were poor when their playpen was a cardboard box. She would laugh along when she sees her ponytail stick straight from the top of her head like the antenna of a radio. She would finger-paint what she saw in your eyes when she nearly cut off her own hands.

I find it hard to believe parents could take being loved more.