National Poetry Day

April 28th is National Poetry Day. I was, before I was in the radio biz, an English major at the Central Missouri State University, now UCM:

As a consequence of that, they guide you to take all of your English literature, grammar and writing classes in the early years, with your general studies. Then you're supposed to take your Teaching classes in blocks during certain years. So I ended up taking all of the English classes.... and switching majors when the Education part started.

I managed to save some of the stuff I wrote from a creative writing class back in the day and I thought I'd share it for National Poetry Day. Now, I'm no Jack Miller, so keep in mind it probably sucks. But, hey, I'm putting it out there.

"Can-nae feil a thaeng"

Walking slow, teetering a bit
we go from pub to home.
Merrily stumbling, happily falling,
helping him tie his shoe.
We're going on home, closing time.
"People that don't drink really don't know what they're missing sometimes."
"Or maybe not. It's a choice."
We walk past cats and we run past dogs and these ten blocks seem like forever I swear to god.
We turn the corner, halfway home.
Pretaped Corry and cold Curry call and await us at home,
where we won't sleep for hours still.
Walk by the Tesco, stroll by the cornershop.
Dance past the newspost,
and lurk past the Old Kiergan's Haunt.
Past rows and rows of houses,
we see the light in sight and wonder
just how long it took us to get here.
"An Eternity."
"Just a flash."
Who cares? We're home, where it's cold and normal and boring
and exciting and warm.
And now I am tired, and I sit on your davenport
and fall asleep next to you.
A memory I'll treasure for a while, at the risk of being sentimental,
when in fact I have no reason to be.
You smelled comforting, it seemed right at the time.
Right? Right.

"Christopher Walken is so Damn Creepy"

Christopher Walken, you're so Damn Creepy.
You used to be a dancer.
You know how Natalie Wood died.
A comedian told the world you would rather have
A tail than the gift of flight.

Christopher Walken, you're so Damn Creepy
My friends and I watched you on television
And it was somewhat funny, simply because
You were so Damn Creepy and yet so loveable at the same time.

Christopher Walken, you're so Damn Creepy,
That I'm afraid that I have to go to sleep now.
Not that you aren't intriguing to me,
But I have my own creepy crawly sick and sprawly life to get to.

"Nantucket"

"There once was a man from Nantucket...."
were the first words he ever spoke to me.
I understood and chose not to complete it.

We spoke and talked of silly, inconsequential things
I wondered what he was thinking,
or even what I was thinking (what am i doing?).

"Anymore, in your presence, I find myself disconnecting,"
I finally (let?) forced myself to tell him.
He protested and I congested but I couldn't listen again.

Ingnored, interrupted and spoken over too often
to have this conversation with you or any man.
"I can't even control myself, much less you."

"Probably Not"

My friend stole a bicycle the other day.
She says she didn't steal it,
She found it,
But we know better.

My friends are beyond anything.
We say we hate each other and it's not true.

"My hatred for you runs deep and wide. It's kinda like a pickle."

My friends and I joke, we speak all sorts of words.
We say things we don't mean
And we pretend to insult each other.

My friend calls me a slut, and I call him lucky.
Are either of those true? I'm not sure.

"My hatred for you burns with the heat of a thousand suns."

My friend has no parents.
She says she does,
And that we've all met them,
But we know better.

"My hatred for you is so all encompassing, I can't describe it to you."

And I wonder if I lived anywhere else would it be the same
And I wonder if it would be any better
And I wonder what it is that makes this all so funny
And I wonder if I would want to be anywhere else at this exact moment
And I tell myself
Probably not.

Do you write or read poetry? What are some of your favorites? What makes a poem good or bad to you?

Linguistically yours,
Behka