Friday, April 2, 2010

Friday Fricassee

Happiest of First Aprilian Fridays! (No, I'm not TOO excited about spring.)

Admittedly, I'm wearied by the whole struggling-to-push-through process this week. The glorious sunshine and (finally) rising temperatures are perfectly timed, and rabidly welcomed.

That, and I'm so delightfully consumed by my WIP that I almost feel like one of *those* authors. You know. The kind of author I'm not.

(Except, I never--NEVER--forget to eat. I will obsess over an empty stomach before I obsess over finishing a chapter.)

So, it's Poetry Month. In honor of such--and of having written my Very First Kiss Scene this week--I offer you a poem by my younger self. And I would love if you'd share lots of fun things today, poetry or otherwise. You've all been amazing this week (when aren't you?), so let's kick back and have some fun. Revel in the amazing-ness of the group, as it were.

*Hem*

BOYS
by Authoress, age 8

Boys are rough, boys are tough,
Boys are never sissies,
But when they grow, they will know
Girls like lots of kisses.

*curtsies*

23 comments:

  1. *laughs, applauding* 8-year-old Authoress is now my favorite poet! <3 That's adorable.

    For my fun bit to share, a darling recently cut from my manuscript. It's from a rough draft (as you'll note by the lack of polish) but it makes me smile and hope it sets your lips a-twitching as well:

    "The nobleman glowered. "What in the name of the silent hells is your son doing here, diAran? I thought you said you'd ditched him."

    "That's a good question. Bart, how'd you find us?" The amount of genuine surprise in his father's voice was a bit insulting.

    "It was no great difficulty." He tossed his head lightly to flip a lock of wet hair from his vision, still keeping his grip on the sword. "Once I learned of your deceit, I returned to the inn. Since you said you drank at the Peacock's Folly often, I asked the barkeep to describe the company you kept. It was a short list. And of the names upon it, only 'diMontaigne' was dishonorable enough to stoop to kidnapping a Hala. So I came here, to their old manor. The wet hoof-prints in the hall confirmed that either my squire was here or the Baron diMontaigne had chosen to dine with a goat this evening."

    "I thought you said he was a moron, Ranulf," diMontaigne snapped.

    "He is!" his father protested. "I assure you this is entirely out of character for him."

    Bartolomei frowned. That went beyond 'a little insulting' and straight into 'offensive'.

    Bartolomei took a step toward the door without taking his eyes off the guard. "And now, we will be leaving." Even as he spoke, however, the sound of a door closing contradicted him."

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  2. You must have been adorable at age eight, Authoress.

    And as a mother of a nine-year-old girl, I can so totally relate.
    ; )

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  3. So cute (and true)! I'm game for a poem. Spring brings out the romantic in me, anyhow. Here's one:

    Title: Game On

    I love your shoulders.

    Making the shot.
    Holding your niece.
    Rising above the pew.

    Shoulders of a well rounded man.

    Rippled like topography on a map.
    The first to be asked to help move
    A piano or desk or desperate friend.

    And now
    from behind.
    Comfortable against the afghan
    on the back of my couch.

    Game on.
    Watching something with
    jerseys and a ball
    and a different kind of back,
    this one named Adrian Peterson.

    Your arms reach back
    and lock behind your head
    as you shout to a player
    who can’t hear you
    and could never appreciate
    the soft skin
    on the back of your neck
    the way I do.

    From behind
    I kiss that skin
    I trace my hands
    across your shoulders
    and down, down, down
    your chest.

    Game on.

    P.S. HAPPY SPRING EVERYONE!

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  4. Oh what the hell, in honor of the upcoming swimsuit season- here's another poem (Sung to the tune of "Bye Bye, Miss American Pie"):

    A long, long time ago...
    I can still remember
    how those Dove bars used to make me smile.
    But now I’m such a wide expanse,
    that I can make my arm flab dance.
    (Maybe I should exercise a while.)

    So bye-bye, Cheetos, Krunchers and fries.
    I’m as heavy as a chevy
    And the stairs make me sigh.
    And the most exercise
    I get is blinking my eyes.
    I’m thinking, this should be the day that I diet.
    This should be the day that I try.

    Can you barely lift your leg?
    And do you have faith in Jenny Craig?
    Cause Bertinelli told you so?
    Do you like butter on your roll,
    And guacamole by the bowl?
    And do you jog around the block- reeeeeal slow?

    Well, you know I’m trying to get slim
    `Cause you saw me limping in the gym.
    I kicked off both my shoes.
    God, I wish I had some booze.

    Once I had a skinny waist and a small stomach
    (like a starving Haitian with a tummy tuck),
    But I knew I was out of luck
    the day I had to diet.

    I started singing,
    Bye-bye, Cheetos, Krunchers and pie.
    I’m as heavy as a chevy,
    and the scale makes me cry.
    But Marie Osmond said to give it a try,
    Saying this should be the day that I diet.
    This will be the day that I try it.

    I met a girl who sang the blues
    And I asked her for some happy news,
    But she just smiled and turned away.
    I heard some chimes and I ran to score
    Off the Good Humor guy I’ve used before,
    But my neighbor said the truck just pulled away.

    And in the streets, the children screamed,
    The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
    But not a word was spoken,
    My willpower had been broken.
    And the three men I love more than myself,
    Ben and Jerry and the Keebler Elf,
    I finished the last of off my shelf,
    The day I quit my diet.

    And I was singing,
    Heeeeello, Cheetos, Krunchers and pie.
    I’m as heavy as a chevy
    And the stairs make me sigh.
    But I need my fix
    Of chocolate candy and chips,
    So tomorrow I will start a new diet.
    Tomorrow is the day that I’ll diet.

    (What can I say? Blame it on Spring Fever ;) ...)

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  5. @Princess

    BWAHAHAHA I love the American Pie remix!!

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  6. Well, I didn't write this, but I remember it fondly from my childhood. It changed my life,really.

    Beans, beans.
    Good for your heart.
    The more you eat them,
    the more you....

    How profound.

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  7. Okay. I'll play. Since it's spring, and fishing weather, and since there's a thunderstorm going on right now outside my window, I thought this might be an appropriate poem. Just so you know, my parents loved to fish, and they are the stars of this poem. It's a bit lengthy, but I noticed there are others of some length posted.


    THE LEGEND OF OLD GUY
    Michael C. Broadway


    The forecast wasn't wonderful for fishermen that day.
    Dark clouds on the horizon were a-movin' toward the Bay.
    But two stout hearts were very set on going, anyway.

    So, out they went at morning's light and packed up all their gear.
    They drove on down to Cookeville Bay with sunrise drawing near.
    Guy said, "We're in for a quite a blow. A hurricane, I fear."

    Into the boat he placed their kit and thereby sealed his fate.
    The wind picked up, and Vida yelled, "Let's go. It's getting late."
    A limb blew by and struck Old Guy upon his reddish pate.

    So, out they sailed into the Bay with whitecaps and black sky.
    "Oh, hurry up. I want to fish," said Vida Mae to Guy.
    "This weather's bad," Old Guy replied. "Methinks we're going to die!"

    And soon, the two of them arrived upon a favored place.
    Guy racked the oars and anchor weighed as rain poured in his face.
    Then lightning started flashing at a very quickened pace.

    "Migawd, my dear," Old Guy sang out. "Be handing me a towel."
    "I can't. I'm fishing," she yelled back, and only tossed a scowl.
    But thunder muffled her reply, as Old Guy wiped his jowl.

    "I'm rigging up, dear," Guy yelled back and grabbed his favorite rod.
    He wrapped a glob of worms around a big hook, in a wad,
    And tossed the whole mess overboard, saluting, with a nod.

    More lightning flashed, and thunder rolled. The wind was at a gale.
    The water started pouring in, and Vida had to bail.
    Then, all at once, the rain had stopped, and turned itself to hail.

    "We'd better leave now," Vida screamed. "This storm has drawn too near.
    "I do believe, Old Guy, that we should get away from here.
    "For as you know, this weather's bad, and I can't swim, my dear."

    The swells grew higher 'round the boat, and she began to roll.
    "We'd better leave now," Vida yelled. "This storm will take a toll."
    "Not yet, my dear," Old Guy replied. "There's something on my pole."

    And, all at once, Guy set the hook amidst the hail and rain.
    A grimace grew upon his face, the look of shock and strain.
    Then Vida yelled, "Old Guy! Old Guy! I spy a hurricane!"

    Old Guy just grumbled, scowled, and spit, and furrowed up his brow.
    The fish began to pull and Old Guy soon was at the bow.
    And Guy yelled out, "No way in Hell that we're a-leavin' now!"

    And hail as big as baseballs fell. The wind, it railed and roared.
    Old Guy yelled out, "I've seen the fish! It's big! It's huge! My Lord!"
    When suddenly, a giant wave washed Old Guy overboard.

    Well, Vida learned to swim that day because it was a must.
    And all of Old Guy's fishing books are covered now with dust.
    And their old boat's with Davey Jones, a crusty hulk of rust.

    But, it's been said in these here parts that when the storm winds blow,
    And fishermen go out to fish wherever waters flow,
    Old Guy's been heard a-yellin', "I ain't never lettin' go!"

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  8. I wanted to post this one, too. I hope I'm not hogging space here. It's also about fishing, written shortly after my father died.


    One Moment
    Michael C. Broadway
    January 25, 2001


    The first time my father took me fishing
    It was a crisp and shivery spring morning.

    I felt a frisky, young breeze inside my khaki jacket.
    I was six years old.
    I got awfully cold when I was six.
    I told him I wanted to go home.
    I heard him say,
    “One moment, son.”

    We fished for the next forty years
    We melted together in the summer sun.
    We weathered the thunder of passing storms.
    We shared many moments.

    The last time I took my father fishing
    It was a dark and dreary autumn afternoon

    He felt a chilly, winter hand inside his flannel jacket.
    He was seventy-six years old.
    He got awfully cold when he was seventy-six.
    He told me he wanted to go home.
    He heard me say,
    “One moment, Dad.”

    That one moment seems so long ago.

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  9. Michael --

    You are a VERY GIFTED poet! The first one has impeccable rhyme and meter, and the humor is delightful. It's REALLY tight, REALLY well written. Flawless in form.

    The second one is profoundly moving, a lovely use of minimalistic language.

    Thank you SO MUCH for sharing these!

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  10. Authoress,

    Thank you so much for your kind words and for providing such a great venue where we can all share our work, our hopes and our dreams.

    You are truly appreciated much more than you realize.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Love the poem! So cute and so accurate.

    In honor of April Showers and National Poetry Month, here's one of my own poems:

    Reflections

    Red sneakers exchanged for red galoshes,
    I wander in the hungry rain.
    The green clouds in the stormy sky
    Light the lazy edge of the sidewalk;
    And my dog a dusty wolf
    Stalks the myriad puddles,
    Hesitating when he finds himself
    In the depths of their dim waters.
    But I, in my new galoshes,
    Lose myself in the worn rain.

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  12. I enjoyed reading all of these, but I love your eight-year-old poem and Michael's poem about fishing with his dad.

    I want to play. Here's one of my riddles.

    What Are We?

    We are many.
    We are green.
    You should know
    we're not a bean.
    Eat our pod
    or shell us first.
    When you bite us,
    we will burst.

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  13. What a fun idea! I love that 8 year old poem. So cute. And that American Pie rewrite had me in stitches.

    Here's my contribution - I wrote this as a teenager one summer - so here's in anticipation of lovely days to come:

    End of the Day

    The fire crackles
    with all its might
    The moon grows misty
    throughout the night
    With the day as busy
    as it has been
    It's nice to sit
    and relax again
    And gather 'round
    the fire and chat
    And talk of this
    And laugh at that
    With Grandmas and cousins
    and uncles and aunts
    To watch the firelight
    flicker and dance
    The perfect end
    to a busy day
    To sit and talk
    or have nothing to say.

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  15. LOL in the spirit of fun.
    I have a little alter ego. He's called Avery with an A. He's a baby boy with attitude. He can't talk. He's too little. But he thinks. And if you can talk 'thinking' then you can hear him. He and his sister are three dimension resin dolls which I photograph to illustrate little Avery with an A stories. But I don't have the luxury of showing you the pictures that accompanied this last Xmas.

    ‘Tis the night of Christmas eve
    And Santa’s flying high
    With a bunch of reindeer
    Through the dark and starry sky.

    Lots of kids are waiting
    Including little me
    I can’t wait to open
    What’s under our Chrissie tree.

    My sister said she’s waiting up
    To catch the big fat man
    But she’s fallen fast asleep
    So I don’t think she can.

    Sssh there’s something coming
    Down the chimney hole
    I think Santa’s crazy.
    Why can’t he use the door.

    Then while I’m waiting Dad comes in
    Looking very weird
    He thinks I don’t know that it’s him
    Disguised in a big white beard

    Santa never came that night
    I know ‘cos I was awake
    But my sister thinks he really did
    ‘Cos somebody ate the cake.

    So I hear you asking Avery A
    Then what came down the chimney?
    I’m really glad that I can’t talk
    ‘Cos nobody would believe me.

    Mom and Dad were yawning
    When they came downstairs later
    And I was anxious to open the presents
    ‘Cos I wanted to play with the paper.

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  16. Stay tuned. I will reveal what Avery saw tomorrow.

    You will be amazed and shocked

    And ...

    You will wonder whether the earth can ever remain the same!

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  17. I liked several of the previous posters' poems very much. Here's why I hardly ever write them:


    Sweating Poems

    Believe me that I do know naught
    'bout poems, rhymes and rhythm.
    Poetry
    is strange to me,
    cannot be learned or taught.

    It seems my Muse is better here,
    thinks poems by the minute.
    Plainly and
    with practiced ease,
    she makes a verse appear.

    With awe I see her aptitude
    for coming up with new stuff.
    While I pine
    for every line
    and word that sets the mood.

    Without her help I cry and grieve
    inept at writing ballads.
    Luckily,
    she's part of me,
    I'll never let her leave.

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  18. LOVE the poem! Here's a haiku.

    The sky was cloudy
    but I paused to look at it
    and now it is clear

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  19. What did Avery with an A see?

    I s’pose you’re curious to know
    What came down the chimney hole
    And if I tell you you’ll think that this
    Is a tale a little too tall.

    Dunno whether I should reveal
    What I know to be fact
    I might be told I am totally mad
    And upon this you will act.

    You’d put me in a funny farm
    And throw away the key
    ‘Cos what I saw coming down
    Was a big fat Easter Bunny.

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  20. This is one of my favorite poems which shows what level of intellectualism I'm at but it's by that famous poet ANONYMOUS.

    Spring in the Bronx

    Spring is sprung
    Duh grass is rizz
    I wonder where dem boidies is.

    Duh little boids in on duh wing -
    But dat's absoid:
    Duh little wing on on duh boid.

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  21. Happy Easter everyone! I must admit poetry has never been my favorite subject, but the poems from Authoress, and the American Pie remix really made my day. LOL! I do have something to contribute, although it’s not as amusing I’m afraid. A few years back I had to write two poems for a creative writing class. This is the sonnet I wrote. I can’t tell you the hell I went through trying to get the structure right, but here it is.
    Futility

    The vanity of life is promptly stowed
    And echoed clear in death’s profundities.
    Here held by dazzling trivialities,
    A farce erected by unwritten code,
    Parade of pomp a fleeting episode.
    Are fate is tethered, handed destinies.
    We cling to myths and lies of liberties,
    This cup is yours, this cross is mine to tow,
    Who holds the cards we play, the said divine,
    Or luck? What turbulent emotions rose
    With truth, defiance, wisdom, riots, trees.
    The ignorant do live In peace, serene.
    Embrace your powerlessness and repose,
    We’re blameless, faultless, meaningless, and free

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  22. Rose I did like it. I'd have given you an A. But remember I liked Spring in the Bronx so I'm not sure if it's a backhanded compliment but nevertheless... Yes. Clapping.

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