Monday, January 31, 2011



The Sun,
My light,
Were it taken from me
Then …
Then I would recognize
What I had …
What I had to lose.

I pray
That I could remember,
Less that my light
Was gone, but
That I could remember
Every single moment,
Each moment that
My light
Illuminated my spirit.
Could I remember
Made me

I pray
Were my sunlight taken from me,
I could remember that light,
Let it warm me still,
Have my darkness
Through the memory
Of each laughing,
Ray, that for a time,
Danced on the
Flowing river

Ken Goree

Sunday, January 30, 2011

My Mom

My Mom

I love my mother, oh so much.
Her gentle touch,
Did take me high,
To brush the sky.

Her thoughtful articles, there were,
So much a blur,
Too many stacks,
Written by quacks.

Her many large and tasty meals
Her heart appeals,
To friendly word,
Her laughter heard.

Ken Goree

This poem is written for my mother. It is written in the “Minute Poetry” form. You can find the explanation of the minute poem at the following link:

I wish it were better, she deserves better. I’m sure I will write more poems to her, and about her through the next year.

The whole thing seems to lack depth in describing my mother. I apologize. The form, though not easy seemed to keep steering me toward cliché phrases. The first stanza could be something almost anyone wrote about their mom.

The second stanza refers to a very sweet habit that my mom has. Whenever she sees an article in the paper that deals with nutrition, or medical maladies, she cuts it out and saves it for someone to whom she thinks it will apply. It feels nice to know that she is so often thinking of others.

The third stanza refers to the homey friendly atmosphere that surrounds her. She is an incredible cook. Like any good "Southern Lady," she will keep you at her table with her siren song and gentle laughter, sweetly urging more delectables upon you until you cannot hope to move away with any degree of abdominal comfort. Well, that Japanese guy that keeps winning all of those hot dog eating contests might be able to.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

I need advice ...

First, I don't recall if I pointed out in "Saint Paul," that I kept each line of the poem at 11 syllables. It isn't a requirement of the form, but I chose to do it anyway to up the difficulty a little, okay, a lot.

I was looking back at the poem about my father and noticed something. On the second line of each stanza I don't stay consistent with whether I am addressing the line to my father, or telling the audience about him, as I do in the rest of the poem. I rewrote it two more times. In version 2, I have changed all the second lines to match the rest of the poem, and not speak to him.

In version 3, I changed the second line of each stanza, so that they speak to my father. I think this may be more powerful.

I invite people who are interested, to comment with opinions about these two new versions, or give suggestions where they may help me improve.

Version 2
Saint Paul

A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
Memories, because of him, were wonderful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

To me, manners, grace and class he did acquaint,
His presence, to all, is always delightful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.

His cool consideration some have thought quaint,
For him, high honor and respect is rightful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

A kind sparkle to his eye, at friendly feint,
With blessings his life past and future is full,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.

A moment of doubt my memory shan't taint,
This, nothing new, he was always forgetful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

A long well-spent life his good story does paint,
He shouldn’t worry, hero, be not fretful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

Ken Goree

Version 3
Saint Paul

A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
Memories, because of you, were wonderful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

To me, manners, grace and class he did acquaint,
Your presence, to all, is always delightful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.

His cool consideration some have thought quaint,
For you, high honor and respect is rightful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

A kind sparkle to his eye, at friendly feint,
With blessings your life past and future is full,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.

A moment of doubt my memory shan't taint,
This, nothing new, you were always forgetful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

A long well-spent life his good story does paint,
Don’t worry, still my hero, be not fretful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

Ken Goree

Now, I feel a little better

I wrote a poem for my mom this morning. I used the minute poem style. It wasn't a very easy form to work with, and I really know it doesn't get across even a fraction of what I want to say about a wonderful woman. I definitely will be writing more poems to mom during the year.

You'll see "My Mom" tomorrow.

Oh Geez, I feel like an ass

Okay, so the poem to my father was a "Good Son" thing, right?

Here is part where I really screwed up ... I just forgot my mom's birthday a couple of days ago, and now my dad gets his poem first. Yikes!

Any suggestions? Make sure they are anatomically possible, please. You can't pull your head out of someplace you never could have gotten it in the first place (was that oblique enough to not be vulgar?).

I love my mom dearly. Now, I have to prove it.
Saint Paul

A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
Memories, because of him, were wonderful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

To me, manners, grace and class he did acquaint,
Your presence, to all, is always delightful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.

His cool consideration some have thought quaint,
For you, high honor and respect is rightful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

A kind sparkle to his eye, at friendly feint,
With blessings a life past and future is full,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.

A moment of doubt my memory shan't taint,
This, nothing new, you were always forgetful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

A long well-spent life his good story does paint,
Don’t worry, still my hero, be not fretful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.

Ken Goree

I’ll be writing a poem to Mom too, of course, but Dad got his first.

This poem is a villanelle. Since I don’t want to plagiarize by cutting and pasting the description, you can see the description at the following site:

I was reading Dylan Thomas’ poem “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.” After reading it, I read the history behind it. He wrote it while his father was sick and dying. He loved his father very much and he wrote this poem for his father. I love my dad very much also, but decided to write a poem for him while he was still young and healthy enough to enjoy it.

My father has mentioned lately that he worries about getting forgetful. I thought that was a silly comment, and told him so.

“Dad,” I said, “You have always been forgetful. The only difference is, now you are worrying about it.”

Don’t get me wrong, my dad is brilliant. He just has that absent minded professor thing kick –in occasionally. It is a genetic disposition. Those that know me can attest to it. I just have a lot less of “The Professor” in me, and a whole lot more ADD.

My dad is great man. I am sure he is a saint. I have interviewed many relatives and childhood friends of his. Not a single one could produce any dirt on the man. I even got several a bit tipsy in the attempt to glean a bit of information. No luck, my dad was always the guy that got his friends out of trouble. I even hit up a great aunt in the late stages of dementia. It started off looking like I had my way in … she thought I was my dad!

“Hey Gertrude, remember that time when I was a kid and got in really big trouble.”

“Oh, Paul,” she said a twinkle of rational thought and shrewdness flickering across her face, “You never did anything wrong in your whole life.”

Dang, the meds would have to kick-in, right then.

There is more to be said about Dear Old Dad, but enough for now.

Friday, January 28, 2011



The great hunter
A giant companion
Good, faithful and loving buddy
My friend

Ken Goree

Man’s best friend should get his own poem. Orion gets a traditional cinquain (syllable pattern 2,4,6,8,2). The other dog … she has to do a little bridge-building with me before she gets a poem.

There are so many people, and non-people that deserve poems dedicated to them, I get dizzy thinking about it. I’ll do my best, though.

Thursday, January 27, 2011



So sexy
Whispers my name
Totally distracts
Me from rational thought
Teases me throughout my day
Awakens desires in me
I did think had been long put away
To rise and set with her would be heaven.

Ken Goree

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

An Etheree called Light


Warming me
Bringing bright thoughts
Of much warmer days
Swirling white motes of dust
Dry glittering gems floating
Mesmerize me in quiet calm
Thoughtful repose as I compose for
Your enjoyment and good contemplation.

Ken Goree

I think I really am beginning to enjoy poetry, whether I am getting better at it or not. Okay, so I liked writing poetry before, but I didn’t put as much time into it. Now, I am trying new forms and getting pretty jazzed about it.

This is a style of poetry called an etheree. It is made of ten lines, the syllable pattern being 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10. It can also be written in reverse order from 10 to 1. They can also be combine into double, triple, and more.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Steamy Food Poetry


Warm crunchy loaf
Sheds flakey amber crust
Melts butter on its steaming flesh

Ken Goree

Ooh, I like that little sensual twist. It's all I have to satisfy myself with, as I made the promise to myself not to post anything positively smutty or vulgar on this blog ... kind of a let down on the limericks, though, don't you think?

I went for the Cinquain style of poetry today. This style in its original form was created by Adelaide Crapsey (Dang, what an unfortunate name. Originally, the form consisted of 5 lines of unrhymed poetry, each line with the following syllable lengths: 2, 4, 6, 8, 2. This is the form today, bt you may see me use a different version of the cinquain in the future. That form is a fairly scripted set of criteria, which helps grade school children accomplish the cinquain.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Moveable Entertainment System

Moveable Entertainment System

Wow, look at the colors
So vivid
Like I could get out of my seat
And scrape off some green, red, gold

The animation is incredible
Almost no blur
Even at these speeds
The processing speed must be huge

What’s that?
A rest area?
Get out of the car?
Is it safe?

Ken Goree

I know, I know, road tripping is environmentally irresponsible. However, leaving our kids on the couch to slowly decompose in front of a gaming system?

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Penelope's Limerick - "The Sleeper-Inner"


There once was a girl named Penelope
Whose bed rested under a canopy.
She’d text through the night
‘bout this we would fight
Then next day she couldn’t wake before three


Several observations and information:
All right, I seemed to have established at least one pattern on this blog. That pattern seems to be a certain interest in limericks. Another pattern that may be emerging is a tendency to feature people who sleep in, in my limericks.
I read an article about “Sleeper-inners.” I don’t remember where I read it, so for now we will give credit to Amorphous They. In A. T.’s article, there was data collect that supported the generalization that Sleeper-inners tended to be risk takers and had a much higher rate of success in life.
Sleeper-inners, the appearance of me making fun of you for sleeping in is purely coincidental.
8-out-of-10 amateur and often immature poets think the name Penelope is outstanding as a name to use in a limerick.
Limerick purist would look down on my limericks, and possibly not even consider them limericks, because they lack socially unacceptable, perverse, taboo breaking material.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Columbia Gorge

Columbia Gorge

Close your eyes.
Baked soil, sage, dust
Blanket softens
Your back, soft against me

Faded browns, flinty grays
Jagged surfaces
Radiate heat, above, below
Dust dries, etches.

Shadows grow, chills creep in
Pull your body closer
My light breath on your shoulder
Yours, gentle on my arms.

Warm fire grows
Brown becomes orange,
Grays to red
Chills felt together.

Pigments deepen
Give way to night
Diamonds ignite
White crescent watches on.

Warmth grows
Night stretches ahead
Closeness deepens
Open your eyes.

Ken Goree

When I was younger I used to go camping in Eastern Washington quite often. Grant County was the most common destination. The area I was seeing in my mind while writing this poem was along the Columbia Gorge, just east of Vantage, WA. Basalt cliffs drop hundreds, thousands of feet down from the plateau to the Columbia River. The stone surfaces facing west absorb the sun's warmth throughout the afternoon, then radiate it back out as the chill of each night sets in. In this poem I hold close my special lady, as we watch the receding day paint the basalt cliffs orange and red. When the sunset's paints fade, we light our own fire and watch the light dance on the stone surfaces, then notice the stars and crescent moon begin to fill the sky.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Shoreline Girl

Shoreline Girl

There once was a girl from Shoreline
Who on weekends didn’t rise before nine
Her beauty to keep
She says she needs sleep
Or is it related to wine?

Ken Goree

This poem is about a woman I know. You may have noticed I used the word girl instead of woman. I believe that deep in every woman's heart, no matter the year she was born, she is and always will be a young, bright-eyed, optimistic young girl. Pain, sadness, stress and responsibilities build such a forbidding wall that sometimes we can't see her. That doesn't mean she is gone, however. Give her a safe place, where she can trust, and you may be blessed, in that she shows herself, if only for a moment.

Well, that said, on one particular day I think the wine was the cause of sleeping in, rather than the need for beauty sleep ... which she doesn't need :-)

Thursday, January 20, 2011

A Well-Spent Sunday

A Well-Spent Sunday

I have a pair of fuzzy socks
They keep my feet all warm
I shuffle all around my house
Sheltered from the storm

I wrap a downy comforter
Around my chilly shoulders
The heat it builds and comforts me
While the garden outside molders.

A book between my outstretched hands
Shares stories with my mind
Of heroes, villains, distant lands
My cares are pushed behind.

Ken Goree

I’m just feeling nice and relaxed, after coming home from conferences. It’s all good.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

To be Named at a Another Time

To be Named at a Another Time

I see your pain
And I want to heal you
Hear the tremble in your voice
And want to soothe you.

The light in your eye
Clouded with tears
Tears at my heart
Want to take away your fears.

Pull you close to me
Calm the sobs that control you
Smooth your hair
Kiss away your care, let you renew.

Ken Goree

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

A Bite from the Apple

A Bite from the Apple

Sweet clean darkness
The last drop of night’s
Sweet juicy blackness.
A bite, when the day
Is ripe and full of promise.

Sun creeps slowly in
No surprises, gently announcing
Its coming light and warmth
Clarity and color
Shines light upon the apple.

Hooded figures recede
Fading with as shortening shadows
Withdrawing from light and
Radiant figures, that burst in
To taste and cherish the sweetness of the new day.

Ken Goree

I’m just cherishing the morning and excitement of a new glorious day. When I started this poem I, of course, was planning to take the expected route through the concept of “The fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. “ There is a little of that with the hooded figures and radiant figures, but couldn’t bring myself to disparage early morning darkness.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Seahawk Limerick


There once was a team called the Seahawks
About which very few people did say rocks
They lost to a team called the Bears
While we watched on with blank stares
Can’t play football? Then just go play blocks.

Ken Goree

Do I really have to explain what inspired me to write this?

Sunday, January 16, 2011


There once was a man named Ken
Who tried to make biscuits again
His mom showed him how
He exclaimed holy cow!
On his knees he then said, Amen.

Ken Goree

Silly as it seems, this is a poem of hope; an event that hasn’t happened yet.

Here is the story. Many of you have had my cooking, whether because of good manner or actual appreciation, you have all told me wonderful things about my cooking skill. However, I have a weakness, my “Kitchen Achilles’ Heal.” My downfall – biscuits.

I give credit to my kitchen work to my mom, and Chris Hensel, a chef I worked with for a small span of time. Well, I haven’t spoken with Chris for several years, not because of any falling out, just that sad entropy * , that we experience as adults as we become overly busy with the business of being “grown-ups” and allow friendships and relationships to fade away over time.

Since I don’t have Chris’ expertise to call upon, I called my mom. She was going to teach me the real skill of biscuit making at Thanksgiving. Well, I guess I was missing the buttermilk, so I didn’t get the biscuit lesson. The next Monday, they left for Arizona. Four months!!! I have to wait four more months to learn how to make biscuits?

I’ve asked friends, looked online, and search for videos, all to no avail. I guess I need my mommy.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Morning Poem

Morning poem

Slate grey morning sky
Soft, yielding before Sun's flame
Warming soul and heart

Ken Goree

Is there much else to say. I love being able to welcome another, one more day.

Friday, January 14, 2011

The Reb Poem

Yes, it is an acrostic. I often feel like I am cheating when I use the Acrostic form. I like the way this turned out, though. I hope Reb doesn't feel I let him down. I didn't get the impression that Reb was a poetry snob. I would guess he could feel my good intentions. Dog seem to be pretty good about that sort of thing.

I did try to throw in a little Dylan Thomas-esque feel to it.



Rambunctious in his youth
Ever faithful and courageous companion
Barking against the coming of his night.

Ken Goree

For those who have been reading. Back on January second, I saw a scene which I built my own story to back up. I like my version, even if the reality is more common place. This is my small poem to Reb. I wish I knew his real name, and the names of his humans.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Stuff about an old friend, preceded by a new poem

Timeless Surf

Time it does
Stop for Me
Whenever I
Lie by the sea.

Breaking surf
A thing sublime
Gives no reason to
The thing called time.

One wave it does
Not lend itself to
Beat or rhythm
Nor anything new.

Ancient beat
Too complicated
To the simplicity of digital
or analog, we are jaded.

What better way though
to spend your time?
God put it to work
To give us rhyme.

Ken Goree

I figured I needed one about the sea to go with the bit of Doug Varga’s poem. If by any stretch of the imagination, he or his parents (you know how parents save our school work) have the original poem intact, I would love to see it, or hear it again to see if my fevered imagination has remembered the first two stanzas anywhere close to the original version.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I'm old, reeeeeealllyy old, but I still think back to a magnificent work of poetic genius, written by a childhood friend of mine, Doug Varga. It was our sixth grade year at Sunset
Elementary school in the Issaquah School District. We were studying, and had to do a report on, Explorers, or maybe just Columbus more likely (Remember when we all thought Columbus was a good guy?).

In Doug's genius, he created a poem that, I'm sure got him an "A" but reduced his word count on the report considerably at the same time. As a bonus, the poem required almost no factual material, thus limiting the amount of studying to approximately ... ummm ... nothing. And, he got laughed "with," not "at" by his whole class. I forget whether the teacher was laughing or not. I wonder if Doug even remembers it?

I can even remember some of the poem Doug wrote ...

Keep in mind as you read this, Doug was kind of a Monty Python, Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy sort of guy.

By Doug Varga, my childhood friend, and I'm sure still a really good guy.

Unknown title, probably something about Columbus or Other Random Great Explorer

While sailing this square cube
And what I might encounter
On the eighteenth day
I spied a giant flounder.

I whipped out my black Zebco
And casted without fear
Instead of catching the fish
I caught the captain's ear.

Sorry to leave you hanging, but I don't remember any more of it, though I am certain there was something about walking the plank and a last minute reprieve as the guy with the Zebco is the first to see "The New World."

Another day, I may tell the story about the time Greg Grimes was practicing his golf swing and Doug's head got in the way of Greg's #2 wood. Doug was less than impressed.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011



When you touch me I shiver
And it is good.
When you brush my skin so lightly I smile
And it is good.
You look like none other
And it is good.
Joy explodes in my childlike heart when I see you
And it is good.
Your visits are precious, for they are few
And it is good.
You float down from heaven to melt on my eyelids
And it is good.

Ken Goree

It’s about snowflakes :-)

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

A Limerick for my friend Kelly


There once was a girl named Kelly
Whose spirit seems from New Dehli
In her meditation
She pondered creation
Then noticed the lint in her belly.

Ken Goree

This poem is for one of my best friends in the world. She is the best of spiritual depth, lightness of spirit, and timely wisdom. She has a great sense of humor, too.

It seems like I remember a poem with reference to belly button lint, but I don't think I quite copied anything.

Disclaimer#1: I have no idea whether Kelly has any belly button lint, let's go with the assumption that she does not. It worked with the poem though, and she thought it was funny, so it stays :-)

Disclaimer#2: No offense to belly button lint. It sounds like a very cozy arrangement.

Monday, January 10, 2011

If you "subscribed via e-mail," but aren't getting updates ...

If you "subscribed via e-mail," but aren't getting updates ... There could be one of two reasons, and they are:

1) You signed up before the bugs were worked out of the "feed." To solve this, please subscribe again.

2) You subscribed recently, but have not "verified" the subscription. To solve this, just go to your email and respond to the link to verify that you really want to sign-up and receive the new posts through e-mail.

A lollipop for the next 100 subscribers ...

A lollipop for the next 100 subscribers, okay, ... and the first 100, too. You'll need to come get them though. It's not like I'm going to ship lollipops anywhere ... I take that back. If I get a subscriber from Costa Rica, I'll ship a lollipop to the first Tico/Tica subscriber from that warm, happy country.



Strong ancient one
Entombed in your winter
cold bars
Hold you within.

What sin
Traps you in your frigid cell?
What lies beneath
Your dark exterior?

Spring will come
Bars shatter and fall
You burst forth to majestic freedom.

Ken Goree

On my way home from snow shoeing on Saturday (1-8-11), I noticed a huge basalt cliff. The enormous boulders of dark, wet stone rose up 50 feet beside the road. Thick shining icicles hung vertically along the face of the wall. Row upon row seemed to trap the stone inside, a tomb.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Coming up ...

Over the next few days, look for poems called: Entombed, A Limerick for Kelly, and Timeless.

I got a signed release for, Limerick for Kelly. I asked for no approval before deciding on the other two.

A thought, or is it two? About love and poetry


Poetry would be
One fifth less without sight
Less what is said
With words, than the intention.

Love would be
One sixth less without sight
A precious ingredient
What unnamed sense, the addition?

Ken Goree

Saturday, January 8, 2011

The Fog

The Fog

Tongues of cold wet fog
Lick lecherously at my cheek, my ears
Dampening the flesh of my arms with
Its invitation to join
Dark morning’s silent, creeping festivities.

Ghostly fingers pluck
At sleeve and cuff
Beckoning with chill promises
Dark mysteries
Muffled secrets

Misty veil - shroud
Dog’s howl
Owl’s screech
Rabbit’s scream
From what evil cause these signs

What viceral thrill to feel
A child’s imagined creatures
Bright terror, and tharn rigidity
What loss to put away
Childhood’s demons.

Ken Goree

For future reference, I put the explanations of what inspired me to write a certain poem after the poem for a reason. I want you read it first, let it live in your imagination and give it the life that your experiences. Think of a poem as baking soda. One person's experiences may be like water, while the next person's experiences are like vinegar. You start with the same thing, but with radically different results. Ms Water's mixture turns into a solution that has the emotional equivalent thickens gravies (mental comfort food). Mr. Vinegar gets an emotional volcano.

My inspiration for this poem arrived this last fall. As usual, I arrived early to school. On my walk to my classroom I look east across the playground, and a while later toward the sunrise. On some clear mornings I can see Mt. Rainier to the south, the sun painting its edge bright copper. On this particular morning, there was just enough light in the world to see a slowly creeping, swirling mist across the blacktop, and patchy grass field. There was complete silence, until I heard far off, the barking of a dog. Here it comes, here is why I really wrote the poem ... I got a chill down my spine. Suddenly I missed being a kid. I miss, and try to regain the ability to feel that bright, sharp fear that only. To take a naturally benign situation and infuse it with imagination so powerful that we imagined a blackness so dark it could clutch us tight, and as we are dragged into the pit, we know, we just know that when we tried to scream no sound would come out.

The beautiful thing about this childhood fear and panic is, as tangible as it is to us when we are young, when the lights come on we're safe, and realize there never was any real danger; we won't be stolen away to a nightmare land forever.

I did write a last line, but that would have put a dark message in this poem for me, instead of it being a lament the loss of safe, childhood fears and a celebration of the imagination.

Okay, now I'm leaving to go snowshoeing!

Friday, January 7, 2011

Master of the Dead

Master of the Dead

Watchful, watched
Powerful stillness
First cheerless light
Frozen time.

A push at my back
Whispers in branches
Brittle laughter
The Master of the Dead has arrived.

Scraping naked branches
Scratching music signals
The dead begin rise
The mirthless dance begins.

A tuneless waltz
The master lifts
Lifeless forms into
whirling, curling columns.

The dancers rush, and spin
climb high, thrown down
Discarded at
Their master’s whim

The master gone
The dancers forgotten
Left to continue
Their slow, silent decay.

Ken Goree

The idea for this poem came to me this fall, in probably mid-November. I was out for a morning walk on the Burke-Gilman trail. A little grey light had seeped into the day, but everything was utterly still; no sound of birds, no other walker, joggers or even bicyclist were about. Then a gust of wind pushed me from behind, the leafless tree branches started scraping together, complaining, as they too were assaulted.

Leaves from all around the trail were driven forward, twisted together in a swirling column that looked that it might solidify into something alive. Alive and unpleasant. The pillar of leaves swayed hypnotically like a cobra.

It didn't last long. The wind grew tired of the game and dropped the leaves back to the ground, like a child would discard a soggy paper airplane.

The momentary burst of wind did not return during my walk. The silence returned, but without the feeling of malicious intent that preceded the marionette dance of the dead that I had witnessed.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Another limerick, a little better

This limerick is also about my second grade class. Yes, I know that I have strayed away from traditional limericks, in that these are not naughty. The one from this morning was awkward to read, and make sound right, I know. I hope you find this one a little better.

If you read my disclaimer early on, I suggested that there maybe some definite departures from quality along the way. By the end of the year, hopefully, I should be improved.

Room 12 (version 2.0)

There once was a class from Shoreline
These twenty seven kids are all mine
Some times they are naughty
Don’t do what they oughty
But the worst of their worst is just benign.

Ken Goree

What day is it? Oh, right, the 6th

I thought it was time to include some other, significant people from my life, in my poetry – my students. It was wonderful to come back from break to them.

It's a limerick, so make sure you get that bouncy feeling going before you start reading it.

Room 12

There's now a class of 27
They make each day feel like it’s Heaven
Some times they are naughty
Don’t do what they oughty
But not near's bad as they could’ve been.

Brandon Myuse

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Snuffing out Brandon

If you look back, you may see that I mentioned the likelihood of growing weary of my alter-ego Brandon. I'm there, though I reserve the right to reincarnate him whenever I like, or snuff him out once again at my whim. I will feel no remorse ... it's not like we bonded or anything!

Yes, he has a cooler name, but then again, does a poet need a cool name? Wadsworth for instance; no that doesn't work, he made up for it with about the coolest last name a guy could hope for ... Longfellow ... he, he, he ...

All this to say, I will be writing as myself now ... who am I?

Ken Goree

Look out!

I feel an undeniable urge to write something childish, with a vulgarity level common among third graders of either gender, and men of all ages. For those of you who have read my philosophical (or is that filosoficle) works relating to the emotional development of the human male, you'll understand. These are closely related to the Goree Intellect Averaging Principle. I can't believe Reader's Digest didn't want to publish that for me!

Okay, so I was saying ... expect a childish poem (not child-like) in the next couple of days.

About the email subscriptions

Apparently, the "subscribe via e-mail" link does work for some people. I have no idea why it is only "some." there seemed to be quite a lag between signing up and having the e-mail notification of posts start. I assume it has something to do with the service it feeds through. I guess there are some drawbacks to free.

I'm not sure if people are enjoying my poems and/or my endless chatter, or if my wonderful friends are just humoring me. However, y'all put me over the hundred mark last night. Thank you, and picture smiling happily.

Enjoy your fabulous day ahead.

The Fifth Poem

There may be a story behind this poem to my daughter.


To my Sweet Princess,

Years ago you asked me to call you Princess.
Because you are my princess, I did, and still do.

I smile when I hear you sing along to music in the car.
Your voice is becoming beautiful.

You make me proud, when I take you to important events;
Weddings, Bat Mitzvas, school events.
You can be taken “out in public.”
Everyone comments on the elegant lady you are.

Your beautiful caring spirit shows through
Everyone comments on the beautiful woman you are becoming.

I see your strength
your empathy
your loyalty.
You are a true friend, and those around you are blessed
Blessed to boast that you are their friend.

You see the hurt your friends feel
And help them mend, help them smile again.
When I’m feeling hurt
I picture your face,
Remember the music of your laughter, and
I smile again.

My life is more fulfilling
because you are in it.

Years ago you asked me to call you Princess.
Because you are my princess, I did, and still do.


Tuesday, January 4, 2011

I'm very excited about this!

I'm very excited about this blog. Apparently I have 74 people checking it out so far; only four poems into the year. I hope that you are all enjoying what I'm coming up with. I've actually been requested to write poems on specific subjects ... Awesome idea!!! One of the suggestions is for a poem I won't be able to post on this public forum ... it is a VERY "friendly" concept, but not very "kid friendly."

For those of you who have read the entries from before the January first might know about my "sick days." I am happy to report that I have not resorted to the use of any of of them, so far.

For those that have not looked back to the beginning of my blog, the "sick days" are several poems that I wrote before the beginning of the year for days that I am not able to create a new poem. The explanation of the "sick days" is in what I fondly think of as my "multiple personality disorder" post.

The Fourth

There is a story that goes with this poem. I'll see about adding it later if anyone is interested. It's called My Chainsaw Injury.

Respect for the Chainsaw

When starting my best chainsaw
It’s best to hold on tight
For if you lose your grip on it
You’ll see end of tunnel light.

Brandon Myuse

Monday, January 3, 2011

My experiences that gave rise to "Goose Food"

The poem Goose Food is grounded in my memories of time spent in Eastern
Washington in the late fall and through the winter. The air is dry
and cold, and the bare surface of the highway is the only thing not blanketed in a hard white crust that will linger until spring. The harsh Kittitas Valley wind whips snow in a whirling, twisting dance, like ghost snakes writhing over the aged and worn grey surface of the pavement.

“V” after “V” of Geese in formation drop into fields until there are thousands gathered together. A few stand guard as the flock talk, quarrel and grumble among themselves, while working to wrest sustenance from the frozen soil.

The Third

Goose Food

While driving through the country
I passed a snowy field
What was in the summer bountiful
Has given up its yield.

A thousand black shapes on there
I see them from a far
Grow in size, grey, black and white
As I approach them in my car.

They prod and poke with long neck and beak
For what is left behind
For the farmer, feeding geese in winter
Was not on his mind.

A seed or two they pull from earth
Some juicy bugs there, too
The frozen earth so hard gives up
A worm they'd not eschew.

I sip from my warm coffee cup
And those geese I watch
I aim my brand new camera
And freeze them with one shot.

I appreciate their beauty
As they seek out frozen stem
Their courageous struggle awes me
But I wouldn't want to be them.

Brandon Myuse

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Upcoming poems ...

Over the next few days there will be poems about geese, my favorite chainsaw, my lovely princess of a daughter (no, I am not being sarcastic), and possibly one about peanut butter if I can make it socially acceptable :-)

Be Safe, Be Smart and Be Good ... and for goodness' sake, continue to be.

Something Really Struck Me Today

I'll write the poem to go with this another time. for now you get the story behind it.

I know, that title seems like a "joke on the way" to those who know me. However, I noticed something that affected me deeply this morning.

It started yesterday. As I was driving to the gym, I saw an older couple out on a walk with their dogs, two yellow labs. I thought it was very cute that the older dog was participating in the walk as a passenger in a wagon. I thought "Ahh, that's sweet," and drove on. The fact that this was happening in 22 degree weather didn't really register with me at the time. I'm sure it was uncomfortable for the old gentleman as it bumped and heaved over and through rocks and holes at the edge of the road.

This morning, on the same back road, in the same place I passed them again. This time, I was struck so hard by the realization of what I was seeing (real or imagined) that I had to pull over and dry my eyes.

I may be imagining a scenario that wasn't the reality of the situation, but I'm sticking with it unless it gets proved otherwise to me. Don't anyone dare.

Here is how I see it. This man and woman, probably in their late 60s or early 70s have been married since they graduated high school. They grew up in the country, had children on a farm, and eventually moved to the Pacific Northwest, because there wasn't work in the middle of the country 40 years ago. They've suffered through the loss of one or more children due to sickness or military service. They have celebrated the birth of many grandchildren. They've stuck together and supported a child that has gone through a divorce; probably more than one.

To the outside world, these people live boring lives. They have simple hobbies that fill them with great pleasure. The name of the dog in the wheelbarrow is Reb (short for Rebel) or something like it because when he joined their family 15 years ago as squirming ball of fluff no bigger than "Mamma's" fuzzy slippers, he was unstoppable and showed little promise of being trainable.

Reb has thrown himself between danger and Ma and Pa, or another family member time and time again. He chased off a bear or mountain lion on a camping trip to Idaho; or maybe ended up on the operating table after the pitbull belonging to the drug dealer down the street tried to attack Ma as she leaned over to pick green beans in the family vegetable garden.

Reb's days are numbered, and he probably would have been more comfortable at home on his dog bed in front of the wood stove. However, watching his younger friend and his "people" walk out the door without him would have hurt worse than the way his bones ache from the cold.

The dedication and faithfulness that these beautiful people showed to their lifelong (his life) companion shocked me to my soul. I'm sure they are retired, and they take the time every day that they are able to take Reb and Junior for a walk around the neighborhood. I hope that I can prove as good a "people" to my best friend Orion, when he needs me to show him true love at the end of his road. I'm sure that if I played "hookie" from work tomorrow and took that same drive, at the same time, I would pass them right on that same stretch of road. I am not looking forward to the day that I pass them and there is no wagon bumping along behind Pa.

Orion has raised his head several times from his dog bed across the room, wondering what I am blubbering about as I write this. It finally got to be too much for him and he just came over and dropped his head on my knee. Damn it, that just made it worse!

I'm going to go think about how I can be a better "people" to the souls (canine, human, or other) in my life. Maybe one of them will chase off a bear for me one day. Or maybe I'll do the chasing.

The Second

Wow, now this is like time travel. I came from the end of this blog, back to the beginning to make an observation. Observation: The beauty of being in control of this blog is, when I write something really embarrassing I can go bcak and edit it out later. Okay, now back to where I started.

I think before you read this next poem, you should reflect on the fact that I teach elementary school. Now this one (poem) contains references to partying, alcohol, and deception. Though it appears to be written at the maturity level of a third grader, the content isn't appropriate to that age. Luckily, men, me being one of the aforementioned, stay at that maturity level for roughly ... hmmmm, add that to that, subtract one, multiply by three ... for life. If you care to read more of this ridiculous commentary, I will likely continue after the poem.

Where Do the Ducks Go

Where do the ducks go
When my pond freezes over?
Clear, or covered with snow
I need my closure.

They can’t have gone South
as it’s too far away.
I know they’ll be back
In one of two day.

I’d ask my friend Kim
She’s the sciencey kind
But I really don’t want that,
I’ve something stranger in mind.

I think that just maybe
They’d steal a big car
A stretched limo with heat
And a well stocked bar.

They’d drive into town
Maybe take in a show
Then they hit the best dance club
They could, you never know.

I do know one thing
Oh yes, let me tell ya
They better watch what they drink
and avoid the tequila.

I never have seen them
Cut loose on the stuff
But my grandma once told me
A tale of a bluff

Her dad an inn owner
had needed some “pil-ahs”
He had all the cloth
But none of the “fil-ahs.”

Then in came some ducks
avoiding the cold
Some of them youngsters
Some of them old.

Great granddad, he thought
And came up with a bluff
He’d drink those ducks under
and collect all their fluff.

The duck now they steer
of alcohol clear
They count all their drinks
no matter how cold the year.

But that still leaves me wondering
about the ducks from my pond
Maybe I should ask Kim
“Where have they gone?”

Brandon Myuse

So, I don't really have anything else to say. However, if you would like to hear more on my theories of male maturity (remember, I'm an expert, as I "are" one), you can see my posts in my other blog K.G.'s Really Insightful Theories on the Maturity Process of Men (It's kind of oxymoronic). I've written the theories, but haven't created the blog yet. Never fear, though. I am studying quantum mechanics, and intend to make the blog prior to now, after I have finished my studies and have all the time travel "bugs" taken care of. Don't worry, you won't feel a thing as I "whoosh" past you to before now and create that blog before you read this. It will be painless ... I think ...?

Saturday, January 1, 2011

The First

New Year

Of last year I have no complaint
Many paths I chose.
Problems were, but did not taint
Each sun still rose.

Brandon Myuse

Don't worry, they won't all be one stanza long. Though I do like Haiku and Limericks, so there likely will be a few.

My name is Ken Goree. I just thought I would like to start with a pseudonym. I'll stick with "Brandon" for a while, but I think I might tire of him eventually.

I already feel like he's plagiarizing my work. A bit like a co-worker who turns in your report to the boss, as his own work. Or the funnier version, like one of my students erasing someone else's name from that other person's homework and turning it in as his own. I love it when this happens, because the kids that do this typically have horrid handwriting, and since they want to get a good grade for their stolen work they usually pick one of the most successful students. If you didn't know those students are usually girls with beautiful flowing script who dot their "I"s with little hearts or smiley faces. It makes my detective work pretty easy. Oh, and they rarely do a good job completely erasing the name.

If Brandon really starts to get on my nerves I can simply, quickly and neatly dispatch him. No one would need to know. Someone might say, "Hey, what happened to that guy Brandon, the one that kept writing poems every day?" No one will answer though, because that someone will sitting alone at her/his computer looking at a blog called "Poem-a-Day Place," which has started to be maintained by a guy named Ken. No one would have to know that I "did away with" Brandon ... no mess, no fuss, no muss.

Enjoy the new year. I hope you enjoy my posts as well, and return often. If in anyway I make you laugh, or occasionally help the sun shine on your heart and soul, I will feel well rewarded for my effort.

Notes of encouragement are very appreciated, as are politely worded critiques. I can use all the help I can get.

Be well, in this new year.