A new poem

Autumn’s Promise

The promise of Autumn’s
Sweet
Chill
Kiss
Gives rise to energies forgotten
While in the midst of Summer’s
Sloth
Doldrum
Recline

Memories long dormant
Challenge and escape to the surface
Cloying
Aged
Musings

Tears well at relived
Joys and tragedies
Knocking
Calling
Embracing

Let down calloused walls
Allow childlike soul to
Emerge
Refreshed
Renewed

Ken Goree

June Bug Shuffle

There once was a girlie named Catherine
Tying bugs onto strings set her gigglin’
Danced, looking excited
Need to pee, not delighted
Her poor panties, she left big stain therein


Ken Goree




For those of you who have never heard of the June Bug, the ones referred to in the title of this poem were in the southeast United States.  Every few years, when I was a kid, our family would go to visit my mom's relatives on the ancestral farm, in the Smokey Mountains of eastern Tennessee.  One of the things to do as kid in that area, if you are lucky enough to be around when the June bugs start swarming, was to adopt one as a pet.  This may sound lame, but it was pretty fun, because you could tie sewing thread to the beetle and take it for a walk ("flight").

I must mention, I was forced into writing this poem.  I had reminded the "real girl" about this "real event," earlier this year.  I didn't want to write the poem and embarrass her (internationally), but she kept reminding me to write the poem, so today, I did.  

We were standing on the back porch of the log cabin.  My grandfather built that cabin himself, from trees he cut and shaped with adze, ax and saw.  My father had just given us some of my grandmother's sewing thread and we were tying loops in one end and a June bug to the other.  After bringing the string, my dad took his leave of us. I was quite young, and not very dexterous.  The girl, was older and had her pet tied off and flying in moments.  Like any self-respecting little kid, I begged for help; said, "This is stupid;" whined; and pouted.  

Soon, I noticed that "the girl" was doing a dance while playing with her pet.  "Now, that is just showing off," I thought to myself.  Then, I realized there was something very familiar about the dance she was doing.  "What is it?" I thought.  "Hmm, what is it?" Then it came to me.  I knew the dance, I had done it a hundred times, especially at school.  This older girl was doing "The Pee-Pee Dance."  In her confusion of growing excitement over her pet and the growing pressure inside due to three bottles of old fashion Mountain Dew, straight from the glass bottle, which you had to use a bottle opener to get into.   The pressure won before she was able to figure out a way to tie off her pet and make it to the bathroom.  

I saw the growing dark stain on the front of "the girl's" faded bell-bottom blue jeans.  My first thought was, "That's what you get for not helping me get the leash onto my June bug."  Later, I realized that that hadn't been a very compassionate response to the girls distress ... much later ... like about ten minutes ago, while finishing this poem.  

So Little Left

So little left
Time
Pushing
Me
To
The
End

An appreciated finish
Is
All
That
I
Ask
For

What I’ve wanted
Is
No
More
Than
Your
Interest

If you Smiled
Then
I
Have
Been
Truly
Fulfilled

Your shaking dread
I
Fed
Without
Trace
Of
Remorse

Fluttering, warm hearts
I
Feel
A
Special
Kinship
With

Grand childish dreams
I
Pray
I’ve
Rekindled
within
You

Your clear presence
Has
Helped
Me
See
The
World


Ken Goree

Last Minute

The time is running late for me
I really should soon be there
I’m feeling a little jittery
I haven’t a moment to spare

This day’s been in the planning
Many a day before now
If as one of the planners, I was late
It’d surely cause a row

I guess this poem will have to wait
At least an hour or two
After a drink or two with friends
That’s when I think we’ll be through

Ah, now I’m back in poetic saddle
Grabbing my poem by rein
Urging it on to the finish
‘Til no other words remain

Now that I mentally return home to write
Hoping I’ll seem just a little bit bright
Pounding the keyboard on into the night
Last minute, one word, will finish it right


Ken Goree

Fading

As the
Supply of
Water and
Nutrients dwindles

As the
Attention of
Others diminishes
And wanes

As the
Time spent
Away from
Home lengthens

The time
Of celebration
And Gifts
Is fading


Ken Goree


The Christmas tree is about to go.  I think I’ll let her celebrate the coming of the new year with us, however.

Fibonacci’s Rabbits

How
Does
Rabbit
So increase
Itself to attain
A significantly larger
Population than it had previously so known?
With subtle variation he
Probably uses
The same means
As you
And
I


Ken Goree


I agree, this is an odd poem.  It came about as I was researching different poetic forms.  As I was doing so, I wondered whether anyone had based a poem on a Fibonacci sequence.  I didn’t find any.  However, I am sure there have been countless numbers of people who have done so, especially given the interest so many people have in the Fibonacci numbers. 

So, I chose to base the poem on an ascending, then descending syllable count: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 8, 5, 3, 2, 1, 1.  The reason I chose the content I did was,  I read an article about Fibonacci and how he came up with the sequence.  According to the article, Fibonacci came up with the progression when solving a problem in the growth of a population of rabbits, under ideal circumstances.

My Toes

My Toes


Socks
Dry, fuzzy and snugly
In front of crackling fire
I’m warm
Down to

~  My toes  ~

Don’t like this day
So much
They’ve been trapped
In cold, wet
Boots

Ken Goree

Smile

More than
Just good wishes
Or friendly
Feelings
Sweetly crinkled
Flesh
Deep dimpled
Cheeks
Framing
Red, moist lips
Shining
Eyes
Unfocused
Seeing
More than
Paints the
Surface
Flushed, blushing
Skin
Heats the night
From
Just
A smile


Ken Goree

Innocence Renewed

So fresh the morning
Cleansing rain of night
Still dripping from
Fiery Autumn leaves

Eyes tearing from
The sting of
Pure reflected sunlight
Bright, dewdrop diamonds

Delighted shivers rattle through
Feeling that the sins and grime
Of life are washed clean
In the baptism of an innocent new day


Ken Goree


Over and over, I feel chills through my soul, at the sight of a bright new morning.  

Sharing Lines

Let me look
At you
Let me follow
Your lines
The curves
And limbs
The lines that
Time has
Etched
Creating the masterpiece
The limbs that branch
Delicately from
Your eyes
Marking the
Delights that you
Have seen
The graceful curves
Framing your
Mouth
That has laughed
Without limit
The crinkle of your
Nose
That has
Giggled and blushed
A bit of
Wicked
Wit
Let us
Share and create
Joyful
New
Lines


Ken Goree

The White Stampede

Across the
Steel and
Pewter plain
The Stampede
Of White
Stallion
Manes
Rises
And Falls,
Driven before
The bite
Of
October’s
Savage
Beast


As I was driving south toward Lake Washington this afternoon, I saw the white-capped waves rising and falling across Lake Washington.  The power to drive such an enormous mass of water before it, in the child October wind, caught my eye.  Like a stampede, where the identity of each horse fades into the wild dance, is the vision that came to me.  I love recognizing the glorious drama of creation that so many pass by.

Blocked Off

I’m not feeling very witty
Tonight I’m feeling stale
I think I might have stepped in
A “writers’ block-ish” Hell

I guess I’ll have to work around
That’s what I’m going to do
I’ll wipe that gooey block right off
My metaphorical shoe

The biggest problem I do think
Is finding the best place
To wipe that nasty block off
So it leaves no trace.


Ken Goree

An Etheree called Light

Light

Light
Shining
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.

Steamy Food Poetry

Baguette

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

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.

Penelope's Limerick - "The Sleeper-Inner"

Penelope

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

Ken



Several observations and information:
1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
Sleeper-inners, the appearance of me making fun of you for sleeping in is purely coincidental.
4.
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.

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.

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.

Seahawk Limerick

Seahawks

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?

Biscuits

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.

Reb

Reb

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.