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

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.

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 :-)

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.

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.

Unique

Unique


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 :-)

A Limerick for my friend Kelly

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.

Entombed

Entombed


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?

Patience
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.

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

Poetry/Love


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

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.

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.

K.G.
Brandon Myuse