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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

The Fifth Poem

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

Princess

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.

Dad

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.

K.G.
Brandon Myuse

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.

K.G.
Brandon Myuse

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?”

K.G.
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 ...?

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.

K.G.
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.

Tomorrow, it all begins

Okay, tomorrow I start with the poems. Oh God, what if I get writer's block. I don't want to use my sick days already. What should I start with first? Ducks on my pond? A grumpy teenage girl? A "legally adult" son? Flowers? No, none out and growing for inspiration, yet.

If I go with the grumpy teen daughter for my inspiration, I think a limerick would be the way to go. When I'm feeling more compassionate about the whole "emotional, hormonal teen thing" I'll use a form that is lends itself more to an understanding mood.