Dreams

I dreamed a dream, that I flew for miles
I fingered frothy lakes as I floated by,
in cities I stood upon brick building spires
after my fill of height, I fell from the sky

and in another, I took a man’s life
I fled for a country of rich pastels
in my kitchen, I stored the knife
his ghost I tried not to compel

and last night, in dreams, I was tortured
waterboarded by a warden’s urine
questioned, I failed to feign the answer
I lay on the cell floor, naked, broken

I hope tonight, I’m granted relief
in a dying dream, as I sleep

Other People I Know Pt I

Source: http://www.flickr.com/photos/eneas/ / CC BY 2.0

I thought it would be nice to take some time to highlight some other people I know who write and/or are involved with writing.

First off, Shannon Macdonald.

Shannon is a bright and charming lady with whom I went to high school.  She has since migrated to the D.C. area and founded Bit O’Lit, a free, regional magazine that publishes book excerpts for commuters to peruse on the train.

Read more about it in the Washington Post.

Listen to her interview on NPR.

Doug Seacord.

Doug is a guy I’ve known since grade school and while we haven’t really kept up with each other, I still stalk him from time to time to read some of his stuff.  He might make you blush, he will make you laugh.

Read his stuff.

Kristen Howdeshell

Kristen is an artist and friend from school.  She is part of a design firm called ThreeHouse and has done animation for Robot Chicken, along with several other items around the area.  I’ve been talking with her about an idea to work poetry and illustration in new ways—less like a children’s book and more like a wine-pairing with food—but more on that later.

Her blog

ThreeHouse (animated illustration)

Wyatt Earp

When you called you cleared
your throat, it must have been parched
like the OK Corral, or maybe you had
to make a point, spin your spurs, lower
the brim of your Stetson so we knew you
were a man.

When you spoke, I saw a cloud of
dust escape your lips, like exhaust
from a steam engine, you lit your
cigarette and stared at me like you
were God.

When you left, the town talked
for a moment, and returned to
their day, considering if they were
in greater benefit, with you
having left.

Best of 2009

Here’s the best of the year according to most hits.

1. No Furnace Winter

A contest I started but failed when the first major cold front came through in December.  Road to Hell is paved with good intentions… and yellow bricks probably.

2. Another Season of Constant Drinking

Here’s an attempt at a sestina.  I think I was drinking when I wrote it.

3. On Midwestern Culture

A common man’s thoughts on the aforementioned.

4. I have all the hymns memorized

Posting this made me feel naked.

5. A Coppertone Gothic

A very popular contribution from a friend.  I like to read this one aloud.

And a few personal favorites.

1. The Rivaled Men

One of the better poem/photo combos.  Another difficult one to write.

2. The Sun died in October
The world ending is a recurring theme.

3. Advent I

From the Advent sonnets.

4. Advent II

Also.

December Sonnets in a Wordle

A month’s worth of work visually represented. (click to enlarge)

Source: Wordle

For Boxing Day: A Collection of the December Sonnets

Here, chronologically, are the 25 sonnets from the series.

Dec 1| The wise grow like moss

Dec 2| The Rivaled Men (Personal Favorite)

Dec 3| Humility

Dec 4| Tom Hagen

Dec 5| Snow!

Dec 6| We made breakfast at noon

Dec 7| I have all the hymns memorized (Most Read)

Dec 8| The Great Meteor Shower

Dec 9| On Death and Winter

Dec 10| Faith

Dec 11| A Coppertone Gothic (Most Read Contribution)

Dec 12| A Simple Truth

Dec 13| Poverty (LOL)

Dec 14| We Thought You Died, But It Was Only Thunder

Dec 15| A Drive home in December

Dec 16| ¢ommer¢iali$m

Dec 17| A Sonnet Proper

Dec 18| Let’s decorate this evening (Least Read)

Dec 19| Eavesdropping at a Cafe

Dec 20| I made the bed for you tonight

Dec 21| Sonnet 141

Dec 22| Advent I

Dec 23| Advent II

Dec 24| Christmas Sonnet

Dec 25| Merry Christmas Morning

Merry Christmas Morning

It’s five in the morning, the children open-eyed,
parents grumbling, brew coffee, and grab the camera,
the boxes stacked, with ribbons and bows tied,
parents dreading the statement from Visa.
The stockings, plump, with oranges and canes,
crumbles of cookies beneath the mantel, a trail,
the wonder of what each box might contain,
sister goes first, unwrapping as fast as a snail.
The grownups watch, satisfied, their kids, endearing,
the torn paper, a token of toil strewn on the floor,
momentarily gracious children, laughing, embracing,
fleeting joy in the moment, but memory will lend more.
Mom picks up the trash and Dad foams for a shave,
we cherish these times, now nearing the grave.

Christmas Sonnet- Garrison Keillor

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring confusion, old age, and symptoms of the flu
While taking out the garbage and keeping the walk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here — and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithful, hopeful, into the dark
And are there angels hovering overhead? Hark.

-Garrison Keillor

Advent II

Do angels circle our heads? In rhythm,
weaving in an out of the other’s circuit,
like ghosts, can they be summoned?
A prayer told in faith, or by habit
Do they still sing? Melodious notes
that echo through valleys like artillery,
demons fleeing the sound from the throats,
of the seraphim who worship thee,
What terror now grows in man’s heart
at the shaking of the once steady earth
the saved and the damned, forever apart
unable to scream, mouths filled with dirt
The angels paused for mountains’ reply,
and drew their swords, up in the sky.

Advent I

He minds the lillies, and the tall trees,
roaring tempest, foaming sea, rocky cliffs,
sandy dunes, the planets in other galaxies
the celestial peaks and deeping rifts,
The baby stillborn, or stout and lean,
the mother, relieved, abandoned, desolate,
the young man, abased, a fractured dream
both the whore and the man in the pulpit,
In season, he weaves cloth for the naked,
prepares the table for starved, swollen,
he stacks coins for the desperate, cheated,
a child himself, he calls all of them children