3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #29 and #30

Ahh, you were thinking I'd actually dropped a day and wouldn't get back to it!  I know you were!  Well, I didn't.  Even the Fat Kid has a social calendar some days, and this weekend ended up being a pair of social engagements that invaded my writing time.  C'est la vie!  On the other hand, it also means that I don't lock myself away in the scriptorium and become a recluse, so I suppose this is a good thing.

First, I'd like to share with you all a poem I was sent from a person I consider a very gifted artist.  In this particular piece, I personally find a strange (in the good way) rhythm, and when I was told WHAT inspired the piece, well, it all made sense.  No, I'm NOT going to tell you - it's not all that difficult to figure out on your own, and if you're paying attention, I'm sure you'll get some of the same feeling the artist intended.  Enjoy!

SPRING PATCHWORK
4-runnering one grey spring day:
Wintery hillsides bursting undergrowth,
Yellowing shades to evergreen,
Interrupting blinking towers,
Fall's browned teasel staking roadsides,
Wild dogwoods sprinting among shad bush and bridal veil,
Rolling hills striped with coal,
Rocking streams streaked with purple filigree.
Stone walls fencing soft pines,
Sentinel sycamores stalwart amid sweeping russian olives,
Rusting fields newly tilled,
Grey shack shadowing lonely creek,
Sleeping wild mustard fields;
A dogleg trip to Virginia or Connecticut?
To anywhere, live,
The Master's Quilt, perfectly pieced!

And now for something of mine!!
 
The Craftsman
 
My hands tell a story;
beaten, battered, scarred but strong,
rough from the work I do.
 
I am ashamed of them, at times,
how could such things hope to hold beauty?
they do not belong to touch finery,
my world, a mueum in which I may only see with my eyes.
 
But my eyes do not see,
what my fingers behold.
the eye is keen and critical,
it knows the errors, the imperfections,
where to look to see what the hands have hidden.
 
My hands tell the story of creating.
 
 
Oh geeze, on this, the last day of the Challenge, you get a two-fer!!  Wait, I suppose technically, it's a three-fer!  Huh, who knew?  This last one is for all those who ever felt alone in any environment, or just like you don't fit in.
 
Apart
 
The world spins around me,
I cannot keep pace.
Ever traveling from place to place,
incongrous with the rhythm.
 
Conversations abound,
I am a part of them, and not,
I want to add to them, but dare not say anything.
I am the clown, mute and amusing.
 
But I do not belong here.
 
I am called to somewhere else,
my mind races with other thoughts.
I cannot explain it to you,
but only know that I am becoming something more,
something greater than I was.
 
In this, I am alone. 
Solitary.
One.
from everything else,
 
Apart.
 
 
 
And there you have it.  That's it - the end of the 3rd Annual Poetry Challenge.  Reflections on this year's Challenge will be brief, but I cannot part without a few words:
First, Thank You - especially to the select few whom I KNOW have been regular - if not daily- readers.  Thanks for your comments, your compliments, your critiques, and your criticisms (yes, the last two are different when speaking in literary terms.)  I hope that you have been inspired in some small way to write your own - or to continue to write your own words.
Secondly, it strikes me that there are a few themes running through this year - however unintentionally they are.  If you've gotten nothing else, please, take the following: Don't give up, even if you suck at something.  Even if it's so tough, you think it will get the better of you, don't ever give up.  The rewards of persistence are worth it.
 
Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, # 28

oh boy - a flurry of activity for the alst couple of days, so I guess I better hurry and finish a couple of poems!


And now, time is but too short a thing,
a resource spent,
wasted, over so many days and nights
when the choice was to do nothing.
And though it's the squandered we see,
we count the other,
and fill our days with accomplishment.


Tomorrow, I will look to finish the challenge with a day of cath-up and the last day of the Challenge.  Thanks to all who have sent their thoughts and musings, the occasional poem, and their support!!!

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #27

So it seems the theme of this week in my life is "Faith."  Oh not necessarily a relgious faith of any sort, though there's been some of that, too - more like a general faith - in mankind, for example, or in one's own self.  The funny part about this idea of faith, though, is that it's not been me who's been embroiled in it - but those around me.  I cannot help but to think of the times when I have struggled with some of the many aspects of faith.  If I could give advice to my friends, I would simply remind them that having faith is not easy.  It is often thankless, and yes, even painful, and occasionally, you will get burned by it.  BUT, having faith also keeps your mind and heart open to the many good things of this life.  For this, it is always worth having faith.  It is a gift.  So use it.  Keep your faith, my friends.  The reward is worth it, even though you may be battered about first.



I know not the merits of love,
for merits are to a man whan he holds dear.
And though I am not everyman,
I am to everyman akin,
to have tasted the delights of Love,
and eaten at the banquet of its bounty.
Yet I will not shy from it,
though I may die a thousand deaths in a single day,
so sweet its nectar,
so delicate and fulfilling,
that never shall I want for less than Love's fair vintage.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat kis

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #26

WooHoo!!!  You know, since this blogsite went and updated stuff and gave me an actual counter, it's nice to see that some people - quiet as they are - are at least looking at my words.  How many of them are my mother, I'm not quite sure, but I'm grateful for those who are reading.  I hope that you've been enjoying this as much as I have, and I do so hope that, even though you haven't joined me in creating poetry on here, that you join me next year - or for that matter, make your own poetry/lyrics/short fiction/whatever month - and invite me to read!!!  The whole point is to enjoy writing and exploring words.

So - what do you say to exploring some of those words now?


Climbing

Cadence.  Footfall over footfall,
turning the crank over.
Stand.
Swing the bike.
Kick, drop the gear, just one.
In the saddle again,
Don't stop, keep turning the crank.
Drop the gear again,
focus on the rhythm,
lungs and legs burn together,
winding up the hill.
Drop again, burning the gear,
stand on the pedals,
like you saw that guy do in Europe.
This is your Europe,
your Alp D'Huez, your Tourmalet,
The only climb that matters -
the one you're on.
It will never get easier.
There is another one around the bend.

What?  I figured it was about time I got a cycling poem in there!  I've been good about trying to vary it up a bit, but today, I felt the need to climb a hill.  And for those of my cycling friends who may be reading....yeah I just said I felt the need to climb a hill.  Strange days.....

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #25

Well, with 6 more poems left - including today's, I think this month has been quite successful, if I do say so myself.  But, I shall employ some advice from an old professor friend of mine: "Do not die on the side of the mountain."  What should be pretty plain is that she meant for me to stay the course and buckle down, do the work, and don't let IT - whatever "it" may be - get the best of you.  Sound advice when times get a little tough...or for when you're prepping for a really long bike ride that you know will have lots of hills.....

But what does that have to do with today's poem?  I have no idea.  I haven't written it yet.  That theme may pop up, it may not.  I have no idea - that's kind of the whole "poetry adventure" thing we're on here. So all you hep-cats out there put your mittens around your kttens and awaaaaaaaaay we go!!!

Before the Door

Heavy, old, battered and beaten,
the old door stands before me,
Hinges rusty on their pins,
bleeding down the wood.
It is a door the like I have never seen -
the lumber, unknown to me,
no marks to tell me of its maker.
No clue what lies behind it,
I only know that I must go through.
My hand trembles on the latch.
It feels solid, well-made,
the work of an artist,
a creator, a craftsman.
I try the latch and it opens,
the rusted hinges
swing open noiselessly,
there is nothing but darkness on the other side.
And I must go through.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #24

Well, just under a week to go, and I gotta admit - it's starting to get a little tough.  It's tough to keep fiinding new places from which to take my inspiration - but today, something has been running through my head all day, and it's really kind of nice, so I'll write about that.



Sitting and talking,
quietly sharing of one another,
who I am, long to be,
things I want to accomplish.
Hearing and understanding the dreams of another,
and how they dovetail with mine.

Such a simple thing,
dinner conversation,
a little smile to let her know
I'm listening.

Never too much, don't want to look deperate,
but just enough to see if we can keep her interested -
just enough to know whether or not
I should keep trying.

But tomorrow is another chance,
to say the right thing, to perform the
right deed.  Another chance at magic.


Thankd for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #22 and #23

What a weekend - lots of family, friends, all sorts of things afoot, and it was a ll a wonderful time.  It's a thing I don't hear too often in this world, but you knwo something?  I LOVE MY FAMILY.  That's right - I'm sure a lot of people really really do love their family, and they just don't say it a lot, but I'm gonna shout it from the rooftops right now:  I LOVE MY FAMILY.  All of ya:  I don't care where you are in this world, what you're doing - if you're a part of my family, I love ya!  Tons.  Bunches.  And I don't say it enough.  And if this is too sappy for anyone to read - well, phooey on you, and I hope that someday, you find a family to whom you can say the same thing.

But hey, let's have some poetry, huh?  I mean, that IS why you're here, right??? 

Driving

The miles stretch fore and aft,
endless highways of which I will only travel a part,
twists and turns that cannot be planned,
but seem normal and unavoidable if you
only look at the larger picture.

One cannot move the mountain,
but to get to the other side,
you simply find a way.
How doesn't matter - you must.

Like the sea, undulating landscapes
are the waves upon which I travel,
this land-sea my home,
it is here when I can be alone with my thoughts,
where life begins to make sense.

One cannot control the oceans,
but to traverse them,
you simply must endure.
How doesn't matter - you must.


OK, I actually had this one half-written yesterday, on time, but had to finish it this morning.  Now, since I missed a day, here's your 2-fer:

Routine

Alarm.  Snooze.
Wake-up.
No.
You have to,
I'm tired.
You were up to late.
Had stuff to do.
You can't keep going like this.
Watch me.
You'll get sick.
No time for that.
Why do you rush?
Too much on my plate.
You don't take time to enjoy it.
It's not for me.
You're hopeless.
I know.
I'll shut down.
No, you won't.
....
Same time tomorrow?
Fine.


Ugh - some mornings, it's just how I feel.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #21

Well, the day is mostly over, and after quite a full one, I'm sitting down to write.  It's an interesting thing, driving my grandmother to my brother's place - in 90 minutes, you can hear a lot of stories about people and places you never knew, and realize just how much living a woman of 92 has done.  It's really very impressive.  Anyway, today's poem is brought you courtesy of Grandma. 

After the War

The menfolk came back,
there wasn't enough housing for them.
We stopped building so many homes
until after the war.

We tried to find a place of our own,
because you couldn't live in that temporary housing
forever.
Bob found a place and we settled in
After the war.

But there were no washing machines.
All the metal was being used to make bullets.
(I know it's true from the factory-shortened
bayonette from grandpa's M-1)
I was in line for one,
but the blind man beat me out for it
after the war.

He went to work for the police,
it's just a different kind of soldier,
but one that was needed
after the war.

(I listen intently to all she says, because
there's no one else I know
who can tell me these stories.)

No one is left alive
after the war.


Thank you to all our men and women who have served our country, in wartime or in peace.  Your sacrifice should be a lesson to all of us who have never really known the hardships of generations past.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challleng, #20

OK boys and girls, NOW I've been challenged. Are you ready??? Guess what today is? It's 4/20!!!! Yep, you doobie-headed, dread-locked, Bob Marley-worshipping crowd - time to sit back, light a bowl, a roach, a blunt, a bong, get the Cheetos and Funyuns - because today, I was challenged to write a poem about Miss Maryjane, Weed, Wacky-tobacky, Ganja, Grass - yep, Marijuana!!!!!

OK, this should be interesting: I will fully admit that I was in the room twice while it was being smoked. That's my experience with the stuff, other than seeing a few people after a bad hit off a bong, that's where I'm drawing from. Oh wait - I once found some that dropped out of someone's pocket in a stairwell. I turned it in to the cops. Yep, I'm that guy. I've just never felt drawn to really try it at all. So relax, Mom and Dad, the only drugs I do are caffeine and nicotine - and only the caffeine is regularly.

The New Math

So purple's, like, this color, right?
Of red and blue combined,
But I think it's more like silver,
that's how it smells in my mind.
And Obi-Wan agrees,
he's more powerful than most,
'Cuz when Vader cuts him down
He comes back as a ghost.
And he's shimmery and stuff,
Like the candles on the table,
'cept on holidays when we switch 'em out for pink and purple.

Wait, that doesn't rhyme.
I know, but it's deep, right?
I don't get it.
Me either! Where were we?
Obi-Wan.
Oh yeah. Huh.

So if purple's more like silver,
then it's opposite is gold,
And yellow's opposite of purple,
It must be so!

You still make no sense.
Ya gotta look trhough it, man, it's like the sun.
Don't look at it?
Yeah...Hey! and that's yellow, too!
I can't handle this, I'm going to the store.
Can you get some nachos?


OK, maybe I had a little too much fun picking on stereotypes here, but I couldn't resist! However, rather dwell on the point, I'll simply say this:

Thanks for reading, and SNOOCHIE BOOCHIES!!!!!!
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #19

Ahh, today, I have been given another challenge, from the same person as before. Yep, It seems no one else is being brave about challenging me...or nobody's reading. And since I KNOW some of you out there ARE reading, all I gotta say - and I apologize in advance for hurting your ears with this - "Wassup with dat shizizzle?" Ok, thsoe are words I don't think I should ever say again. So, in order to keep me from saying them again and hurting you in this fashion, send me stuff - ideas...whatever. It is, after all, a challenge.....

So the challenge I was given is another "react to this" challenge, with the added, "ok, so you can mirror some of my stuff well, but show me what you really think" element added in. To my friend I will say simply, "You asked for it."

This one was done significantly later than his high school years - he didn't say precisely when, nor did I ask. I'm guessing, from the tone, however, that it was after he fell in love with Medieval English Literature. Who knows? You decide. I do like certain elements of his poem - some nice allusions, illiterations, etc., and there are certain things I don't care for - but to like it or not I leave up to you. So here we go:

Even Fireflies Die

The Sun slowly slides into the west
Fires of heaven enrapture clay
Though brilliantly born, death is best
That glowing host, that enlightened day
Yet the mother reclaims her lost child
Like the Shepard and his flock of sheep
For she longs for him, fiery wild
Every way, he to live, she to sleep
Loath to let go, eager to take home
Another future is yet unmade
Blue of her water, blue of her dome
Though relieved today, is still afraid
At last the fading fiery mess
Descends below the still silent sea
And Night, the ever-jealous mistress
Stretches forth her hand to beckon me
As the lightning fades, and Night grows on
Crickets chirp, the air, despondency
Is the magic and the stillness gone
As twilight gives way in memory
To that still darkness whence life sprang from
As in the beginning, is now here
It is that evil which I fear’st come
For my soul, it whispers in my ear
Icy despair, entreating upon
The soft blackness of Night, washing o’er
My countenance and my courage gone
In the fields of life, She the sower
Of secrets, shoulder to those who moan
Upon the visit of her soft kiss
In Night, as in Light, my life I own
For as each day dawns, ‘tis Night I miss
Yet I fear her, long do I run, far
Away from her quiet, silky lips
Unlike day, I cannot seem to shun
The coldness of grave, from whence she ships
But even in the Night, there is hope
As I look up, gazing to the skies
It is impossible, yet I cope
For around me, I see Fireflies
They are the souls of my ancestors
Given wings to guide my lonely way
Hearing the songs of thy creators
Ringing in mine ears, what do they say
They say hark my son, know where you go
To the isles of the dead do you tread
Where those who have passed reap what they sow
Follow not Night – stay – eat of thy bread
For bread gives you life, life of the dawn
So stop in your tracks and go not forth
Follow not Night, no matter how drawn
Instead, follow our lights, which lead north
Toward Elysium, home of thy dreams
Magical land of forbidden lore
Where wishes become more than what seems
Possible, earthly pleasures, and more
For we are thy hope and salvation
They cry, as they lead mine eyes away
From that dark beauty, Night’s creation
But in blackness resides Death, I say
I do see the dark, dreaded reaper
Come to take me to a home I fear
Though my soul’s free, my body’s keeper
Lies beneath, coming nigh, coming here
The Fireflies sing, sing in mine ear
Of life and beauty, that I might touch
I stretch forth my hand, I wish it near
Yet as in my dreams, my dreams are such
As to enlighten and enliven
Thou salty imagination much
Beyond the vast, wrathful horizon
Of sweet dreams, that I longingly clutch
But to my Elysium, I go not
For though the Night draws in, still I see
My hopeless dream, it is but forgot
With my life now, in darkness, in me
As the glowing stars by clouds cover
And the dusty winds begin to fright
I live, by Fireflies, or other
Graces of her majesty, the Night
In the end she rules my life, does she
For though the power of birth is grand
Only in the Night, may I be free
So I gaze up, and stretch forth my hand
As Fireflies stop, land in my palm
Glowing so brightly, I cannot pray
I close my eyes, and utter a psalm
To my huntress Night, and av’tar, Day
I am unbound – from you – no – from me
I live for the Truth, who lives for I
So as I close my hand, I am free
For in Night, even Fireflies die.

and, for a non-mirrored response.....

The Importance of Fireflies

In the guise of Truth and Light,
I come, with torches burning bright,
to see the path, drive out the Night,
And set the fireflies to flight.

For I would have you blind by Day,
And sweep all Night's dreams away,
care only for the things I say,
forget the need of Dreaming's sway.

Free the mind, enslave the soul,
Just drink from Day's ample bowl,
No need of fireflies to make you whole,
When Knowledge is the Daylight's goal.

All things are plain under sunny sky,
Myst'ry gone little firefly,
To questioners all I can supply
the answer - to all but "why?".

Well, there we have it. Holy crap - I rhymed???? Yeah, yeah, it happens from time to time. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed today's offering!

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #18

With all that been going on, it's hard to believe we're already more than halfway done, but here we are on day 18. Not too shabby thus far! Some very nice comments from a few of you so far, and some nice participation from a couple individuals, too. Thanks for your efforts, and keep them coming!!!!

A lot of people ask me, 'Why do this? It's not like you're getting published or anything like that." In part, these people who ask this question are correct. I'm not really getting published, and I certainly don't get paid for any of this. And poetry? Who reads that stuff anymore?

I write for many reasons. One - I like it, dammit. So there! Two - I believe that you never know who will read something and take inspiration from it. It's not that everything has deep seeded meaning to everyone, but occasionally, soemthing strikes a chord with someone, and for just that little moment, I made their lives a little better. Words - they be powerful mojo. It's hard to see hope sometimes in our world. If I can help someone remember to hope or dream for a day, I'd say it is worth it. Three - by the time this month is up, I will have created a body of poetry that is 90 poems strong, all compiled in one place. Not bad. Four - I write because I must. It's that easy.

But hey, let's get on to another poem, shall we? We're burning daylight here!

The Cafe

Cold evening bites just enough,
plodding softly along the sidewalk,
looking through the closed-up storefronts
of businesses closed for the day,
I see the little cafe.
And in the window like long-forgotten monuments
a couple sits, enjoying their talk,
I turn and walk away in a huff.



Short one, today, but I kind of like it. A few technical things going on for fun, and hopefully, a nice little bit of imagery, too.

Thanks forreading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #17

Another day, and another poem! But before we get to that, I have to stop for a minute and say a HUGE thanks to the people who have thus far supported my fundraising efforts for the MS-150 coming up in June. I won't name names here, but you know who you are, and you have my gratitude. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It means so much. Thank you for believing in me, and in this cause. Also, if you haven't donated yet but would like to, either see me in person, donate from the link to my page (all you FB-ers out there) or contact me and I can supply you with ways to donate.

OK, now let's have a poem!

I remember looking up,
verdant fields prickling tender skin
on a blue-sky day in June.
Above me, clouds lumbered
across the sky, like the big elephants
they resembled.
I longed to reach out to them,
to soar among them, play in their puffy whiteness,
but I could not reach.
Now, I wish I could return to that time,
before I knew that clouds were nothing but rain
the world couldn't hold onto,
and the grasses prickled
as I watched the circus parade go by.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #16

No matter how much you try and prepare yourself for things, you can never quite get there, I think, and I find myself in that situation now. The Fat Kid is blessed, really to have been able to spend time and get to know both his grandmothers and one grandfather. Not everyone is that lucky in life. Now, one of my grandmothers is having a very tough time with her health, and it's very likely that I will soon have to attend a funeral. It sucks. We don't prepare for funerals, we prepare for birthdays. Those, we can prepare for. So forgive me if some of the next few days of poems are a bit darker and morose, if you will.

Benediction

Time, at last to say farewell,
to turn a heel with trimmed accuracy,
saluting a life lived in fullness.
The last thing left to do before
it is finished.


I don't think this needs to be any longer. I wish I could turn off the critic who dissects poems today.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #15

ACK! I've got ten minutes to get a poem written!

Emptiness

The experts say you should never
write a poem
about grand subjects:
love
lonliness
despair
anger
hatred
anything extreme at all.
Then why write anything,
unless it is pushed and pulled, prodded
by some unseen force, driving it from
within you,
until you have no choice
but to write it.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #14

Hi Everybody! Wow - suddenly that sounded like I was at a telethon for some reason. Let's try this again.

If you're enjoying poetry and general laughter like this, and want to ensure that you can continue to enjoy the fine programming we at fatkidbiking want to deliver to you, then all it takes is a phone call and your pledge of support. You don't have to give a lot, but every dollar you give goes directly to help the Fat Kid waste a few minutes of your day with his lunacies.

Now who couldn't love something like that? See, it's like "Saving Skreetch's House" but better, because I'm not already famous. BUT YOU CAN GET ME THERE!!!!!! LOL
So glad my ego is in check today.

Anyway, let's have some poetry. after all, that's what this month is really all about. Well, and starting personal finance drives. It's like "The People Fund."

Sentinal Lions

Flowing manes, waving in the breeze
like the dry grasses of the steppe,
Revealing curled lip and unflinching eye,
a warning, perhaps, to those who might not be welcome.
A single paw raises,
setting atop a shield bearing no sigil.
Silently, they watch,
skin stretched tightly over ribs that can be counted,
haunches lean and lithe.
Ready to pounce at the first moment
when danger calls,
These two, my pets.
Motion captured in stone,
Forever greeting and warning both
Silent judges at the end of the drive.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #13

Friday the 13th!!! This probably calls for some silly horror-type poem. I dunno. When I think of stuff like that, I'm reminded of what I think was my fisrt ever forray into the land of poetry, back in the 5th grade. We had to write something of a story for halloween, and I wrote this poem - well, collection of rhyming couplets, anyway - that was, for a 5th grader, decently impressive. It's funny, but I remember how it was created. I put a sweatshirt over the lamp in my room to direct the light, and it set a mood....the words took over from there, and it just spilled out onto the page. I tried that again over the next few years, directing the light to inspire my creativity, taking my cues from it. Who knew that 25 years later, I would find myself still playing with words? Part of me wishes I had that piece now, and I'd share with you all, but alas, I think it went the way of the dodo a LONG time ago - probably for the best! But - this tiny little anectdote can serve for a little inspiration for today's poem, I think!!

The Writing Room

The room is dark already,
faux-wood panelling on every wall,
it bulges out in places
where the nails have come loose
from the horse-hair plaster.

Heavy pine shelves host
rows of National Geographic
only liked for their photos.
The light is shrouded, dim beams
shining down on a black-and-white
desk.
There sits a boy, taking a first step
to opening the world,
his pencil sharp as the light leads him.
He only knows he cannot stop until it's done.

The words,
the light,
the moment,
the now,
the world,
the work,
the idea - yes, the idea!

And in this space,
a darkened room in the farmhouse
at the end of the sidewalk of a
nowhere town,
a Writer begins.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #12

AHHHHHHH so finally, a true challenge has arrived!!! A good friend - without whom, I might add, I probably would not be doing this experiment - sent me a challenge yesterday. He sent me a poem that he wrote when he was younger with the challenge: "What is your poetic response to this?" So, here is his poem, followed by my response. It should be noted that he was still in high school when he wrote this, and he was reading a lot of fantasy literature at the time.

Mercenaries

Knowing the enemy, that is the first rule
Before the first sword is drawn
The buzzards, they wait, they look so cruel
I signal the pipers, we march with the dawn
Up with the camp, we march down the hill
To meet the enemy dread
The soldiers pause, the field so still
Before our lances turn it red
Ready the pike, up the arrow
There is no sound, this is no show
Up in the sky, a lonesome sparrow
Our fate draws near, it’s time to go

The men rush forward, the horses pound
We are an army, no tighter banding
We gallop forth, we shake the ground
Every man knows, no one left standing
I yell as I ride, our meeting thunder
There is no thinking, there is no thought
It seems we must be swept asunder
No matter the plan, our service bought

When the blood stops flowing, the last drop spilled
Broken arms and blood-matted hair
The last man captured, the last man killed
The injured like raindrops, the dead everywhere
We pick ourselves up, our hearts in our hands
Month after week, war after battle
We go forth to die, die for our lands
Marching every day, riding in the saddle

Yet one fine day our march is done
To face the greatest, blackest horde
We meet our slayers under sun
As I once more draw forth my sword
We do battle to avenge some crime
A reckoning is coming nigh
We defy an enemy one last time
Though born to live, our fate to die
With darkness about me, I stand tall
The enemy charges, I see death’s portal
I give one last, unearthly call
They cannot stop me, I am immortal

I stand alone upon the slain
I try to move, I strive
Warp the sounds, distance the pain
I know I am truly alive


and, the response......

The Watcher

My place unknown, unseen from history
I follow from a distance,
the rival hordes - their cause a mystery,
chronicled here in this instance.
Men of honor, and of strength,
made of sterner stuff then metal,
To what level and what length,
will they take their epic battle?
Ready the parchment- ready the quill,
the trumpets sound their blasting call,
a test of might and furious will,
some will live, while many fall.

Sweaty hands and metal clashing,
howls of anger and of pain,
drown the yaw where hell's teeth are gnashing,
more angels lost, and demons gained.
They for freedom in every way,
and no one is ever wrong,
The young and old will both decay,
The worms eat well before too long.

The battle for the day is ended,
the camps part ways for the evening meal
the dead lay scattered while wounds are tended,
the night is short for men to heal.
And I amongst them, running fast,
to hear the glorious tales,
of axes thrown and canon blast,
of men who fought as ruthless gales.

On the morrow they shall see,
what the day's events will bring
Whether they stay and the others flee,
or they serve a newer king.
Or to renew their fearsome battle
over valley and the hill,
Butcher men like the were cattle,
Until all is silent and still.
And I will of them immortals make,
through pen and parchment scroll,
For the lives of those they take,
shall be recorded on the Roll.

I stand alone upon the slain,
For history's descendents I strive,
to caution of war's death and pain,
to keep our sons and daughters alive.


An entirely different viewpoint on the same topic, I think it's a fair response. All those who are into this sort of thing, feel free to pick it apart anf judge for yourself if my response is accurate enough!!!

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #11

Ahhh, where shall today's poetry experiment lead us? I think that's my favorite thing about doing this challenge - I never know from one moment to the next where I'm going to go with this stuff. It keeps it fresh for me, too. It's always an adventure, and it makes me appreciate the smaller moments in life. Often, simple things that I wouldn't notice become subjects - or at least objects- in a poem. Perhaps there's something to that: Poetry is written to be heard, to be said, to be experienced, to be lived.

Little Words

Sometimes I think
of a million little words
that I can put down
one
at a time
and make something
beautiful
happen,
as though I might be
counted among the Greats,
and teachers would put
meaning where there is little -
and then I read it.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #9, #10

Ummmm...oops - I missed a day. For those of you who've been playing along at home, you know that means that today - you get a double dose of poetry!! In the words of the Kool-Aid Man, "OH YEAH!"

Last week was sort of a jumble of things, a little working with some form and meter, and a little of the metaphysical dabblings (nothing too deep, of course). I wonder what this week will bring? Largely, I never know until I sit down to write - you generally get unedited works that have not been hemmed and hawed over. So, in turning over the ideas for what to write about today - and realizing I need TWO ideas - let us begin, shall we?

Composition

Note.
simplistic, a trio.
the beginnings of melody,
and then,
soft and soothing, undercurrent -
a fifth, a third, that shapes the colors of the song,
a thought.
Ideas swirling 'round again in sound,
graceful caresses,
gentle hints if new inflection,
robust, with heartfelt meang it's a song.
A simple line.
Because somewhere it mattered,
that someone was feeling,
a different thought and idea
yet to be heard.
And slow, again.
Hanging, waiting for resolution.
Back to where it began- - - -
note.


Poets

A curious animal,
more in kind with lunacy than with the lover,
in this the genius lies.
Riddling prettily, prattling rapidly,
crafting words that have meaning while saying nothing.
Why is the question and answer both,
within the wit not withstanding whys and wherefores,
lies the amusement.
Oft, in verses sacred does the meaning allude,
a private humour meant for no one.
Art and passion, combined here and there,
constant syllables of intrepid useless torment.
Dumb engineer of verbage
won't tell what it means.


Ok, I was originally going to do a whole juxtaposed theme thing today....ummm....oops. In any case, I had fun today, and hope you did, too!!

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #8

Ah, Easter. Whether your tradition is to pig out on chocolate bunnies, attend a faith service, or just celebrate the coming of Spring, or for those who care not for these things but prefer "Zombie Jesus Day," I wish you the happiest of days.

I was lucky to begin my day witha bike ride through Morgantown, WV, an a bright and sunny, yet chilly morning. It's a heck of a way to wake up on a Sunday morning, I can tell you. But now, as food preparations are well underway, I'll take a moment to pause, write a poem, and simply enjoy being amongst family.

In the Garden

The Springing colors bounce to life,
hues of blossoming pinks and whites,
blues of hyacinths
purples of hydrangea
in the garden under the sun.

The greening stems unite them now,
each sharing a piece alike
leafy tulips fall,
the lilies narrow blades catch the waters
in the garden in the rain.

How like this verdant pastoral we are,
all the colors vibrant and true,
each bringing special gifts and ceremony,
a sense of the sacred -
a new garden in the sun and rain,
of Man and Woman,
Saints and Sinners,
Old and Young.

Who delights in the garden?

Have yourselves a blessed day, according to your beliefs.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #7

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of other things!" I don't know why Lewis Carrol is running through my head at the moment, but I suspect is has something to do with looking down the rabbit hole that is bike racing this morning. It sorta makes you feel like Alice, in a way, with all of the strangeness that surrounds a bike race.

But regardless of all that, it's time for a poem, so let's get started, shall we?


I sing the Body eclectic,
a fascinating rhythm of different parts
all working in congress,
a fluidity of tumbling-blocks,
turning over each other again and again -
a cacophanous melody.

One aim in many directions,
many paths, all chosen,
all traveled, all explored -
the creation of one picture,
as though a stained glass of many colors.

Such is this I recall,
that of many, there shall be one,
and that one shall be true,
free,
constant,
sincere,
Good.

And until it becomes that way,
I will sing all the more loudly.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #6

Well, well - day 6, and you thought I forgot because it's after 10PM, didn't ya? HA! Fooled you!

Today, for those who somehow might not be aware, is Good Friday, or, the day that Christianity celebrates the sacrifice we believe Jesus made for us by accepting death on a cross. It's a solemn occasion, a day for prayer and reflection. It sets my mind to thinking, usually, and today is no exception. One of the things many of us Catholics do, however, is what we call the Veneration of the Cross. It may seem foolish to many, but there is something about it that makes it much more concrete when you get to touch the wood of a cross. It's tangible, it forms a real, physical interaction, and for that, it can be quite beautiful. So tonight's poem is somewhat related to that experience today.


I know it isn't the actual thing,
a representation only.
The wood looks used, I can see where someone drilled into it once.
At least I can see they used a half-lap joint.
Not bad.
They put some effort into it.
Did it properly.
Good. It deserves proper treatment.
We stand in line, everyone gets a chance,
at last, my turn.
I've been considering - how best to treat this?

Genuflect, lean, kiss the wood.

It feels rough on my lips,
a million tiny splinters all poking into me.
it leaves a faint impression that disappears in moments,
except for on my mind and heart.

A simple thing, two pieces of wood
that impact so many people.


Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #5

Ahhh, a day off, and it takes me this long to get to the poem of the day? Well, better a tiny bit later in the day than making all you petry fans wait for a double-up tomorrow, right? After all, I know how much you all look forward to my daily dose of drivel! Some encouraging comments thus far, and for them, I thank you all!

Ladders

So tricky-

reaching out away from the body
both hands needed
the saw moves unsteadily,

back and forth
the blade cutting through the branch
back and forth.

It nears the end and I know the
branch is about to give way.

My perch still secure for a moment longer,

what if it kicks?

I hope no children are watching this.
Do as I say, not as I do.

Always use two hands on the ladder.
Never lean out.
Never turn around backwards.
Never use a saw this way.
Never.

Never.

Never.

I reach and cut the next branch.

Leaning out away from the safety of the rungs.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #4

It's a beautiful day for poetry! I've had two people participate with me thus far this year; one writes riddles and the other is trying her hand at writing poems - something she's not used to doing. She asked me the other day "How do you end the poem?" She's having a tough time coming to the end of her works, it seems. My approach to it thus:
It's the end of the idea - whatever it may be in the poem. Sometimes, it poses a question to the reader, and other times, it's meant for enjoyment, not thought. It depends on what feeling I want the reader to have at the end. For example, in yesterday's offering, I wanted the reader to get a sense of accomplishment and contentedness on the part of the speaker, but I wanted it to tie in with the main subject of planting tobacco and gardening in general. To that end, having the speaker sit back and smoke a cigar at the end of a day of work evokes those images, and brings some of that to mind. Well, at least that's what I was trying to do!! I'm sure better poets than I would look at it and call it too obvious. But to my friend I will say this: Remember that poetry is, above all things, honest. As long as you remain honest, there's really no "formula" for the ending. Simply finish the thought (idea).

Well - that's my take on it. But let's have another poem, because we're only four days into this thing, and I'm just getting warmed up!

Waltz

Here we are
at this place,
No one is watching us,
Take my hand
turn and bend,
Simple dancing duo.

Once again
time is ours,
here for the taking, now,
dancing pair,
whether we're
forever or less so.

Holding close
stepping light,
time for a crescendo -
Lightly now,
curtsy, bow,
the Waltz.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #3

OK, so my father likes my writing. I don't know what it is about it that he likes so much, but he gets a kick out of it and supports it (clue to all you parents out there whose kids like strange things: SUPPORT THEM, appropriately, of course). So, he asked me last week if I take "guest bloggers." Naturally, I said yes. Then, Dad did something which he will likely regret: he sent me an email and in it, wrote,

"OK here it is. see attached word file. this is just one of those little things that get stuck in your head and you can't get it out until you put it down on paper. so thats what I did. use at your discrtion."

Now, I told a couple of my buddies about this, and they both answered with the same thing: "Ummm, he KNOWS that's a mistake, right?" I figure I shall get one of three reactions: "That's NOT how I intended it to be used!", "I suppose I should ahve known better, but I'm glad you had your fun (grumble, grumble).", OR "Well, I figured you'd do something with it, but I wasn't expecting THAT."

But there's something else at play here: my dad basically just told me that he trusts me with something very near and dear to him. For that, Dad, I thank you. So, completely unedited, unaltered - my father's words:

Today, I planted peppers.

It’s a simple process. Prepare the soil with spade and rake or other suitable tools. Apply lime and fertilizer. Mark a straight row with string. Dig a small hole with a trowel. Place the little baby pepper plant in the hole, cover the roots with fine soil, firm the soil gently around the plant. Water it well. It’s easy.

I was not yet eight years old when I first did this in the big field behind Grandpa’s house on a sunny spring day. We were planting the field to tobacco, and there was a marvelous machine called a tobacco setter to help with the work. The setter moved down the field at a pace no faster than a man out for a leisurely walk, pulled by the red tractor Grandpa was driving. The machine opened a furrow in the fine, sandy soil. Then, thanks to a wonderful mechanism of chains and gears and valves and tubes, it would release a spurt of water into the furrow at just the right interval for planting tobacco. My uncles, Bill and Norm, rode the machine, sitting close to the ground. Each time a spurt of water issued forth, they would set a young tobacco seedling in the furrow, and a pair of rubber wheels would press the furrow closed around the roots. The result was a long, straight row of evenly spaced plants marching down the field.

My job was setting skips. Sometimes Bill or Norm would fail to set a plant in the furrow when the spurt of water came, so there was a plant missing in the orderly spacing down the row. I followed behind with a basket of plants and a trowel and a watering can. I had been carefully instructed to spot each skip, dig a hole with the trowel, set the plant in the hole, cover the roots with soil, and water it well. So the gaps in the neatly spaced row were filled. I suspect Bill or Norm would sometimes miss a plant on purpose, just to keep the small boy busy.

But that was sixty years ago and a thousand miles from here.

Today, I planted peppers.

Thanks for sharing this, Pop.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUT It just wouldn't be me if I left it completely alone, so today's poem is inspired from my father's memories of planting tobacco.

Today, I planted peppers.
A simple thing,
Dig, fill, water, tamp.
It repeats.
It's boring.
Sixty years, and nothing's changed.
I've been digging a long time.
Watch it grow, from seed to bloom to fruiting,
My rows aren't as straight as I remember -
the machine was precise, I am close enough.
Filling the gaps.
But we were working for the Farm.
Tabac was sold at market.
Today, I sat when my work was done
smoking a cigar with the Connecticut wrapper.
Because today, I planted peppers.

Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.


Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge, #2

A treat for you all today. I was recently out and about and found a poem I simply adored. In many ways, it is a perfect poem. I won't go into the reasons I like it so much, but I simply MUST share it with you all.

Fallen Leaves by A.W. Robertson (1951)

The fallen leaf is but reborn
a gayer, freer thing.
Without stem anchor it courts the wind
and flies with it.
No longer coy and branch-bound
Its green dress gone it wears a rainbow,
A wingless bird of paradise.
In its new life it speaks
with gustful rustle.
At last it joins the restless myriads
on the ground.
They chorus an invitation
to heavy feet and troubled mind-
Come walk ankle-deep and forget the years.
Come walk in leaves and find youth's dream.

To me, this poem is really just awesome. There is so much in it to examine, so much going on all at once - I look at my own offerings and feel humbled and in awe. I've searched, and I can't find much of anything on A.W. Robertson - in fact, not much other than the poem cited above. Pity. I'd love to read more.

But there's only one way to get better, and that's to practice. Who knows, maybe someday, someone will find a word or two that I've written to inspire them the way Robertson's words have struck a note with me. If I don't write, that's not possible.

With that note: today's offering is a variation on a theme. Robert Frost wrote about "Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening..." - well, mine is slightly different!


I don't know why and never will-
my feet trod that hilly ground.
Clear and warm, a spring day, the leaves not yet budding,
the bone-trees click-a-clacking in the breeze.
But walk along that path I did,
amidst the fading brown of winter.
The ground, dotted here and there, the green of wild onion-grasses
the first to see the springing sun.
Soon, the vacant landscape will be a memory,
a safe haven in the woods born anew.
When my eyes are old the whys of that moment may be answered,
For now, "because" is all I can understand.
It is enough to know I was there.

Thanks for reading,
The Fat Kid

3rd Annual Poetry Challenge #1

Oh it's finally here! Yep, the third year of the Poetry Challenge is ON like Donkey Kong!!!!! Hey, for those not familiar, It's nationahl poetry month, and that means I take up the challenge of writing a new, original poem each day for 30 days. Neat, huh? OK, now, if you want to play along at home, then feel free. Write some poetry. It can be good poetry or bad poetry, or something you don't even think is a poem. BUT, you have the control over it. Send me requests for poems, send me your poems and I'll post them here - whatever. It can be one a week, one a day, or just one in the month. I don't care - the point is to explore writing poetry.

So, without further ado, here's this year's kickoff:

There is a place I go where nothing can harm me,
a safe and secret home, apart from the world.
No one can go there but me,
No one knows it's there.
It beckons to me,
Calls me home.
Hides me in the comfortable embrace
of quiet.
There it is where my true home lies,
In solitude and peaceful reverie.
The world washes away,
Ashen cinders that blow away with just a whispering breeze,
For they cannot touch me any more.



OK, you may like it, you may not - frankly, I don't care! I do this for me and invite you to come along. I hoipe you enjoy the journey!

Thanks for Reading,

The Fat Kid