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

Cycling vs. Grappling

OK, so the Fat Kid's roommate - one Colonel Carnivore by name - is "That Cool Guy who knows all kinds of random things." This is not to be mistaken with "That Guy" - no, this is entirely different. The TCG is the person everyone knows who inexplicably has incredible experiential knowledge of a vast many topics. He also does some pretty neat things - like invite me to "Grapple Pitt."

Yes, it's what it sounds like - a bunch of supposedly grown adults rolling around and wrestling, kicking, punching, blocking, and all kinds of martial artsy sorts of things...for fun. Now, before we begin discussing this in earnest, here's my background on hand-to-hand combat/martial arts: I have an older brother. Yep - some background, eh? We haven't had any semblance of real "combat" in close to 20 years, since he figured out that I was heavier and a little more muscled than he was. So I go to this event, half fearing for my life.

It takes only watching a couple of rounds before being told that it is my turn to grapple. I hesitantly take the mat, and my opponent greets me with, "So what is your style/method?" The answer, supplied by Colonel Carnivore is "He's a graduate of Older Brother Survival Academy." The other term to apply to this is simply, "Scrapper," and the official method is something like "don't get your head kicked in." The unofficial method is more like, "Yikes! I'm being attacked!" As it so happens, this is a good attitude for scrappers, as it tends to give us a complete disregard for personal safety and a strong desire to make sure the other person can't do anything else to us.

I got the luck of the draw for the first couple of matches - and I ended up with opponants who weighed far less than myself. If there's one thing the Fat Kid knows how to do, it's use that weight to his advantage. It also helps that I have no problems giving an opponent a shoulder of mine if it means I can get their legs. If your opponent cannot stand, they cannot fight as effectively - this is a decent strategy. At last though, it was time to take on Colonel Carnivore. Remember how he's the TCG? Well, he wrestled in high school. I did not. He's practiced martial arts. I have not. He outweighs me. I'm in trouble. He's also shorter than me, denying me leverage. Ohhhhhh shit. I hope I can survive. Of the two minute round, I think I lasted about one minute, thirty seconds before I was in a choke hold that would have seen me pass out had I not "tapped out."

There were a few other matches that saw me lose: another go-round with the Colonel and another guy whom I will dub, "The Hippie." Never trust the ganja - I'm just sayin'. Although - I had a much better shot at the Hippie than I did with the Colonel. In all, about a 50/50 win/loss performance, and that, for not having done anything like this in about 20 years, isn't that bad. Favorite comments: One opponent hit me with a pretty wild haymaker that landed across my back and said, "OW! It's not supposed to hurt ME!" The same opponent, upon being smushed under my weight said, "But you....don't look that heavy!" The Hippie grabbed my forearm to ty and toss me, and I just flexxed it - to which he uttered, "Well, THAT'S not gonna work." The Hippie also said, "You are uncommonly balanced."

To my credit: every single opponent went down...even the Colonel (although he gladly gave up the position to get a choke hold on me). Oh, and this was after having ridden my 30 miles that day.

Lessons learned:
1) Cyclists don't use THOSE muscles often.
2) I never once threw a punch or kick, and I did OK.
3) it took so long for recovery that I don't think I'll be doing this again during cycling season, although I may join just for lessons.
4) I think I just found my off-season training program!!
5) I am uncommonly balanced.

Oh, and look!!! Twelve days until it's poetry time, and I've not yet had a request for anything, not even a topic??? *sigh*

Thanks for reading!

The Fat Kid

APRIL IS COMING.

Happy Monday!!!!! Let's see what the Fat Kid's calendar looks like for the immediate future:
THIS WEEK: HOLY CRAP - it's supposed to be warm!!!! Oh you know what that means: Time to break out the bike and actually get out on the roads - or at least the oval! Good thing, too, because the gym is getting awfully boring. Yeah, now I understand why some gym equipment (not the spin bikes, OF COURSE) come with Televisions attached. Wow, there is nothing quite like sitting there going nowhere and looking at the butt of the person in front of you. Yikes. I'm ready for the joys of feeling the wind in my face and the hills to actually kill my legs, instead of virtually killing my legs.

Look out, all of you Ceasars out there - The Ides of March are this week. That's the 15th, for those not in the know. So this Thursday, look out if you're an Italian dictator. Just sayin'.

Right on the heels of the Ides is St. Patty's Day - so if you survive the Ides, go north, down a guinness, dance a jig, and pretend you're Irish for a day. Uh oh, it's a Saturday this year. Looks like half of Pittsburgh will be drunk off their rockers. Seriously - it's so big, they actually started the parties THIS past Saturday. Yikes!

So, there you have it: a week of killing my legs, killing the Ceasars, and killing the kegs. March has become a violent month!

On the horizon/things I'-a-lookin' forward to:

Hey, APRIL IS COMING. All you Game of Thrones fans already know this, of course, for other reasons, but here's another reason why you should pay attention: It's the "Third Annual Poetry Challenge!!!!" Hey - it needs lots of exclamation points, because poetry is cool. No really, even for those of you who "don't 'get'" poetry - and you know who you are - think of the last time you had your breath taken away by the beauty of a moment in your life. Recount it in your head. THAT is poetry. See? You're already doing it!

But for the unitiated, the Poetry Challenge is this: For the 30 days of April, I challenge myself to write a new poem a day. Sometimes they're silly, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes quite bad and stupid. There's no specific length I shoot for, no particular rhyme scheme, none of that technical mumbo-jumbo we all hated learning in school. I go with whatever hits me. Now, here's where you (yes YOU) come in: Join me. No, I'm not asking you to write a poem a day - but how about one a week, or do a poem a day for just one week? Or e-mail me some ideas about something you'd LIKE to have written, and I can try that. Last year, I had a few people participate. Some sent me stuff, some requested things - we all had a great time! I received some very impressive work from a couple people that really took me by surprise. It was beautiful.

Please know - this isn't a "stump the poet" contest, though I'm sure a few people will try. I know a lot of smart-assed folks out there who'd love nothing better than to see me try and work peanut butter, King Arthur, cycling, and the Great Johnstown Flood into one poem. I mean, I could DO it, of course - but it probably wouldn't make for great poetry. Things like "a lullaby would be great" or "I'd like to be inspired" or something of those lines...that's a much easier sort of guideline and actually might lead to something pretty darned good.

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid