Poetry 101 Continued…

I looked back through all my posts and realized two things:  First, I have posted almost 60 pieces of poetry since I started this blog.  Second, I have not shared my Christmas/Winter poetry with you.

I know it is summer, but that is the best time (really) to think about Christmas and winter – while you are warm and cozy and can go outside without a coat.

I love the Christmas season.  I have let that slide a bit in the past few years.  That needs to change.  I wrote my Christmas/Winter poems one year and had them bound stapled into a book pamphlet, copied, and gave them to friends and families.  Here are a couple.

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Christmas Means

By Scott L Vannatter

80’s

Hustle, bustle, squeeze through, “Excuse, please!”

Run-around, up/down, swing-the-door, lock-the-car,

Hey! Mister, Wait!”, change stores, stores change,

Big sale, tent sale, all sale, no sale

Buy’em all they’re going out now. “You’re on the list”,

Two weeks-wait, “Three more weeks till…” “Here he

Comes!” on his lap, cry, scream, “Santa, I wanta…”

Toys, Boys, Joys, the real McCoys.

Here it comes, there it goes, blue light special!

Two-for-one, half-price, cut-price, the price is right!

Save-a-buck, no such luck, “Calgon take me…”

Excedrin headache number… here-we-come-there-we-go,

Then

.     I

.               saw

.                               her

.                                               standing there, doll-in-hand, thumb-in-mouth,

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her…”

“See? There you are.”, “You’re welcome”…

“And, oh yes, Merry Christmas to you, too.

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Snow

By Scott L Vannatter

12/6/85

Frozen albino flakes swirl, whirl

catching the cold currents rush

forward to a heated doom of contact.

–

The sidewalks absorb by their millions, billions

turning their floating voyage into a trickle.

–

Slowly the crystal soldiers take their stand

pounding relentlessly on the yielding earth

pounding, mounding they reach again for the sky.

–

Rolled tightly, solid and sailing- the target

covered as white hand-made pellets strike home.

A shout of glee and the walls are made even higher.

–

It is war!  Runny-nosed little bundles, no eyes, no hands

just flannel creatures of action rolling, jumping,

pumping little muscles into a frenzy of white and fur.

–

A strange war, indeed!  Won not by missiles of white

or pounding of flakes.  Won only by soft, white shining,

warming hearts and flakes to softness.

_____________________________

Namaste,

Scott

3 Poems – A Bit More of My Past

.

.                                  The Leaf

.                         By Scott L Vannatter

.                                   5/2/85

.       I had a favorite leaf, a precious jewel.

.    In a moment of rage I flung it into the wind.

Then, sorrowfully, I watched it float from my life forever.

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Dead Possum

By Scott L Vannatter

5/3/85

I saw a dead possum lying beside the road,

and I wondered at the circumstances of his life.

I wondered if he had a mate and small ones now left to fend for themselves.

If he was a loner, searching and feisty, not yet set in his ways.

I wondered at his past, certainly not his future.

For I knew what that was to be

and as I thought, I envied that possum.

For it might be nice to know.

______________________________

A Word

By Scott L Vannatter

5/3/85

A word once said forever lives,

Feeding and spreading under proper conditions

with furious growth.

With the tender care of thought and love

It will sprout blossoms of beauty

richly rewarding the sower with fragrant fruitfulness.

But like a weed if out of place or crowded in

It will spread plague-like, tearing and destroying

even the deepest-rooted feelings and dreams.

So take care, gardener, when choosing your seeds.

Tender thoughts and sharing dreams grow into loving memories.

Hatred and selfishness sprout only themselves.

______________________________

Namaste,

Scott

Impossible Dream

I did post a short poem below, but I could not help but post this clip which has 2 men singing a song that brought tears to my eyes.  I am not certain I have ever heard it sung so well.

Following that with a poem is nearly inadequate, but I will try:

The Filth that was

By Scott L Vannatter

Oct 29, 1985

The last trickle of water swirled

.               down the dusty drain

After the gurgle, I cried,

.               “Why is it always like that – –

.               swirl and trickle until it’s gone?”

Dingy porcelain stared.

.               “Purity…Hah!”

The purest just went down the sewer.

Now the cleaning begins.

Make it sparkle, white, pure

So no one will know the filth that was.*

___________________________________

*I marked out the last line in the original.

-What do you think?  Leave it in? out? does it matter?

Namaste,

Scott

All That Matters

I know this is only one poem, much shorter than I usually do, but it is in stark contrast to yesterday’s post of gloom and doom.  I was optimistic, even in the worst of times (or what I thought was the worst of times).

___________________

All That Matters

By Scott L Vannatter

12/30/85

Running through life

Hanging on to my trousers,

.     Shoes untied,

.     Hair mussed,

.     Glasses crooked,

I just knew something was wrong.

.     -I was right!

But in the end as I tumble, bumble, stumble,

.     Fly,

.     Legs splayed ridiculously,

.     Face in the mud,

I will cross the line – and win.

_______________________

Namaste,

Scott

Still the Early Bits of Life – 2 Poems

The darker time of my life.  Simple explanation:  the first poem is about knowing you should divorce, but deciding to stick with it one more time because of hope, mostly.

The second one is, I think, my darkest one.  I remember writing it at work (yeah, the muse hit at a bad time).  I was depressed.  I had broken up with someone who I thought was very special and the one.  She wasn’t and it did not go well at all, hence, my depression.

______________________________________

(unnamed)

By Scott L Vannatter

May 14, 1986

And what was I to do?

___ YOU, sitting there crying, sighing

and I, lost, as usual, not knowing

what to say

what to do.

The words dribble out, the rope slipping,

white gown, ring, and promises sliding down the slope

to be lost FOREVER.

Endless word, circling upon itself and beginning again,

heading back toward that same, fitful end. –sorry-

Such a fragile gift, hands clasped, vows solemn and meant

Care, Love, Life co-exist, mingled with reality and pain.

Then pain moves to the front, other three settle,

waiting – often in vain – for  their (last?) chance.

Trust falters, Anger loves, decibel voices, clear – uncomprehensible.

circling vultures, dark foreboding of the end act.

thread swinging just out of reach.

A leap into the abyss and the choice is made.

The fingers slapping thread and grasping for life.

Hang on! And the i becomes I becomes US once more.

__________________________________________________

Now That the Blackness has Gone

By Scott L Vannatter

9/11/91

Now that the blackness has gone, the swirling void

no longer empty, I am scared.

Blackness is certain, ability to know all exists there.

The pattern now falls into a chaotic maelstrom of events,

each separate but intertwined into an inconceivable lacework

of frantic bits.

I lose myself at times in the seeming senselessness of

it all, and I run, slowly at first, then at a screaming pace

until I collapse breathless and shake in confusion.

Choices abound in a never-ending tornado of life, is life.

I look back, over shoulder, seeing the past catch up, a

horse coming from behind to pass by sneering.

Changes made, outward then inward, slowly then quickly,

a new mold made by cracks and patches, pain stretching the shape

making mountains of molehills, molehills of mountains, a new me.

The change is scariest.  For in the changing I lose the me

of old, a dear friend –to the end- to the end of ends.  (Amen)

The Phoenix rises, but only after the burns have ceased.

I feel the searing, tearing, stabbing, jabbing, pain heats

to nova, exploding in heat of passing passion, confusing senses and

mind spots, thoughts of it all, of nothing at all.

A spot of light, shaft of brilliance, guidance, a hand-hold

to mind-sense.  To this I cling, sing, bring a roulette turn of life to the chaos.

This be the God of me, mine, and I see through my blindness

the specter of man-hope.  Grasping for the straw, the carousel ring,

I wiggle in my saddle, almost fall but held up by helpful hands, I

stack the blocks, one on the other, and the foundation will strong

remain.  I scared, I am, I will ever be – me – to the end (Amen).