Alison's Online Poetry Slam

Here's the deal: it's my birthday week. ("WHHUUUUTTTT?" Yes.)

I would tell you how old I am, except you'll notice from my blog tagline that I'm being very secretive about my exact age and location so that none of my readers can stalk me, EVEN THOUGH YOU ALL KNOW ME IN REAL LIFE BECAUSE YOU ARE MY MOM AND MY AUNTS.

(Hi Mom!)

Anyway, I am celebrating my birthday by combining some of my favorite things: poetry, dumb jokes, and you. In other words, I am hosting an ONLINE POETRY SLAM, and you're invited.

Question: What is an "online poetry slam"?
Answer: Kids these days say "slammin" when they mean "good." So an online poetry slam is when I write poetry online, except the twist is that it's actually NOT GOOD.

Here's how we're gonna do this. You give me a topic and I'll give you a poem. The more specific the topic, the better.

For example, if you say, "Write me a poem about words,"  I'll say:

People who talk about words
Are English teachers, or nerds.

But if you say, "Write me a poem about Words With Friends," I'll say:

Words with Friends is a game,
And the people who play it aren't lame.
Here's how I know that is true:
It's a game that I play with you.

And if you say, "Write me a poem about our current Words with Friends game," I'll say:

It's true that I still haven't beat you
Despite all the games that we've played.
In protest, I say it's because of
All the fake words you have made.

Tau is a stretch, but I'll take it,
And zig isn't all that absurd.
But quags, macle, oi, si, and sned?
Your 'wins' are as real as your words.

(Hi Dad!)

So there you have it. Give me a topic, and I'll give you a poem.

If you send me a photo, I'll caption it in verse. If you mention a shared memory or story, I'll write a poem about it. If you want me to write a poem for or about someone, I'll give it a try.

Instructions:

• Give me a topic and let me know if you want a nice or a funny poem. Examples:
• "Our midnight drive through a Kansas ice storm - funny"
• "Abraham Lincoln - funny"
• "This picture of my baby - nice"
• Send me the topic on the medium where you want to receive your personalized poem:
• Comments section on this blog -- I'll respond in the comments
• My Facebook wall -- I'll respond on my wall and tag you
• Twitter -- I'll learn how to use Twitter and then Twitter you back. (TWEET? RETWEET? HASHTAG? The details are a bit #fuzzy...)
• A private message, e-mail, or text -- I'll hit "reply" and send you your poem directly

Recap:

• WHAT: An online poetry slam
• WHO: You. It doesn't matter if I know you well; come one, come all!
• WHEN: All week!
• WHERE: On technology!
• WHY: Because my idea of birthday fun is writing cheeky limericks. That is the level of fun that you youngsters can hope to attain when you reach my age. Ha ha! 

Of course, no youngsters read my blog; they're all too busy snapping instatweets on their apple phones and trying to figure out if there's any difference between TIGHTS and PANTS.  (Question: Is there?  Answer: Get off my lawn!)

Actually, that might not make a bad topic for a poem. I can't wait to hear your requests, so let the online poetry slam begin!

[Poem] Painting the Sky

The Painter sat on his stool, hands on his knees
Studying his concave canvas,
Like the blank walls of an amphitheater.

The first step was the simplest.
With wide strokes, he took the blue from robins' eggs
And painted the whole sky.

He flipped a switch.
Behind the canvas, a golden glow warmed the blue.

Now texture was needed, and he had just the thing:
An aerosol can of strawberry whipped cream!
His arm swept left to right and back again.
Now lines of sweet, pink fluff floated above the dark horizon.

Hmm, too puffy.
He smeared the foam with his fingers,
And the golden glow shone through the pink:
Tropical orange.  Delightful!

And the Painter was pleased with his streaky, foamy, glowing celebration of color.
But perhaps it would be too much for drivers,
Whose eyes were needed on the road and not the sky.

So he set a timer on the lamp behind the canvas:
Thirty minutes.
And the road stretched west into sea-foam blue fading gray,
And pink-peach clouds fading blue,
And gold-orange light sinking down,
And then only headlights remained.

Live Poetry from the Blood-Moon Eclipse

A smudge of gray appears at the moon's edge
Marring its white, round brilliance.
The shade creeps inward. 

Now only half a circle of suspended light
Shines glory in the navy sky.
Red-brown shade claims half the moon,
The color of dried blood.

Soon night's lamp (and mankind's muse)
Reveals its cold, brown heart.
It's just a rock - it's nothing more -
Eclipsed by lesser lights.

[In the Style of Jason Mraz] At the Baby Shower

I wrote this poem about a baby shower I recently attended, in which only I and two other women had no babies, either in or out of our bellies.  As an aside, I should tell you that I love babies and I like baby talk.  I am in no way bothered by birthing stories.  But "I am in no way bothered by birthing stories" does not make for very funny poetry.

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

• DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE MALE.
• DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED.
• DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO READ SLANG ABOUT THE NETHER REGIONS.  (Sorry, Mom :) )
• DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU DO NOT PROMISE TO SING IT IN YOUR HEAD TO THE TUNE OF JASON MRAZ'S "I"M YOURS."

OK, I think we're covered here.  Let's go.


Well, I went to a shower for a baby that's a'comin;
The ladies were all snackin and the conversation hummin.
But I fell right through the cracks
Til my girls got my back!

We got no babies on our boobies and no icepacks in our privates,
No lanolin, no diapers, and no cause to get excited
At gripe water, or the sneeze
That lets out all your pees!

Oh and please, please hesitate
Some more (lots more!).
This stuff can wait.
I'm sure!

There's no need to contemplate
Your nipples' size,
Your hoohah's fate;
No more!

So I'm sittin at the table with the ladies with no babies
We're just chattin bout our travels (the good places and the shadies)
When we hear some nursing news:
Baby got engulfed in her boobs!

The moms get louder with their stories and they're sounding pretty gory
We hear things we never asked to know about their under-storeys
So we up our volume too:
"I went to Zealand, New!"

We talk louder but it's useless cuz the baby talk is flying
I mention Machu Picchu but "MY VAJAJAY WAS CRYIN!"
Splits the air (Like it was split.
Cuz the baby tore it!)

Please don't scootch a little closer, dears.
I will plug all my ears.

Oh and please, please hesitate
Some more (lots more!).
This stuff can wait.
I'm sure!



Hehehe. :)  Congrats to all my pregnant friends. 

[In the Style of Flight of the Conchords] Tears of a Carpenter

Last night, my community group did some odd jobs at our church camp.  I'd like to tell you a bit about the night, in the style of Flight of the Conchords' Tears of a Rapper:


Some people say carpenters don't have feelings.
...We have feelings.
Some people say we're not carpenters.
...We're carpenters.
...That hurts our feelings, when you say that we're not carpenters.
Some people say that we're invincible.
....We're vincible.

drop the beat

It's Monday night, and I'm at CG
Waitin for instructions from my friend, Shaly.
There's a camp to clean; no time to fail.
But I know what I should do cuz I got her e-mail.

"Find the back room, to the west, where the carpet's filled with mold.
Find a spot along the edge where you can grab and take hold.
Rip the carpet and the pad and then throw it all away.
Then patch the broken wall if you still have time today."

I found a room with carpet and a janky looking wall.
I knew it was the right room cuz it din't smell good at all.
My friend and I got truckin; soon the carpet was half out.
When Matt stopped by and said, "Hey, ladies, what's this all about?"

"Are you worried 'bout our workmanship?" we asked with drips of sweat.
"Well, it doesn't look too bad, but don't finish this room yet."
"Why not?" we asked.  He sighed and paused, and then he laid the boom:
"You got the carpet up but you DID THE WRONG ROOM."

"Oh no!  We're on the east!" I cried. "This building is confusing."
(But I just didn't think enough before we started cruising.)
Now I know to check for sure when someone tells me "west."
It's over on the side of earth where the sun sets.

[Verses in Verse] The Ark and the Dove

"Verses in Verse" is a series of poems based on Bible passages, in which I try to re-tell the meaning of the passage but from a different perspective.  Here is the story of Noah's ark, as experienced by the dove.

A tale from ancient Ararat:

Under young Dove’s watchful eye,

The frame of the great boat took shape.

Each beam was placed with pains untold

For Noah’s building crew was slim

(It was just his three sons and him.)

Around the floating zoo’s construction

Mankind frolicked toward destruction.

At night the drunks went stumbling home

By day the quarreling boys threw rocks.

The Dove grew old until at last

The final nail was driven in.

She fluttered ‘round the upper deck

And perched on new-hewn gopher wood

As Noah’s family bustled in.

Dove’s eye saw what man’s could not:

The hot sun blazed, but in the west

A tiny, smudge-like rain-cloud grew.

Dove sped to town: “It comes!  The rain!”

“Get on the boat!” she squawked in vain.

But people hardly noticed her,

And if they looked up from their sins

They only shrugged at her strange calls,

As frenzied Dove flew house to house.

With the first fat drop of rain

All warning time was at an end.

Noah drove the last two goats

Into the ark’s new livestock pens

And Dove soared in (the last one saved)

As Japheth slammed the main door shut.

The first few days were hell-like there

As beasts and men clawed at the hull

Their wails and cries and roars and sighs

Stole sleep from everyone inside.

The wrath of judgment drowned the earth.
Soon all was quiet ‘round the boat.

The next few months were long and wet.

Old Dove was tired.  She longed to fly

On hillsides lush and prosperous.

Instead she lurched, green at the wings,

And held her perch in seasickness

Afraid to fall among the wolves.

One Sabbath, Noah sought her out:

 “How are your wings?” (Dove flapped them twice.)

He nodded at her eagerness

And took her up to the top rail

To give her this important task:

“Fly on until you find the land.”

She caught a breeze and flew a-sea.

There was no earth to be found

That week, so she returned to rest.

The next week she flew out again

And found some trees up through the sea.

Oh, hopeful, long-awaited sight!

She plucked a branch and resumed flight.

Back at the ark, the family gasped

With reverence at the olive branch.

They praised their God (she praised him too),

For now they knew the end was near.

Next week she flew out one last time,

And landed on a lush, green hill.

Behind the Times: A Cheesy Launch Poem

Blogging is such a fulfilling endeavor
I find myself wishing it could last forever.
I blogged for a few years; then stopped when I moved
Back to the States, where I found a new groove.

And now time keeps passing, and each new year brings
More changes in how we communicate things.
When I last was blogging, there was no SnapChat;
Tumblr was tiny; we all had less apps.

Folks were more likely to sit down and write
Or read something long, that might take half the night.
I liked writing back in those blogging days
But haven't caught up to technology's ways!

Devices are now small enough to be held,
(Unlike our attention, with its one-minute spell).
People now share, comment, like, post, and tweet.
But we less often blog; we don't write much... nor read.

"It's sad," I have thought, as I pondered this site.
"A blog is the thing that I most like to write.
So I'll start one regardless.  I'll do it!  I will!"
Is it fruitless?  Perhaps.  But what's sadder still...

...Are the terrible rhymes that I made in this poem.
Dr. Seuss would be crying.  So I better go.  :)

(Hehe.  Here's the meat of the post, without the cheese:
I've wanted to start blogging again for a while, but I'm a little worried I'll be writing for a roomful of chirping crickets.  Have you ever felt that way?  So please do stop by from time to time.  

More info is on my About the Author page.  Thanks!)