Here is a little sampling of the poetry of Liz Gordon, the pre-married me, who once, while riding in the car with my husband-to-be, rattled these babies off.
At the prompting of Nate, who made the car ride much nicer, and wrote them down whilst I drove.
We found them this weekend while cleaning the house. Exciting.
So I'm kind of scared of poetry -
the poetry I write isn't always deep and full of meaning -
at least not to someone else.
I can remember
in 9th grade
receiving my paper.
All graded and returned,
the pages bloodied with red ink,
its lifeless frame limp in my hands.
My poor paper.
So vibrant and full of life
had returned from the battle
only to be buried in my writing folder...
Sometimes I worry that I'm not deep enough.
I don't seem to put as much labour into my work as my friends do.
Nevertheless, I'm satisfied with what I do.
And that makes me worry.
When I squint my eyes the lights become blurry.
(beep)
Sometimes the radio is annoying.
And I can never get the heat just right.
It's times like these when I'm driving in the car and you are sitting next to me that I feel that I could drive to the horizon (given proper rest stops) and sometimes beyond it.
I've always wondered what the place where the sun goes looks like.
I've always imagined that it's the ocean.
Have you ever been to the ocean?
I have.
I've seen the sun slide into it.
Sort of like those blue tablets you put in your toilet to make the water blue when you flush it.
Only the sun doesn't make the water red... at least not all the way.
We should go there - just you and me - and watch the sun set into the ocean.
But what I really wanna see is the sun wake up and come out of the ocean, like a beach ball that you just can't hold under water any longer, and it will shoot into the sky with a splash.
At least that's what I imagine.
So maybe I really don't wanna see it 'cause I don't think it really does that.
However, I'm sure the show it does put on is equally fantastic.
A little stream and it is sparkly and there are rocks with moss on them and tall slender ash trees who dip their toes into the water and finally get a little chilly stretch up to the sky and giggle letting their leaves fall summoned* to the water and one on the head of the little sprite.
(needs picture of little sprite and his toes)
* My poetic husband wrote "summoned to" but I probably meant "some onto." That's what you get when you're a poet.
So my toe is itching ... and it spread to my other toe on my other foot and you'd think it would have spread to the toe next to it. But it was sassy.