This sonnet doesn't follow iambic pentameter as it should, but I like it the way it is. I thought of the title, Joseph, one night and felt compelled to write it for my sonnet assignment. I wanted it to just be something beautiful, as the way the name Joseph sounds. I'm debating whether or not to continue with a series...
I met you on one moonlit starless night,
Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart, I'm dreaming dear,
As with that first kiss did my heart ignite,
As you whispered serenades in my ear.
What childish memories lay behind these walls
Of our crude forts made of blanket and snow,
Where those pale em'ralds into me would fall
Down the curve of my spine, cool and low.
Such fie'ry red fever this rose did bud,
Come to me, I'll soak you in like sweet death
Your slow poison curdling inside my blood
You, a virus, you'll consume my last breath.
Joseph Joseph, my sweet, where have you gone,
Joseph Joseph, my sweet, it's been too long.
Copyright Christine Locke
Friday, November 5, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Watching Disney Movies
I wrote this today in class, in about 7 minutes which is the time we were given. First we took a notecard, wrote an activity we like to do on it, put it on the ground, then someone else took it and put a form on poetry on the back. Then we put them all in a bag, shook it up, and drew one to write our poem about. The one I got was to write about "watching Disney movies" in "free verse" so here it is.
I'll make a man out of you
says the Asian man in charge
but I don't want to be made
a man
says I to the Asian man in charge
back on the screen
as I watch
Mulan
running through the mountains
the wind blowing
leaves through her dark hair
as I sing along
Just around the river bend
but what is around
the river bend
certainly not the seagull
blabbering to the strange
lady fish and fish
as they go back
under the sea
darling it's better
down where it's wetter
take it from me
no I'd rather not
thank you very much
but I will take the hand
of that very handsome man
I danced with
once upon a dream
dance with me
as the owl toots
and hoots a beat
as we ride off
into the distance.
Copyright Christine Locke
I'll make a man out of you
says the Asian man in charge
but I don't want to be made
a man
says I to the Asian man in charge
back on the screen
as I watch
Mulan
running through the mountains
the wind blowing
leaves through her dark hair
as I sing along
Just around the river bend
but what is around
the river bend
certainly not the seagull
blabbering to the strange
lady fish and fish
as they go back
under the sea
darling it's better
down where it's wetter
take it from me
no I'd rather not
thank you very much
but I will take the hand
of that very handsome man
I danced with
once upon a dream
dance with me
as the owl toots
and hoots a beat
as we ride off
into the distance.
Copyright Christine Locke
The Forrest
Taste of blue; the ghosts roll in; fickle
fog; fickle fog; fickle
Just me; why just me; is it just me
Rum on wood; a softly bitter taste; succinct
rain; succinct rain; succinct
Sugar in ashes; an erotic asphyxia; nimble
dust; nimble dust; nimble
Wild to chains; a quiver in the leaves; wary
shadows; wary shadows; wary
Flesh of solidity; this winking warning through the trees; curious
light; curious light; curious
Are you; where are you; who are you
Sugar in ashes; an erotic asphyxia; nimble
Rum on wood; a softly bitter taste; succinct
Taste of blue; the ghosts roll in; fickle
Just you; with just me; let it be just you and me.
Copyright Christine Locke
fog; fickle fog; fickle
Just me; why just me; is it just me
Rum on wood; a softly bitter taste; succinct
rain; succinct rain; succinct
Sugar in ashes; an erotic asphyxia; nimble
dust; nimble dust; nimble
Wild to chains; a quiver in the leaves; wary
shadows; wary shadows; wary
Flesh of solidity; this winking warning through the trees; curious
light; curious light; curious
Are you; where are you; who are you
Sugar in ashes; an erotic asphyxia; nimble
Rum on wood; a softly bitter taste; succinct
Taste of blue; the ghosts roll in; fickle
Just you; with just me; let it be just you and me.
Copyright Christine Locke
Unremebered
Here's another poem I experimented with commas instead of my usual line breaks, and with "un." This poem I wrote can be performed and was originally written for that, but I've decided after reading it again that I like it just read as well.
Of unremembered things, that was an understatement, and under the sink, you were, in your underwear, I understood you wouldn't, move unless I undressed, from your unpleasant smelling dress, which I didn't understand, why'd I'd be wearing them, in the first place, unwanted, until I saw you, under the sink, unrelenting and stubborn, unmoving and unkind, I tried to understand, what was to be understood, but I didn't, want to undress, with you under the sink, in your undergarments, unless you had someone, to impress, then I'd undress, the wretched dress, so you'd understand, in your underwear, of this, I unremember.
Copyright Christine Locke
Of unremembered things, that was an understatement, and under the sink, you were, in your underwear, I understood you wouldn't, move unless I undressed, from your unpleasant smelling dress, which I didn't understand, why'd I'd be wearing them, in the first place, unwanted, until I saw you, under the sink, unrelenting and stubborn, unmoving and unkind, I tried to understand, what was to be understood, but I didn't, want to undress, with you under the sink, in your undergarments, unless you had someone, to impress, then I'd undress, the wretched dress, so you'd understand, in your underwear, of this, I unremember.
Copyright Christine Locke
Friday, October 22, 2010
Unexpected Things
Written on a whim while waiting to be picked up the one day I didn't have my car...I also intend for this one to be performed.
I didn't mean to get so close these things one dreams of but never expects to happen when fantasy exists in reality it's almost too much for the constraints of reality to handle then the boundaries break and you're stuck in this fantasy trying to be reality because you've lost the reality there can be truly no longer truly anymore these things one dreams of not to actually happen like quicksand it all happens so fast and you are really sinking faster and faster deeper and deeper is this a fantasy of the reality that is the fact of the matter that you could be dreaming but no one expects that to happen and your sinking sinking faster faster deeper deeper it's all ok it's only a fantasy of my reality but which is which I can't escape I'm stuck and only becoming more stuck in this muck of these things one dreams of and soon I can't escape and no one can save me but is this the reality of the matter of fact or is it all just fantasy because I suddenly can't seem to breathe...
Copyright Christine Locke
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Of Chickens and Roses
This is the first sestina I have ever written and I learned about it and started it in my poetry class. It is a fun and enjoyable form I find and will most likely continue writing other poems in the sestina form. The end 6 words I picked were the first 6 words that came to my mind. They are an unusual mix and I'm not quite sure what I was thinking or feeling at the time to make me come up with such a combination of words. Yet it was a fun challenge and I still get the strangest imagery every time I go back to this poem...
The morning smelt of roses,
I found my sister in the yard playing with the chickens,
as she was wearing my mother's favorite shirt made of cashmere,
I smiled as I watched her and ate from a jar of peanuts.
Watching the feathered birds move fast, like lightning,
I then made a note to later buys some cherries.
When I finally left the house to go to the market and get cherries,
a finely dressed man passed carrying an armful of roses.
My pace quickened because in the sky was lightning.
I passed by a shot that was filled with chickens,
then took a shortcut through an alleyway littered with peanuts.
I hoped my sister didn't ruin mother's cashmere.
I have no idea why of all things she chose to wear the cashmere.
Having reached the fruit stand I paid for the so desired cherries.
They were sweet and crisp, not hard and chalky like the peanuts,
the woman who sold them to me, her cheeks pink and delicate like roses.
When I would return home, I hoped my sister would be done with the chickens,
for the sky was dark and gray and the clouds were filled with lightning.
Just as I came back, our house was beneath the lightning,
and what was resting so softly on the porch was the cashmere,
covered in white feathers left from the chickens.
I picked up the shirt, went inside, and ate all of the cherries.
Alongside the sink lay an armful of roses,
I turned and blinked in surprise, while knocking over the jar of peanuts.
A pair of quiet shoes walked through the scattered and crushed peanuts.
I glanced through my window, and flashing brighter than before was the lightning,
Illuminating the soft velvet and darkly beautiful roses,
like the delicate and ruined shirt made of cashmere.
My sister looked at the dropped jar, then asked about the cherries,
while outside was that nicely dressed man, tending to the chickens.
I asked who is the man feeding the chickens,
and she asked if he is the one that likes peanuts.
I didn't know except I saw him when I went to buy the cherries.
Then it had dawned upon me like lightning,
that he had bought my mother such fine but now ruined cashmere,
and the evening suddenly smelt of roses.
In the yard were all the roses but none of the chickens,
and on the chair lay the cashmere, but crushed upon the floor were the peanuts,
as the lightning struck upon the finely dressed man holding the pits of the eaten cherries.
Copyright Christine Locke
The morning smelt of roses,
I found my sister in the yard playing with the chickens,
as she was wearing my mother's favorite shirt made of cashmere,
I smiled as I watched her and ate from a jar of peanuts.
Watching the feathered birds move fast, like lightning,
I then made a note to later buys some cherries.
When I finally left the house to go to the market and get cherries,
a finely dressed man passed carrying an armful of roses.
My pace quickened because in the sky was lightning.
I passed by a shot that was filled with chickens,
then took a shortcut through an alleyway littered with peanuts.
I hoped my sister didn't ruin mother's cashmere.
I have no idea why of all things she chose to wear the cashmere.
Having reached the fruit stand I paid for the so desired cherries.
They were sweet and crisp, not hard and chalky like the peanuts,
the woman who sold them to me, her cheeks pink and delicate like roses.
When I would return home, I hoped my sister would be done with the chickens,
for the sky was dark and gray and the clouds were filled with lightning.
Just as I came back, our house was beneath the lightning,
and what was resting so softly on the porch was the cashmere,
covered in white feathers left from the chickens.
I picked up the shirt, went inside, and ate all of the cherries.
Alongside the sink lay an armful of roses,
I turned and blinked in surprise, while knocking over the jar of peanuts.
A pair of quiet shoes walked through the scattered and crushed peanuts.
I glanced through my window, and flashing brighter than before was the lightning,
Illuminating the soft velvet and darkly beautiful roses,
like the delicate and ruined shirt made of cashmere.
My sister looked at the dropped jar, then asked about the cherries,
while outside was that nicely dressed man, tending to the chickens.
I asked who is the man feeding the chickens,
and she asked if he is the one that likes peanuts.
I didn't know except I saw him when I went to buy the cherries.
Then it had dawned upon me like lightning,
that he had bought my mother such fine but now ruined cashmere,
and the evening suddenly smelt of roses.
In the yard were all the roses but none of the chickens,
and on the chair lay the cashmere, but crushed upon the floor were the peanuts,
as the lightning struck upon the finely dressed man holding the pits of the eaten cherries.
Copyright Christine Locke
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Smoke
This poem was originally very short with only 5 lines. At the time I felt that was all it needed, but as I went back and read it, my mind began to work and I feel like I've developed it into a better poem than what it was before. Still simple, and that keeps the original tone and idea of what I had before revising the poem.
Like an open window, let my breath escape
so by chance you may catch it and breathe it in
like the second hand smoke from by the liquor store
Like influenza I'll spread through your veins
and impregnate your thoughts with my addiction
unwanted but thirsted for
Like the itch you can never satisfy
you'll gasp for air
but only catch my breath.
Like an open window
letting the smoke from the liquor store in
maybe you'll become addicted and want more
In that case, I'll be here lingering
like the second hand smoke from by the liquor store.
Copyright Christine Locke
Like an open window, let my breath escape
so by chance you may catch it and breathe it in
like the second hand smoke from by the liquor store
Like influenza I'll spread through your veins
and impregnate your thoughts with my addiction
unwanted but thirsted for
Like the itch you can never satisfy
you'll gasp for air
but only catch my breath.
Like an open window
letting the smoke from the liquor store in
maybe you'll become addicted and want more
In that case, I'll be here lingering
like the second hand smoke from by the liquor store.
Copyright Christine Locke
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Mustache
This was more of an observation I had that turned into a little poem. There is this one creepy guy with his creepy look that always falls upon me whenever I see him at school and it's just creepy, but he has this fantastic mustache, that somehow adds to his strangeness which is great. I also so happened to be eating m&m's at the moment this happened, and it explains just what happened pretty much.
The twisted Mustache smiles at me
I look up
Then down
Glance up
It stares at me and still smiles
In its twisted twistedness
I gather courage
To look back
Then plop an m&m in my mouth
The Mustache is gone.
copyright Christine Locke
The twisted Mustache smiles at me
I look up
Then down
Glance up
It stares at me and still smiles
In its twisted twistedness
I gather courage
To look back
Then plop an m&m in my mouth
The Mustache is gone.
copyright Christine Locke
Monday, September 27, 2010
Girl
This poem is one from observation. I was at a loss as to what to write about for a poetry assignment I had, then I kept seeing this girl I had never seen before around campus, and ran into her a few times. It was strange, and I couldn't stop staring at her, perhaps because I have never seen someone so dead looking that was alive before. It intrigued me indeed.
There is a girl
Like a rotting weed
It keeps reappearing
Blue lips
And a sickly pallor
All bones
A walking cactus
All joints
And points
She wisps by
Withering away as I pass
It keeps reappearing
The lady says
You look good
She mumbles a frigid answer
What sugary lies
That old woman
She couldn't look worse
That girl
With blue lips
and a sickly pallor
I"m sure she eats acid
The black dead eyes
She's the salt left over
From a dead sea
The sour smell
It keeps reappearing
Like a rotting weed
There is a girl.
copyright Christine Locke
Atlantis
My class was learning about prose poetry and we were asked to add a different form to our prose poem. Well, I knew I wanted to not have any periods, and in a way the sentences blend together and create this great rhythmic quality which I am pleased with. I wanted it to be a description of something, so this was what was fresh in my mind at the time of when I had my first ever meeting with one of the guys I had dated. I'd never seen a room like his, and to be frankly honest, I wouldn't want to again. Makes for a good poem though, hahaha.
One tipsy night I went into your room it smelled musty and foul ashes eroded into the carpet ignored week old cups soaked into the wood like bushes lining a path I laid on your naked bed where a blizzard of dandruff already rested the last time you washed your pillows remains a lost mystery like Atlantis sentenced to the dark abyss to me and you of this I know hoping I wouldn't be too far to be saved should I become ensnared in the clinging weed of carpet the open window and fans spun round and round swirling putrid smells dancing in my nostrils not relieving me of it I gulped the scent in of the latest perfume drowning as I sank deeper and deeper the light flickered your room was dim and I was glad for this I did not desire to see what vile creatures may have been condemned to beneath your bed let alone the back of your littered desk of this I know the TV blared in its ignorant nostalgia of cartoons from my forgotten youth I crept gently across the damp floor an explorer in an undiscovered wreck I thought Atlantis would be more grand than this even in all its ruin the clouds crept in fogging my vision not safe to go any farther or to stay in my dazed happiness of this I know and like abandoned dreams and wasted lullabies I camped for the night.
copyright Christine Locke
Catching
Click click click
The pully goes
Up then down
Down then up
Up up up
Down.
Click click click
Something is
Caught in my catch
It flutters there
and strangles itself
Down.
Click click click
The pully goes
Never stopping
For what I've caught
It just goes
Down.
Click click click
It still flutters
Down down down
Up.
Release
The pully goes.
Click click click
I wait for the catch
To be caught again
But I can't help
To look
Up.
copyright Christine Locke
The pully goes
Up then down
Down then up
Up up up
Down.
Click click click
Something is
Caught in my catch
It flutters there
and strangles itself
Down.
Click click click
The pully goes
Never stopping
For what I've caught
It just goes
Down.
Click click click
It still flutters
Down down down
Up.
Release
The pully goes.
Click click click
I wait for the catch
To be caught again
But I can't help
To look
Up.
copyright Christine Locke
I Remember
First poem I wrote for my poetry class, I was a bit rusty, but surprisingly when I started writing, words were flowing from my pencil. It was refreshing, and I forgot how much I had missed it. This brings together 2 things I love, motorcycles and ice cream. I suppose I'm all about weird combination's...
I remember...
The snug fit of the helmet.
It was perfect
In its metallic silver sheen
The anxious excitement
In the pit of my stomach
Like the rumbling of thunder
The engine hums to life.
Anticipation grows.
I'm like a kid in an ice cream store
Watching my favorite flavor scooped
I can't wait to taste it.
Then I can't get enough.
I want more
The sweetness on the tip of my tongue
Sweat rolling down my spine
An aching in my arms
To turn the throttle
To scoop another flavor
To go faster.
That feeling of danger.
But comfort at the same time
I can't wait
To come back for more.
copyright Christine Locke
I remember...
The snug fit of the helmet.
It was perfect
In its metallic silver sheen
The anxious excitement
In the pit of my stomach
Like the rumbling of thunder
The engine hums to life.
Anticipation grows.
I'm like a kid in an ice cream store
Watching my favorite flavor scooped
I can't wait to taste it.
Then I can't get enough.
I want more
The sweetness on the tip of my tongue
Sweat rolling down my spine
An aching in my arms
To turn the throttle
To scoop another flavor
To go faster.
That feeling of danger.
But comfort at the same time
I can't wait
To come back for more.
copyright Christine Locke
Desert Solace (5 Haikus)
I went on a 2 week kayaking and canoeing trip this past summer with an amazing group of people, and for the last night we were there, we were asked to write a poem. So I decided to use one of my favorite forms, Haiku, to describe this beautiful and amazing place I didn't want to leave.
A dawn-lit morning
cloudless skies; a desert solace
wake me so I'll live.
The native wind blows
dusty island paradise
brings life to my soul.
O' quiet Myst'ry
I have nothing to look for
but myself to gain.
Dusk blended the sky
and red rock paintings reveal
a gall'ry of myth.
Creatures of the night
sing to me sweet lullabies
set my spirit free.
copyright Christine Locke
So Blue
This poem is actually based off of a few phrases I wrote down, then formed a whole poem around them because I loved the phrases so much. As you may be able to tell, I like experimenting, with forms and my own writing. I believe I was also reading Edgar Allan Poe at the time and was thinking of Annabel Lee.
The scent lingers.
I breathe in what remains before it vanishes. Forever.
If only I would;
But lived in a dream.
Then maybe it'd be better if you weren't real;
A fickle figment.
Open the eyes.
I never realized they were closed.
The Day startles me,
How clear and bright everything is.
Shut them again.
The clouded warmth returns.
I stumble back into my memory,
Your eyes the most prominent thought.
For I have never seen a blue like yours;
Like the icy drip from a sapphire rose.
It lands in my cup.
I know I am drifting again.
Too far from the shore, but too distant from the surreal.
Whoosh whoosh whoosh.
The waves are crashing where we first met.
Where you last disappeared.
Inhale.
Too much because I start coughing.
Eyes still shut tight,
Because I refuse to let go.
Like teardrops,
My fingers slide,
Down your cheek.
So blue, like ice
Because it's melting.
It lands in my cup.
I'm sitting on the shore,
The waves grow louder with every fall.
I'm waiting,
Because.
I'll wake you up someday;
And tell you,
I love you.
copyright Christine Locke
Auntie's Basement
What inspired this poem was the feeling of lingering dreams. I like listening to music, and it often inspires me to write, I was listening to Jack Johnson or Tyrone Wells or both, but it was very late at night and I just had a spark that led me to writing this whole poem. It has been edited down, believe me it was much longer before, but I was also playing with the idea of being in the ocean and this drifting feeling into the unconscious. After you've been in the pool too long, or have had a little too much too drink, you feel as if your floating, drifting in the water before you fall off into dreaming....
Chilly
foggy
mornings.
Hiding
under
covers.
Exploring
unknown
seas.
Remember
lingering
dreams.
Digging
standstill
houses.
Eating
your
words.
Dirty
socks
burning.
Breezy
potent
afternoons.
Swimming
through
sheets.
Sailing
vast
oceans.
Forgetting
leftover
conscience.
Sipping
waterless
tea.
Writing
without
ink.
Reading
between
lines.
Music
playing
silence.
Warm
sunny
evenings.
Floating
on
blankets.
Anchoring
small
harbors.
Fantasy
gradually
revealing.
Skipping
backwards
upside-down.
Walking
through
mirrors.
Answering
stupid
questions.
Questioning
stupid
answers.
Feeding
ferocious
lollipops.
Finding
your
unconscious.
Beautiful
Darling
Beautiful.
Wake-up
Wake-up
Wake-up.
I'm
still
here.
copyright Christine Locke
Chilly
foggy
mornings.
Hiding
under
covers.
Exploring
unknown
seas.
Remember
lingering
dreams.
Digging
standstill
houses.
Eating
your
words.
Dirty
socks
burning.
Breezy
potent
afternoons.
Swimming
through
sheets.
Sailing
vast
oceans.
Forgetting
leftover
conscience.
Sipping
waterless
tea.
Writing
without
ink.
Reading
between
lines.
Music
playing
silence.
Warm
sunny
evenings.
Floating
on
blankets.
Anchoring
small
harbors.
Fantasy
gradually
revealing.
Skipping
backwards
upside-down.
Walking
through
mirrors.
Answering
stupid
questions.
Questioning
stupid
answers.
Feeding
ferocious
lollipops.
Finding
your
unconscious.
Beautiful
Darling
Beautiful.
Wake-up
Wake-up
Wake-up.
I'm
still
here.
copyright Christine Locke
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