Muddled

http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/muddled_1

OR

I swallowed hard,
and found a prickly lump in my throat.
You got stuck in my pores
when I tried to flush you out.

It hurts,

and I realize
that somebody's got to toughen me up.
That's what you say.

Thinking that you want to protect me from pain,
you swallow me in your arms.

But, you're scarred – you're scared
and realize you can't.

I feel you're the only one I can tell
of the purple swells in my heart.

But, you push me away.

And, I resent you
for being able to get
under my skin
and for
crawling
into my bones.

The Picture of a Pessimist

http://www.helium.com/tm/591224/picture-pessimisthe-before-onhis

or

He sits before us on

his stool

with his small frame

salt and pepper hair and

beard

small blue eyes

with large bags under them

conservative dress

and two hands that seem

to have a mind of their own.

Dr. Drum holds his hands firmly

in his lap.

They start to

Shake.

He rubs them together

holding their composure.

Dr. Drum's excitement for

Infectious Diseases

pops out of his fingertips

his animated head

and the tips of his ears

while his legs and feet remain

unharmed

they remain still, together and

conservative.

"If you eat the fruit

in the Cafeteria You WILL DIE"

he tells us with his serious face

wrinkled forehead

from too much thought.

Now his hands are no

longer in his lap

they flap around wildly

on the verge of explosion

then still

small smirk

cynicism is now bursting the

seams of his viral infected nose and throat

with excitement.

The pessimist stares at our

bored, blank faces

He tells us of a new virus

that we read about

last night.

He knows better than to trust

OUR academic integrity.

"If you go to Africa you will

get a mosquito bite and die."

The corners of his lips turn up

as he talks.

He stops mid-word

mouth open.

I'm sure he is going to bust

out laughing at

himself and our indifference to

the severity of death and dieing

But

like the calm little hands held firmly in his lap

he stifles the laughter

and continues...

The Fool

Some of you might know Dr. Fuller. She was my English and Creative Writing professor at Catawba College. She was a great inspiration to me, in my writing, as well as in my life. This poem is about her. After I saw her play the fool in "King Lear", I wrote it, and I have recently rewritten it. A new friend of mine, Kat, gave me some helpful suggestions. I'm happy with it.

What do you think?

http://www.helium.com/tm/588421/foolthe-clown-trueyou-shouldnt

or



THE FOOL

The Clown, The fool, it's true
you shouldn't have been old
until you were wise.

A Clown? A Fool?
It isn't true.

It's true that she imparts wisdom,
and truth, and life, and love
for all.

The woman who symbolizes what makes
Menna, Elvyn, and Nigel so great,
couldn't help but see the light.

The woman who removes the podium,
to be seen while she reads,
hands shaking, voice steady.

The woman who sits Indian style on the floor,
and cries after the memory of Ginsberg,
and the loss of a Jewish mother.

The woman who keeps poetry
to remind her all will be okay, and
to share this peace with others.

The woman who always supports us
on the other side of the street, and
hugs us, and tells us we're great!

A clown? A fool?
Not at all.