FACE STORM —very rough draft

Oh how I hated to close the window!

FACE STORM

The Smell of rain

Through an opened window

The sound of thunder

Awakened her

at the beginning

week five

Of recovery.

The excitement of a

late summer storm

The sky turning gray green

the raindrops falling

down, straight down

Towels around the window

soaking something splendid

summer storm, found a small way

blessing way

fresh onto her face

On a Sunday morning

On the first Sunday

dreamed for week 5

Of recovery

Rain, the smell of rain

Awakened.

Poetry or Fiction: Genre Decisions/ Rough Draft

Can any topic be used for a poem? A narrative of a father drunk vomiting… agreeing to drive daughter to work during a winter storm–how can that be in a poem? I’m feeling the story wants to be a poem–or am I being influenced too much by Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays?”

Because I have been reading poetry and keep coming back to  “what did I know” This father is not a farmer, but a father who wasn’t always drunk and sometimes tried to help his daughter get to work so she could save money for college.  (When he wasn’t waiting for her paycheck to “give it home,” if he was drunk on payday—before direct deposits.)

Because no, maybe fiction would be better. The father heaving, vomiting between telling Lo he will, he should drive her to work in a storm, not to walk in the storm. Lo wondering… can she trust Da to drive her?

Fun to explore the decision of what genre would be best for a narrative. Interesting to learn what these characters insist on–poetry, my usual genre, or fiction?

img_1235-1 

Da Girl

Da, girl says
Are you sure you can drive?
Five minutes, he says.

Tap-water instant
Coffee effort Not doing it.

Can you boil water, Lo,
can you?

Five minutes more, he says,
Don’t walk, I hear
The storm.

Da, she whispers,
I’ll lost my job,
Searching the sideways blizzard.

 

 

***And a link to Hayden’s poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46461/those-winter-sundays

Little Sister-Rough Draft

img_1235-1

Just something I found on an old flash drive.  Will edit, revise, see where it goes.

Just a few snippets from that time ten years ago, since I am submitting a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.

Little sister
you are not alone
sometimes I am
in your dreams
purring
a pink cat who speaks.

And sometimes
I am at the top of the stairs
thrusting
limbs forward
as a shield.


Little sister, sometimes
I am in between the lines of
words from decades ago
straight to your mirror.

 

 

 

img_1235-1

Random Character Thinking in my Brain

img_2424

Just some random thoughts…thinking about writing fiction and this character came to mind, and he was thinking…

And as he wrote into the night, he realized his stories, his poems were almost always about the outsider–like his dreams. He was always outside looking in at well-lit warm kitchens, just trying to smell the dinner cooking, trying to hear the parents and children talking.

I’m an old crazy coot, he thought. I’m the outsider for sure, even in my own writing. Even in my own mind.

ROUGH DRAFT: MOVING LOVE

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8      A few years ago, I found this old rough draft of a poem I started after we had moved.  I keep losing it and then finding it.  This time, I won’t lose it, but I will revise, edit, and work on the poem. There is something to the “moving on” theme that is compelling–maybe escape is the correct term?

In any case, thanks for reading.

Laura Lee

********

first draft:

Moving Love

Note: …..many stanzas before this…won’t post here so I can publish one day… and took out middle stanzas   

 

Memories, you said. I cannot move.
These have been
the best years of my life here.

How can you say that, I asked,
not wanting to see the paint-peeled walls
or the missing tiled floors even one more time.

They were my years with you, you said.

Today I looked for photos
I am sure I threw away in my
haste to leave and I wonder
how I could have been so cruel
how can I
live with such moving love?

Change of Style

                         I wrote two poems recently in a very different style  from what I usually write. I brought one poem to a writing workshop tonight. Three of my colleagues in class cried. (They said it was a good thing.) It was a poem about the changing seasons and when I got to the line about when summer returns to autumn? I heard sniffling.

I think I’ll play around with the poem a few more times and make it better. Then submit it somewhere.

***Done. Worked a lot on this poem and submitted with the other one.

And what’s with speech to text that it does not recognize POEM? It types it as POME. Isn’t POEM a common word anymore?

Thanks for reading!

Found Poem (on old flash drive)

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8  What a pleasure to find an old rough draft of a poem on an old flash drive.  I was looking for a document when I found this, simply titled: “Work on this poem.”

So I will work on this poem.  I’m not sure about the rhetorical questions or who the “you” in the poem is, but I like a bit of mystery.

It starts like this…

Mud-crusted rags
wrap blistered feet.
Earthbound, I walk
beneath topsoil.
How would I drive?

Bridges stop around curves,
hidden in the fog or dust
a glimpse of surprised faces
before plunging
into the wide river of our poetry.
Where could I drive?

 

Then it goes on, but I won’t post more since I want to revise and rework to submit.

****

Thanks for reading.

Belied/rough draft

C5438C4D-7EFC-4B03-8398-D253E9D9DDE8

Parking here to edit and revise

Belied

The woods, late spring
pond at sunsets
bat-skimmed surface
white tail pulled down
new leaves. The hawk flew low
as well.

 

Over the walking path
my shadow squat and low

No wings
no hooves, no wild thing.

Even the blue jay flew low
that night, while grasshoppers
jumped quickly across the path
my short shadowed sadness and dread
belied the flood of gold.