So I had to write a poem using at least three of these words:
I generally try to overachieve by using all of them, but I just wasn’t in the mood today. Usually, when I have to write a poem within these guidelines, it ends up being silly, so here is a silly poem for you.
The Time and Death of Robie the Robot
Robie the Robot was the newest addition
to MacDougal’s Hamburgers and Fries.
He became Employee of the Month
for up-selling Supersize.
With a paddle for one hand,
and a wrench for the other,
he never messed up an order,
or demanded fifteen dollars an hour.
He did not need a smoke break,
he never pilfered the food,
called in sick, or came in late.
The other employees,
who saw him as a threat,
decided to do him in one day.
They recycled him into a windchime—
an effigy of sorts—
committing a felonious crime.
When the State came the next day,
to collect Secret Agent Robie Robot for service,
the workers, to avoid a charge,
ended up taking his place.
When the Sun Shall Shine Through the Rain
I am like a pearl,
making a dive
through a bottle of Prell.
That was my life
for months after she came,
and nothing was ever the same.
Every morning was a struggle
to get out of bed—
sapped of the stores of energy I once had;
to sleep with abandon,
without thought or care
of a little princess with golden hair.
My time is no longer my own,
but precious are the moments that glitter like silver,
for they are more precious than gold.
Her little hand clutches mine,
and my heart catches.
My cup runneth over.
I am revived in spirit,
if not in body,
for my flesh is weak.
The time is now—
now I must turn away
from the sugar that glistens like snow,
from the lethargy of being housebound at times.
I must fight for what once was easy for me.
I must find that old physicality
in this new life.
I must find that vibrancy once again;
I must take care of myself,
as I take care of her.
I stand on solid ground,
looking upwards and all around—
away from myself,
for my priorities have shifted,
like the tectonic plates I stand upon,
and my soul is uplifted.
The magnitude of my responsibility,
hits me like a wall of cement,
for “the hand that rocks the cradle,
is the hand that rules the world.”
Though I was disappointed that summer classes weren’t available in my degree program, it’s still been a pretty great summer. I still accomplished a lot, and used some of my time somewhat wisely. The list below pretty much sums up the season for me (so far):
- Binge watched the entire series of “Medium” on Netflix (I’d missed the last season, so I started with it, and worked my way back). It’s where I got the idea of including a little note in my child’s lunch (as soon as she’s old enough to read them).
- Participated in the Writer’s Digest “Poem-a-Day” challenge for the month of April.
- Made my first live television appearance on “The Daily Brew” with my friend, Mandy, who also participated in the challenge.
- Applied to 250+ scholarships, winning one (so far).
- Learned all the verses to “London Bridge is Falling Down” and created my own sign language to go with it; introduced my daughter to sign language and have managed to remember 50+ signs, which is a real accomplishment for me.
- Writing my third Harlequin novel (the first two haven’t been picked up yet) for the “So You Think You Can Write” contest.
- Have gained several more endorsements on LinkedIn and reached All-Star status. (We’ll see if that helps in my career search post graduation.)
- Revitalized my Twitter account. (Twitter for a writer is important for gaining contacts. However, there is a ton of spam on Twitter, so never feel like you have to follow someone back just because they followed you.)
- Mastered mouse-moving dexterity with my left hand (no more carpal tunnel in my dominant hand).
- Given up all regular soda; completely switched to Mexican Coca-Cola (made with real sugar rather than HFCS). Right now, it’s one a day; I hope to have it down to one every other day by the end of summer. That said, I am drinking at least a half gallon of water a day. I’ve had to work my way up to that.
- Became a volunteer article writer for the Gulf Coast Kid’s House.
- Enrolled in a creative writing course at the local college. I could only get into one class this semester (everything was either full, required a pre-req, or it wasn’t offered during the fall term). I used this delay as an opportunity to take a class that excites me.
- Finally accepted that I will never like bananas (unless they’re in a dessert). Same goes for sweet potatoes, avocados, and eggs.
- Submitted my collection of children’s nursery rhymes, “Golden Stars and Silver Linings” to Wordsong Press.
- Learned how to have fun for fun’s sake. Not everything has to be a learning opportunity for my two-year-old daughter. Making memories and having fun is a big part of childhood. I learned from an occupational therapist that a child’s job is to do just that: have fun.
- Became a quarter-finalist in the Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize contest for my collection of medical poetry, “Complexities”. (Final results are still pending.) Whether or not I win, I will still have completed a large body of work in a relatively short amount of time. I am determined that every piece of writing I’ve deemed good will eventually find a home. Every rejection is an opportunity to make a piece better.
This is more like prose, well, it is prose (which is really non-rhyming poetry, right?). It’s sort of based on the theory that there is no reality, only perception, and on this quote I read about memoir writing. Though we remember things that actually happened, we all remember them differently, just like no one reads exactly the same book.
That Fuzzy Gray Area Called Memory
Remember when I was born and you were so happy?
I remember when you were born.
Remember your first day of school and you were so excited?
I remember being excited about leaving.
Remember when you were trying out for baseball and how hot it was?
I remember it being hot all the time.
Remember when you ate that hot dog and threw up all over Grandpa?
I remember throwing up all over Grandpa,
and not being able to eat hot dogs for a whole year.
Remember when you blew a bubble and got gum all in your hair?
I remember Mom crying while she shaved my head that time.
Are you sure it wasn’t a lollipop?
Remember when you graduated from high school and you were kind of sad?
I just remember being happy.
Remember when you went off to college and Mom was sad?
I remember being scared.
Remember when you met Anne and it was not quite love at first sight?
I’ve always loved Anne.
Remember your wedding day, and you were so nervous?
She was the one who was nervous.
Remember when you almost fainted while Marie was being born?
Guys don’t faint.
And the moral of this prose is simple:
This is why perfectly true memoirs are impossible to write.