Category: Poetry

Poetry

Action Sequence

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Over, under, treading, swimming

Boiling, freezing, tepid, cool,

When the thoughts spin ’round in chaos,

Throw me in a swimming pool.

Magnify the light of day.

Muffle sounds that pound the drums.

I’ll surface for each breath of air,

Then back below where thoughts are mum.

Heartbeat steadies,

Skin transforms,

Lungs retain and outperform.

Weightless feeling-

What a dream-

As pressure battles gravity.

Then back above, the volume rises,

Water droplets cold on skin-

Shrouded in terry disguise,

Wrapped around, corner tucked in.

Simulate weightless sensation

Back inside where it is dry.

Turn down overthought narration –

Headphones on so sound can’t pry.

Action precedes motivation.

Find a pleasant place to write.

Buckle down and face your fears.

You’re underwater.

You’ll be alright.

Books · Cozy Posts · Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Mice Skating

Beth DeFries1 Comment

Fingers skate across letters,

Ideas buried in white.

I shovel at snowbanks,

Digging for what I’ll write.

I look up and imagine

Figures gliding ‘cross the screen,

Angelina and her friends –

Rodential, yet serene.

I’m transported to the past

On the couch by dad’s side

As he read us a book

Like he did most nights.

The stories flood to mind

And the favorites among them:

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Mary Anne and Mike Mulligan,

George and his friend

In the big, yellow hat,

Christmas in the Country,

And Frieda, the cat,

Shoes, Nurse Nancy, and The Big Red Barn–

Some, Golden-spined stories,

Most- used, full of charm.

My dad would make voices

As he read each line,

Never half-hearted,

No matter how many times.

He read us those stories

And they never got old

And Angelina was warmth

On nights that were cold,

Drinking cocoa in the kitchen

in the glow of the fire,

Figure skates left to dry-

My favorite picture to admire.

And it’s time for this rhyme

To go to sleep for the night,

But it’ll be here to revisit

Whenever you like.

Poetry

Unwaking Words

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Conversation can be tough to tread

relying on your ears alone,

no surgeon on rotation

to dissect each little undertone.

And waking nights lend prime recall

of words you meant to only think.

They conjure spiral slides in view

that lead to pits of spiraled thinks.

And words, those writ for reading,

revitalize when vocalized.

Though some, perhaps, are best to rest

away from ears and lips and jest

to cast their shadows long in size

in silence- long anesthetized.

Poetry

Finding the Words

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

The blank page is a little daunting today,

but it’s no big.

I’ve got words I don’t even remember getting,

picked them up in a book or conversation –

or perhaps a dream or publication

in between the pretty pictures of the girls in haute couture.

I breathed words in like perfume

pasted into folded edges of glossy pages

full of dreams and aspirations,

distracted by torment and accusations

embedded in the pictures of unattainable conventions.

I accepted the impossibility of ascension

to that photographed perfection

and moved on, forgetting the important stuff.

I’ve got a lot of words, I think.

I stored them somewhere I can’t remember

and shrunk them down in my mind

to be blind to their existence until the right moment arises

when they slip out of the drawers

of unlocked filing cabinets not shut tight,

crawling like inchworms on a string

that I walk into, unavoidable as they are,

like webs belonging to a spider of indeterminate description.

Words are my addiction.

I crave the right ones and know

the first is usually just the ticket

and I know, now, to pick it

thanks to the teacher I’ve found in King.

The right words sing with truth and conviction.

Here I am!

Delete me at your peril!

Sometimes the writing writes itself

fearing the dusty shelf of forgotten words

in the critical and doubtful mind

of an unknown writer.

Poetry

George Bailey

Beth DeFries1 Comment

Fate is a dance on a retractable floor

revealing a swimming pool.

The threat is exciting,

the water- inviting.

Sometimes you can’t help but fall in.

A cat in a box

In Schrödinger’s thoughts

Would tell you you’ve little to say

In the matters of fate and lasers and beams,

Trapped as we are in sadistic dreams

Where false seems real and reality fake.

Mary leaned over and whispered,

Yet also, Mary did not.

It depends on the channels to which you subscribe.

It depends on George Bailey’s ever being alive,

But her words echo now while constructing these lines.

“George Bailey, I’ll love you till the day I die.”

New paths sprout up all around.

Some are searing and bright.

Some lack shadow or sound.

Stumble or wander wherever you may

For you’ve little to say in the matter of fate.

Just ask that cat in the box.

Too late.

Buffalo gals won’t come out tonight,

Say the moon’s an impractical gift,

Yet George Bailey’s dream soar.

Practicality’s a bore.

It’s a wonderful life, so long as it’s lived.

Poetry

Puddle Jumping

Beth DeFries2 Comments

Gray and green,

Sunlight unseen,

Pages, not read, lay waiting.

Low clouds are prowling.

The kettle is howling

And glass ripples, warped, on the bay.

Wind chimes sing

Branches bow to no king

Mug warm on my fingers and steaming.

Birds are conversing

Are the woods worth traversing

On a soon to be blustery day?

There’ll be mud and mist

And leaves all a-twist,

Their pale backs turned on the storm.

The ocean looks duller

And I’m craving color

Over being cozy and warm.

So I pull on my boots

To visit some roots

And wander the natural cathedrals

Of towering trees,

Fresh air sure to please,

Puddle jumping along at my leisure.

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Sixteen

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Seventeen was sweeter than sixteen

But sixteen wasn’t half bad

Carefree and alive

Attempting to drive

Converse on the clutch

Bubblegum on the breath

Sargent at the Met

TAI… at the Bowery

Broadway Diner and Nautilus

Fries dipped in gravy

Magic Blends from the fountain

Tiny tastes of independence

Experimental fashion sense

Mini skirts and long sweaters

Julie Taymor directing our lives

Manya’s mannequin in the basement

Some controlled mayhem

Pouring sand on melted plastic in the driveway

Once the last knot burned

Movies on the weekend

Cross-legged in the seats

Peach Schnapps in the basement and The Virgin Suicides

A few sips could buzz our minds

Skylights, fireflies, and finding space on the couch

Sleeping in non-sleeping places

Light as a feather, stiff as a board

Stalled in a cornfield

Chainless saws in the distance

Squeals and laughter- fear’s resistance

Molly, Ally, Emilio, Judd, and Anthony

Stillwater and Doris

Grapes and wishes on New Year’s

With the friends turned family

In the beautiful days of sixteen

Poetry

Abandoned Character

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I walked by the bay and disposed of treasure

Without taking care to measure

The value at the time,

What I held as mine-

Now gone,

A passing thought,

A character erased,

The plot debased,

Left on the porch of History House

In a rocker beside the door-

The words no more,

Retained only in memory.

Characters suited to different tales,

Creative concept – doomed to fail,

Flightless birds,

Deleted words,

Debris of fate,

A breath exhaled,

Destruction mode on,

Eliminated pawns,

The Queen- exposed, unknowing.

Protect the protector-

That little defender

Who fell asleep on the job.

Poetry

Dream on the Cusp

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Woke up today feeling small-

Not weak or defeated,

Just not much at all,

A speck on a marble that spins round and round,

In a bed, in a house, on the ground.

You couldn’t see me from space,

Head up in the clouds

Of fog fallen from grace,

Looking up towards the gray to peel and reveal,

And wonder why Earth’s a big deal.

Dreams circle black holes

Drawn to depths un-suspect,

Stretched like melted shoe soles,

Till I can’t recognize, translate, or surmise,

Stars extinguished from sparkling skies.

Wake to reason sipped on the porch-

Ground elixir of addicts

That can’t hold a torch

To the infinite warps of spacetime, sublime

That inspired this wandering rhyme.

Poetry

Baby Bear’s Porridge

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I taste a sense of possibility and capability that is new to me today.

It’s the most delicious thing I’ve tasted so far

And I wonder why I put off making it for so long.

Perhaps the steps of the recipe were too daunting.

Perhaps it required a long list of ingredients from a hundred different places

Or the kitchen was too cluttered to get to the cabinets, sink, and stove.

Perhaps the recipe looked very long on the page

Or parts of it were torn from the cookbook

Or stuck together with once-edible, mystery adhesive.

I peeled apart the pages with an unfamiliar determination

And wiped away the weakened cement of grime so they wouldn’t stick together again.

I read the recipe through for the first time.

I let the overwhelm sink in and chose to ignore it

Then sourced the called-for ingredients –

Turns out I had most of them on hand already.

I prepared them at my own pace and came to realize

That I craved exactly this at many points in life:

All those times when I was ravenous

And snacked on something else that didn’t satisfy.

The recipe always seemed too difficult to attempt,

The estimated cook time-too long.

And once I got going, I was overzealous

And some of the magic splashed out of the pot,

But I’ve adjusted the heat and thrown in some spices.

It’s simmering now- just needs a little longer-

A few more spices here and there, maybe.

I want to get it just right.