ode to Ila, on her birthday

lint, she eats it
nails, she has them
shoes, she loses them
showers, she hates them

the scary vacuum
haunts her dreams
she is sad.
alas.

her favorite thing
climbing on mom
she loves it.
squeals.

the boo girl
she so cute
we love her
happy first birthday!

This Here Pudding

This Here Pudding poem.

by lrh
dedicated to the pudding I just ate and the pudding I want to eat

this here pudding
love that pudding
give me pudding
chocolate pudding

the end.

2 haiku

So I like to write silly poetry. It is a silly thing. I mostly like to write them to other people. I was often tempted to write little poems on my homework during grad school to provide entertainment for the T.A.s, or maybe to apologize for the agony of looking at my work. I feel confidence that there was agony. On both sides.

But the latest poem I wrote was while I was tutoring a friend (in math). She wrinkled her nose at the first one, but liked the second one. I think the first one is pretty awesome though. For sure. So here they are. My two haiku. For you all.

1)

my calculator

makes my heart beat super fast

when I press the keys

2)

flower in my heart

guarded tightly in my soul

blooms when I'm with you

PS. I looked up haiku just now and it is just like celery. Singular and plural forms are the same! Also, I must give credit where credit is due. DH wrote the second line of the second haiku.

haiku for janie

you are my heart friend

with or without sliding doors

we are forever

---

Posting frequency note: I have started blogging more frequently of late. Instead of letting my blog languish for long intervals of time (as I have previously), my goal is to post twice a week from now on, probably mondays and thursdays.

poem of fall

Fall is like a rag

It's still smelly from last year

sticking on your face.

Is it:

a) Fall. the season of cooling.

b) Fall. where rocks fall on you.

c) Fall. where you get sick and fall over, and never get up again.

.

.

.

Correct answer: C. Alas.

fame in the eyes of many / love poem

DH and I met in an LDS singles ward. Stanford 1st, to be specific. I didn't like him. (But he liked me!) You might even say I avoided him. In fact, you might say a lot more things that I can't believe I ever felt/thought/did! A negative opinion, once formed, dies hard. Unless God smiles upon you, that is.

But then, 3 years later, we got married. How did this happen? Loathe to Love in 3 years flat. Our story has become famous (or infamous?) among the Stanford singles wards. People I don't know and have never talked to know about us (that is, never talked to until they walk up to me at a party and say, "Are you the laura that dated so and so..." etc). I also suspect that it is a celebrated story because it has some similarities to Pride and Prejudice (which is of course wildly popular you know).

But we have now possibly reached the pinnacle of fame. We have been mentioned on The Apron Stage, by none other than Sarah Olson. Quoting her post from August 17:

And a few years ago, a guy in my church (Dave) loved a girl in my church (Laura) who hated him. She hated him. But Dave pursued and pursued and one day Laura realized she was ridiculous for not loving Dave because he was so awesome. They married and still beam at each other in public and in private. (As charming and hope-giving as their story is, it put the fear of Love into each of the women we knew. What if the man of our dreams is the very guy we like the least? This is a question I have still not resolved. I hope I never have to, please bless.)

Sarah's point about the fear of Love is well founded. It is true I did not like DH. Then, all the sudden I did. This was nothing less than God opening my eyes. There were several difficult months of dating DH where I had two warring angels on my shoulders. The good angel saw DH with newly opened eyes, and the bad angel remembered the way I used to see him. It was difficult (to say the least) to reconcile the two versions of feelings in my head.

And now I must say this: DH did not deserve to be unliked. He was only ever charming and handsome. Beware how quick you judge a potential suitor. People get nervous and say stupid things. Or you might feel emotionally unavailable because you met someone the day before that you already like a lot. Tunnel vision is not helpful there. Or you might hate bowling and thus remember that date and suitor negatively.

And now for a love poem (haiku).

Ode to DH

DH is my love

my hiccups are really loud

but he still loves me

0.75!

Living in fractal bliss, DH and I have reached 0.75, that is, 9 months of wonderfulness!

Ode to DH

DH is my love
he has blond hair
and so will the kiddies

the end.

sunrise

I blog when inspired. But I have had no inspiration for quite some time now (obviously). I think this is because I am too busy/sick/tired/stressed/loathing job to notice the inspirational things going on around me. I did see the sunrise yesterday though (while driving to work). It was beautiful (and surprisingly quick). I did not have inspirational thoughts to blog about as a result of observing the sunrise, except to recall a poem I wrote last week on the way to the airport:

cumulonimbus
fluffy blanket in the sky
celestial pillow

by lr for kt with love:)

Melville: a memoir

Melville: person and place.

Person: Herman. Herman Melville, who wrote Moby Dick. 1819-1891. His birth and death years are eerily numeric mirrors of one another. My death by this reckoning will be in 2038 at age 55. Alas.

Place: Melville. Melville Ave. I live on this road. Rather, I should say, I live to the side of the road. In a house. Part of a house. There are four bedrooms, all with bedding on the beds and clothes in the closet. Never before, since the initial requisition of Melville as an LDS habitation, has anyone been alone-in-Melville. Until now. I have become its sole occupant. 3 out of 4 are away. The probability of this event occurring is exceedingly low. No one has ever been alone-in-Melville. Before moving here I decided to take the role of Queequeg, in Moby Dick. I will be brave, and go down with the ship. Alas. I alone must bear this burden, for no one will ever again be alone-in-Melville.

(It may be that I am mistaken and someone has been alone-in-Melville before. It is quite likely, actually, especially during last Christmas. Somebody had to be the last to leave, and the first to come back. But I'd rather be overly dramatic and pretend that no one has ever been alone-in-Melville so that I may die in peace.)

Moby Dick was published in 1851, one year after the Scarlet Letter. It is semi-ridiculous that I remember when the Scarlet Letter was published. But there are worse things. It's no wonder I remember, however, since I have used Hester Prynne as a fake name for years in various contexts...and it was only last week that I was thinking about writing a poem entitled, Arthur Dimmesdale: man or mineral? I did not write it, however (all mankind may thank me later), and I probably never will. Mostly I chose not to write it because I couldn't remember his first name, and until I looked it up 1 minute ago I couldn't think of anything but Richard. Therefore I will write this (horrible) poem instead:

Richard Dimmesdale: Man or Mineral?

A man would not
I fear
be
under that name
such a silly name

mineral, definitely
if
a name
is inspired--
Rock of Death!

Rock of Death
jumps from the scaffold
and splats.

He didn't weigh very much after all.

the color of poetry

Janie the magnificent and I have composed two sets of symbiotic poetry about complimentary colors.

Our method: one of us wrote a poem with a color in mind, one line at a time, telling the other the word at the end of that line. The other person wrote a poem that rhymes with each line of the first poem, based on the complimentary color. We wrote these without sharing the content until they were complete, with no regard to meter or line length. The poems were to be 3-6 lines. A lovely activity for a Sunday afternoon, I think, perhaps, one of the loveliest to be had.

The first:

written by Janie:

blue (topic, not title)

Shiny travel bag
unleashed, nimbly zipping in an arc through clouds
landing by high heels in baby hues

No flowers are dark
a plush carpet rolls out
ready for toes.

written in reply by me:

orange

under the heat my body flags
the popsicle my tongue enshrouds
A sunflower, freshly cut and bruised
in my hair as I embark
I look for more, and finding none, pout.
It was not worth this blister, I suppose.

The second:

written by me:

yellow

I will paint the house anew
And the chair squeaks when I sit
But, my hair is curly
And I love new bowls
It is enough.

written in reply by Janie:

purple

Shards of broken heart poison the brew
bubbling amethysts and dragon spit
simmer in dull pulse; slowly, surely
reducing palpitating pain and filling holes

Every skin I don, I slough.

the way to fame

I have done it. I am a success. I am famous. How do I know this? Because I have been quoted on librarything's website!!! (Along with hundreds of other bloggers, but that's a minor point). Who knew I would ever be read by strangers in far off regions of the world...

Thus, finding I am now famous, I can no longer entice people to let me hyperlink their web pages under the pretense that "nobody reads my blog anyway." I am a fake, a fraud, a phony...and can no longer spew such lies.

I am famous.

I shall now write a stupid, yet celebratory poem, entitled, Fame:

fame
is not easy
the way to fame
is through me
my site
is lame
but my fame
is totally awesome

the end.

avocado poetry

It has been far too long since I have posted lame poetry. Here is my latest, composed in gchat, not originally meant to be a poem but turned out to be one. This poem is dedicated to dh.

poem inspired by dh purchasing the snarkout boys and the avocado of death, by Daniel Pinkwater.

the old ones
are very very
stringy
brown
evil
murdering
pits
with a vengeance.

Ode to the Matt

the matt...is a matty man.
He married the mariaquita.
She and he are lovely
he is a leaf at heart
flying
soaring
twirling turbulently...
He knows he twirls, and just doesn’t tell anybody.
I won’t either.

To Matt. As requested. Any other requests?

another ode.

Ode to Reija (a poem of two)

...a light shone brightly in the dusk
from whence it came none knew
except for me and you.

Mwa ha ha! We laughed, reprehensibly,
we saw it too, but none would flee
except for you and me.

The mischievous gleam was from your eye
it sought, it grew
but that was you

and what was I?
Behold, my eyes are wicked too.

--written for a beloved friend.

Latest Attempt

So, in a moment of great abstraction, I wrote the following poem, dedicated to a good friend of mine. Not that he embodies the poem.

Ode to Shwam.

The Shwam comes up the road
and grins unabashed
the rain gets him wet
and the grin slides to smirk
since he is wearing a slicker
and he dumps it on a passerby.

The end.

A poet. A poet? Perhaps not.

I have dozens of really terrible poems that I have composed over the years. Nothing too recent though. Some examples worthy of note are two of my sonnets. I wrote a sonnet about papayas. I also wrote one that involved a cuvette. I think the worst poem ever was an ode to a font that I liked (not a sonnet, if you wondered). I wrote it first in the font (which also happened to look incomprehensible with heiroglyphic characters), then "translated" it into ... Times New Roman, perhaps? The font was called "King Tut." Enjoy.

TRANSLATION:

This is King Tut.
I am illiterate.
I do not know how to spell
mischeif, nor retreive.
Or marraige.
You must not comprehend
what this says.
If you can, you have deTUTed it.
You must die.

Hmm..written in 2000. I still manage to write odes for people (usually on birthday cards). I wrote an Ode to Robitussin once. Maybe, someday, if you win a place in my heart, I'll write an ode to you.