Here we are, halfway through my Twelve Days of Blogging, which would make it Day, uh … hmm, I wasn’t aware there would be math. Maybe the pic below will help.
Right, Day 6. I knew it all the time. Just testing you. Anyway, we are halfway through this holiday trainwreck, and today I have some poetry for you. I have provided winter poems in the past, but never a winter holiday poem like I have for you today. I do have to warn you before you click through that the poem is rated for more mature audiences as it concerns drug use … sort of.
Do you remember when I wrote 3 short complementary pieces for an art exhibition? There was a free verse poem, asad mini story, and a funny mini story about peaches. Oh, what’s that you say? You were trying to forget? Well, not so fast as I have another peach story with which to regale you. But don’t worry. It’s not from me but from a sixth grader.
Last night, artists and authors gathered at an area public library to reflect on the art exhibited and read some of the writings. It’s one thing to see a small digital version of the painting on my screen. It’s a completely different experience to see these large oil paintings up close. I should probably visit the Art Institute in Chicago more often.
Wait, was I supposed to lead the finger snapping while at the mic? Seems presumptuous of me to snap at my own creation.
Anyway, enough about me. You are here to read a sixth grader’s story about peaches that is written better than this blog most days, although admittedly that is a low bar. I should warn you that this youth’s peaches story is a bit disturbing, so exercise caution (and maybe do a few sit-ups while you’re at it) before clicking through.
I recently submitted a serious free verse poem and a hilarious mini story to support a local art exhibit organized by the publisher who published my first short story. However, another one of the paintings caught my eye and imagination. It was this one.
Nobody had chosen this painting to write about. I had an idea, but it was risky for me. I’ll explain why.
For any aspiring writers reading this, I can’t emphasize enough that you need to practice writing constantly. Stop reading my nonsense and start writing some of your own. Each one of these blog posts is writing practice for me. But sometimes I get my writing solicited by others rather than just inflicting it upon you readers. One such recent request came from scenic Skokie, Illinois for an exhibit at their public library.
The challenge was to choose a painting which will be displayed in the library and write a short story or poem about it. I chose this picture.
I have successfully recovered from my bout with cellulitis. Not that any of you care. I can count on one hand the cards, letters, boxes of candy, flowers, cash, gift cards, etc. that I received, and I don’t have to use any fingers or even my hand. Fortunately, as I recovered from the cellulitis, I developed a case of plantar fasciitis so that I can still have something to complain about.
If you are not familiar with plantar fasciitis, it’s quite painful. But sometimes, from pain comes amazing art. However, in this case, I wrote a poem. More accurately, it is free verse, because I was too lazy to rhyme. Before you click to continue reading my new creation, I should warn you that the two people I have read this to have been at a loss for words upon hearing it, and not necessarily in a good way.
I was going to warn you that you may not find this blog post humorous, but I am sure that regular readers are used to that by now. I had planned to enter a poetry contest, but decided against it. Great story, right? The contest was sponsored by Rattle.com, and while I didn’t enter their contest, I did submit my poem to them for publication consideration. Pretty smart, huh? I can still be rejected while saving money in the process.
So that you, the reader, can feel like you’re part of the rejection process, I will share with you my poem below. It’s titled “I Did Not Win The Masters.” Now you can read it and pass judgement on it, too.
On the third day of my Twelve Days of Blogging, I’m going to offer you a rerun with new content. I hadn’t planned on dredging up this poem from 2017 filled with my winter ire. And I’m not talking about winter irie, which is a good thing.
Yah, mon. I wish everyone an Irie Xmas in Jamaica.
The reason I resurrected the poem is that I’m spitting-venom mad at winter. As someone who suffers from seasonal depression due to lack of light, I always happily celebrate the Winter Solstice. The days are getting longer now. Except this solstice pissed me off. I expected to wake up this morning to an early dawn. Nope, Still dark and cloudy.
And speaking of cloudy, I missed seeing the Jupiter-Saturn celestial convergence. If we had a clear night sky, I am sure I would have been one of many gathered on the local sled hill gazing at the heavens to see this once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event. Nope. Nothing but clouds. And I had this joke all ready to spring on my neighbors …
I was in a rhyming, but bad mood about Trump knowing about Russian bounties on American soldiers’ heads as I walked this morning. The only thing that kept me from screaming was that I was also picking berries as I walked. Anyway, here it is …
The poem is a pic, so feel free to save and share.
This is the worst day of the year for me. It is because of how short the amount of daylight is today. I know, tomorrow on the Winter Solstice is actually shorter when it comes to daylight, but that is a day when I can celebrate that henceforth the days will start to lengthen until that damn Summer Solstice. So today I weep, gnash my teeth, rend my garments asunder (really a bad idea when it is cold out), and am generally a sullen mess. The bottom line is that nobody can tell the difference in me from a typical day. However, it has been sunny today, so that has helped my mood. Before the sun got off its lazy ass and rose this morning, I was already out briskly walking while I wrote this poem about the dearth of daylight today.