The Sun Shines not for Me

The sun shines;
I feel it not.
The flowers frown
in shades of gray.
And rain falls
from a cloudless sky;
I stumble in darkness
at midday.
I am blind to beauty,
numb to joy,
It is the price I’ll pay;
to keep the pain at bay.

Lori Fiechter
February 9, 2001

Wake me Up!

I’ve had a bad dream,
Wake me up!
Shake me up!
No good.
No good—
I was not dreaming.
Then let me sleep
through backwards time
and wake up yesterday.
Wake me up before
I dreamt.

Lori Fiechter
February 9, 2001

I like Chinese buffets, American style. And I have nothing against onions, just not the kind that are strong enough to bench-press a Humvee. Those should come with some sort of warning.

After the Mongolian Beef

Stronger than the man of steel,
longer-lasting than
the Energizer bunny,
resistant as the cockroach:
Mega-strength,
mutant Ninja onions.
A taste to be remembered;
A taste you cannot forget:
of mingled skunk-musk and old garbage.
Stronger than Altoids,
longer-lasting than
refried burritos.
Oh, why did I eat those onions?
Oh, when will I be able to forget them?

Lori Fiechter
1-29-01

I saw him standing outside the Wal-mart entrance: gloveless, hatless, pop can in hand. As I approached, shivering, he smiled at me and said, "Someday, it will be spring." I laughed and thanked him for his words, then quickly wrote them down before I forgot.

Someday, it Will be Spring

In the midst of winter’s throes,
We warm our hearts
with memories
of a fairer, greener time.
Though we now feel
dull and slow and numb,
Someday, it will be spring again.
Someday, the stinging North wind
will yield to a pleasant Southerly,
redolent of warm soil and wildflowers.
Someday, the frozen sap will thaw;
Someday, the lifeless branches will bloom;
Someday, we will live again;
Someday, it will be spring.

Lori Fiechter
February 8, 2001

A Deficiency of Green

A January ailment,
though the snow
is nearly gone
and the temperatures
demurely dance
around the 30’s.
I feel guilty,
almost peevish
to complain
when the winter
could be ever so much worse.
But the mildest of winters
is no substitute for spring
and I miss green.
I miss the chlorophyll-infusion
and the riot of confusion
that ensues
when the cold slides off
of April
and retreats to its abyss
I’ve no excuse for winter-weariness:
I have no sniffles,
no congestion,
it is really just the question
if it’s possible to suffer
from a deficiency of green.

Lori Fiechter
January 23, 2001

Not Courier;
too reminiscent of Pica or Elite
who still remembers them
—or that age of simplicity when font
was preceded by the word baptismal?
No, Courier will not do at all.
Times New Roman?
Ubiquitous, prosaic.
Quill?
Crabbed and illegible.
Continuum? Robotic.
Even a dab of Wingding
is too much for me.
I keep trying them all,
ever hopeful that one day
I’ll find The One—my perfect type.
Until then,
my web page will
continue to resemble
a cut and paste
ransom note.

Lori Fiechter
January 15, 2001

My Kingdom for a Wig

I went to bed with soggy hair
and woke up as Medusa’s twin.
Snaky ringlets hissed and writhed
I sauntered over to the mirror;
it cracked from side to side
and then it turned to stone.
I took a brush and smoothed
and fluffed;
No more Medusa.
But I’m not sure
Mick Jagger’s an improvement.

It’s legal now; prune sellers can call their product "dried plums". It just goes to show that:

A Prune by any Other Name

(might just sell better)

"Dried Plums"sound upscale
But from prunes we’ll abstain.
The new package is jazzy;
The effects are the same.
We want style, not substance;
It’s all in the name.

Lori Fiechter
January 10, 2001

Me and my Treadmill

Logging up miles to nowhere
plodding methodically,
plodding hypnotically,
dreaming quixotically,
plodding along.
Going nowhere
at 3.8 miles per hour
just counting the minutes
until I can quit,
until I can sit.
until I can fit
back into my jeans.
I can pinpoint the day
when my youth fled away
it was when all of my play
gave way
to that ascetic, pathetic word
"exercise".

An Arrangement in Frost

Furry-flocked firs
and
Apple tree antlers
flaunting fluffy angora
and soft feather boas
in the lightest and brightest of
dazzling white.
The fashion plates shudder--
from a stiffening breeze--
and those delicate garments
fall down to their knees.
Don't say it is my fault--
the sun made me sneeze.

Lori Fiechter
12-15-2000

We creative people have a love/hate relationship with the things we create—be it music, art, food, writing, or anything else we put our soul into. But then there are our pet projects, our personal favorites, the things we love to love, regardless of what others think. I like to think that each of us is God’s pet project, whether anyone else appreciates us.

The Creator’s Creation

Everyone hates it—
it’s mine.
No one understands it—
it’s mine.
They look on with pity
or confusion or boredom;
They don’t see anything lovable
in the thing that I love.
But I love it,
I made it,
It’s mine.

Lori Fiechter
November 29, 2000

Fadeless Hope

Bright leafy green
and crisp cool sky blue;
spring shades—the colors of hope.
But my robe of hope
has been mud-rubbed
and soap-scrubbed,
then hung out to dry
in the hot summer sun.
It is radically changed from
what it once was,
so faded and worn,
so drab and forlorn.
Is there any hope for
my fast-fading hope?
(don't say "nope")

Lori Fiechter
November 30, 2000

Restless

Chomping at my bit,
Tugging at my leash,
pacing back and forth
in the cage I constructed;
Revving my hot rod
at a red traffic light,
gulping mouthfuls of minutes
without chewing them right.

Let me run,
Let me run,
Let me run
till I run down;
I don’t like this quiet,
the empty echo in my soul;
Let me run till I drop
and fall off my treadmill;
Let me aimlessly,
hopelessly,
restlessly run.

Lori Fiechter
November 27, 2000

Taking Umbrage

(Psalm 119:165)

I have a little fellow
who goes everywhere with me
He helps me notice things
that others may not even see.

I can smell a slight
ten yards away
and my pride can feel a pea
under five of Sealy’s thickest;
I have such sensitivity.

Oh, I can be offended by
nearly anything you say,
And if you do not speak at all,
your snub offends me anyway.

I’ll tell you what I think,
without mincing any pie:
You disgust me; You displease me
She offends me and he grieves me;
I haven’t any friends at all,
and can’t imagine why.

For I think the best of others,
I’ve the forbearance of a saint;
In spite of its translucence,
my skin’s as tough as
reindeer steak.

I’m not such a prickly fellow;
Can’t you give a guy a break?
I’m as amiable as a puppy,
it’s just this umbrage that I take.

Lori Fiechter
December 2, 2000

Some People just Can’t Take a Compliment

I like your dress--
I can’t wear such drab colors
but they are so "you".

Fab hair you have—
Retro, isn’t it?
Looks just like your yearbook photo.
Of course, I wasn’t even alive
back then.

Delightful speech you gave—
I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep
after the first forty minutes;
It wasn’t?
I guess it only seemed that long.

Lucky you—I just read that
the waif-like figure
is no longer in vogue.
If you wait long enough,
liver spots and wrinkles may be
stylish as well.

But really, I wouldn’t change a thing
about your appearance—
Why bother?
No one would notice anyway.

Me? No, I don’t drink it straight.
I like my vinegar on the rocks,
with a twist of grapefruit.
Funny you should ask.

Lori Fiechter
December 2, 2000

If at First

If at first you do succeed,
chalk it up
to beginner’s luck.
If at first you don’t succeed,
then,
welcome to the club!

Lori Fiechter
November 20, 2000

A Laurel to Rest Upon

I’d like just one laurel
to rest on;
It would make a rare
pillow for me.
I don’t need a heap
of that leafy green stuff;
Just one I could
savor
before it crumbled to
dust.

Lori Fiechter
November 25, 2000

If the Shoe Fits

If the shoe fits,
buy two pair.
If the price is right,
buy three.
If your credit card
is getting warm,
Submerge it in
iced tea.
If you live your life
by maxims,
You may live a
paradox.
(If the shoe fits
and you bought
three pair;
you're going to need
more socks.)

Lori Fiechter
11-8-2000

I stayed up until 2AM watching election returns until I finally give in and went to bed. Any one else caught up in the excitement?

The Fat Lady is put on Hold

The "fat lady" began to sing,
Then spluttered, nearly keeled.
As someone yelled,
"Rewrite the end!" and then,
"Rewind the reel!"
Skip the song of elephants;
Hold off the "Donkey's Dirge".
"It ain't over",
perhaps not even close.
pour back your Champagne
for the toast.
The rubber band is tensed
to snap.
Oh, yes, she'll sing
her muted song
sometime;
But for now,
I need a nap.

Lori Fiechter
November 8, 2000

Lori Fiechter
November 9, 2000

You Call that Poetry?

The words have no melody
or symmetry;
no harmony
or imagery;
No rhythm or flow.
You call that poetry?
I call it prose:
trees of prose
cut into pieces
and stacked haphazardly
like sticks of
uneven firewood.
If that is poetry,
then what is prose
but poetry glued
back together again?

Lori Fiechter
September 23, 2000

Words Like Water

You have a fire hose
filling your swimming pool.
I struggle to fill my cup
with an eye-dropper.
Your words flow
like a river
at flood stage.
My words trickle,
drop by excruciating drop
onto dusty paper,
evaporating
like water droplets
on the leeward
side of the mountain.