mini poems 17

1.  Back-pat Dependent, Hope is not a Humid Word
2.  Hope is not a Humid Word
3.  Got Paint?
4. Got Paint?, Not enough to doubt
5.  Is Freedom, Folded-up Dreams
6. Everybody's Got a Bee, Thinking in the Fog
7. To Emily (Dickinson)
8. It Must Be the Mirror,  Caked-on Pride
9. Unceasing Wind, More than Winter

    

   

   Wean yourself from praise; it rots the teeth and spoils the complexion.
   And don't bite the hand that stops feeding.

    Back-pat Dependent

    The cat would nip me
   when I stopped.
   "Keep petting me,"
   he meowed.

   Just like that cat--
   I crave back-pats
   And when the compliments dry up,
   I frown and snap and growl.

   lori fiechter
   8-5-03

   

    My Muse has ADD

    My muse dropped by
   to chat today
   and then, abruptly,
   sashayed away.
   And though I beg
   most graciously,
   she won't return
   my calls.

   Have I offended her?
   Or maybe she's just rude:
   Capricious, flighty,
   distractable,
   inattentive, hyperactive,
   I should excuse my undependable muse
   she must have ADD.

    lori fiechter
   7-30-03

   

    Hope is not a Humid Word

    Hope is not a humid word;
   it is a splashing-fountain word
   a breeze that lifts the sweat from
   off your brow and carries it away

   Hope is not hot cocoa;
   it is icy lemonade.
   Hope is not a "detour" sign
   but a   "Yes, we're Open"
   when every other store
   is closed and shuttered.

    Lori Fiechter
   7-30-03

   

    Northeastern Indiana--the flood of 2003.

    Flood-fallowed

    fields fallowed
   by accident;
   By Nature's act;
   laid barren by flood.
   resting brown,
   mud-ugly,
   dusty dead
   resting now
   from their drowning
   these flood-fallowed fields.

    Lori Fiechter
   7-30-03

   

    Got Paint?

    "One gallon should do it"
   the shed is so small;
   Four gallons weren't sufficient
   to cover it all!
   The shed is a camel;
   our white weathered boards
   drink latex like water,
   like bathtubs of water.

   Our shed is as thirsty
   as fifty-five cats,
   lapping latex like milk,
   slurping gallons and gallons
   of milky white paint.
   And--
   the mosquitos are thirsty as well.

    lori fiechter
   7-30-03

Not enough to doubt

 That is not enough to make me doubt,
not to make me doubt convincingly,
doubt incessantly,
doubt past the time of crisis.

 This is not enough to make you believe,
not enough to make you believe seriously,
believe unswervingly,
believe past the glimpse of light.

 So, where were we?

 lori fiechter
july 16, 2003

Why is freedom's call so enticing, so inviting, so strong? "What the Black Pearl is, is freedom".

 Is Freedom

 unmoored and unfettered,
full-fledged and unclipped
uncaged and unshackled,
no lien and no mortgage
nothing due, nothing owed.
wide expanses of horizon
and wings to explore.

 lori fiechter
7-30-03

Folded-up Dreams

A dream folded up
like a cherished love letter;
pressed into a journal
and left there to age--
Creased gently, uncrumpled,
but almost forgotten
in that yellow-paged journal
of folded-up dreams.

lori fiechter
july 28, 2003

"All the world is queer save thee and me, and even thou art a little queer." --Robert Owen, 1828
On eye-motes and eye-beams, cracked pots and blind spots.

Everybody's Got a Bee

Everybody's got a bee,
A bonnet-bee they cannot see;
A brain that's sane
and free of rot,
save in that one, bee-ridden spot
where they are slightly fey.

 But God can use us, bees and all,
for in humility, recall
our imperfections yield Him praise
that saner bonnets, wise and staid,
accredit to themselves.

 So know your bees and curse them not;
for they buzz not in vain,
And fools who know their foolishness
See further than the sane.

 lori fiechter
May 17, 2003

Thinking in the Fog

Brain fogs.
Spiritual fogs:
Head in the clouds;
Clouds on the ground.
My eyes are open
But I cannot see.
I need to see.
I am straining my brain,
thinking in this fog.
I swat the clouds but
They aren't going anywhere.
I sprint through them--
aiming for blue sky;
I know there is blue sky somewhere.
But not here.
Here there is a line of spruce trees.
Ouch.
It's no good.
Blow, Spirit, blow!
Burn, Son, and shine!
I am down here,
sitting on damp spruce needles,
seeing nothing,
waiting for clarity.

lori fiechter
May 8, 2003

To Emily (Dickinson)

I like to feel the pages turn
and scan with eager eyes
the measured step or frenzied jig
of words paired up by size.

Ah, enigmatic Emily,
Almost a friend you seem to me.
Could but my phrases pirouette
with half the grace of yours,
I’d call myself a poetess
and none would dare demur.

Lori fiechter
April 5, 2003

It Must Be the Mirror

The face in the mirror
is much older than mine,
smiling left, smiling right,
trying to find a good side.
A smile takes off ten years
(at least from a distance)
but that’s not enough anymore.
I’ve decided the mirror is
a Dorian Gray picture,
let it do the aging,
It is not as I feared--
For I’m not growing older;
(I don’t feel any older)
No, I’m not growing older--
It must be the mirror.

lori fiechter
April 4, 2003

 Caked-on Pride

Years of pride, glossy pride,
Caked-on like icing
to cover the blemishes,
to cover the fear.
This pride dulls the hearing
and weighs the feet down,
It accumulates steadily,
year after year.

Before you've turned to sweet stone,
Let Him take the chisel,
There's a heart of flesh beating
somewhere deep inside,
There's a heart that is tired of
pretense and posturing,
Somewhere past those layers
and layers
of pride.

lori fiechter
4-4-03