mini poems3

1. Petting the Cat Backward, No Opera Phantom, but still...
2. The Author and the Illustrator, Mind Edges
3. Bleak Glory,  Addicted to Superlatives
4. November, like Fish and Houseguests, The Elusive Essence
5. Skating Word Strings, The Straw that Broke the Analogy's Back
6. For Whom the Sunsets?  , To Everything a Purpose!,
7. Cold, Techno-glow,  Inspiration at 4 AM
8. A Soul is not a Cell,  Waiting for the Dawn
9. Some to Skim,  Requested: Adequacy plus
10. John Deere,  Green Soup that Swam
11. Autumn Speaks,  "Pristine"
12. Viral Fog,  Penmanship
13. Snowflakes Dancing in the Dark , How Cold is It?
14. Snow Stallion  ,Window Cats
15. Vanilla Skunk,  "Ugly Cookie Saga"

Petting the Cat Backward

Petting the cat backward--
Static! And spitting scratches!
Rubbing me the wrong way--
Sparks! And sizzling hisses!
...I hope that you are non-combustible.
(Well, you have been warned!)

lori fiechter, 12-2-98

No Opera Phantom, but still...

It is the last thing I do at night:
I peel off my mask and
stuff it under my pillow.
How good it feels without
that rubber skin pressing against my face!
For a few hours, I am free.
For a few hours, I am myself.
But no one must see me this way;
they would not like me.
So, I sneak into the bathroom
first thing every morning
to pull that mask on again.
It is tight and itches.
It makes my face break out--
which is why I need it
all the more to cover my blemishes.
I am ugly beneath my mask;
I am too imperfect.
You would find me dull company, indeed.
No one must ever find out
what I am really like.
And so, I wear my mask;
while inside, the real me atrophies.
(I wonder if there will soon be any "real me" left)
I am so tired and find myself
wishing for a friend who
would love me maskless.....

lori fiechter
11-2-98

The Author and the Illustrator

I paint with words.
My pen is my brush,
turning pictures into poems.
He writes with paint.
His canvas is his parchment,
turning stories into pictures.
We are complements,
not adversaries.
Knowing we are better together,
more than the sum of our parts.

Lori fiechter, 11-24-98

Sometimes I sense them:
dark shadowed corners
that fill the remotest
edges of my mind.
Insight lives there--with truth and wisdom.
But they are cloaked and shrouded and veiled.
The corners remain unexamined;
I'm not sure that they even exist.
And I have no light strong enough
to pierce that darkness.

lori fiechter, 12-2-98

Bleak Glory

Sunset through bare branches;
No leaves to blot out the background.
A stark, cold beauty:
Black trunks and tendrils silhouetted
across a sky of piercing cyan
layered with blankets of fuchsia.
The winter sky swallows up the competition.
It is no bystander now but all protagonist.
I never saw such a sky before
and sunset through bare branches.

lori fiechter, 11-24-98

Addicted to Superlatives

The graph must show one straight line
angling ever up and up.
For I am addicted to superlatives.
There must be no dip, no pause
in my ascent.
Everything I do must be the best ever
and continue to improve.
But it is an ugly addiction...
demanding ever more of me.
The delight is gone.
I must wean myself.
There will be times when
I don't measure up--
but I will press on.
I will listen more to that inner voice
and less to the clamoring ones outside.

lori fiechter, 11-24-98

November, like Fish and Houseguests

Unannounced and uninvited,
an unpleasant and unwelcome guest:
November is a rude month,
barging in without knocking,
unceremoniously booting out our
beloved October with a sneering,
"It's my turn, now."
It is no use to complain about
his manners. He just
smiles a nasty smile and says
"Wait until you see my brothers!"
For November's dreariness is but the harbinger
of January's bleakness
and February's despair.
All that lies between is the
loud and jolly and colorful
(and stressful)
month of December.
October, October,
Wherefore art thou?

Lori fiechter, 11-6-98

The Elusive Essence

I'm a surface-skimming hydroplane
But in my heart, a submarine;
Delving deeply for the essence,
Searching for the things unseen.

Shaking loose the mental cobwebs
Listening past the surface sense.
Finding hinges on the gate
of that "familiar phrases" fence.

Pushing past the clouds of clutter,
boiling off impurities;
when I've finished the distilling,
What will the "essence" be?

(If I try this on myself,
I hope there's something left of me.)

lori fiechter, 11-16-98

Skating Word Strings

Mechanically stringing words
like plastic beads;
There is pattern and color
but no meaning or soul,
no thought or insight;
Just clever word gymnastics.
Our words figure-skate,
Earning high marks for
technical merit
But falling woefully short
in artistic expression.
Skillfully-skating,
soul-less word strings.

Lori fiechter, 10-28-98

The Straw that Broke the Analogy's Back

All analogies, carried to the extreme,
tumble down like a tower of blocks,
built just one block too high.
Or else they disintegrate, like a fresh cookie
dunked in a steaming mug of coffee.
Or they fall apart, like a favorite shirt
washed one too many times.
Of course, some analogies are no stronger
than a house of cards to begin with;
some have no more sticking power than
a Post-It note.
Some.....well, you get the picture!

Lori fiechter, 11-3-98

For Whom the Sunsets?

Wispy strands of cirrus
like frosted glass
against a window pane of blue;
Why such beauty?
For what? For whom?
For birds? For trees?
For beasts? For stones?
Are sunsets watched by man alone?
We gaze up high--We wonder why:
for whom the sunsets in the sky?

Lori fiechter
10-14-98
(I stood outside, admiring a gorgeous sunset and then looked at the cats
crawling around my feet--they didn't notice the sky or even seem to care.)

(This one is self-explanatory; I think I mentioned I have three sons: ages 10, 10, and 7 1/2)
To Everything a Purpose!

You can't make soil in a sweeper;
it isn't meant for crushing stone.
And mashing corn cobs dredged in mud
will not produce a tasty pone.
(don't try to feed it to the cat;
you know he's not as dumb as that!)

That spiky little hammer thing
I use for pounding meat.
It's not for smashing gravel, boys;
It's not for scratching feet.

I encourage imagination, sons
but messes, I abhor.
The tools I use have purpose, boys--
Just ask me what they're for!

Lori fiechter, 10-15-98

Cold, Techno-glow

I left the printer on last night
And now that corner's bathed in light:
No amber glow, but chilly green;
It paints a surrealistic scene.
I could get up and turn it off
But bed is warm, my pillow soft.
And so, I close my eyes to sleep,
Avoiding thoughts of cold, pale beams,
of sickly, cyber-techno greens
(I'm not expecting pleasant dreams.)

lori fiechter, 11-3-98

Inspiration at 4 AM

I usually am a "somniac";
That is, without the "in".
I'll snore through storms of any kind--
but not this morning's wind!
Wide awake at 3 AM,
my mind begins to spin.
And I'd do anything if I could
shut it off again!
Poem fragments float, then fly with frenzy--
taunting me to catch them all.
But I have no pen and paper
and my memory chip is small.
I snatched a few--poor, shredded shards--
snagged in the cobwebs of my brain.
Some were "keepers", most were small
and I threw them back again.
Now the sun is up, the room is light
and now, I've writer's block.
Oh, why did inspiration choose
to call at 4 o'clock?

Lori fiechter, 11-3-98

A Soul is not a Cell

A soul must have windows
with a view beyond its walls
no matter how dark and dusty the room,
no matter how all pervading the gloom,
the windows should be kept clean;
scrupulously sparkling
or the soul will die of
doubt, despair, and despondency.
At least, there must be a tiny circle
of light and hope,
a circle rubbed clean and spotless
so that the soul can see beyond--
beyond the present situation,
beyond self.

Lori fiechter, 10-15-98

Waiting for the Dawn

Watching for the morning,
Waiting for the dawn.
The endless night robs me of sight,
The night drags on and on.
The shadows weave a tapestry
of doubt and fear and dread.
Vision decays as dawn delays
and colors fade into shades of gray
All light, all hope is dead.
My eyes grow dim, this cave is grim;
Will I ever taste the sun again?

Watching for the morning,
Waiting for the dawn;
Clinging to remembered rays
While night drags on and on....

lori fiechter,  10-22-98

Green Soup that Swam

Peppered with parentheses and
semi-colons (to make you sneeze!)
Well-seasoned, punctuated stew:
a hot and hearty poem ragout.
If you prefer a bouillabaisse,
you'll have to look some other place.
I will not touch that spicy dish,
I do not like that soup of fish!

Lori Fiechter, 10-14-98

"Pristine"

"Pristine" evokes an
Alpine scene:
A glacial lake,
a crystal stream;
A wilderness:
unsullied, clean;
Untamed, untouched,
noble, serene.

lori fiechter
10-12-98

I was trying in vain to season my spaghetti sauce for dinner. No use--everything tastes bland. Perhaps this would be a good time to try out that hot Thai spicy paste seasoning from my brother Dave? Or I could just eat the tapioca I made last night; I probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference. How long can the common cold linger? ( I must have the Energizer strain.)

Viral Fog
(day 14 of the common cold)

The salt has lost its savor
although the salt
is not at fault.
Nor can I blame my taste buds;
without any question
it is nasal congestion.
My brain's in a bog,
My sinuses clogged;
I'm trying to drive
through a thick, viral fog
with no headlights
or road signs
and no sense of direction:
I'm lost in the fog
of this viral infection.

lori fiechter, 1-2-99

Window Cats

Feline faces at the window,
Spoiling my breakfast tea.
Furry faces sadly meowing,
Faces pleading plaintively;
First, the tabby,
Then, the gray
Accusingly, they seem to say:
"And when will you feed us today?"
Though it seems rude to close the blinds,
That is the route I choose most times.
But today, I let my tea grow cold
While I fill up their catfood bowl
with store brand catfood
(crunchy, dry)
The gray is munching,
The tabby eyes
the fare and then turns up
his whiskered nose
As if to say,
"You can't expect a cat like me
(I must have a regal pedigree)
To dine on fare so plebeian.
Perhaps you have a bit of meat--
just barely cooked, not over-done?"
Cats have chutzpah, cats have nerve,
beguiling puffs of purr and fur;
Presumptuous, they beg and whine
(It did Tabby little good this time...)

lori fiechter, 12-22-98

Last night, a skunk must have been under our house. At least, my son Brandon claimed he smelled skunk coming through the register. (What he said was "I heard it spray" but I believe the smell would have been infinitely stronger had the been the case) And so, what did my brilliant young sons do but spray vanilla spray all over the house--I'm guessing half a bottle at least. I got a headache and wrote this:

Vanilla Skunk

"I heard it spritz
under the house
and so I sprayed the vent."
And now we smell the wafting drafts
of skunk-vanilla scent.
Experimental accident--
my sons proclaim their innocence.
But their brand of aroma-therapy
does not produce beneficence.
(I had a slight headache before;
and a grand one subsequent...)

lori fiechter, 12-8-98

Immediately subsequent (within the hour) to the vanilla skunk episode was the
"Ugly Cookie Saga":  (as written to my sister Lisa)

I had to make Christmas cookies for a caroling party (it's tonight) for our 4th grade girls' Sunday school class. I made pressed cookies--using that little cookie press machine. Here is the story:

Last night I went around singing "They're the ugliest cookies in the whole USA" (you know the tune). I made 2 batches of spritz cookies for the party (now that butter is a more reasonable $1.85 per pound). The first batch was a lovely shade of green. I wanted red (pink) for the next batch. I don't know why I didn't just use my red paste coloring--perhaps because there was only a tiny encrusted bit left in the bottom of the jar. (Remember how mom's all looked?) So I used the liquid food coloring with the red lid. Red lid, red color, right? I mean, that seems logical enough.

It was yellow.

Here is where I made my "no brains turned on today" mistake. I know better, but I thought that if I added enough of that really powerful red paste (I added hot water to it and smashed up the crust) that I would get a sort of pink. Wrong! I just kept getting a darker and darker shade of orange. Brandon remarked: "Mommy, it looks like pumpkins" (sigh) Thus, the song. I even tried camouflaging those orange butterflies and Christmas trees  by dusting them (OK, submerging them) in powdered sugar.    Now the color is even harder to describe.