 | essayindex poemindex |
- Word Play, Wet Cement Poems
- That Back-to-School Smell, The Swiftest Month
- Refreshing?, An Eternity in Five Minutes
- Time, Without a Shell
- If I Only had Nothing to Fear, Tarstruck
- Never at the Same Time, The Brown, Brown Grass of Home
- Ode to a Chicken, Chicken Feathers
- -ibble Words, Hairy Carrots
- By the Dawn's Early Light, A Mother's Prerogative
- No Perspective, The Things we don't Covet
- Seeing Snakes, In it for the Long Haul
- Weeds Again, Naturally, Flashbulbs on the Water
- Grocery Store Ghosts , Too Soon for Nostalgia
- Consider the Buttercup, Hopes Hopping Low
- The Emperor's New Poem
- Golden Oldie; Don't wrestle with my tea
- Don't Tread on Me, Spring Green
- Almost a Compliment, For the Wrong Reason
Word Play
Some play with balls;
I play with words:
I kick them around,
catching some and tossing others.
Some play with music,
tickling the ivories,
strumming on strings;
I play with words:
experimenting with melody,
rhythm, and harmony.
Some play with numbers;
I play with words:
looking for patterns,
adding here, subtracting there
until the equation is balanced.
Some play with tools;
I play with words:
I measure and cut, fit and build
until the whole is complete.
It's a full-time occupation,
just playing with words.
Lori Fiechter,
August 26, 1999
Wet Cement Poems
I wallow in hyperbole;
Stick my toe in wet cliches;
Skim softly over similes;
get stuck in imagery for days.
I'd like to step in satire
But it's too deep and I'll not float.
I'm stuck with my close-to-shore metaphors
Until I get a boat.
Lori fiechter, August 26, 1999
That Back-to-School Smell
The smell of erasers
and fresh pencil shavings;
of just opened Crayolas
and Elmer's school glue;
of textbooks and bookbags;
Of chalkdust and markers
of gym shoes and lockers
and cafeteria food.
Though decades have elapsed,
I can easily tell
the unmistakable components
of that back-to-school smell.
Lori fiechter, August 20, 1999
The Swiftest Month
If April be the cruelest month,
Then August is the fastest.
When the lazy days of summer haze
grow legs and race right past us.
Summer brakes and school begins
for yet another year
Until school breaks and
those lazy days of summer reappear.
Lori fiechter, August 20, 1999
Refreshing?
He said I was refreshing.
Refreshing? Yes, that's me:
Like an ice-cold glass of water
(down your parka on a
cold winter's day).
Ah, yes. Refreshing.
(more like bracing)
That's me.
Lori fiechter, 8-18-99
An Eternity in Five Minutes
You have five minutes until:
It's your turn on the roller coaster.
The bell rings on the first day of school.
You get to read your report in front of the class.
The doctor will see you.
The ambulance arrives.
The hurricane makes landfall.
This plane runs out of fuel.
Eternity.
Five minutes never seemed so long.
Lori Fiechter, 8-18-99
Time
Spend it;
Save it;
Waste it;
Kill it;
Watch it fly;
Watch it crawl.
Eat the tiny pieces up
till none are left at all.
Squander it or savor it;
Fritter it away.
You can't hoard it;
You don't need to;
Catch some on a rainy day.
Racing ever faster or else
dragging much too slow.
Intangible, non-recyclable;
When it's gone--
Where does it go?
lori fiechter,
8-11-99
"Remember how short my time is...Psalm 89:47"
Without a Shell
Unguarded,
caught without my shell;
The shell that defines me,
protects me,
and gives me respectability.
Without it,
I'm ugly and vulnerable:
a slimy slug,
a podless pea,
a newly molted crab.
Without it, I'm not me.
(or if I am that shapeless mess,
I want no one else to see.)
Lori Fiechter, 8-12-99
"Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight:
but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do."
--Hebrews 4:13
I was walking down our lane to get the mail when I noticed a pigeon clumsily stumble off the peak of the barn. He didn't stumble long, for then he spread his wings and glided to the bottom edge of the roof. I thought to myself, "if I only had wings, I wouldn't fear falling"
If I Only had Nothing to
Fear
If I only had wings,
I'd have no fear of falling.
And if I had gills,
I'd have no fear of drowning.
With the shrew's metabolism,
I'd not fear getting fat.
And I'd not fear the dark
with the sonar of the bat.
If I could see life through the butterfly's eye,
I wouldn't fear change
when my caterpillars die.
But there is still fear of failure,
of rejection and loss;
Of illness and injury
and just growing old.
For there will always be fears
for the fearful to fear;
For those of us who
never once tried being bold.
Lori fiechter,
8-10-99
Tarstruck
Settling slowly, by degrees
a laziness and lethargy;
depression crept in stealthily.
Too late, I tried to shake it free;
It stuck like tar to me.
I could remove it, scrape it off
But doing that takes energy.
So I'll just cover up the spots
until they've covered me.
For now,
"Yes, I'm just fine--and you?"
(I wonder, have you been tarstruck too?)
Is there a long-term remedy
for this recurrent malady?
Lori Fiechter, 8-12-99
Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him..." Psalm 42:5
Never at the Same Time
Words, but no experiences;
Experience, but no words.
Food, but no appetite;
Appetite, but no food.
Money, but little leisure;
Leisure, but little money.
Answers to questions no one asks;
Questions no one can answer.
Is life itself a paradox?
(or are paradoxes life?)
lori fiechter, 8-7-99
The Brown, Brown Grass of Home
The velvety carpet
So soft on my toes
Has turned to rough straw
that nobody mows.
When will it rain again?
--nobody knows.
"Chances are likely"
No, do not believe it;
The dark clouds we spy
Will do no more than tease us.
The lawn pants with parched lips;
The corn fields all fry;
Our once busy mower
sits idly by.
We are powerless to coax
just one inch from the sky.
And everything's dry;
Everything's dry.
Lori Fiechter, August 7, 1999
Ode to a Chicken
I'm trying, but there's
not much to praise:
no lilting song,
no beauty or grace;
nothing, except the way
you taste:
Roasted, fried, or barbecued,
baked or broiled, steamed or stewed,
homely chicken on which I dine,
that is where you truly shine.
(on my plate, you are great.)
lori fiechter, 8-7-99
Chicken Feathers
Chicken feathers in my eye,
feathers up my nose.
Chicken feathers fine as dust,
heaped about my toes.
Birds, your feathers make me sneeze;
Keep them in your cages, please.
No more flapping in my face,
wafting feathers everyplace;
Can't you settle down a bit?
(You cannot fly, why do you try?)
Just lay those eggs and sit.
Lori fiechter, 8-7-99
-ibble Words
-ibble words are carefree, playful;
-abble words are too:
Dibble, dabble
scribble, scrabble
babble like a zoo.
kibble, quibble
bobble, hobble
(-obble words all seem to wobble)
double bubble bubbles double
skedaddle, now;
I'm through.
lori fiechter, 7-27-99
Hairy Carrots
My carrots are hairy;
all whiskered and wizened;
they've been in the crisper drawer
long past their crisp.
With white beards all tangled
like overgrown ivy;
neglected, forgotten;
ungroomed and untidy
my carrots look eerily
Rip Van Winkle-esque.
(I never thought when I bought them
that they'd end up like this.)
lori fiechter
7-29-99
By
the Dawn's Early Light
Fresh verses, penned at night
Taste like ambrosia
to my soul.
But by morning's harsh,
appraising light
I see more pabulum in my bowl.
Lori fiechter, 7-16-99
An e-mail friend of mine wrote: (when I complained about having to nag my boys to do a better job checking for dead chickens)
"Don't think of it as nagging, think of it as instruction when you have to remind children of their duties and doing them with care. I once thought that I was a nag with my kids sometimes, but now that they're older, I've had both of them tell me that they learned to do things with care and determination because I demanded it of them when they were young."
A
Mother's Prerogative
It is a mother's job to nag
when zeal and dedication sag.
We're building character, you see;
a job that we take seriously.
And when at last you get it right--
all on your own, without a fight--
Our job is finished; we resign
(And you can nag your own in time).
Lori Fiechter
7-1-99
With my nose pressed to the canvas,
I'm convinced the painting's ugly:
It's all a blur, it hurts my eyes,
I cannot understand it.
Perhaps someday I'll see the form,
the beauty, even the design.
But today, I am too close.
Lori Fiechter, 6-24-99
The
Things we don't Covet
We covet the spacious homes
and new SUV's,
The lucrative job with all
its prestige;
But not the long hours of work,
not the headaches and stress;
and not the toll taken on relationships.
We covet patience and fortitude
But not the trials that came before.
We covet empathy and sensitivity
But the pain--the pain we deplore.
We covet the fruit;
We long for a bite;
But we never covet the sacrifice.
Lori Fiechter
6-4-99
Seeing Snakes
Last week, I mowed a
garter snake;
I didn't know until
it was too late.
It was just a little snake
but it startled me plenty;
...Now I keep seeing snakes
Where there aren't any.
Lori Fiechter
6-4-99
In it for the Long Haul
I planned for the short haul
and ran out of gas;
I sprinted too fast,
Thought each leg was the last.
Now it's time to fill up,
begin training again;
To start pacing myself
for the long haul;
and stopping bracing myself
for my next fall.
Lori Fiechter
5-27-99
Weeds Again, Naturally
Pokagon State Park, 1999
The deer won't eat the weeds,
The nasty-tasting wild mustard;
No, they prefer to dine on Trillium
and the tasty bark of tender trees.
And so, year by year, the weeds increase;
choking out the ferns and wildflowers.
We somehow introduced the invaders;
And then, threw up our hands as Nature took her course.
But Nature left to herself has run wild;
her hair is messy, unkempt, weedy.
The aliens claim squatters' rights;
and push the children from their nest.
Lori Fiechter
5-27-99
Edged in algae, dotted inside with
dead trees and water lily clumps:
Farm-ground drowned and christened wetland.
There is little to recommend its beauty
but someone is taking pictures:
It is the sunlight blinking on the water's surface like
the flashbulbs of a dozen paparazzi;
blinking with blinding brilliance.
A pair of mallards glide side by side
through the forest of dead trees;
A muskrat swims, snake-like,
leaving a v-shaped wake across the lake.
A cloud passes over and
The cameras rest.
Lori fiechter
5-28-99
Grocery Store Ghosts
I saw myself in the grocery store;
I saw the ghosts of past and future:
First, a young mother, pushing her cart
heavy from the groceries
and her two toddlers riding underneath
(smiling their juice-mustache grins).
That was me, once.
And then, I saw the elderly couple,
walking slowly, unsteadily
Down the aisle,
Leaning on each other to
keep their balance.
I am somewhere in between;
Still closer in time to the young mother
and yet realizing that the conveyor belt
moves only one way;
it will be time to check out
all too soon.
I hope the ice cream will not all have melted.
Lori Fiechter
5-27-99
Too Soon for Nostalgia
Too soon for nostalgia,
But the present has
such a low melting point
and yesterday seems not as
real as the far distant past.
The present blurs;
Tomorrow fades;
And yet, memories glow brighter.
Lori fiechter
5-27-99
Consider the Buttercup
Philippians 2:5
A face perennially fresh and clean;
cheerful, sunny, bright.
The gentle, lowly buttercup
glistens in the light.
She covets not the lilac's scent
Nor the tiger lily's height.
Unassuming, unpretentious,
she just blooms with all her might:
In pasture fields and shady woods,
on the banks along the road,
She sparkles there among the grass
and glitters like the gold.
Lori fiechter
5-22-99
Instead of "The Little Engine who Could"; the frog who won't.
Hopes Hopping Low
Hopes hopping low,
hopping short, hopping slow
With the legs of a frog
but the heart of a toad.
Once you jumped for the sky,
stretched your legs and let go
But you fell through the cloud
to land--splat--on the road.
Now you just bump along,
like a toad, hopping low.
Lori Fiechter
5-23-99
Does anyone else have a hard time understanding modern poetry?
The Emperor's New Poem
The minstrel offered to the literary society
the promise of a splendid ode;
a poem so intricate and erudite
that only the most literate could understand it.
This poem would be a tapestry, woven of
nuance and subtlety;
textured with symbols and allusions.
After many weeks, the members gathered for
the recitation.
In the hallway, stood a janitor;
no unlearned worker, he,
but a man weaned on Emerson and Poe,
nourished on Sandburg and Frost,
with poetry in his veins.
And so he leaned outside the door,
hand on his mop, and listened.
The literati gathered, glittering in all their finery,
clinking their flutes of sparkling spumante.
They listened with proper deference as the poet
read his work.
There was a slight hesitation, then undulating applause.
There were raves and plaudits and exclamations of delight until
one voice cut through the cloying sweetness:
"But it doesn't mean anything"
Silence. All turned to gape at the one who dared question the
validity of this masterpiece.
They laughed when they saw the old janitor;
"A plebe; a drone--what does he know of Art?"
They continued on with their
unstinting praise of insipid work.
The janitor gave a parting shot,
"If that path is Art, then I will take the road less traveled."
But he was invisible now.
Lori fiechter
5-18-99
"We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by
the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "it's clever, but is it Art?"
--Kipling
Golden Oldie
The golden voice cracks now with age;
That voice which once rang rich and clear.
The golden tone is flat and thin,
no longer pleasing to the ear.
The golden voice is frail and weak
The cords are old and tired, worn;
but the feeling is more poignant;
There is more soul in the song.
There is a fullness, of life replete.
And so we beg--Sing on, and on.
Lori fiechter, 5-8-99
I looked out the window yesterday and saw my sun tea jar lying on its side; I righted it and then saw it knocked over again. Finally, I caught the culprit in the act
I blamed the wind, but the
fault was entirely the cat's:
He wrestled with my sun tea jar
and knocked it over flat.
I should have used a gallon jug
instead of just a quart.
Ginger never could have hugged it down;
his arms are just too short.
Lori Fiechter
5-17-99
Don't Tread on Me
I hear the spry spring cricket nymphs
popping like corn on the
leaf-strewn forest floor;
I see them dart away at the sound
of my heavy footsteps,
as they frantically try to avoid the tread
of my size seven Nikes.
They sound the alarm:
"The giant is coming!
The giant is coming!"
I mean no harm.
But I wreak havoc whenever I walk in Lilliput.
lori fiechter, 5-10-99
Spring Green
A green you breathe:
the woods in May.
No more of April's mud bouquet.
Just foliage fresh and fragrant:
a blossom-scented day.
Bright, leafy shade beneath the wind,
A green you feel, a vibrant calm,
A green that wraps you lovingly:
a shelter soothing, a tonic; balm.
A green too rich for winter eyes;
A green you breathe and smell and taste
elixir of the first degree--
just perfect for the ides of May.
Lori fiechter
5-8-99
Almost a Compliment
She said, "Your hairpiece looks almost real"
"I can hardly tell where you patched up your mistake"
"Great outfit; it really hides those extra pounds."
"Your spaghetti sauce is almost as good as mom's".
"That column you wrote was almost
as powerful as the previous one."
"You play nearly as well as your sister"
I almost retorted, "Thanks for almost
giving me a compliment".
Lori fiechter, 5-10-99
This poem is a companion to the one above. I got the idea for it when one of the 4th grade girls in our Sunday school class said how much she liked me for a teacher, "because you are weird, like me." A couple of others chimed in, "yeah, you're funny" (sigh) Great compliment--but for the wrong reason.
"You are my favorite teacher"
--you hardly ever give us homework.
"I love coming to your house to eat"
--our mom won't let us drink soda pop at meals.
"You make me laugh"
--you are so funny-looking!
"I love your new book"
--the dust jacket matches the color scheme in our living room.
"Being with you makes me feel better"
--My problems seem small in comparison.
"Your children are so beautiful"
--your husband must be very handsome.
I preferred not knowing "the reason why".
(time for another plaintive sigh)
lori fiechter
5-12-99