mini poems 6

1. Waking Thoughts, Bad Poems
2. Pulling out of the Rat Race, In Pursuit of Happiness
3. Take heed, lest, The Road Reluctantly Traveled
4. By the Numbers, Mystery of the White Hair
5. A Plethora of Shrimp, Hoof-in-Mouth, again
6. No Agenda, just Addenda
7. It's all in the Abs, Word Tasting
8. I Must be Clever, Baby Swiss or Limburger?
9. Disappointment makes me Crabby
10. Have You Seen My Poem?
11. Stitching Lines
12. Hungry Hopes, Dark so Soon
13. Muddy Thinking, Burnout
14. Raw Potato Poems, Gnawing Ideas
15. Unfinished Projects, Tower of Blocks
16. Sharp, Dull
17. 33 Flavors, Soft
18. I am Wool Boucle, Seersucker Thighs

Lori Fiechter,
November 17, 1999

Take heed, lest

Take heed,
stay alert;
It's no time
for complacence.
You boast of position;
you walk and stand tall.
And yet,
stones of pride
cause the mighty to stumble
Watch your step
and your attitude;
Take heed,
lest you fall.

Lori Fiechter,

November 3, 1999

I heard this saying yesterday and it keeps running through my mind:
"You don't have to like it; you just have to do it."

The Road Reluctantly Traveled

Resignation to my duty;
calm acceptance of my lot;
I've grown weary of the struggle,
the "if only's" that are not.
I do not like this road, "Maturity"--
bending, wending, winding on.
But I will watch the far horizon;
focus far and journey on.

Lori Fiechter,
November 3, 1999

By the Numbers

Will the number make me happy--
or will it ruin my whole day?
Will it validate my efforts
or only heighten my dismay?
I fear to look--and yet, I must;
I hold my breath, turn pale;
Until the little dial stops
And I can read the scale.

Lori Fiechter,
November 4, 1999

Mystery of the White Hair

I brushed a white hair off my shirt;
I do not have a dog--
or guinea pig, albino rat,
or white-wig wearing frog.
I'm not much good at logic,
but it's all too plain to see
that this strange and foreign object
was once a part of--
a white angora sweater.

Lori Fiechter,
November 5, 1999

A Plethora of Shrimp

(National Shrimp Festival; Gulf Shores, Alabama, 1999

Shrimp fajitas;
Shrimp on pitas;
Cajun blackened;
plump or flattened.
Jumbo, gumbo,
Shrimp with mangoes;
There is even
shrimp that tangos.
Dipped and battered,
Skewered, plattered;
"Wok"ed and fried,
fresh or dried,
As a main dish;
on the side.
Too many choices--
I falter, stall;
and end up eating none at all.
But next time,
I'll just point and choose.
It all smells great;
I cannot lose.

Lori Fiechter, October 20, 1999

Hoof-in-Mouth, again

Master of the inane remark,
Spouting words without weight.
Mouthing nonsense to fill
the empty air,
Doodles on the spoken page.
I need a faster connection
between brain and tongue.
And something must be done
about all the short circuits.

Lori Fiechter, October 20, 1999

No Agenda, just Addenda

I'm a postscript kind of person;
See my envelopes:
sealed once, then opened and taped shut again.
See the page with tiny cramped writing
filling all the margins in sideways-scripted scrawl.
See the requisite postscripts,
tacked haphazardly at the bottom.

My hand-written letters resemble
houses that are always in the state of
being remodeled;
highways constantly under construction;
Flux forever; works in progress--
if "progress" is used loosely.

My final copies revert to rough drafts
with last minute flicks of the pen.
I am plagued by second thoughts,
and third, and fourth.
There is always one last thought
I cannot bear to leave unsaid.
Finality distresses me.
A clean break I cannot make;
I prattle on
in dribs and drabs,
A victim of my own afterthoughts.

Lori Fiechter, October 22, 1999

It's all in the Abs

My handwriting is abdominal;
Or should I say abominable?
I will not piffle, puff or waffle;
In my gut, I know it's awful.

Lori Fiechter, October 22, 1999

Word Tasting

It was my first
word-tasting party;
While others swished and spat,
I swallowed everything
I could pronounce.
I only meant to slake
my thirst;
But I imbibed until I thought
I'd burst.
I savored every syllable
but now my head is spinning
with cognates and portmanteaus.
Ah, who hath sorrows? Who hath woes?
Tomorrow, I'll
have a word hangover--
in aching, halting prose.

Lori Fiechter, October 22, 1999

I Must be Clever

Other qualities are of
far greater importance:
integrity, patience, or diligence.
But no, I must be clever.
Others exercise their
quads and delts,
I exercise my wit;
that is, that perverseness of
speech that I label wit.
Others feel they must be
loved or lovable;
I strive to be quoted or quotable.
Those around me would be happier
if I'd tried harder
to be sociable and amiable;
but no, I must be clever.
And too often, I am not.

Lori Fiechter, October 22, 1999

I'm not this bad every day; but today I ran the gamut of my unpleasant personality traits.

Baby Swiss or Limburger?

Peevish and capricious;
irascible and self-absorbed.
Blunt and tactless,
curt, sarcastic;
Perhaps I will mellow with age;
(Perhaps I will be yet
more pungent.)

Lori Fiechter, October 22, 1999

Disappointment forms a crust;
Deferred hope strengthens, thickens it.
The crust is now a carapace.
(It is my way of saving face.)
I say, "I did not really care."
It sounds like sour grapes.

One day, at length, I feel a stir;
And though I do not want a cure,
Duty beckons and dangles a shiny lure:
Love--of the task for itself alone.
To truly be an amateur.
It is enough.

I crack the shell straight down the back;
I writhe and kick a bit;
I molt.
A sea change? --No.
I'm still a crab, a crab I am
But soft-shelled now, almost brand new
and that will have to do.

Lori Fiechter, October 18, 1999

Have You Seen My Poem?

Overheard at the Information desk:

"Pardon me; Have you seen my poem?"
Your what?
"My poem. I've lost it."
You've lost it, all right.
"It got away from me before
I had a chance to write it down.
Poems do that, you know."

OK, it's a slow day; I'll play along.
Give me a full description.

"Well, it is about ten lines long; unless, of course
it has grown since I last saw it.
Or it may have lost a word or two.
There was something in it about yarn; needing more yarn, I think."

That's it? That's not enough for me to go on.

"Sorry. If I could describe it more fully,
it wouldn't be lost anymore, would it?"

Tell you what. I'm going to give you the same advice I gave BoPeep.
"BoPeep?"
Yes. Is there an echo in here?
Don't worry about finding your poem;
leave it alone and it will come home,
wagging its stanzas behind it.

"Thank you! Oh, thank you so very much."

It's my job. Now leave me alone or I'll call Security.

"Security. Sounds like a good title for a poem."
What about the one about the yarn?
"Yarn? Never mind that. I've got a new poem to work on now."
(Fickle poets.)

Lori Fiechter,
September 15, 1999

Stitching Lines

Sewing without choosing a pattern first;
The patterns have such funny names:
iambic, anapestic ( or is it antiseptic?)
dactylic (idyllic?)
trochaic sounds archaic.
I pin and baste and stitch my lines,
I rip out side seams several times.
I alter the hem and sleeve length
aiming for the best proportion.
And then, I call it finished
Though it is far from perfect.
I won't point out the flaws to you:
the collar that doesn't lie quite smooth;
the decorative stitch I should have skipped;
The interfacing that is too stiff.
But I will call it finished now
so that I may start another--
Before I've forgotten how to sew.

Lori Fiechter,
September 14, 1999

Hungry Hopes

Jaded;
Hopes faded.
Withered, emaciated;
Like the seven
lean-fleshed cattle
eating up the fat and full.
Striving, never arriving;
still remaining gaunt and thin;
Poor, hungry hopes
with no place left to go.

Lori Fiechter,
September 12, 1999

Unfinished Projects

Unfinished projects
gathering like cobwebs
in the corner,
moldering like long-forgotten
ruins;
collecting dust and
changing into dust themselves.
Reminders of youthful ambition
and ever-present mortality.
I cannot finish them;
I cannot part with them.
I cannot look at them.
Ah, the guilt of unfinished projects.

Lori fiechter, august 26, 1999

I've stacked the blocks too high;
Now I wait for them to fall.
I wonder how many will hit me
And how much it will hurt.
Perhaps the falling blocks will
knock me insensible
and I'll feel nothing at all.
Am I really such a fatalist?
There is still time to
dismantle them now.

Lori fiechter, 8-26-99

Dull

a peahen's feathers
weathered shingles
an old copper penny
a no-wax floor
cafeteria meals
an acceptance speech
your neighbor's home videos
but why dishwater?
(mine is always hiding steak knives)

Lori Fiechter, September 1, 1999

What he actually called me was "ordinary"; I've never forgotten the insult, Lyn.

33 Flavors

He called me vanilla.
I am not!
I am spumoni, pistachio,
or red raspberry swirl.
Not ordinary, plebian vanilla.
Not that store brand, generic
flavored air and chemicals.
If I must be vanilla,
at least, let it be a rich,
custardy French vanilla.
But I'd still rather be spumoni.
I am not vanilla;
At least not on the inside.

Lori Fiechter,
August 26, 1999

I belong to a mail order fabric club; while looking over the names of the fabrics in my latest groupings, I had the thought, "I am a wool boucle". Not sure why I thought that.

I am Wool Boucle

I'm a loosely-woven wool boucle;
scratchy, textured; I ravel easily.
Not like Mrs. Ultrasuade:
smooth and sleek and elegant.
Or Ms. Lycra:
athletic, energetic, daring.
Or Miss Tencel:
hi-tech, versatile, yet soft.
I'm not silk;
not sand washed or shantung or dupioni.
I'm not gingham, flannel or double knit.
Not staid enough for gabardine,
not tough enough for denim.
Not cool enough to be linen;
Guess I'll make the best of worsted wool;
Not everyone can be boucle.

Lori fiechter, 8-25-99
(if I were an animal, I'd be a porcupine. Or perhaps a hedgehog)

My poem on people as fabrics elicited this response from a friend: "I'd like to be silk, but I look at my thighs and think seersucker". Could have been written by me. Now it has been.