I have been writing poetry lately– actually quite a bit. But it’s all in the form of song lyrics and the songs are still being formed. I finished this one within a day so that I could publish it on Valentine’s Day:
Thanks for watching– there are more songs to come!
Last year on my birthday, I was feeling young. This year, since I was still feeling young, I decided to record that poem as a song.
Here’s the last poem I wrote, “December Rhymes With Remember,” turned into a song.
December rhymes with remember.
I remember liking the snow
and loving the feeling of sugar highs reeling
and dancing to Mannheim on the stereo.
Christmas pretty much rhymes with wish lists
for new stuff and happy days of yore.
But I’m sure my first year I just wanted mom near.
My wish list was love and not much more.
I can’t make Christmas feel like Christmas.
I might have to feel like a child.
But I’m all grown up and sometimes I feel down.
Like when all of the carols rhyme child with mild.
Maybe Mary felt down sometimes,
whether or not she was mild.
She had some stress and some things on her chest
that she’d have to ponder awhile.
The wise men who brought Jesus three gifts
weren’t wishing to go back in time.
Nostalgia lay dead when they turned their heads,
a new life, a new king to find.
And Jesus, he was just a baby.
He didn’t look back, just above.
If we look back far enough, to what’s newer than stuff,
like that baby, our list will be love.
I am having a snow day,
a just-say-no day,
a stop-with-the-go-go-go day.
It had been there all along,
just below the surface,
making every corner strong,
running round in circles.
But she nearly fainted at the site of her own blood.
It had always been red, but in her head, it just felt like a deep breath.
But then it came out from that fresh-pricked spout,
and it scared her half to death.
(written last year when we were about to move back from Bogotá)
When I move to each new place,
I already know every friend I make
will just be a facebook friend someday.
We might not Skype, although we may.
When I pack up my bags and go
I’ll leave the ones I’ve come to know.
We’ll say we’ll see each other, oh,
but we both know it’s rarely so.
There are friends and those I’ve friended.
There are friends and friendships ended.
Every hand that is extended
will one day wave goodbye.
There are times when closeness feeds us,
then there’s space that comes between us.
I don’t know quite what this means, just
that I’ll have to try
to open up again,
to see change as a friend,
a friend I doubt I’ll ever say goodbye to.
If I ever settle down,
I bet you’ll still be moving around.
At least I’ll have a place to invite you.
So if I’m slow to call you friend
I don’t suggest you take offense.
My heart is full of untied ends
and space I keep for keeping friends.
Or if we meet after we part
I might not know quite how to start.
Small talk’s an acquired art
and I’m scared to have a heart-to-heart.
There are friends and those I’ve friended.
There are friends and friendships ended.
Every hand that is extended
will one day wave goodbye.
There are times when closeness feeds us,
then there’s space that comes between us.
I don’t know quite what this means, just
that I’ll have to try
to open up again,
to see change as a friend,
a friend I doubt I’ll ever say goodbye to.
If I ever settle down,
I bet you’ll still be moving around.
At least I’ll have a place to invite you.
When I move to each new place,
I already know every friend I make
will just be a facebook friend someday.
We might not Skype, although we may.