But still. Sometimes I am just overcome by the urge to write bad poetry. And it, this urge, is not a force to be ignored. My brain just won't be still, composing lines (and quickly losing them due to lack of brain paper (which should be a thing, like a receipt that prints out of our brains to preserve the stuff we lose in there)) in my internal monologue voice until I give up and pick up a pen.
It happened today.
We had another snow day. And I somehow ended up on the Writer's Digest website while drinking my morning coffee. You know how web surfing goes: you click here and there until suddenly you're fifteen clicks in and have no idea how to retrace your steps and can't recall how you ended up where you are. It's very disorienting for me. I should probably avoid it. Well, it happened, and I found myself on a page with a week-old poetry prompt about "handheld poems."
For today’s prompt, write a handheld poem. Whether it’s video games, smart phones, or soft tacos, the world is filled to the brim with things that can be held in one hand (or both). Consider the handheld and write your poem.
So I did. I didn't want to, but I did.
And it rhymes. I didn't want it to, but...you're smart, you see the pattern here.
Without further ado, and before I change my mind out of sheer embarrassment and decide not to go through with it, here's the resulting poem I wrote this morning.
First draft. Not a poet. Fragile ego. Just saying.
Not a Wheelbarrow
With a wheelbarrow I can carry
more than my fair share of weight,
but I'd rather use just my two hands
to show the earth my strength is great.
Look closely at these hands and read
a story brave and true.
Read between the lines and learn
what a mother, teacher, wife can do.
This line tells of family bonds,
of fortitude and courage bold.
It holds the secrets of my heart
and my darkest days untold.
This line whispers to me constantly,
"just imagine," and "try to see."
It ventures forth, surveys the world,
and beautifully bears it back to me.
And this one sings out to my love
in verses clear and true,
of the memories and possibilities
and vitality of two.
My left hand pushes out the bad
and opens to the sun
to welcome what the future brings
and what I may become.
My right hand holds the others who
upon me now rely.
It leads and offers comfort
and reminds them how to fly.
Red and rain and chickens white...
the world may never understand.
To Williams I quietly reply,
So much depends upon our hands.
I don't know what made me think of William Carlos Williams. If you're wondering why I'm talking of wheelbarrows, you can read his iconic poem (which I'm sure I have no business even approaching in my own writing) here.
Anyway. That's one thing I did with my snow day. Glad I got it off my chest. Or off my hands. Or something.