Mountain Quintet # 1

this is for the great masses who enjoy diverse forms of poetry. i confess to not being very talented at formulaic verse, since my passion to write is more iconoclastic…preferring poetic fiction, poetic prose, and subject matter inspired by subject or character rather than form. still, i did promise to write some specifically structured verse while http://www.kirstenuninterrupted.wordpress.com – and others- participate in a particular “poetry month.”

i have chosen to write a quintet, a poem containing stanzas or an entire poem of five lines. since i am in no way English, i decided to title this type “Mountain,” as in “Mountaineer,” as in “one from West Virginia.”

(On a trail near Bear Heaven, West Virginia)

 

MOUNTAIN QUINTET # 1

the red roads round the map of state

and cross the deep divides of form…

splattered with pockets of pea-green paint

lands over which boots and backpacks reign

land of the rhododendron domain.

 

(typical mountain foliage)

 

(Bear Heaven, West Virginia)

 

 

(Kumbrabow State Forest, West Virginia) 

 

 

Dreaming of a Road Trip

It’s that time of year,

deep-buried by the snow,

I glance at my map,

and plan where to go…

I have a map in one hand, a cold glass of ginger beer in another. It’s about 14 degrees (farenheight- however the heck you spell it- not celsius) outside, cold enough to freeze your appendage to a slick parking lot…if you accidentally fell down…and the snow keeps coming.

It’s evenings like these when I long for the beach, long for the open road, long for the warm wind brushing my hair back…the summer sun still above bedline, lingering to hear more craic, more culture, and watch me cross more contour lines…before I spend another night sleeping under the stars or under the sheets.

I confess to daydreaming in map-vision. I can picture those lines- those red, black, and blue highways, the ones that aren’t as straight as the bolder, wider expressways. The map transforms into pictures, and pictures into places my boots and my tail end must take me, before day’s end wags her sorry head in regret.

Sitting in my armchair, I am an adventurer. My thoughts take me forward, and sometimes, they even take me back somewhere.

I have traveled along the haul roads of Ohio,

‘long back highways that never seem to end,

through cities as numerous as the hours…

and I am just getting started, my friend…

on a snow day…

Cussing in Curry

The dryer whines, making a noise like a two year old trying to run away from the potty…chased by the boogie man. I’ve had days like this, but will someone please write me an excuse note for my forgetfulness…walking back from the laundry room, dazed from a lack of sleep, awash in lists and sublists, you’d think I was the CEO for Whirlpool. The new year has come in the door, stomping on the floor, dirtying the rug with refuse…I think I need another start,

It is no fun when both my working days and leisure times bring me the kind of excitement one expects at WalMart, commercial purveyor of all things banal and ubiquitous. Already ten days through the year, yet I can’t name a single high point- all the days seem like generic brands. No shamwows, no Pet Meds commerical cuties, just plain labelled days. Mamma said life was all about my attitude, but seriously, when the most exciting moment in the day is eating Rainforest Granola, I believe we have a problem…I’m feeling a little like Deep Space 9- isolated by my lists, sublists, and lesson plans from Purgatory…

Finding a date here is also a problem. I’m no Casanova, but I’m not a cassava either; I have a creative brain and serious experience- and knowledge and wisdom is sexy. You can’t get that from Viagra. And you certainly can’t find it in your standard WalMart…

…kind of like ethnic food. Try to find a Korma Chicken in the frozen food aisle- in most places, the most ethnic item in the Walmart freezer section is a sealed package that looks like it contains Joe Biden’s bald head. And some people might actually believe that conspiracy theory…but let’s don’t go there. It’s as bad as watching a three day Alex Jones Tribute to Piers Morgan or “Great Romance Tips from Tickle, The Moonshiner,” stuck inside the house during a never-ending blizzard. You could die of boredom…or a deranged mind.

Which is why I am careful looking for the future love of my life. I have noticed that certain divorced individuals have spent most of their lives unaware of the real world outside their communities. This is evident when people ask me if I still speak French, or if I like wearing my Chinese hat (see profile picture). Still more obvious revelations come from particular  females if they ask me if I “speak Curry” or not…especially since I have obviously removed my forehead dot. Such drivel deserves a nationally-recognized award for Social Ineptitude or at least Most Creative Insult. I must admit that I have considered speaking Curry just to satisfy these bastions of mental acuity, but I have too many things on my list to check off, and it is already January 10th on my calendar…so, sorry, girls…