Sound and Meaning

Laying in bed the past few days on the last leg of pneumonia, I have been listening to my surroundings. Curious I decided to try and write some poetry with sounds. I did some research and learned about onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeia is usually cited as a poetic effect. That makes sense because poetry is all about communicating emotion using the interplay between sound and meaning.

Playing with sounds in the first part, and then trying to let words make the sounds in the second, nothing serious here. Doubt I would submit this one.

I found a few good sites, and will look further by picking some poet friends brains.

The Sounds Of Spring

Eight AM mowers head the silent calendar call
as one by one they roll down the trailer ramps
   um          um
bu   mpp bu   mpp scrapping over the curb toward
the back of the condos and into the range of my

view where I lay sleeping with the window
slightly open phooosh phoosh phoosh goes
the breeze bringing in cool air softening the
upstairs hot existence from the days before

overcast skies off and on again peeking sun
holding in the earth’s rising temperature
swish swish swiiissshhh go huge tree
limbs rustling when the breeze picks up

blowing even darker clouds over birds
who right outside chirp chirp chirp in my
view are nesting their pieces of dead bush
and other particles needed for their young’s

to be born very soon HONK! HONK! HONK!
someone’s car alarm begins to sound when my
pillow is pulled over my head kakaa kakaa
nearby ravens have begun to pick the ground

for seeds along the stretch of freshly cut grass
kiii kiii kiii kiii the neighbor begins raking
her six by nine cement patio debris after
the gardeners have moved on to the other end

of the complex leaving moments for me to sleep
sniff sniff sniff cough cough go my spring allergies
rolling over planting my feet plunk plunk one by
one onto the floor saying hello hello downstairs.

II.

Stepping out of the gym door into the cool evening
my wet hair after a swim then shower whoosh like
reentering the pool as croak croak croak frogs in
the distance animate my walk to the car click click

pop my key unlocks the door as I slip into the
leather seats sliding across closest to the middle
the door slamming behind me headlights come on
with the turn of the key in the ignition engine starting

chirp chirp chirp sings a cricket finding its way into
the van the radio drowns it out a bit as the window
rolls down inviting the sounds of passing cars the
wind rushing in my hair blowing wildly across the

view of oncoming traffic into my mouth causing me
to spit sputter when it becomes like dental floss
caught in my teeth thunder rolls across the sky like
bowling balls down wooden lanes striking pins

the gods have either knocked over a bit of water
quietly it hits the windshield and my left arm hanging
on the door laughing my left hand slaps back
a high five to how different night and day can be.

Poetry On The Porch

I had the honor of attending 'Poetry On The Porch' at the Alice Paul Institute, organized by Erika Kelly, a poet I met three or four years ago through blogging. She began working with me on my writing as an editor. Then we began to appear in local circles together. She is a wonderful writer in her own right and I am glad to be able to support her. Erika organizes this event-

National Poetry Month is a month-long, national celebration of poetry established by the Academy of American Poets. The concept is to widen the attention of individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our complex poetic heritage, and to poetry books and journals of wide aesthetic range and concern. We hope to increase the visibility and availability of poetry in popular culture while acknowledging and celebrating poetry’s ability to sustain itself in the many places where it is practiced and appreciated.

The Alice Paul Institute is a not-for-profit 501(c)3 corporation based in Mount Laurel, New Jersey. It was founded in 1984 by a group of dedicated volunteers to commemorate the centennial of Alice Paul's 1885 birth and to further her legacy. The organization was operated by volunteers for more than a decade. Today, four staff members, as well as volunteers, oversee the daily business and special events at Paulsdale.

After Annmarie Lockhart, Joanie DiMartino, Paloma Amar, and Erika Kelly read I was given the chance to read. I chose a few new poems but decided to read a poem I had written when I was only 15 years old. A memory that stood out in my head still to this day, and had revised it a few times, but the original just works. Most of our mothers and grandmothers did not use dried seasonings, nor did we own any bottles. They used only fresh ingredients bought from the market, or used what they had on hand. It occurred to me my mom seasoned her food with 'Depression', something she suffered from her whole life, up until she passed away.

(Poems are removed after three days...)

Poem Share Early

Debbie Fuller inspired this title and direction of my poem about this past Saturday assisting Ray Brown, Poet- hosting a workshop and teaching poetry to children at Classic Books in Trenton, something we will be doing at other local libraries in our area.

The thought of being sandwiched in between a Neo-Nazi's and Black Panthers rally kind of had the air buzzing. We lost two of our poets to the excitement. Heck I wanted to walk over to the rallies, and I did after it was over, but it began to rain. The last time I walked into a lions den, I almost came out armless. Another story...

Jessie Carty will be hosting the Thursday Poem Share, so mine is going up early. I am trying to spend every free minute writing this week. My homeless feeding frenzy group went well last week. The birthday party I catered Saturday night almost did me in. The eating gluten for which I keep away from at home, but virtually impossible when I am cooking it for others. I am also physically tired. Mentally tired in some ways. So it brings on thoughts of fraying material...

In The Fray

Behind the wheel of a driving machine
pulling off Route 1 south
a jug handle leading west
agitators of weather spinning circles
around the policeman
their silent and flashing lights scream force
turning into a pit of unsettling direction
towards a small bookstore with waiting students
poems in hand voices ready to speak
it’s ticking clock hangs on a dingy wall
and as minutes pass around other neglect
books gathering dust on the shelves
in a struggling old city along a side street
a lack of audience and fear
in a capital on the brink of ruin

Today Neo-Nazi’s rally along streets, shadows
First Amendment fists hit the open air
searching for the uneducated and neglected
a few blocks over the cheeks barely feel the sting
Black Panther gathered to voice majority
rubbing out opposite votes

Innocent children gather speaking favorite color
names, food, and what instrument they might want to be
drums beat wildly as laughter echoes out the back door
and down the alley
Caucasian, Asian, African American together
in the middle of musty old Classics
hanging by the thread of a progressive society


If you look at the cell phone photo above you might think it a prompt piece, but it was not. So it will sit for revisions...

Hangin On

Can you see the yellow jacket hanging on for dear life on my side mirror? In funny contrast to the yellow vehicle behind me right. Yeah, on a beautiful sunny day (what happened to those we are all wondering, sunny days) he was flying at my open window, but as I quickly rolled it up he settled on the side mirror. It was fate. Now it is residing in Washington Crossing's field of daffodils, or what else it may have found. Kind of like me and all the things I have going on.

This past week I was wrapping up my genealogy and decided to add my son's father's family, but then thought about my first husband. A marriage which lasted five years from the tender young age of 18 to 22. He was twenty seven. A church going happy go lucky sort of guy, or at least I thought, very handsome, many said he looked like Kevin Costner, or even Harrison Ford, but as they say, once your married, things change.

Drugs, sex, rock-n-roll, and cruelty were his vises. His mother failed to tell me he had tried to commit suicide three times. His parents thought I would help him. We were close, even until my kids were ten or so, then I lost touch. His grandparents were wealthy Austin'ites. If you have not visited that part of Texas, well, they say its the prettiest part of the state. They owned lots of cattle and land near Georgetown. His grandfather passed away in 08, and his grandmother passed in 09...my ex-husband passed away in 09, only a few months before his grandmother. After some investigation, I discovered his third wife had shot and killed him.

I suddenly felt like the bee, I had hung on to dear life those five years so long ago, and when our world stopped...I decided to fly away and find what else lay ahead. He married a seventeen year old before the ink was dry on our divorce papers. Then married again, same situation, both times. Narcissistic abusers with charm, who go after young girls usually don't change (my opinion).

He left behind a son. My heart does goes out to those he left in the wake (more Tsunami). A life with barely a father, now no father at all. Making sense of life is hard enough, but to do it without a parent, I know this all too well. Our parallels are not so far apart. I feel the son is now the bee, even though men handle things differently than women do, lets hope he figures out when to get off the emotional ride. I only hope his mom left in time. Otherwise his sting may be a deadly one too.


I have been trying to write a poem in reference to this piece I just wrote. Maybe I will come back and take some key elements out, re-arrange it, but I find it difficult to write where my feelings are on these things. Almost like there is no connection once I have moved on. Hmmm...