Pieces of Me

Poetry. One of those pieces of me that has gotten lost, and almost forgotten about, in the shuffle of wivery (is that a word? The act of being a wife...wivery? It is now.) and motherhood. As I was unpacking and going through some things, I found an old binder with some poetry in it that I wrote in high school. I also wrote a lot of poetry when I was in college too, but I can't find any of those poems anywhere. Which is really too bad, because those ones are a little better, I think, and I would like to read them again. Anyways, it was still fun reading the ones from high school. Some of them were silly, some were exercises where I was playing around with a certain form or style, and some of them are just plain garbage. I think, though, that I will share a few. Remember I was 17 when I wrote these. :)

My Heart and Soul
by Krystal Lemmon

The pen and ink, my heart and soul
Devoted to the written word;
Feelings caught on a paper bowl.

When life becomes a bitter curd
To write relaxes and relieves,
What was complex appears absurd.

A dream world on the page conceives
Silver arches bracing trials
Man can press on now, he believes.

Journals contain thought as a vial
Holds liquid; saving it for later.
Make memories through beguile.

Words to me: paint to a painter
Beauty is finding the right one
Pen and ink to my desires will cater.

His Message
By Krystal Lemmon

To win feels good if worked for;
Losing can be productive.
Out of situations more
Is acquired through positive
Thinking than by going through
The motions learning nothing.
Hard arduous trials too
Refine and perfect something
Which otherwise would lack
That compelling quality.
When on winning streaks don't slack;
Developing amenity
By settling with what's been done
Is most harmful. Set high goals
For thyself, accomplish one
At a time. Temptation pulls
Thee, but keep they dreams in mind.
Don't forfeit long term ambitions
Because today you were blind
With veneer joy's compensations.
My contract does not promise
A lifetime of effortlessness
Or peace, for there is a price.
Easiness I ne'er did express
To thee, that is not my way.
But offer thee comfort
That thy struggles will someday 
In my kingdom prove thy worth.


Writer's Block is Like...
by Krystal Lemmon

Force-feeding an infant.
You wouldn't eat that
Mush of goopy imitation
Vegetables either. The
Brat wails when the lid
Comes off releasing a musty
Sick-to-your-stomach whiff.
Yet still you take a spoonful
And try to coax it in his mouth.
But for all your happy gestures,
Or imitation baby language and
Airplane noises, the green/orange
Glop of yuck is spit right back
Into your face mixed with drooling
Criticism. And that wide-eyed
Innocent thing laughs at your
Dismay, as a subtle reminder
That this garbage isn't good enough.

Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic
by Krystal Lemmon

Towering tall stretching with stars
Head higher fabricates farsightedness
Benefiting your view.

Witty words and sarcastic sentences;
Concealed compliments flow freely
From your vocal mind.

Long locks, brown boyish, and curly
Waking wisps dangle down
Over your ears.

Eyes alter, cerulean to cobalt
Sparkle, splashing, excitement exaggerated
When you're amused.

Locked lids display delight in
Cuddling comfortably, braking breath
You're so relaxed.

Arms assured enclose me easily,
Pleasantly pillowed, ceaselessly satisfied
Against your shoulder.

Teasing, tantalizing; mocking, messing around
Obscurely uncover myriad meanings
All of them good.

Conversation continues without wanting more
Two together works well
For both of us.

That's enough for today. Maybe another day, when I'm feeling nostalgic about the things I can't seem to find the time to do anymore, I'll post some more. There are lots of poems. I miss the ability to take an emotion, or a thought, or an experience, and twist it into something (more or less) beautiful, and feel like there is a mode of expression that can at least semi-accurately capture the things that are on the inside of yourself. But writing poetry takes lots of time. Lots of quiet time, lots of reflecting, lots of editing and changing. And those long stretches of solitude seem to escape me these days...but maybe some day I'll get back to that place.