I first started writing poetry in high school, you know the kind, angst filled teenage poems about the pain of life and first loves-- mostly awful, but very cathartic at the time. Then, a couple of years ago, I tried to write some more poetry. I approached the task as a craftsman of words, trying to sculpt the words to fit a thought or an idea. Again, mostly awful.
In April 2002 I attended a poetry reading. And I really listened. I listened for poems that I liked, and thought about why I liked them. What I found was that I liked poems that described a scene, a moment, a slice of life.
The next day I wrote three poems-- slices of my life. For the most part, they came to me as complete poems, with very little edits needed. I’m not sure how this happened, but I think it’s because rather than forcing words into lines of poetry, I let the words come to me. And let them fall into place.
Now, I'm working on personal essays, that are hopefully poetic ;-)
See samples of my poetry in comments below:
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Cleaning House
Blue jeans, one size too big.
And eager to get rid of them, I start the pile for Goodwill.
The brown silk blouse I last wore to grandma's funeral seven years ago.
Goodwill.
The sparkly silver shirt I bought for new year's eve, three years ago.
And never wore.
Goodwill.
Patent leather pumps.
Nearly new, but the sleek toe and three inch heels hurt my feet.
Goodwill.
And that sexy black lace top I've never been brave enough to wear in public.
Goodwill.
Purple silk brocade dress and matching jacket.
Pure elegance.
It was my grandma's.
The perfect outfit for a navy officer's wife to host a party-- Back in 1962.
It doesn't fit me.
And even if it did, I probably won't ever wear it.
So I fluff out the wrinkles,
and gently place it
back in the closet.
On my bathroom counter, I see the bottle
shaped like a gemstone.
Joya.
The perfume my mother wore.
The cap is a bit discolored, the gold paint has worn off the label.
And though after twenty years it has nearly turned rancid,
a hint of the sweet exotic scent remains.
So I wipe off the dust,
and place it back on the counter,
memories of my mother
and grandmother
lingering in the air.
Jennifer Simpson, April 2002
First Dance
Bamboo covered walls,
tiki torches, and
drinks served in coconut shells
Tropical music lingering in the air
The Maui Lu Hotel Lounge.
This was the real thing, not some mainland reproduction
I wore a polynesian print halter dress
and white strappy sandals
My first grown up shoes
He was tan and tall, or so he seemed to me
Dark hair,
smiling eyes,
elegant in his blue aloha shirt and white slacks
He held out his hand and asked me to dance
I don't remember the song,
but I do remember
the way I felt
when I stepped up
onto the tops of his shoes
and he twirled me around the room
Daddy's little girl.
Jennifer Simpson, April 2002
The Bedroom
A patent leather strappy sandal lies in the doorway
Its spiked heel points upward
a warning to all who dare enter
Blue jeans
Black jeans,
gray turtleneck,
white cotton underwear
strewn on the carpet
Red capri pants, one leg turned inside out
crumpled on the bed beside a white tennis shoe, whose mate is missing
White shirt,
black shirt,
green tank top
in a heap on the closet floor
Black lace bra on the nightstand next to a mug of cold coffee
Remnants of a fashion crisis.
Jennifer Simpson, April 2002
Untitled
Triple digit debt
funding double digit dreams
California.
Peach No. 1
Succulent soft skin
sweet juice dripping on my chin
a perfect ripe peach
Untitled 1
Dreams of nibbling lips
my wet tongue anticipates
peanut butter toast
Peach No. 2
A quick flick of tongue
capturing soft dulcet drops
better than bad sex
Untitled 2
My skin is alive
with memories of your lips
.....nibbling my big toe
One Summer
hot summer days spent
eating warm ripe peaches, crisp raw almonds
and drinking cherry coke
my bare feet propped on the dashboard
one foot dangling out the window
your hand traveled up my thigh
from Florida to California
through deserts touched by God's paintbrush
Canyons carved by earth's rivers
and land gouged by glaciers
we hiked through dry dusty trails,
explored lush musty forests
and we explored each other
making love under a night sky light with stars
your moustache tickled as you nuzzled my neck
and your strong long fingers
trailed a path of goose bumps on my skin
leaving a permanent imprint on my heart.
Baggage
The soft butter brown leather tote, with a wide shoulder strap
fits under an airline seat-- even in coach
it doubles as a briefcase
The small green suitcase trimmed in black has wheels
perfect for a weekend getaway,
It fits in the overhead compartment
The two family-size suitcases are made of
thick, heavy caramel colored leather, with brass clasps,
they each weigh 20 pounds empty.
should be in a vintage shop
The large green duffel bag is leftover from grandpa's days in the army
The big black canvas backpack has
a zipped panel hiding the thick padded shoulder straps, and
memories of romps through Europe
and summers spent camping in the mountains
"I have a lot of baggage," he said
and I wondered
What would happen if the airline lost it all?
Sangría
The sharp knife slices the skin of the ruby red apple
the tangy orangethe succulent peach
Mellifluous blood of fruit flowing onto the wooden board
Sticky juice and memories clinging to her fingers with each cut of steel
Salúd por eso
She wipes the dust from the dark green bottle
a Spanish Rioja-- vino tinto
Full with the flavors of mediterranean sun and the soils of the Valle del Ebro
She peels back the foil,
pierces the cork, and opens the wine
Salúd por eso
Her hands grasp the blue and white earthenware jug, Spanish Talavera
the sweat of 15th century artisans held deep in the clay
She gently pours the wineadds the chunks of apple, orange and peach
and a touch of honey
stirring the mixture of sweet fruit and musty wine
Salúd por eso
The rich red rioja absorbs the blood of the fruit
like she, so many years ago, absorbed the blood of Spain
absorbed with each step on old cobblestone streets
with each afternoon in the Plaza del Sol
with each kiss from Raul
Salúd por eso
She closes her eyes
her head swaying to the rhythms of memories
memories of dancing memories of dining en la plaza
the scents of olive oil and garlic carried by the summer breeze
memories of sun on her face
and memories of sangría
Raul's lips kissing the fruit juice from her fingertips
Salúd por eso
Jennifer Simpson, August 2002
Ode to Luna/Sea
Diamond light
drenches sapphire sky
caresses inky sea
moist salty breeze carries sweet scents of sage
Bathed in firelight and shadow
she swirls and twirls
satin cool sand sifting through her toes
arms stretched to the sky
face tipped to the stars
blood pumping
to the beat of the drums,
the rhythms of ocean waves pounding the shore
Oh beautiful Moonsea
Luna
Sea
Beautiful Lunacy
Head full with dreams,
full with memories of the past,
and fears of the future
she wades into the water
and floats on her back
on her side
lonely tears blend with ocean
silky arms of mother earth embrace her
Oh beautiful Moonsea
Luna
Sea
Beautiful Lunacy
Water waves wash away her fears
refresh her spirit
and cradle her
for a moment
or two
then gently return her to shore
to the fire
to the circle drums
to life
Oh beautiful Moonsea
Jennifer Simpson, September, 2002
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