Fumbling In The Dark

Could there be a better title for writing poetry? I'd extend the metaphor, but then the poem would get written in its explanation. I just want to play with the device of a flip-flopping perspective between light and dark. My strategy for the ending is to center on a cute or heartwarming image at the very end -- success will be defined on the uniqueness of the parting image and how unlikely it would be to appear in a Hallmark card.

Midnight Home Maintenance

Click. The light fuses are alright.

Their timer is not. Go downstairs,

not three at a time, stumble anyway,

stomp extra hard at the ground floor

because your eyes say there is no bottom.

Click. There are the stairs.

How did your body forget them all?

And the many legs that stand before you,

predictable as a picture,

just overdeveloped. Now to end this charade--

Click. The stubbing begins.

Your furniture become gangsters,

thumbtacks roll out to catch you

and the slippers have betrayed their king

in a dusty exile. Thrust a hand out,

use your boundaries for balance--

Click. Punch a lamp over.

Accident, but should scare the others

from any more pranks. Pause

between rooms; where's the timer?

It's a panel behind the kitchen...

Click. You are not being watched.

The circle of glasses on the dining table

reflect moonlight as a lens

and focus on you, but not because you are there.

And who knows how many discarded forks.

The switch is definitely in the hall closet.

Click. Open the panel. Click.

Click, click, click. Is this thing on?

Pick up the lamp, dust it off.

Toes reunite with lost guardians.

Listen closely and you could almost hear...

Pat the houseguests on their clearly visible shoulders

as you size up the stairs. There they are,

all fourteen, appreciating the attention,

creaking with delight. Go to bed,

should be as easy as flipping a switch.

-----------

As you can see, I did not tug a single heartstring at the end, but I like the suggestion of a house that subtly haunts its owner each time the lights go out. There's potential there. I thought about making the ending about the 2nd-person narrator joining a family that wasn't woken by the lights at all, or went to bed as soon as the light timer was reset, but that would be Lame. There should be a series of entries about certain words and concepts that can be retired from 21st-century poetry (or at least anything that I read because clearly I am always right).

The title comes last in this case, and I want something that is at best whimsical and suggests something weird/mysterious happening at bedtime, and at worst something vague and mysterious. Nothing threatening or menacing for this title. Did I hit the mark? It's kind of plain, but fits the bill for now.

Terrible Two

It is in the nature of poetry (and often, poets) to expound on the feeling of the wheels of life just spinning without impact. A poet can go through enough images of the world trying to find the right one that the thought occurs, where is this all going? What have I really done? And it is the mark of a productive poet to not succumb to such emotions and to instead mine those thoughts to fulfill personal writing quotas.

Natasha Bedingfield got away with such a writing exercise with her first major single, "Unwritten," which features such elementary-level lyrics I will not bother dissecting them here. I'm not knocking the song for creating a cheerful mood (one that I enjoy, as a matter of fact), but the words are self-help noise. Now, if I may help myself, here are a couple of my poems in need of a good polishing that both stem from a love of seeming clever in titles. I am too close to these poems at the moment to give them the thrashing and corrections they deserve, but there are enough almost-there sections to give you an idea of what I expect from my rough drafts.

My Exponential Ex Potential

What started in bad habits

used to end in awkward silence,

elbows in hands,

not knowing what was wrong

or why.

But one goodbye after another

has turned the long farewell

into the short see you later,

the earnest breakup

into I told you so.

The million mutinies grow bolder:

this time, I didn't even want to leave,

but was talked into going solo.

Would you like a receipt?

Shall I request a gift registry

at the next opened door?

None of this is cheating,

simply gaining more interest in loss

than any chase. Someday the great gaffes

will make a reel, across it played

such hilarity and growing pain

that bridges burnt will build again,

everyone grateful for their part.

New chapter. Triple threat from brains

to heart to toes. Binding love, humble me.

There are potentials so transparent

that ambition cracks the glass,

and I see no way through but up

as another phoned-in dear John.

****************

My Exponential Ex-Potential

The brain surgeon's weakness:

dropped on my head at age two.

I was in line to become CEO

until grade schoolers cut in line

and kindness held me back.

Running oriented my compass

toward medals, sponsors,

mustached coaches crying

over my last-minute sprains.

Star Wars hit before the sprint.

Legendary lovers laid in a path,

once, now plucked away

as my checklist closes their ranks:

caring too much, not enough,

or just wishing for solitude

and getting it.

With years, culture shapes the pages

of my potential on the shelf.

Self-awareness does not combust;

age turns accidents into design,

the ship sailing bottled seas

as instructions intend.

Snow is perfect for being white,

but I have no chrysalis to make me feel deep.

If another man crumples from sleepless nights,

am I fulfilled in sleep?