Talk this way

Why do you use such weird words?

Weird words?  Not me! I use words that fit.

How can feeding birds take so long?

Because I have to talk to each one! Photograph them too.

I think not only in pictures you see, but in poetry.

In story and in song. I usually have so much I want to

create in words and images that I don’t have enough hands!

You talk so fast! How do you know all that?

Fast? Maybe you listen so slow? Seriously I space my words.

How do you think of such things?

What things?  Of shapeshifting, cloud dancing, song making?

Or how about quarks, Buckey Balls and nanotech?

I read, I think, I listen and sometimes when the words come

I write songs, poetry and stories.

Your poetry doesn’t really sound like poetry to me.

Cool! Tell me more about that, I want to learn how you think and hear.

No I mean it doesn’t sound like what normal poetry should be.

Oh, like what you learned in school? Or read by Shakespeare and Seuss?

A sonnet can be a bird in flight. A haiku a fence line.

Poetry, when my muse is kind, fills my veins and my soul,

it comes through me, to me, I don’t make it flow.

Can’t you be normal? Like, you know, someone else?

Who? Tell me who and I’ll probably not try.

Well, you know just don’t be SO MUCH YOU.

Oh, that I get. You want a latte version, maybe a half fat or low cal me.

Sorry, no can do. I’m the me you see, I’m the me I am going to be.

Like me or not, it’s you choice you see.  I don’t give a cracker either way.

I’ll still love you and of course I’ll pray but I won’t stop being me, even for thee!

(Was that enough real poetry for you in those last lines? Ah too sarcastic. Not pretty enough. C’est la vie ma cher. C’est la vie.)
 
For dVerse, a conversation about me, as spoken by me, the italics could be anyone of a number of friends and family who love me but do not understand me.  Sometimes mywordsruntogetherandItalkreallyfast but that is slow compared to my thoughts…how about you?

Shades of life

The smell of fresh laundry in winter

cannot compare to the summer line.

No amount of ‘fresh’ scent can be

a warm drying prairie breeze.

 

The bright lights of a game with Daddy

seem to sound like the robot beams.

Laughter soundtracks my typing

poetry of this life seems pale.

 

Black dog, red dog, white dog and

a multi hued ‘houla dog sleep.

Sprawled like a canine Jonestown

puppy koolaid from the toilet bowl.

 

Winter trees in black and white.

Shaggy cows in red and black

resting on green hay and white snow.

My eyes squint searching for color.

 

Details like a missed spot of floor

holding a stubborn dust bunny,

or the small hand print on a clean pane.

These are the shades of life here.

 

This is our home. This is our land.

A friend said today, not mocking,

“Clean enough to live in and dirty

enough to have fun at.” I agree.

 

Copyright 2012 Shanyn Silinski

For the prompt at dVerse…won’t you see what the rest came up with?