Warning: Poetry Again

This Father's Day
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
June 15, 2014

I was his baby girl
The one he worried about
I faced a different world
Than the one in which he fought.

He pushed me
As much as he could,
To get out and see
To make a difference
In my world.

He never really told me
But I know he was proud
Of me, and my abilities
Of the life I chose to live
Not an easy one,
But the best one for me.

He left us much too soon.
An accident, and he was taken
The man I was sure had
Hung the moon.
The man whose passion for learning
Pushed me to study and read
And teach.

Mom gave me the folded flag
That had been on his coffin.
Because he was a vet.
No way she could know
How the sight of that flag
Could make my blood run cold.
Because every military wife
Dreads being given a flag to hold
When she'd much rather have
The man who served it with pride.

 Pop survived his service,
And thankfully,
So did my husband survive his.
I have a lot more than a flag
To remember Pop by.
Though still I miss him
As years go by
It gets easier to remember him
And smile
For all the good times he made sure
We had
For the love he gave his children
Will never, ever die.

Old Songs

By Carolyn Kay Armistead
June 15, 2014

Music and memory
So tied together
Melodies are haunting
Because they make you remember
Times and places
People you once knew
The way you used to be
And the things you used to do.
Some songs can make me feel
Like a teen again
Bring back those heady days
Of high school
Hanging out with my friends
So easily
With just a melody
A lyric
Remember...
Some songs bring back childhood
And watching my Mom
Try to dance
Around the house while she was cleaning
With Sinatra
Or Bing
Or the Big Bands
On the stereo.
Remember...
Old Abba songs
Bring back the magic
Of long talks
With Matthew
When we were both
So young and so in love.
Yes, I remember.
 Ah, such memories.
Such treasure
All to be found
In a song.



The Book Sorter Song
By C.K.Armistead 6/15/2014

Book comes in
Door comes down
For a while,
Nothing.
THEN
Down the belt,
Around the corner,
Into the bin
It belongs in.
Even before
It hits the bin
The next book
Has rolled in.
Starts its journey,
Finds its way,
And of course
Another
Is already waiting.
All goes well
Books moving along
As we try to keep up
Sorting onto carts
From the bins,
Listening to
The sorter's song.
Then,
It stops dead
Oh, dread.
The light
For some unknown reason
Is red.
We check, we reset,
We cross our fingers
And pray,
The computer restarts
The belts do their dance
And before long
Once again
We're humming along
Singing the sorter's song.



Elusive Words

C. K. Armistead
6/15/14

Barge around in my head
Keep me from thinking straight
Or sleeping
Or reading
Yet
Will NOT get out on the page.
You elude me.
Babbling on when I have no way
To catch you,
Put you on paper
Or on screen
Then disc
And thus keep you.
Somehow
You seek to avoid capture
As if fearing
Servitude
As if you wouldn't
 Still be words
With something to say
As if by getting you down
And in order
I wouldn't be giving you
A voice
A chance to be heard
Somewhere besides
The inside of my skull.
So please
Now that I am here
Where I can save you
Please,
Words?
Come out
And play.


All of these poems have been written this evening, over the course of an hour or two.  These are really just my way of stretching the writing muscles, of hoping to coax the words out.  I know they are not polished and completely finished.  They may never be.  But this is how poetry is sometimes.
Not very lyric, not always neat, not even always rhyming.  A lot like life.  A bit messy, but in its own way, beautiful.

Avoidance Behavior

There are some things we put off just because we really don't want to do them.  They are hard, or inconvenient, or boring, or all three.  Housework, other common chores, writing.  Well, writing isn't usually boring, but it is hard, and can be unpleasant when one doesn't feel there is anything to say.  Or perhaps there is a lot to say, and the saying of it is very difficult.
I often try to avoid housework, because after almost 29 years of keeping house, I am rather weary of it at times.  At other times, the housework is a way to avoid something else. Sometimes the housework is a necessary literal as well as figurative clearing of the decks so that other work can commence.  Dealing with the distracting details, like the dust bunnies in the hall, or the feeling that you would probably pretend not to be home if anyone came to the door simply because the state of your floors was embarrassing 
So, this evening, rather than try to come up with a decent blog post, I cleaned house.  I feel better now, because the environment I find myself in is more comfortable, and doesn't distract me with feelings of unmet obligations in the "real" world. 
Several times in my life I have retreated into books or movies as a way to avoid thinking about things I'd rather not deal with, or to distract myself from the fact that I was in a stale and stagnant place.  The alternate realities found in books and movies give a respite from what is currently bothering me.  I am sure that this is a normal condition among human creatures.  Needing an escape, if only for awhile.  There are movies I have watched over and over,  just because something in the story spoke to me, or amused me.  There are books and stories I have read and re-read for the same reason. 
Writing is not an escape for me.  I find I cannot write fiction.  It doesn't matter that I have always had a vivid imagination, and have lovely daydreams, I find I cannot put them on the page.  Poetry works, but poetry is about feelings, about dealing with joys and sorrows and sometimes humdrums of life, not usually about fantasy and escape.  Oh, I suppose it could be, but mine usually isn't. 
Now, I guess I should amend my claim that I cannot write fiction at all.  I have written some little stories about ghosts.  Those have been rather well received by the friends who have read them, but I have not let them out for critical comment.  They are my children, and I don't feel like watching them die.  They are not the sort of stories that would be popular with children these days.  They are old-fashioned, based very loosely on stories I was told as a child by neighbors and family members. 

A few of my poems have been published, but I was not paid for them, they were printed in a small local newspaper when I was in high school.  One was written for the high school year book supplement my senior year.  I have all of my notebooks where I worked on my poems still.  I still have about three journals going that are specifically for poem building.  Very rarely does anything come of it.  The best ones have sprung themselves on me almost fully formed. 
I remember the very first one I ever wrote for my personal "keeper" notebook.

Of Thoughts and rhymes and mystic verses
Loves and hates and evil curses
Life abounds in wondrous power
Opening up like a complex flower.

I wrote that in 1975 or so.  Fairly typical teenage stuff, at least for me.
The last one that really presented itself to me almost complete came to me during an organ concert at church.  We were sitting down in the chancel, which is not usual, and I could see the stained glass window in the first dormer on the Epistle side of the church, and that is the one that our regular homeless person used to look up at and talk to before and after church.  Looking up at the angel, I wondered what Adam said to it, and what he heard in response.  "Adam's Angel" came to me then, almost complete.  I had to wait until I got out of the church to write it down, and I remember being afraid I would forget something important.  I don't think I did:


Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead

To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.

Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.

"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?

Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.

 This one is in my notes on my Facebook page, and I shared it after I wrote it with a few people at church. 
All of this is to say that sometimes I have to make myself write, and sometimes the writing makes me write.  Sometimes the words just want out, and I can't stop them. 
Most of the time, though, it is a slog.  A lot of staring at the paper or the screen and wondering what ever made me think I had anything worthwhile to say to the world.    It still feels a little egotistical, writing all this and sharing it with the world on my blog, but I need to do it.  I need the discipline.  And, if something I manage to put out there actually strikes a chord with someone who happens upon this blog, and it helps them or makes them laugh, or cheers them, or gives encouragement, then it's worth it.  Even if it just lets them say, "So, I'm not the only one..." 

Bits and Pieces

Today's blog is composed of forgotten bits of poetry from one of my many journals.

From Nov. 2005

The subtle process of poetry
Is lately rather lost to me
I scratch a few pathetic lines
Wishing for more inspired rhymes.

Always interrupted by dog or cat
Or by laundry, or supper, or such as that.
My work has dwindled down to naught
Or exists merely in the realm of thought.

From March, 2008

The quiet world
Is so rudely awakened
By the screech of my
Voice waking up and stretching.

Soon, if God is merciful, my throat
will clear,
The notes will come forth in their liquid brilliance
(As I promise you, they have done.)

Just now, though, unwelcome bits of allergy or sleep are
Making the notes squawk like an oboe
With a bad reed.
But when it works, oh, what joy,
What release.
The music flows out, warm and sweet and smooth,
Taking me soaring oh, so high.


Autumn Thoughts From a Few Years Back

Autumn has finally come - the trees are turning at last.
The days are bright but cool, the nights are actually cold.
Halloween is coming.  The night of ghosts and frights.
We may be plagued with little goblins, but maybe not.  Hard to say.

So many pictures lately of stylish, sleek, modern houses.
They look so cold and unfriendly to me.
I like cozy places.
Places with overstuffed furniture and lots of books ,
Lots of pillows and blankets
And a well-provisioned kitchen with a teakettle on the stove, and teacups and bowls and things handy.
Furnishings with history, things with love and memory attached;
Things that give a house a SOUL, make it a HOME.