I write short stories. I own surprisingly few pairs of shorts. I sometimes short circuit.
"Alana" sounds like "A lotta" = A lotta shorts.

Take the title however you like.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Poetry

It's been a while since I've written any poetry. Even longer since I've worked any and edited it like a true artist.

I used to call poetry 'my soul's release' and I'm remembering again how much I not only love it, but need it for catharsis and in order to process emotions and events.

Most of my poetry is very structured. I like to count the syllables, make and follow a pattern. I find I do that most often when I'm dealing with emotions that aren't quantifiable, that refuse to settle into something linear. This is my way of finding order in the chaos - as cliche as that may be.
Other times I'll go free verse but I find it more challenging, interesting and rewarding to follow a form. If you can master the sestina, you're really doing something!

With all that said and so much left unsaid, here are a few poems. Enjoy!



This first poem I wrote after a spate of very real dreams in which friends who have passed away or friends I have lost contact with appeared to me.

All the Friends That I Have Lost

All the friends that I have lost, I’ve found inside my head,
Living in little sunny suburbs, on quiet streets.
When I think that out here in the world they’re dead,
I look inside and find them all asleep.

In the morning, in their town, they have bacon and eggs.
I’m not sure what they do after they rise and eat.
At night they go out and find their legs -
They wander into the random worlds of my dreams.

With different faces, they appear, challenging my memory.
Often when they touch me it feels real, I find.
They warn me. Hug me. Kiss me. Know me and remind me,
Who we were when the world was full of rhymes.

Sometimes their visits are frighteningly clear;
Other times they’re filled with fog.
Sometimes when I wake I feel they are so near;
Other times I feel the loss and I tremble deep with sobs.

If I could but bring you back to life, my loves,
And leave the streets of my mind with vacancies,
I would bring you back to life, my loves.
And leave all this pain to distant memories.

This next one is about...freedom. I sing it much like the "There was an old woman who swallowed a fly" song - with a happy, lilting melody set to odd, troubling words. "You bury your head" should be sung the same as "I guess she'll die". Feel free to sing it how you like!
Song for a Caged Bird

Bird! Bird!
Why don’t you sing?
They coo at your feathers and bring you nice things.
They think you are lovely and envy your wings.
And then instead,
You bury your head.

Bird! Bird!
Why don’t you fly?
The door is ajar and the wind is just right.
If you'd just take a leap you could soon be in flight.
But then instead,
You bury your head.

What do you think
When the Master’s in bed?
Do you plan your escape?
Or dream instead?
Instead.

Instead.

Bird? Bird?
Why do you die?
Salvation is close and redemption is nigh,
Again and instead, and instead, and instead,
You bury your head.

You’re dead instead.
Instead.

Instead.

This one's pretty self-explanatory.
Great on Paper-Doll

You look great on paper - tantamount to bliss!
With
lines
and
graphs
and
charts
of all your grand accomplishments!
Your qualifications, when stacked on top of genius-size I.Q.,
Show potential that stretches out for miles; talent and humor, too!

But when I cut you out, my doll, and try to stand you up,
You slip and flip and float across the floor.
I lean out and make my hands into a little cup -
I am too late and you disappear under the door.

Now I’m on my stomach, looking through the crack.
I can barely see you lying flat and out of reach.
My arm is stuck and pinched and my skin has been pulled back.
Although if I unbend this hanger, I can almost touch your feet.

I begin to feel a tremor, tears fall out my eyes.
I hesitate to ask but finally squeak out a, “Why?
Why don’t you stand up –stack up- out here in the world?
Why don’t you help me help you really come uncurled?”

You give me no answer. I pull my arm free.
My tears drop off my face and into the floor seams.
Days go by as I sit here outside the door,
Wondering if I was the one who could have done something more.

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About Me

My photo
I'm Lanii. I try to Be Good. It doesn't always work. "Call Me Lanii" is sort of about that - my inner and outer triumphs (what?) and struggles. "Alana Shorts" is sort of about that, too: I draw way too much inspiration from the crazy and strange events that actually happen to me and end up writing very little 'fiction'. I usually have my tongue quite thoroughly stuck in my cheek.