"Book open
Burn burn
Lights out
Lily Fern
Leaf in the rows is
Digging up dead roses
Not a sound a pedal drop
Shook the Earth flip-flop
Leaf’s in the backyard
Everyone is screaming
Roses are burning
Lily’s still dreaming"
-DB
Friday, September 2, 2011
Poem from My Husband
This is a poem from his old blog that he wrote around this time last year. I think it's a great poem. Very catchy! Hope you like it too.
-DB
-DB
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sunday
Two rows ahead of me Sits a red-headed,
Freckle-faced, Pencil-legged little girl.
She is surrounded by the sound
Of a hundred voices singing--
But she sits silently,
Fascinated by her sky-scraper father
Standing just a few feet away,
and by His booming voice
Echoing above the congregation.
He notices his wide-eyed admirer
and stoops to hold her.
She wraps her arms around his neck
While her pencil-legs dangle freely.
-MB
Freckle-faced, Pencil-legged little girl.
She is surrounded by the sound
Of a hundred voices singing--
But she sits silently,
Fascinated by her sky-scraper father
Standing just a few feet away,
and by His booming voice
Echoing above the congregation.
He notices his wide-eyed admirer
and stoops to hold her.
She wraps her arms around his neck
While her pencil-legs dangle freely.
-MB
Ode to Emily Dickenson
Oh, Emily, I think I am you.
I've seen your words and know them well.
You're right--
Birds are more understanding than most people,
I would rather think of Emerson than meet him,
And the four walls of an empty room are more inviting
Than a room full of frog-like scholars could ever be.
I don't know why, Emily, but I understand you.
I read your words yesterday with those ribbiting students.
They laughed at you--
But I didn't.
I felt sad--
Sad because I am you,
Sad because they were laughing at us.
-MB
This poem is a response to this poem by her:
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-Emily Dickinson
I've seen your words and know them well.
You're right--
Birds are more understanding than most people,
I would rather think of Emerson than meet him,
And the four walls of an empty room are more inviting
Than a room full of frog-like scholars could ever be.
I don't know why, Emily, but I understand you.
I read your words yesterday with those ribbiting students.
They laughed at you--
But I didn't.
I felt sad--
Sad because I am you,
Sad because they were laughing at us.
-MB
This poem is a response to this poem by her:
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Poems
Here are two poems I'm working on. One is a re-write.
To the Author
I shouldn't think this way--
But, the sun always rises
And forces my body to embrace the ground with my shadow,
I always fall asleep during movies,
And what goes up must come down.
So, I do.
I like books. I like to read.
I especially like the books you write
When we're alone and no one is imposing their visual spectrum
On the light beaming from our solitude.
Your words, my eyes, and my sponge-studded mind.
I like the way your ideas swim into my ears like tadpoles.
I like laughing when they rub my brain and make it feel wanted.
I like your information. I want more.
I like to open and close books and make them fly like the seagulls
We watched together at Plum Island.
I like to ask a question then hear your reassuring answer
Emerge from the page like lava
Leaping
Through the top
Of a volcano.
-Miranda Freeman
Barnes and Noble
Green-sweatered,
Salt-haired,
Right-handed,
Pencil-holding,
Creepy old man
With John Lennon glasses
Shooting glanses in my direction--
Are you writing about me?
I am writing about you.
-Miranda Freeman
To the Author
I shouldn't think this way--
But, the sun always rises
And forces my body to embrace the ground with my shadow,
I always fall asleep during movies,
And what goes up must come down.
So, I do.
I like books. I like to read.
I especially like the books you write
When we're alone and no one is imposing their visual spectrum
On the light beaming from our solitude.
Your words, my eyes, and my sponge-studded mind.
I like the way your ideas swim into my ears like tadpoles.
I like laughing when they rub my brain and make it feel wanted.
I like your information. I want more.
I like to open and close books and make them fly like the seagulls
We watched together at Plum Island.
I like to ask a question then hear your reassuring answer
Emerge from the page like lava
Leaping
Through the top
Of a volcano.
-Miranda Freeman
Barnes and Noble
Green-sweatered,
Salt-haired,
Right-handed,
Pencil-holding,
Creepy old man
With John Lennon glasses
Shooting glanses in my direction--
Are you writing about me?
I am writing about you.
-Miranda Freeman
Monday, February 7, 2011
Hooray
So... As I'm sure you all know, I love Doug. And I'm also sure you all know, I love to write poetry.. So it can be inferred that, I love writing poetry with Doug...
So here's a poem we just wrote/collaborated on together. Fun!
Rain creeps into my body
Making rapids through my veins
And drowning out my soul.
I'm drifting downstream
To channels I can't choose
Where bridges are burnt
Swelling the ash wet.
Still, I float among the ash
While the water leads me on.
So here's a poem we just wrote/collaborated on together. Fun!
Rain creeps into my body
Making rapids through my veins
And drowning out my soul.
I'm drifting downstream
To channels I can't choose
Where bridges are burnt
Swelling the ash wet.
Still, I float among the ash
While the water leads me on.
Books
My pen is hesitating like my eyelids
During a cut-throat political debate.
It's not that I don't care, it's that I can't.
This ball-point pen is forcing itself down on the page
Like the sun kissing a tree and painting its shadow.
I'm molded but I just won't fit and I have to tell you something:
I like books. I like to read.
I especially like your books-- the ones you write
When we're alone and no one is imposing their visual spectrum
On the light beaming from our solitude.
Your words, my eyes, and my sponge-studded mind.
I like the way your ideas swim into my ears like tadpoles.
I like laughing when they rub my brain and make it feel wanted.
I like your information. I want more.
I like to open and close books and make them fly like the seagulls from Plum Island.
I like to ask a question then hear your reassuring answer
Pass through your esophagus like lava
Leaping through the top of a volcano.
-Miranda Freeman
During a cut-throat political debate.
It's not that I don't care, it's that I can't.
This ball-point pen is forcing itself down on the page
Like the sun kissing a tree and painting its shadow.
I'm molded but I just won't fit and I have to tell you something:
I like books. I like to read.
I especially like your books-- the ones you write
When we're alone and no one is imposing their visual spectrum
On the light beaming from our solitude.
Your words, my eyes, and my sponge-studded mind.
I like the way your ideas swim into my ears like tadpoles.
I like laughing when they rub my brain and make it feel wanted.
I like your information. I want more.
I like to open and close books and make them fly like the seagulls from Plum Island.
I like to ask a question then hear your reassuring answer
Pass through your esophagus like lava
Leaping through the top of a volcano.
-Miranda Freeman
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