Where's Waldo (Emerson)?

“How the hell do I write poetry,” I asked my online friends. I’m not a poet, and my friends were eager to remind me. They suggested I stick with what I do well, which is prose.

Determined to prove them wrong, and with visions of wearing all black, sporting a goatee, donning a beret, and being surrounded by bohemian women, I set out to write a poem. But how do I do that? Well, I checked out some web pages on how to write poems. That prepared me as well as any college level class.

So on a boring Sunday, I hopped on my motorcycle, determined to write. I stopped by my work place to grab a tablet and a pen. Hey, there were some other people working. Crazy. Working on a Sunday. Don’t they know it’s the day of worship that should be spent goofing off?

Once armed with the tools of an author, I rode up the mountain. I finally made it to the canyon lookout, having to pass tourists like I was a MotoGP rider. The sky was blue. The air was cool. The breeze was gentle. The grass was green. The tree was lonely. So I sat on the green grass, under the lonely tree, feeling the cool air of the blue sky. And I wrote.

I quickly wrote two pages of really sappy stuff that I would be embarrassed to show my friends. If those pages ever got out, I would have to turn in my man-card. However, now that I had a bunch of thoughts, on paper in prose, I figured I just needed to distill the verbiage until what remains is just the essence of feelings. So off to riding again to reset my brain.

After a quick lap down the mountain and back, I started my rewrite. No wait. Before that, there was a Japanese tour group at the lookout. The translator was the mom of a childhood friend. She talked to me for a bit, then she talked to one of the female tourists. My Japanese sucks, but she explained how the tiger ears were mine, and how I was a 4th generation Japanese-American. That tourist kept staring and smiling at me. Of course I will admit that I am such a stud that foreigners can’t keep their eyes off of me, but I think the reason she kept staring was due to the way I was dressed. I had a shirt on that said, “pervert,” in Japanese.

So the tour group left and I was alone to rewrite my poem. I worked on it for about an hour. Scribbling, rewriting, erasing, thinking. In the end, I was totally unhappy with the result. I hate to say it, but perhaps my online buddies were right. Maybe I should forget about poetry and visions of beatnik grandeur, and I should just stick with prose.

The only thing I wrote that I was happy with was: She’s the etch on my heart that makes it skip a beat.

Barely Poetry

I could probably rework this into something passable as poetry, but meh. It's not my style. I know this fetid piece of work did do one thing right. It did let me channel my thoughts and feelings. I hope it carries over into the explanation I owe someone.

(profound title here)

Danger risk perilous
gamble chance venturous
wager hazard challenge
brave daring treacherous.

Clash discord estrangement
strife hostility rent
confrontation friction
schism rift dissent.

Infuriate anger
enrage provoke choler
fury madden explode
irate bristle furor.

Reflect mull meditate
think weigh deliberate
ponder reflect savvy
cogitate ruminate.

Reconcile acceptance
concession concordance
resolve settle attune
assent acquiescence.

Placid calm dulcify
peace allay mollify
becalm quiet tranquil
soothe serene pacify.