This is a compilation of poetry that kiloJoule has written since September of 1995.

1: After breaking up with my boyfriend
2: I hate poems that rhyme
3: Attempt #1 at an Emily Dickenson-esque poem
4: My successful Emily Dickenson-esque poem- this is my favorite poem of all time (that I wrote)
5: After a stressed out day
6: The first lines came to me over the summer, the rest was written later
7: Plain old bad mood
8: Pissed at my parents
9: An epic poem- try to see the religious symbolism
10: I like the way these words soud
11: After another stressed out day

12: Occurred to me in the shower- bad hair day or something

Poetry Written After 10-96

13: I hate poems that rhyme, Part II
14-18: After reading Seamus Heaney
14: Institutions-about my Parents
15: From Across the Abyss- social criticism

16: The Remote

17: Dirge of the Living

18: Typing

19-24: After reading Willam Butler Yeats

19: Suffering Danaids

20: Ode to Jeff Meyer (A.K.A. I hate poems that rhyme III)

21: MY MOTHER FORESEES HER DEATH

22: SPRING

23: A LAST CONFERSSION

24: THE COLD HEAVEN

25: Sestina for the Senior Class- Graduation is coming!

1

A split rail fence
between you and I
no strength to speak,
no need to hear.

I see you here
yet can not escape
love lost in truth,
pain found in lies.

I wish for strength
so I could speak up
I am to blame,
I need your help.

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2

Does the sun shine
Where the moon doesn't glow?
Are the people from there
Like those from below?

Do the men sing
In melodious tune?
Are the women at peace
With the month of June?

Do children cry
For their mothers at night?
Are there people out there
Who'd rather not fight?

Are you aware
Of such a place being?
And will you take me there
When I am fleeing?

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3

The heavenly bowl
Descends in torrents.
The echoes of a clash
Reverberate aloud.

The pavement glassy
Animals retreat.
Ripples of existence
Collide and fade away.

Then suddenly,
It all breaks.
And from it comes light
Stripes up above.

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4

The shades are drawn- to block the Light-
And no one let- inside
The Window sills have gathered- Dust-
In which the Mites reside

And deep- within this strange abode-
As such- defined by one-
So much around and Yet- alone
Is this a House- or Home?

No Air escapes the Window panes-
It circulates within-
And ever swirling- shifting notes-
Will Peace be found- again?

The cobwebs- in the corners Dark
Like Trees- will count the Scores-
Until interior Paint- will fall-
And cover all the Floor

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5

alone again
on the same dreary tuesday
with an empty teacup
and not enough tears

alone again
in the laundromat
with whites in the dryer
and not enough quarters

alone again
on a train headed westward
with no destination
and not enough strength

alone again
on a road less traveled
with too much anger
and not enough joy

alone again
in somebody's bed
with a terrible migraine
and not enough aspirin

alone again
in a room wholly bare
with plain wooden floorboards
and not enough heat

alone again
in this constant sorrow
with so many questions
and not any answers

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6

And there they were
with the straw scattered around
like a hayride gone awry.

And she looks down
and contemplates her breasts
and the relevance of a fifth toe.

And he looks down
and sees an ant crawling
and wonders if he should crush it.

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7

I cry myself to sleep at night
wondering when justice will prevail.
And oftentimes it occurs to me
that that I am truly unjust.
But what are resolutions
when they are never kept?
And promises broken to myself
only decrease my own self worth.

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8

There is a frame around my head
Immortalized for all
Hanging on a whitewashed backdrop
Above the firery glow
A symbol of the love they have
For their baby girl
If only symbols were true love
And not a cover up

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9

The cow in the road refuses to move
He took me hostage and demands ransom
He wants to meet Elvis and eat pizza
I think I'll put on my Walkman and sing along

Maybe I should run away from the cow
Because he is only a cow
And go home to my fish, who truly love me
And want me to feed them

I can't run though, because I'm stuck
The tar on the road has enveloped my feet
I can't move, and the cow refuses to
Meanwhile a duck walks by

He tells me his name is Marvin
And that he is a psychologist
Who has come to help me get out of this mess
I tell him he is a quack, but he stays

He tries to convince the cow to let me go,
But the cow demands more in ransom
Now he wants a plane to Spain
And the duck tells me he'll see what he can do

As he waddles off, I can't help laughing
I wonder what prestige he holds in the world
He seems to be simply a featherweight
Meanwhile I am sinking further in the tar

I wonder what this is a descent into
Will I drown in this sticky blackness
In the presence only of a cow
And the endless swaying corn?

I watch as the cars back up in both lanes
They are too interested in the scene
To make an effort to go around it
Or maybe they too fear the cow

Out of a blue Mercedes steps a man
He could be my father, but I don't know
He is talking on his cell phone and looks at me
As he walks closer and closer still

Finally he has gotten to the cow
The cow seems to recognize him and grow nervous
It could be the sun, but a certain light
Begins to flash in the man's eyes

As the man stares at the angry cow
I feel myself being lifted from the tar
But at the same time my feet are being tugged
Further below the surface

As the intensity between the two grows
So does the pull on my extremities
Finally, as the cell phone rings, I feel released
The man takes the call , and the cow is suspicious

Enter the duck, who carries a pizza
It is black olives and hot peppers
Which happens to be my personal favorite
And the duck winks good luck at me

The cow's short pointy horns glint in the sun
He swings his head and they come close to me
I sense a strange heat eminating from them
I no longer think a pizza was his motive

At this point I look down
And realize I had sunk to my armpits
In the soft black tar surrounding me
And wonder when the man will finish his call

He finally does and approaches our group
He says he has spoken to his boss
And says the cow should be afraid
Of what is to come, more or less

Suddenly people begin exiting their cars
And approach the four of us
They form a circle around our group
And draw in closer and closer still

Then, as all their shoulders meet
There is a sudden jolt within me
While outside a bright blue light flashes
And an incredible howl can be heard

When I open my eyes I am standing on the road
With a little yellow duck at my side
And the cars honking at me angrily
I start to turn away from the scene

The blue Mercedes swerves off the road
And speeds past me without slowing
The duck turns to leave the road
But he winks at me over his shoulder

And that leaves only me, alone again
Just like forever, like always
The corn waves me off the road
So I leave for a better place

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10

form
formatted
bread becomes toast
ashes and dust
smoke inhalation
vibrant realization
love
lover
bird is falcon
field and river
synthesized reality
formalized duplicity

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11

The girl with the laundry basket
on the street downtown
tells me I have your hat,
when really I don't.

Her hip juts out
to hold up the basket,
and so does her lip
to make her look sexy.

She could be forty,
but maybe she's ten
I didn't bother to ask
for I was sad again.

She asked me if I
would take her to lunch
tomorrow or the next day
and I said maybe.

'Cause she doesn't drive,
And likes to eat stuff
for when she does
it makes her feel full.

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12

Distorted reality
Altered perception
It's hard to be me
When I'm the exception.

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13

When rhymes are in a poem writ

I don't like it, not one bit.

When the meter doesn't flow,

And the poet doesn't know,

my train of thought goes out the door,

and I can't read it any more.

And then of course the biggest crime

is when the words don't even rhyme

like sign and time or boat and soap.

I don't think that I can cope!

Dr. Seuss should be the one to rhyme

for he is the best of our time

As for the attempts of you and me

a law of "No Rhymes" is how it should be.

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14

Institutions

 

Things are different now

that we have all realized

that they I don’t need them

for much any more.

 

I am able to cook my own meals,

drive my own car,

buy my own things,

work at a job,

cope with my problems

and manage my time.

 

These, all the functions

that once defined who they were.

 

Now, in their mirror,

they see an institution

with borrowers and lenders

of the coin of the realm.

 

But my thoughts are on other institutions,

ones that will bring me to a state

higher than they ever attained.

 

Though they are proud of all I can do,

they still worry about the change I will face

when they must terminate my account

 

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15

From across the Abyss

I

 

Things are good here,

but there is a blue chasm that divides

the naïve from those who know

the realities of the world.

 

Quarantined on this land mass

aware of the problems that exist outside

but not able to do anything about it,

and not able to comprehend.

 

The papers and the evening news

present Life Magazine images

of enemy soldiers standing next to children

with the shell of a building in the background.

 

They say "Your pocket change can

feed this child" and hope

her wide eyes and distended belly

are enough to reach your wallet.

 

Anchors read tales of lands that suffer

and struggle over the alien names

that make it seem as though the teleprompter

forgot to display the vowels.

 

They try to show the people here

the horrors, but the cries of the

children standing on the edge of the gap

drown out their valiant attempts,

 

 

II

 

People here claim themselves victims,

but we endure no pain in the eyes of

the suffering minorities, the suppressed women,

the neglected children, and the abused citizens.

 

All those who will never even have the opportunity

to select the lawyer they feel will win their case

and will never have Montel or Jenny Jones

to help them solve their problems.

 

We see our homeless and are outraged.

But they can look across the gorge

and be grateful that they reside here,

where at least they have a chance.

 

We look at our uprisings and worry,

but no bombs are heard here,

no soldiers line the streets,

and the children do not live in fear.

 

 

IV

 

We do not understand the battles they fight,

over land, faith, or government.

These are struggles that may have

begun before our nation was even that.

 

Yet we think we can help by sending more men,

more money or more guns.

We are their saviors, but what can we do

from across this wide abyss?

 

It is much easier for us to watch

from an easychair the images displayed

on the big-screen TV than

to act or to think or to hope.

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16

The Remote

 

Of all the gadgets, the remote control was the one

that came near to an imagined perfection:

When he tightened his raised hand and aimed with it,

It felt like gun, accurate and light.

 

So whether he watched a warrior or an athlete

Or people actually working on the land,

He loved its grain of tapering, black mold

Grown satiny from people touching it after eating Chee-tos.

 

Metal screws, rubber buttons, burnish, grain,

Smoothness, straightness, roundness, length and sheen

molded, shaped, balanced, tested, fitted.

The springiness, the click and form of it.

 

And then when he thought of how to get the most channels,

He would see the beams from a satellite TV sailing past

Evenly, imperturbably through space,

Its rays starlit and absolutely soundless -

 

But has learned at last to be happy with cable

Enough stations to satiate him on the couch,

Where perfection - or nearness to it - is imagined

Not in the aiming but the possession of the remote.

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17

Dirge of the Living

 

In every breath I take,

exists a bit of another:

Another dog, another cat,

another girl or boy,

Their pieces remain forever,

but in a different form.

A bit of Albert Einstein,

exists in my left eye.

And Plato left a piece of himself

here upon my hand

For as each one passed

on from the earth,

they were returned to it

Be it in ashes or in a grave,

they remain among us all.

So when I speak of the shred of Hitler

That lies here in my shoe,

don’t be alarmed

for I speak only of a logical law

That has been proven time and again.

These parts don’t change us

as far as we know,

but rather build on each other

to form a unique entity

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18

Typing

 

Underneath my digits ten

The keyboard rests, ergonomically correct.

 

Down the hall, a loud clacking sound

When the wrinkled fingers tap the waiting keys:

My grandmother, typing, I look up

 

Till her straining hands resting now in her lap

Turn the knob, and pull out a letter of twenty years

Through her life

Where she’s been typing.

 

The soft hum when she went electric lulls her, the buzz

reminding her that she does not need white out.

She types in the greeting, then begins the message

To remind everyone that she is still around

Loving the cool hardness under her hands.

 

By God, the old woman would mail out letters.

Just like her mother.

 

My grandfather types more letters in a day

Than any one I’ve ever met.

Once I watched her typing a message

with her plump elderly hands

She left room at the bottom to sign, then fell to right away

Replacing the paper, rolling in

the crisp new sheet, going down and down

So she could begin again. Typing.

 

The warm smell of electrical heat, the tap and whir

Of motor functions, the tip taps of the keys

Through letters saved awaken in my head.

But I’ve no typewriter to follow my grandma.

Underneath my digits ten

The keyboard rests,

I’ll type with it.

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19

Suffering Danaids

 

In leaking jars their sorrows dwell,

eternal punishment for one evening of

blood-red annihilation.

A paternal gift of death

brought despair to the fifty maidens

forced to wed their cousins,

The Argives were their only saviors

from the persistent courtship of

the suitors that the maidens so despised.

And what then of the one poor soul

who pardoned her new wed spouse?

She punished for all her life,

while her sisters suffered

for all eternity.

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20

Ode to Jeff Meyer

 

I don’t like poems that rhyme.

They make me scream and shout.

I think that a poet’s worst crime

is to use a rhyme, no doubt.

I get so caught up in the meter

That I forget what’s being said.

I think that it would be much sweeter

To write without rhymes instead.

And when the rhymes become too loose

The poem becomes quite trivial

Unless of course you’re Dr. Seuss

To whom there is no rival.

So in conclusion I must say,

Save those rhymes for humor’s sake.

For writing your poems a different way

will prevent me from my heartache

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21

MY MOTHER FORESEES HER DEATH

 

It is a terrible thing to know,

at a young age,

only forty-something,

your fate.

I know it is wrong.

I know it is costly.

Yet I do it.

It’s nice to have one

on the way to work

and one on the way back

to wind down the day

So I do it.

My lungs feel it

when I walk up stairs

My dentist scowls

as I sit in the chair

Yet I do it.

My children complain

of the odor and smoke

But its my life

and they don’t own me

So I do it.

My dad just died:

cancer.

I inherited the rest of his genes,

so probably that too

Yet I do it.

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22

SPRING

 

The blossom on the apple tree signals its wise cycle

Is full of life, yet in it there is no glory

Once a lovely child played in its large welcoming branches,

Her imagination free to wander to places

Far away, leaving her free of the burdens of her childhood

Of which there were many, but the tree made seem few

There she returned and tried to climb higher every time,

Pleased with each branch she saw, she strove to reach the top

For she knew she would be happy, above the torment

Yet she created a punishment for herself,

Competing with her soul, fighting for her triumph

That in the end the victory was a mere defeat

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23

A LAST CONFESSION

 

What Lively lad most pleasured me

Of all that with me lay?

I answer that I gave my soul

And loved in misery,

But had great pleasure with a lad

That I loved bodily.

 

Flinging from his arms I laughed

To think his passion such

He fancied that I gave a soul

Did but our bodies touch,

And laughed upon his breast to think

Beast gave Beast as much.

 

I gave what other women gave

That stepped out of their clothes,

But when this soul, its body off,

Naked to naked goes,

He it has found shall find therein

What none other knows,

 

And give his own and take his own

And rule in his own right;

And though it loved in misery

Close and cling so tight,

There’s not a bird of day that dare

Extinguish that delight.

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24

THE COLD HEAVEN

 

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook delighting heaven

That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,

And thereupon imagination and heart were driven

So wild that every casual thought of that and this

Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season

With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;

And I took all the blame out of all the sense and reason,

Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,

Riddled with light. Ah! When the ghost begins to quicken,

Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent

Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken

By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

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25

Sestina for the Senior Class

 

Of all the classes one could hope to successfully mold,

it seems the class of 1997 is the form that would work.

We are a group that knows how to play

but yet are blessed with interminable drive.

Throughout the year, from Fall until Spring,

our class it seems is never at rest.

 

We all help our group surpass the rest,

but of course it is the teachers who mold

our young minds, letting us drink from the spring

of their knowledge. All this work

pays off in the end, for all the time they drive

words into our head makes us more ready to play.

 

Be it spending long hours for a musical or play,

learning the difference between a note and a rest,

organizing a community service drive,

experimenting in the lab growing plants and mold,

or making money through part-time work,

our busy schedules lead us to eagerly spring

 

at the mention of Summer, Winter or even Spring

Break. It seems even when we play

we subconsciously work.

Therefore we seize any opportunity to rest

and shake off the brain binding mold.

While it may seem that we have lost our drive,

 

it still persists, the precise point I am trying to drive.

So when we are doing our spring

cleaning and we find in our refrigerator mold

from even before this year’s Fall Play

We will take a moment to rest

and recall all our hard work

 

And when pressure stops our bodies’ work

we’ll reflect on last year’s perfect line drive,

how we volunteered at a rest

home, ran track in the Spring

(or perhaps preferred the track to play).

It is our abilities that fill the ideal mold.

 

However our work will continue until Spring

when we will drive away for a summer of play

and rest before we are forced into a new college mold.

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