poetry

Freewheelin’ Bob nabs the Nobel

/ Tracy Abell / 8 Comments

As has been documented here over the years, I’m a long-time Dylan fan, so wasn’t completely surprised when it was announced today that Bob Dylan has won the Nobel Prize for Literature. (Although, as I said in an email to a friend, I do wonder whether Bob should’ve been disqualified from consideration due to his Victoria’s Secret commercial years ago.)

Bob Dylan in November 1963 (Unknown [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

Bob Dylan in November 1963 (Unknown [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)

Nonetheless, this year the committee chose to honor Bob Dylan’s work which, on a personal note, feels very fitting because Zebu is studying in Sweden right now. The award also feels fitting because of one Dylan song in particular that tragically never, ever goes out of style. For “Masters of War” alone, I’m good with Dylan winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Masters of War
Written by Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead

Copyright
© 1963 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music

Inspirational Poetry

/ Tracy Abell

GET FUZZY by Darby Conley                                         September 26, 2016
getfuzzy-9-26-16


Inspirational as in “Now I don’t feel so bad about my poetry.”

Thanks, Satchel!

 

 

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Punching is for expression

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

GET FUZZY by Darby Conley
Get Fuzzy on writing as expression

This old Get Fuzzy strip does not represent any personal animosity toward poets.
Rather, it’s more a statement on my current state of mind.
Specifically, my desire to punch something.
Although, stabbing would be equally therapeutic.

As Zebu would say, “Mom’s feeling a little stabby today.”

“Stabby and punchy.”
That’s me.

Shouldn’t there be a t-shirt or bumpersticker?

 

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Bucky Katt Does Robert Frost

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

               

GET FUZZY by Darby Conley

Doesn’t this seem like great fun?

For instance, how about "Bob Chilly’s" THE PASTURE?

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan’t be gone long. — You come too.

Here’s my adaptation:
I’m leaving to wade back into Scrivener mode;
I won’t stop except to wipe tears from my cheeks
(And wait for my vision to de-blur, maybe):

If I’m not back soon, please come find me.
 
I welcome any and all adaptations in the comments section . . .
            

Waste Not Wednesday: Non-toxic Paint Remover

/ Tracy Abell / 6 Comments

                      

Because I’m still in limbo waiting for feedback on CLOSE TO HOME,
I’m tackling some long overdue household projects.
Yesterday I stripped the scary green paint from kitchen cabinet doors using
this great non-toxic, soy-based paint remover.

I’m environmentally sensitive, and can’t walk in the detergent
aisle in the grocery store because of all the nasty odors.
The soy-based remover was fine for me with adequate ventilation
(I worked in my garage), and I highly recommend it.
Why use conventional products and expose yourself to a soup of toxic chemicals
that may harm your respiratory system, skin, internal organs, brain and nervous system?
Not to mention the harm to the planet from producing the stuff?

And, because I need to stick with my Write No Matter What attitude,
here is a little home improvement haiku:

So long now, green paint.
Wish you’d come with a warning:
"Best if eyes are closed."
                

Not all writing is created equal (but it’s equally important)

/ Tracy Abell / 13 Comments

           

Yesterday I wrote about being grumpy as a result of not writing.
Later, I wrote some fast fiction that excelled in its suckiness.
However, I felt better for doing it,
and this morning, resolved to write something else.
Without censoring myself for additional suckiness.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold the uncensored product of Tracy’s mind:

MARKING TIME
I just saw a flicker poop
on the railing.
After he lured me to the window
with his urgent, chirpy call.

He pooped right in front of me,
then just up and flew away.
Without looking back.
Without acknowledging his audience of one.

And I’m left to wonder
what it is I’m supposed to do 
now.

Oh, wait.
I know.


                                                                                          © 2010 Tracy Abell
              

Haiku for Tuesday

/ Tracy Abell / 10 Comments

               

Apologies to my poet friends,
but I needed to get this off my chest. . .

Wind makes me crazy
    anxious, screaming-out-loud nuts
         so stop already!
        

Feel free to leave your own wind-inspired haiku in the comments.
The crabbier the better.
             

Poem: Egrets by Mary Oliver

/ Tracy Abell / 17 Comments

Poetry intimidates me so I usually avoid it.  But my sister insisted I’d appreciate Mary Oliver’s poems.  And I do.  Especially this one since right now I’m missing all those amazing birds I saw everywhere in Florida.  The very last, um, stanza? (calling[info]kellyrfineman) gets me where I live.

EGRETS
by Mary Oliver

Where the path closed

 down and over,

   through the scumbled leaves,

     fallen branches,

through the knotted catbrier,

  I kept going.  Finally

    I could not

      save my arms

        from thorns; soon

the mosquitoes

  smelled me, hot

    and wounded, and came

      wheeling and whining.

        And that’s how I came

to the edge of the pond:

  black and empty

    except for a spindle

      of bleached reeds

at the far shore

  which, as I looked,

    wrinkled suddenly

      into three egrets – – –

a shower

  of white fire!

    Even half-asleep they had

      such faith in the world

that had made them – – –

  tilting through the water,

    unruffled, sure,

      by the laws

of their faith not logic,

  they opened their wings

    softly and stepped

      over every dark thing.

 

Anatomy Lesson

/ Tracy Abell / 52 Comments


ANATOMICAL ODE

Don’t be afraid,
It’s how genitalia was made
Testes in a sac
Testes in a sac.

Guys need a scrotum
How else they gonna tote ‘em?
Testes in a sac
Testes in a sac.

Some words are truly scary
Like a ball bag, big and hairy
Not testes in a sac
Testes in a sac.

Embrace your inner scrote
And be happy the book was wrote
Testes in a sac
Testes in a sac.

Thanks,

[info]jbknowles

, for the poetry challenge.  I’ve grown quite fond of the word "scrotum."