Words Previously Unsaid to the Mountains

I miss the verdant overgrowth that took apart the roads and houses,

where simple flowers, vines, and trees, would take back from usurping man.

Water rushed in great expanse, though from the peaks it trickled down

as sun would heat the sleeping earth to streams, and brooks, and rivers,

finally cascading down, roaring as the waterfall, mightier than any manufactured fountain.

The muggy morning never failed to raise the plumes of blue;

the smoky fog of water lazily escaping dampened dirt.

I was allowed there as a visitor, and offered place to slumber,

but for all the richest greenery, I missed my yellowed fields.

I missed the great flat grassy plains, but more so missed my sisters,

my mother, father, aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandmother.

I could not commit to mountains, fresh air, winding trails,

and yet with my mind made, my choice I still consider.

Could I have been happier in Cade’s Cove than my Hill Country?

Could I give up my prized Panhandle for Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge?

And could all the tempted black bears, who came to sample candy apples,

persuade my indecisive heart to leave the armadillos?

I have often thought my butterfly to be solely the Monarch,

but Swallowtail has given me much thought, lately.

The fireflies that swarmed the summer lit our night anew

twinkling there in the midst of us, tiny stars just within our reach.

As I rethink my hasty departure from the Smokey Mountains,

I question if they’d let me back, if only to steep in wonder.

I Hate Velveeta

(I don’t know how to talk about this poem. I’m kind of ranty today. So, a ranty poem seemed fun to do. ^_^)

Every Christmas somebody makes it,

and while most are more catious

by loathsome vegetable pizza or fruitcake,

there is only one thing that I fear:

someone will call out that queso is out

I hurry to check, and find it’s not.

Putting Rotel in it doesn’t help it.

No amount of seasoned meat will disguise,

the flavor is anything but delicious

and calling it cheese is offensive.

I lose my appetite when I see it

I imagine the long term effects on my stomach.

It’s plastic. It tastes nothing like what it pretends to be.

An assault on your nose and mouth

like burned rubber tasting

worse than soured milk,

and people call it “liquid gold”

I just turn my nose up and sneer.

You can’t pour it into a bowlful of chips

call it nachos and present it to me.

I will feel sick, and go to bed,

don’t try to force me to “Just try it.”

I won’t change my mind in “one bite”.

You can’t fool me! This isn’t cheese!

Go eat your weird plastic food with the others.

You can pretend that it’s cheese among them.

Objective of My Heart

(This poem is in progress, but I wanted to go ahead and type it out before I lose my nerve.)

If I am your aim of conquest or

if my heart is truly your goal,

words alone will not tempt me,

only action will do.

I am the Haggard Woman,

only becoming beautiful at night.

I am not your wanton demure princess,

decorated and amused at jokes

that take no wit or talent to think up.

My soul craves knowledge,

a ravenous beast who feasts on Philosophy

stopping to adore Philology.

I am a bibliophile

following quotes and passages

figuring out the fountain of learning

and drinking until my belly is so close to

bursting that I roll to the side asleep,

dreaming of a life determining my career

based solely on my passion.

Do I bleed enough ink?

See this Haggard Woman’s deepest desire?

Confusion diminishes your demise,

and I become the destitute

as you focus on your score.

So often lofty lovers don’t think out

collateral damage, but I digress…

If conquest be your aim, I implore you deeper.

Beauty fades as age defiles youth,

and believe me, wisdom takes its toll

on a smile, on a mind, on a soul.

If you were Gawain, valiant and shining

what would you remember the lesson

or would you selfishly choose?

The loudest conversation

Isn’t it funny we say so much,
thinking our words mean nothing;
when, in reality what might be insignificant to us,
evolves eternally in others?
Simple phrases stay stuck in my craw.
I mull them into a fine powder,
mixing them into a tall glass of water,
and savoring their attatchments.
I feel every word you say to me
sometimes like a warm embrace
others are laced with jealousy,
a pinging sensation in my brain
hammering the thoughts as strikes.
I just want a conversation that I become lost in,
but what I get are these expectations
social cues that I miss,
and my relationships will falter.
What hurts most of all,
is when we speak,
and you think I’m not aware you’re lying.
It’s little things, like a sudden look, the way your voice seems to sway, and then you try to cover up.
We try to speak so civily,
but what’s not being said
   speaks louder.