Neurotica and Nonsense

Closed

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 03:37:00 +0000

I am no longer posting poetry on Neurotica and Nonsense. Please visit my Adventures In Drinking blog on Blogger or my SaadiaOnline blog on Xanga.

Thank you!

Saadia Reads 'Secret Garden'

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 01:52:00 +0000

Symbiosis

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 15:25:00 +0000

he craves
what I give
and gave
enabling his addiction
I deprave
waiting for a
waive
watching for his
wave
his hands liberate
my inner slave
he breathes
be brave
as we start
to misbehave
I may allow--
but he saves

Dropped Stitch Scarf

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 02:59:00 +0000

knit one purl on
ea scarf for a lover
kept quiet undercover
stitches come undone

around his neck
my alpaca leash
out of reach
yet call and beck

handcrafted protection
my work keeps him warm
inside our perfect storm
this chilly defection

*Notice the rhyme scheme in this poem (abba, cddc, etc). This is an example of envelope rhyme. I am currently knitting a 'dropped stitch scarf.' For all you knitters, click here for directions on how to make your own.

Bicoastal

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 03:53:00 +0000

his name feels
fresh on my tongue
my delusion, but real
ancient but young

left and right
loose and tight
black and white
day and night

darling, he sighs
an answered why
his truthful lie
certain and shy

the torrid balance
of well planned chance
this one-word sentence
his heavy glance

owning legions of lovers
between east and west
conceal and discover
my worst, his best

Obsidian, Version 1 and 3

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sun, 09 Dec 2007 00:27:00 +0000

About a week ago, I started writing an acrostic while I was grocery shopping using the words 'fight or flight.' I scribbled a bunch of lines on the back of my list and told myself that I would post the poem soon. When the time came to post, I couldn't find the yellow index card I had written the poem on. I looked everywhere! I finally decided that I must have inadvertently thrown the grocery list with the poem on the back away. I sat down to write another acrostic and when I clicked the 'save changes' button (on Xanga), I was informed that the site was down for maintenance. I clicked the back button on my browser repeatedly, but I could not recover my words. I then wrote a third version, which is posted below.

Version #3
For me--my reality
Is alive with constant friction
Glimmery sparks
Heated and hot
Tantrums of chaos

Obsidian, really; my fractures are
Real. Chasms of fire and belief

Fantasy, at least mine,
Lives where reality
Ignites, burns brave
Genuine, this flame
Helps me hold on
To my truth

About three days after I posted version #3, I found the first poem that I had written. It had been in my car the whole time!!! Anyway, below you'll find version #1. I was surprised at how different the poems were.

Version #1
Fantasy: magnetic, hypnotic
Insists on surrender
Giving in, giving up
Heated--the fantastic ignites
The composure of reality

Over, this thorough
Resolve. I am weak and

Filled with limitations
Life, lust, my appetites
Insatiable
Greedy and self absorbed
History, her story
To battle or break away

Paradelle*

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 18:03:00 +0000

The weight of his stare
The weight of his stare
Heavy enough to break bone
Heavy enough to break bone
Enough break, heavy weight
To the bone of his stare

I can feel his eyes
I can feel his eyes
Tapping at my spine
Tapping at my spine
Spine tapping his
Eyes I can feel at my

The way he looks at me
The way he looks at me
Presses hard, almost hurts
Presses hard, almost hurts
Hurts the way he presses
Looks at me hard

At the bone, I can almost
Break his spine
His weight: heavy, hurts, presses
He looks way hard
At the me of my
Enough to feel
Tapping eyes stare

*A paradelle is a modern poetic form which was invented by United States Poet Laureate Billy Collins as a parody of the villanelle. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words. Simply said, the last two lines of the first three stanzas use all the words in that stanza. The last stanza, however, incorporates every word that is used in the poem. As I stated earlier, the 'paradelle' is a parody. However, I think of it as a sort of word puzzle. I loved writing it.

Not all reviewers of Collins' book recognized that the paradelle was a parody of formal poetry and of amateur poets who adhered to formalism at the expense of sense. Some reviews criticized Collin's poem "Paradelle for Susan" as an amateurish attempt at a difficult form without ever understanding that this was, indeed, the point.

St. Louis!

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 04:08:00 +0000

Cougar*

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sat, 24 Nov 2007 04:02:00 +0000

young men--boys, really
extreme energy explodes
exponentially

these crossroads
between wrong and right
there are no high roads

so trite
consort crisis
weary of polite

immature bliss
physical perfection
hurts to dismiss

daydream defection
noiseless screams
phantasmal selection

sunbeams
bright and gullible
giving off steam
nothing but trouble

*The Urban Dictionary defines a cougar as "a 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing to do anything male."

This poem started out as a terza rima, which is poetry written in three-line stanzas (or “tercets”) linked by end-rhymes patterned aba, bcb, cdc, ded, efe, etc. There is no specified number of stanzas in the form, but poems written in terza rima usually end with a single line or a couplet rhyming with the middle line of the last tercet. However, as you can see, my last stanza is definitely not a single line or couplet. So my poem is kind of a terza rima, but, technically....not really.

'N' Words

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 19:43:00 +0000

In a nutshell--
I am neurotic
Navigating
neural pathways
networking with
negative notions
How can I stay
neutral?
Where is my
nirvana?
Naked, naive,
dressed in this
napkin thin
negligee
my necklace is a
noose
Come closer--
n e a r e r--
I'm ready to
negotiate

Related Posts:
'A' Game
The 'F' Bomb

Blogger's Delight

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 12:48:00 +0000

Join with me in congratulating
Saadia Ali Aschemann (Girly_Girl--THAT'S MEEEE)
Diane Dorce' (Mizrepresent)
R. Fitzgerald (Mega Rich)
April C. Hayes (Literary Felonies)
D.R. Johnson (Dave @ Wandering Ether)
Cordenia Paige (CAPcity)
Torrance Stephens (All-Mi-T @ Raw Dawg Buffalo)
Cedric Harris - Editor (Ced it Meant it)
Denea Marcel - Cover Artist (Denea)
B-Side Artist:
Mr. Ash (BygPowis)
Mr. Jones (iamrj)
Ms. McCrary (Xcentric Pryncess)
Ms. Tery (MysTery)
Mr. Smith (Don)
This project has been in the works since early this year
and is finally coming to fruition. To check out excerpts of four of
the six stories or to purchase an advanced copy
go to the Bloggers Delight Book site.

Inspiration*

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 17:26:00 +0000

In between midnight and morning
my words wake me
traveling through
slumber to sight

I taste thoughts as my eyes open
spying the clock
next to my bed
angry numbers

In my mind's many rooms, words weave
into poems
I say only
where is my pen

*This is an example of a "minute poem." Minute poems are 12-lines, consisting of 60 syllables, with a syllabic line count of 8,4,4,4,8,4,4,4,8,4,4,4. Technically, the form should have rhyming couplets--but I just couldn't do it. I've also heard some people insist on this form being written in a strict iambic meter...again, this was just impossible for me. Sticking to the right number of syllables was hard enough. I was trying to describe one intense moment--an actual minute--when words wake me up and I am compelled to start writing poetry.

Fine Line

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 09:28:00 +0000

conscious--subliminal
love--hate
cop--criminal
sinner--saint
trite--seminal
brilliant--great
rude--cynical
learned--innate
intimate--clinical
crooked--straight

Argument

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 21:26:00 +0000

her lips
garnet colored, glossy
laugh at sobriety

exhilarated
she can blow
questions away
with a smooth exhale

her mouth
tells her mind
that there are
different kinds
of wrong

Blog Interview

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 17:28:00 +0000

Hey, Everyone!!!

I was interviewed by www.BlogInterviewer.com.

Please check out this link and vote for my blog!

Thank you.

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sat, 20 Oct 2007 18:13:00 +0000

pretty she is
ugly she does
maybe she's his
maybe she was

holy and haunted
madonna, whore
dismissed and wanted
a fascinating bore

sugar, spice
does anyone know?
fire, ice
yes and no

So...what do you think the title of this poem should be?

Shahrazad

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sat, 13 Oct 2007 02:56:00 +0000

his day off
is my day on
like Shahrazad
sensuous solutions
dark haired diversion

each day is
his birthday
filled with surprises
adult amusement

orchestrating
utopian fantasies
while maintaining
this week's manicure

my very survival
depends on the
ability to
enchant and
enthrall

spellbound, he marvels
at my mastery
wishing for infinite
days of leisure

as he travels
toward his dreams
I wish for a
distraction of my own

Scheherazade, more correctly known as Shahrazad and sometimes Scheherazadea or Shahrzād (Persian: شهرزاد ); is a legendary Persian queen and the storyteller of The Book of One Thousand and One Nights, also, though erroneously, known as the Arabian Nights.Her story is as follows: every day Shahryar (Persian: شهريار or "king") would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was betraying him. He had killed three thousand such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter.Against her father's protestations, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the King. Once in the King's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, Dunyazad, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The King lay awake and listened with awe to Scheherazade's first story and asked for another, but Scheherazade said there was not time as dawn was breaking, and regretfully so, as the next story was even more exciting.And so the King kept Scheherazade alive as he eagerly anticipated each new story, until, one thousand and one adventurous nights, and three sons later, the King had not only been entertained but wisely educated in morality and kindness by Scheherazade who became his Queen.

Sequence

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 23:25:00 +0000

his dependable
presence
makes his
absence
difficult andintense
(miss him, I do)
furtive messages
make me tense
these sensations
make no sense
simplicity tangles
into something dense
(dismiss him, says you)
we could
dispense
with this
obvious pretense
intimateprepense
(dis him, I will not)
in his
defense
his charm
immense
together
let us commence
(I'll kiss him, so what?)

Pawn

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 21:07:00 +0000

"...but who in your measly little world are you trying to prove thatyou're made out of gold and -a can't be sold..." ~Jimi Hendrix, Are You Experienced

he tells me
that he wants to
buy me out
I cringe and clap
exhilarated, alarmed
like a small child
watching fireworks

his cold truth
sears--dry ice
rough,
severe
even a girl like me
can be bought
and sold

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 05:05:00 +0000

My oldest son, Noah, and I love words. Though he is only 9 years old, I am constantly amazed by his vocabulary and wordplay. As you can imagine, Noah and I have a lot of fun with magnetic poetry. Below is Noah's first 'magnetic poem.' Of course, I thought it was brilliant--but I'm extremely biased.

Below is my attempt. When I showed it to Noah, he said, "I think mine is much better. Yours doesn't make any sense!" As I read my words now--I realize that he's right!

Hugs to everyone--Here is my previous magnetic poetry post.

Out Loud

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 07:05:00 +0000

his voice
makes my
poems cook
like a tin saucepan
on a gas range
his inflection--
feverish, hot

this choice
does satisfy
a brief look
a blink, a scan
moments of change
such perfection
within earshot

true, his voice
like big sky
an unfettered outlook
blue heat, he can
exchange
predilection
for fresh thought

Obvious

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 00:40:00 +0000

a man who sends roses
hip hop
daytime diamonds
full bodied red wine
women shopping at victoria's secret
bottle blondes
phone sex
children selling lemonade
hangovers
desperate housewives
may-december coupling
sequins
soulmates
false modesty
too bright nail polish
henpecked husbands
winning in straight sets
summer lovers
sore thumbs
poetry that tries too hard

*the above "poem" is an example of catalog verse which is a form of poetry made by compiling long lists of everyday objects, names, or events, united by a common theme and often didactic in tone. I have posted catalog verse in the past, though I can't seem to locate the link. I do remember several of my readers telling me that catalog verse should not be considered poetry. Though this type of verse is not something I feel strongly about, I still consider the above example to be poetic. No less poetic, I would say, than a Haiku or Limerick. That's just my opinion, though. As always, I love to hear all feedback whether it is complimentary or not.

Fact

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 13:39:00 +0000

a fact:
I'm broken
somewhat cracked
damaged, disillusioned
to be exact
each day seems
abstract
surreal, vague
crowded and packed
the monstrous neuroses
which I attract
at every turn
so difficult to distract
eyes shut
avoiding contact
wishing for seclusion
refusing to react
ensconced, reclusive
ignoring tact
I'm better alone, that's
a fact

Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 02:15:00 +0000

standing
at the top
of a polished
mahogany stairway
I see him
looking at me
twenty steps below
with one elegant hand
on the sturdy bannister
Black Snake Moan plays
somewhere
a soundtrack to something
unknown
he speaks
though I can not hear him
my high heeled foot taps
and though my heavy
undisciplined hair
tumbles over my
polished mahogany
shoulders,and
my heartbeat feels
like heavy footsteps
I can not move....

Slam Dunk

noreply@blogger.com (Girly_Girl) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 01:12:00 +0000

(For him)
I lay it bare
forswear
proper and prim

(To him)
I give promises
continual kisses
my necessary whim

(With him)
I forget all doubt
let myself out
all net--no rim

About him?
it's complicated
instinct--not educated
(What is the chance that I'll elude my illusions?)
s l i m

*technically, readers, this poem would be considered an example of envelope rhyme.' (the rhyme scheme being abba). However, this is not really a textbook model as I took some liberties with sentence structure and composition, especially in the 3rd stanza. But, whatever...right?