A few lines going nowhere fast

I really don't have a specific method for writing. Things just pop in my head and I go for them. Sometimes a set of lines, or a specific word just show up in my brainstorming, and I procede from there, building a poem around them. I have these two lines that I have been trying to work with for the last couple of days, and I'm going to post them here, and then post a poem that contains them later. We'll see where they go. I've tried a few times to contain them in a poem, but I'm all over the place in terms of the rest of the content. So, I'll post the beginnings of what I have. Here they are:

I, the penitent Magdalene -

you, the finger exclaiming "whore"

I feel like these are the last two lines of a poem....I just don't have that poem. Ha ha. Oh well. Later.

I just can't write long poems

It's true. I really suck at them. So here's another short one.

Dinnerware

Her resolve shatter-scattered like

plate on ceramic, losing itself with

dust and crumbs beneath the gas stove.

Obsidian eyes followed her denim to the

closet for broom and back, where she

stooped to dispose of the fallen, so

delicate the former design.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

Haiku - Mangoes

First haiku attempt since a grade five assignment, where I wrote:

The hen lays her eggs

in a soft, delicate nest

and waits for her chicks

This is technically more of a haiku than the one below, since it is about nature. Oh well.

husband and daughter

slice mangoes in my kitchen

lovely to taste, see

To the shop clerk

seeing my arms overfilled

with baby and worry,

you mounted

your stallion

and

whisked me

off to a closed lane

that became open

at your word.

you bagged my

bananas and eggs

and

frozen pizzas,

and with the smallest

of gestures

made the greatest of

impressions.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012

These words are strung together,

cascading vines

descending from great lumbering

masses of trees,

wandering and trailing away,

losing themselves in

the tepid night.

Excusing an insufficient bearing,

they writhe in a bed of decaying

foliage, and slink off

through the umbrage,

edging

through forested thoughts,

advancing upon

perdition.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012.

Winter in Whitby

Wooooooo! I am finding the time to write for once. I hope I keep this pace up. I'm really enjoying it. Look how many posts!

The frosted fencerows and walkways

gleamed under the new

blanket of snow; their former

melancholy and dreariness

ousted by unspoiled artistry.

Weighed down by

white powder, tree branches

bowed their heads

to the splendorous earth, and

the young boy who

careened resolutely down

the once untrodden path

(sled in tow)

didn't realize what magic he

had disrupted.

Copyright, Catherine Young, 2012

Emaciated

Dismantle your guilt.

Shed it, shred it,

do away with

every.

last.

drop.

And then,

when you cease to

breathe,

you'll have no

remorse

about squandered

days; no worries

over

a wasted

life.