No critiques this week, just poems
Bogged down with proper nouns, drum crowns and grocery frowns. Run-down. That’s what I am this week. I won’t go into it. Why am I telling you? Because it means I didn’t have time to write critiques this week. But I’ve decided to post “Collage, Ages Eight to Eight Hundred” regardless, and for two reasons: (1) It has nearly-perfect rhythm (which alone makes rhyming poetry worth the endeavor, for me) and (2) it is a time machine. My childhood will always make me smile, and anything that reminds me of drums probably will, too.
I’m also posting a second poem, “6:36—- At Shift’s End,” by the same writer, mainly because it makes my own sense of irony laugh at itself. And it made me wonder whether I brushed my teeth this morning. I did.
So here are two poems by MSU student Amelia Larson. All I’ll say this week: Enjoy.
“Collage, Ages Eight to Eight Hundred”
by Amelia Larson
Sonic hedgehog super soakers, mediocre young elopers
Red and yellow honeybees, Lego blocks and climbing trees
Twister tangled up in wire, college sweethearts and desire
Growing up in North Dakota, creamsicles and frozen soda
Never ever let them tell you there is nothing you can do
Keep on walking, babies talking, everything that’s old is new.Rumble packs and sockem’ boppers, rubber hoses with no stoppers
Bathtubs and a radio, Chia pets refuse to grow
Ice cream coolers, two-edged rulers, angels in the Christmas snow
Never ever let them tell you there is nothing you can do
You can ride the bus to school and hide a penny in your shoe.Watermelon Halloweeners, Technicolor window cleaners
Slip n’ Slide infirmary, cowboy-flavored fantasy
BB guns and banged-up fenders, firemen with red suspenders
Greasy fingers swing the bat, wear my cake and eat my hat
Never ever let them tell you there is nothing you can do
Carry popcorn, carry snacks, to throw at people in the zoo.Bigger feet mean bigger blisters, call us mams and call us misters
We will learn to read and write our letters on a old Lite Brite
Coffee-flavored roller coasters, play-dough cookies in my toaster
Dress me up and take me out and climb back up the water spout
Never ever let them tell you there is nothing you can do
Keep on trucking, keep on sucking on that sucker, sweet and blue.Finger-painting monkey barrels, chocolate stains on new apparel
Mortgages and eagle eyes, steal his nose and hope he cries
Fighting lawyers, loving bullies, knowing kids of every size
Never ever let them tell you there is nothing you can do
If you haven’t seen it, then to you it’s brand-and-spanking new.
——
“6:36—- At Shift’s End”
by Amelia Larson
Who am I to criticize, to judge another Person’s poetry When I can’t even clean My teeth properly I am skilled at fleecing interviewers Dazzling them With skills I do not have So here I sit until the end (At least till seven) Watching films And sucking pay From people who don’t know my name The man in half a uniform I think he was biting an illegal cigar. But at this early hour I am no one to judge.
—-
Stay tuned, young tycoons.
Rick Hale
halerich@msu.edu






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