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