Fifty Words on a Noble Hero

Soft ruffles of soft cotton on soft polyester fiberfill. Or goosedown. Covered by silk or satin. So inviting. Waiting for a slight weight to sink in, to gently indent the smooth surface. No matter that it becomes misshapen. It fluffs back up.
Last night I dreamt I ate a marshmallow.

Impending Senility

What was that? I didn’t hear.
Could you say that again?
I wish I may, I wish I might
What comes after ten?

You told me that, you say? You did?
It happened just last week?
Sorry, but I don’t recall.
I must have been asleep.

Sometimes I remember, true.
Some things stick in my mind.
Often, though, you find it’s gone.
Bear with me; please be kind.

You mutter, underneath your breath
“Some cards are missing from her deck”
I’m trying, though, so give me time.
I’ll remember in a sec.

Important notes, appointments, plans
Come and go and wander past.
It’s coming back, I’m trying hard
What was it that you asked?

A Poem I Really Like

by Someone

"I got two A's," the small boy cried.
His voice was filled with glee.
His father very bluntly asked,
"Why didn't you get three?"

"Mom, I've got the dishes done,"
The girl called from the door.
Her mother very calmly said,
"And did you sweep the floor?"

"I've mowed the grass," the tall boy said,
"And put the mower away."
His father asked him with a shrug,
"And that took you all day?"

The children in the house next door
Seem happy and content.
The same things happen over there,
But this is how they went:

"I got two A's," the small boy cried.
His face was filled with glee.
His father very proudly said, "That's great;
I'm proud you live with me."

"Mom, I've got the dishes done,"
The girl called from the door.
Her mother smiled and softly said,
"Each day I love you more."

"I've mowed the grass," the tall boy said,
"And put the mower away."
His father answered with much joy,
"Well done; you've made my day."

Children need encouragement
For tasks they're asked to do.
If they're to lead a happy life,
So much depends on you.

I always thought that this was written by Shel Silverstein; it has his style. But I don't think I've ever seen any author's name for this poem, and if it was Shel Silverstein, it would probably be attributed to him.
I've seen this poem on other sites with slightly different words, but this is how I first heard it, in approximately fourth grade, when we were introduced to poetry. Either version has the same message, and since no one knows who wrote it, I suppose no one can complain about misquoting.
Anyhow, I got two A's. Maybe I can make it three. Keep hoping.

Fifty Words on Fifty Words

I figured out why the writing exercise has to be fiction. Fifty words of frustrated ramblings is easy to write. The challenge is to introduce a story and bring it to a conclusion using only a limited number of words. That's why these fifty words don't count as interesting writing.

Happy Bicentennial!

How I've been waiting for this day
For the excitement when I say
The count has reached two hundred now
Two hundred pageloads - holy cow!

Bad poetry, I know, but then
I'm so excited and have no pen
I'll stop right here so that you'll stay
Return and visit every day.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though
He will not mind my stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Not sure why this came to mind tonight. Maybe wishful thinking. But one thing that's always true is the promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Sometimes, though, like tonight, I think I will pass on the miles to go and just move straight to the sleep.
Call it camping out, if you will.

Finals, Finals, Every Day

And not a drop to drink.
With all that's going on in here,
I haven't slept a wink.

Well, maybe one or two, but not
More than that at all.
I'm thinking it's not healthy to
Bang my head against the wall.

Will I finish all in time?
Who knows? And who's to say?
Right now few things are on my mind,
but finals, finals, every day.

Fifty Word Reflection

I still like the idea of seeing what you can do within a specified number of words, but the imagination required to keep up the fiction part is just not here anymore. It's finals crunch time. So we're back to depressed ramblings, just like on my other blog. I was debating whether to put this here or there, but I decided that it's artsy/poetic due to the word limitation. Whatever. It's a shame, though, because no one ever visits here. Maybe I'll put it up twice. But I somehow doubt it. Anyhow, here's fifty words about being depressed.

Drudgery. Once you take away the enthusiasm, everything becomes the same. Then it’s not fun or new or different, even when it is. So you have to do things to recharge and bring back the feeling of newness. Otherwise, nothing feels important, and you wonder why you bother at all.

I'm Nobody. Who are you?

by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody. Who are you?
Are you Nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell.
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody -
How public, like a frog -
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog.

I've always kind of liked Emily Dickinson - I learned this poem by heart in fifth grade. There are a couple of others of hers that really stayed with me. She has this interesting way with punctuation and capitalization, a bit like the constant capitals in German. I may have made some mistakes in punctuation, since I'm writing from memory rather than from a book, and that's actually very wrong of me. With Dickinson, the punctuation is an integral part of the poem. But I'm too lazy to go look it up right now. Even online.
Emily Dickinson was a very tragic character. She died young - in her thirties, if I remember correctly. She never actually intended her poems to be published; they were discovered posthumously by her sister, again, if I remember correctly, who decided they were worthy of publication. Apparently many people agreed, since Dickinson is now considered to be among the classic poets.

More on Emily Dickinson later.

Fifty Word Something, Part XI

It's entirely possible that I am slightly depressed. This isn't technically part of the story. But the character in the story (who is me at least some of the time) might be feeling the same way. Anyhow, I felt bad about going so long with no posts.

Impulsiveness is overrated. Actually, most things are overrated. Except good milk chocolate. Anyhow, why not run away? The thing is that in a few weeks, you’ll be frustrated and want to run away again. You could live your life that way, but what kind of a life would it be?

Death? Loneliness? Immortality?

No one's been to visit here,
It saddens me to say.
It's cold and lonely, truth to tell,
Sitting all alone each day.

So many claim to care, and yet
Not one has stopped to talk.
They gaze as they go by, and wave
But past me they all walk.

Not even slowing on their way -
They don't have time for that.
And I just sit and watch them pass
And wonder what they're looking at.

Surely something must be there -
There must be what to see.
Or could it possibly be true -
That they're all watching me?

It couldn't be, you see, because,
They just don't care enough
They're far too busy, all of them,
To see a diamond in the rough.

And what I am, for them to care?
What's special? What have I?
I sit alone, like every day,
And cry and cry and cry.

Fifty Word Fiction, Parts IX and X

All right, all right. I should just call this "Hundred Word Fiction". Maybe then I would move on to two hundred words a shot. But I find a certain challenge in making sure that every fifty words could, theoretically, stand alone. And since it seems no one's reading this, I can really do what I want. Including posting two sets of fifty words at once. So here they are.

She was afraid to go back to her apartment - afraid that she'd lose her nerve to just run away. There wasn't all that much there that she would miss. It might be nice to buy a whole new wardrobe. But a responsible adult has to remember things like turning off utilities.

She wanted to be impulsive this once. Treat herself royally. If she didn't do it, no one else was likely to. She didn't want to behave like a responsible adult. What would happen if she just left? Couldn't she call to turn off the utilities from wherever she ended up?

I've Written My Fifty Words for the Week

I just got so bored with homework that I wrote a letter for a professor. I should have written that letter a while ago. It's not all that good, but what do you expect from someone who thinks in terms of bearing stress and yield strength. At least I did it. Anyhow, someone else will read it and revise, so it should be okay. The Fifty Word story, on the other hand, is going nowhere.

I was going to write the fifty words continuation right now - really I was! - but I will again plead busyness and hope to have time tomorrow (ha, ha, ha!) or Thursday (more likely). I've been thinking about it, though, so there is hope. Maybe I'll do one hundred words, just to get things moving. I know y'all can't wait, so I humbly apologize for keeping you waiting.

Aw, who am I kidding? No one could care less about my story. Poor, illusion-blinded me.

Counting Stats

It dives and dips, an ocean wave
Hitting troughs and peaks,
Creating geometric curves
As days turn into weeks.

Watching graphs develop shape
Is only fun for engineers
Who take pleasure in the forms
Of numbers as they measure cares.

There is a music within math
As is in the written word
The artistry is to translate
Lines to lines which can be heard.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VIII

To any readers out there, sorry for the delay between installments. I've been kind of busy. Yes, I'm embarrassed that I haven't posted a single thing to this blog in over a week. I'm aware of the problem. Talk to my professors and see if you can work out with them some way for me to be less busy. I would really appreciate it.
I haven't written a single word of decent poetry since I entered college. I think this whole Poetic Things idea was more of a "don't-I'wish" than anything else. I have all these great pictures that I wanted to post, but I have yet to set up any photo-hosting service, and I have a feeling that I won't be getting to it in the near future. Still, this is worth something - I'm writing at least fifty words a week. More, because I feel this need to write commentary, which I'm sure you're not interested in. Or maybe you are, since blog-readers often want to know the nitty-gritty details of the blogger's life. But probably you don't, since I haven't gotten any hits recently - so you couldn't have missed me too much. I know, I flatter myself by thinking anyone could possibly want to read anything I wrote.

By the way, if you want to stop all the depressing, self-deprecating, non-humor that occurs on this and my other blog, all you have to do is start posting comments. Then I'll cheer up because I'll know that someone's reading this, and I can go back to being my usual self. Which may or may not be more interesting than the current depressed persona.

Anyhow, here's the fifty words for today.

Isn’t choice the joy of life? She wouldn’t go back – she was off on an adventure, to discover the beautiful, wide world. Until the next mishap. Maybe next time there would be knots in her shirtsleeves or something. She really needed to move away to somewhere no one knew her.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VII

Perhaps eventually the story will get moving. It's hard to have any serious action when you only have fifty words to play with, and you want to develop the character a bit, too. Or maybe it's just that I can't decide what should happen next, so I'm dragging it out until I have a brainstorm. You'll never know the truth, will you?
Here's today's installment. Today's been a busy day on Poetic Things.

There she went again. She was letting them dictate to her – their petty jokes were taking over her life, taking away her power of choice. She had to stand firm. She would wear – and do – and be – exactly what she wanted. If only she could figure out what that was.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as long as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
For it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
But knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Someday ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I apologize for having referred to this as "The Road Less Travelled" in a previous post. That's how I always think of it. It's a metaphor for so much in my life - in everybody's life. The choices you make shape who you become, and there is rarely a chance to change paths once the choice has been made. I know the choices that I have made - and I am not happy with all of them - have changed how other people see me, and more - they have changed how I see myself. My choices have "led on" to other choices - there is no escaping the chain of events that every choice begins. Every time we come to a branching in life, we must stop, evaluate, and then choose, knowing that we will probably never come back. This is what life is all about - making choices and living with them; shaping your future by your actions of the present. Often, it is easier to take the road more travelled, but it may not be the best thing for you. And often, the road less travelled appears much more exciting, but it may not be a good idea to stray from the common path. Because every choice has repercussions on every aspect of your life, even ones that you may not see when you look at the choice. And you can never take back a decision. Sometimes you can repair damage, but you can never undo what you have done.

Happy Semi-bicentennial!

Go straight, and then spin 'round twice
I blink to make sure I've seen right.
We've passed the big one: "double-o"
Well, ooh-la-la, hip-hip hurro.

One hundred pages have been viewed
Maybe read - can I assume?
At least most of the poems are good
Better than this one, which doesn't rhyme properly.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VI

I guess this blog is turning into A Novel Beginning, but I am saving that one for the summer when I have time to develop my novel. Since there is already a basic plot and charaters for the novel, I can't just let this story take over that space. I'll have to add some poetry here, though.
Anyhow, it's Tuesday(but that didn't matter [ref: Cookie Monster and the Cookie Tree, a very important book in my development]).

Well of course she tripped! That tends to happen when people tie your shoelaces together. They must have found her while she slept and decided it would be funny. Her hiding place had been violated; she’d have to find a new one. And she’d have to stop wearing tie shoes.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part V

Forget Tuesdays. Who can keep to a schedule?
I'm feeling a bit sarcastic today, so this is not really in character for the story, which should have a dark, depressed, lonely-turning-out-okay kind of tone. Maybe. But each piece is also supposed to stand alone. Or at least be exactly fifty words long. Which this is. Even though nothing happens.
Then again, if you read Asimov's Foreward to Foundation's Edge (I think. The fourth of the Foundation trilogy, anyway.), he too comments on how shocked he was on rereading the trilogy to discover that nothing happens for many thousands of words, and yet Foundation is one of the most popular and classic SF books/series ever written. Asimov rules!
Not that my writing is Asimov caliber. But I try to imitate only the best!
Anyhow, here's today's piece.

A branch? Where did that come from? This isn’t the forest, is it? Oh, that’s right. When you’re running away in panic, you usually end up in the forest. Even when you start out on concrete sidewalk. Maybe it wasn’t a branch at all. Probably it was just her shoelace.