(25) Overactive Imagination

let us pretend
for a moment
that it is all science

that everything comes down
to applications of linear equations
and logical progressions

let us pretend
that it all makes
the truest sense

that the scramblings and intonations
happen on the passage
between the eye and the mind

let us pretend
and smile
as we pretend

let us grow giddy
at the thought that we
have never been so creative

(24) Broken Boy

broken boy
spent his days
trying to write
worlds more real
than his own

and when I say
that she was
one of those mythical people
who can make poems rhyme
without sounding cheesy

I imagine you think
you already know
how this story ends
or at least
how it middles

but
they never touched
they just
imagined each other
perfectly

(23) This Is Not A Simulation

This is Not a Simulation
For WorldVision's 30 Hour Famine

The sirens in your stomach
are sounding the alarm;
they are shaking you awake
to the state of emergency
in which your human family exists.

It is only 15 hours since eating;
only 16 hours since sleeping
     in the safety of your bed,
and it is already obvious how absurd--
no, obscene-- it is
to think that human beings
actually live like this.
People might as well be asked
to pack their things
and move into the ocean.

Because your little taste of emptiness
already feels like desperate starvation,
and the cold is cutting like knives
through your pathetic little blankets,
and the openness in which
      you are trying to sleep
has never seemed so fearfully alive.

And it makes no sense
that your only consolation--
that come tomorrow afternoon,
it will all be over,
and you can resume the business of living--
is flatly untrue
for almost a billion fellow humans.

You don't even want to think about this
as a perpetual state of existence,
can't even imagine not having that hope
to whisper to your stomach
to hush the alarm it is blaring:
this is a state of emergency;
this is not a simulation. 

Fridge Magnet Madlibs: (20) The Subtle Dancing, (21) The Subtle Crying, & (22) The Subtle Discovering.

In this episode of Poetical Shenanigans, Ely will punch her writer's block repeatedly in the face by creating a system of infinite poetry!

Here's how she does it!

FIRST, Ely creates a poetical framework that is at once fairly tonally neutral and yet somehow still powerful and evocative.

The Subtle (verb) ing

by Elizabeth Rhea

I (verb) into life

like a (verb) (noun)

forever (verb)ing across my vision

as if I had just (verb)ed

into the (noun/bodypart) of a (sentient being)

my (noun) carving spaces

in the (adj) parts of my existence.

Our (body part)s meet

in this (adj) place;

we are (verb)ing as one,

for this is our (noun),

this is our (noun),

this is our final farewell to (noun),

our coming into (noun) at last.

(I realize this second stanza sounds much sexier in template form than it does in most possible complete versions... who knew?)

SECOND, Ely adds fridge magnets-- a poetic ingredient that has so often stood by Ely in these dry times.

FINALLY, Ely fills in the gaps to create three poetic samples which are indicative of the infinite possibilities.

(20) The Subtle Dancing

I grow into life

like a spoken soul,

forever giving across my vision

as if I had just (flown)

into the chest of a friend,

my vision carving spaces

in the strong parts of my being.

Our voices meet

in this free place,

we are styling as one,

for this is our choice,

this is our power,

this is our final farewell to the ocean

our coming into sky at last.

(21) The Subtle Crying

I prowl into life

like a broken mystery,

forever slouching across my vision

as if I had just crumbled

into the hold of a shadow,

my trouble carving spaces

in the stranger parts of my being.

Our smells meet

in this metal place;

we are blazing as one,

for this is our bog,

this is our waste,

this is our final farewell to alarm,

our coming into spoil at last.  

(22) The Subtle Discovering

I tumble into life

like a wild giggle,

forever noodling across my vision--

as if I had just sneezed

into the potion of a wizard,

my charm carving spaces

in the frumpy parts of my being.

Our thoughts meet

in this clever place;

we are singing as one,

for this is our rainbow,

this is our flower,

this is our final farewell to stubborn,

our coming into friend(ship) at last.

The New World Movers

Here's a little introduction to my passion for the power of words. It's a practice TED talk, recorded for my class in 'Becoming a Public Scholar-Activist' at Claremont Lincoln University.

The New World Movers from Elizabeth Addison on Vimeo.

(18) The Problem and (19) Female Seeks Frankenstein

(18) The Problem

You try to turn your mind around to see inside your soul.
Now try to turn your eyes around inside your skull
until they find the brain behind it.
You see the flaw in your design?


(19) Female Seeks Frankenstein*

Wishful F, 21, seeks M, mid-20s,
who speaks like Jimmy Stuart,
thinks like GK Chesterton,
reads like Cornel West,
gets life like A.A. Milne,
loves Jesus like Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
fights for rights like de las Casas,
inspires like Dr. King,
cares like Peter Maurin,
writes like Bill Bryson,
laughs like Brian Reagan,
cooks like Jamie Oliver,
sings like Enrique Iglesias,
and looks...
like Enrique Iglesias.
Must have unique personality.


*Alternate title: The Other Problem. Today's prompt was a 'personal ad'.

(17) Daniel

He is standing
near the overpass
he is asking
cardboard questions
to the passers-by
and maybe it is
because his eyes
have stopped looking
for replies
or because he is
too young for this
but it is
that same swift inexistence
of all barriers
that must lead to first kisses
in different contexts
that draws me to him
and to the conclusion
that it would be nothing
to open a vein for his sake

I am awake
to the fact that his pain
is my pain
is Christ's pain
and it must be the gravity of this
that has me falling toward him

     I was never meant to save you, kid,
     but this is all I have: 
     a couple things to keep
     away the hunger;
     a couple words to keep
     away the sense of only-ever-this;
     and several minutes' conversation,
     a space in which you know I'll listen
     as you say the things you want to be
     and hear your own voice
     speak your name.

(15) Dress-Up and (16) First Impression

(15) Dress-Up

All it takes is a little bit of lipstick,
some shimmer-creme foundation,
a little light-blue eye shadow,
a touch of charcoal pencil,
and I become quite interesting--
to that guy I've passed a thousand times,
and everyone.
Back in the bathroom mirror,
I stand to face this stranger's face,
and think how they think
that this
is what I'm supposed to look like.


(16) First Impression

Halfway through my awkward introduction,
this older woman looks me in the eye
and tells me, soft but unmistakably,
You're a beautiful person.
And I wonder what she could have seen of me
in a span of seven seconds
to inspire such an interjection.
And it isn't that I don't believe her;
I just wish that I could see it
the way she does.

(14) Proud as Trouble

(13) 40 out of 41

(10) Driving Despair, (11) Haiku for Odd Hours, (12) Shanti of the Water

(10) Driving Despair

when you are finally tired
of all your excuses
and false attributions
and your comfort zone
begins to leave you restless
and the world you thought
you'd kept outside
finds ways to dig
its shards of broken pain
into your skin--
then, and only then,
will your languished muscles
and your vocal cords
finally be shaken awake


(11) Haiku for Odd Hours

Ely is tired
time has now snuck past midnight
there is no nature


(12) Shanti of the Water

As a River,
from one to many
and many to one,
each source a little spring--
simply different faces
manifestations:
this is the oneness,
this is the uniqueness.
Rivers empty into oceans,
lose their identities,
and become.

*a 'found poem' (snippets from a lecture from a Hindu speaker)

(8) Thomas & (9) Musing

(8) Thomas

You pressed your fingers deep into His emptiness
and believed that it would make you unafraid forever.
But you still wake up terrified
that the holes were the only real thing
about those hands
sometimes.
You wonder
what is to become of  those who,
though they see,
cannot believe?



(9) Musing

You sit in quiet spaces,
trying again and again
to find a few words
that will stick to the page.
You listen closely
hoping you will hear
your own voice drifting in
from somewhere far away.

(7) Grown

'I'm not a cynic, 'she said,
'I just don't believe as many lies as I used to.'

(6) Ladies in Waiting

Thank the Lord that we have made it past
our Disney spoon-fed fantasy, for we
have dared to dream inside of Jesus' magic Kingdom
and we've baptized our Prince Charmings!
Those worldly womens' worldly hopes
have nothing for us Princesses--
for the men that God has promised us
are handsome, rugged, helpful, wise,
considerate, articulate, artistic, kind, AND pious!
...now we just have to find them.
Good Lord, that's not the kind of guy
that one can just bump into on the subway!
But if this waiting is our greatest test,
we ought to guard our hearts a little extra
lest we're tempted just to settle for some peasant 
just because he's honest, true, and thoughtful
and understands the grace of Christ enough
to show a bit of it to us...
but thank Jesus we've grown past that.

(5) Conversation

She said, "Tell me something true."
He said, "Everyone is lying."
She said, "Why should I believe you?"

(4) Diary, 11/6/13

Invited poetry over for dinner today.
It seems that he had a previous engagement.
This is the third day in a row.
I suspect he's found another poet.

(3) The Care and Feeding of Your Poet, pg 44

"...and on nights when the lights in your poet's eyes
have faded into maybe-flickers
and she seems to be covered in some kind of distance
that you can't seem to reach across,
refrain from finding ways to try to make your poet smile.
Remember that her spirit isn't steel;
she's an alloy made of deepest sadness fused with deepest joy,
and that blending is the essence that first drew you.
So refrain from acting on your need to save her--
Just be present.
Put your arms around your poet gently;
tell her something small and true, if anything,
and remember that your silence will remind her
that your lack of cure could be the perfect remedy
for her lack of disease...."

(2) Memories of Bus Rides in the Andes

I keep opening my eyes
to endless expanses of river-snaked forests,
closing them to almost-dreams of nearly-poems.
Clouds keep spinning into fingers
that keep reaching for the mountain,
but only on occasion do we pass through one 
that has condensated condescendingly enough to touch us.
I'm the only foreign face inside this bus,
but the mountain knows that we
are simply momentary visitors--
tourists, every single one of us. 

Na(No)WriMo

I've tried to be a novelist. Ok, let's be honest, I've wanted to try to be a novelist. Fine, more honest-- I've tried to want to try to be a novelist. The summation of all of this effort is that I am not in a place to write 50,000 words in the next month. Ah well. I'll try to try again next year.

In the mean time, I'm going to do what I want. With chutzpah. Sooo, it's time for....

National Poetry Writing Month! Two! 

Poetic anarchy, you cry? Yes, I respond! Isn't it delicious? (Speaking of delicious, please note that the flag of the revolution takes tea as its top-left-most emblem. You're welcome.)

Yes, I realize that I'm probably going to be largely on my own here. I also realize that I'm already behind schedule; it's now 11 minutes into day 2 and I haven't even done my first scritching yet. (Well, except for this, and I'd say it's pretty damn poetic.) But I don't even care! I am SO excited to write 30 poems this month, and I hope you have a moment to nosily rubberneck on my daily collisions with literature's most ancient and best-tastic-est form. From the chilling soliloquies to the desperate 3am catch-up haikus, it's going to be... words. 

To start us off in the right spirit, here's the first:

(1) Whittled

They said that if you just learned to behave,

to memorize your steps

and keep your polished lips from lying,

some iridescent angel would descend

from some blue heaven

to re-make you as a real boy,

and you never expected anything less.

It was such a skillful way

to pull your strings.