JC

This poet actually submitted her work to me during April, which was national poetry month. Yes, this was two months ago, but (as you know well) I can be an unfaithful poster at times. Anyways, this poet wishes to remain anonymous, but was kind enough to still give us a biography.

JC is an odd duck currently living in Nashville, TN, who spends his time contemplating life, being extraordinary lazy, and annoying his cat through interpretive dance. He wishes Seanna the best and hopes the rest of you have an awesome day!

If I Should Have a Son

If I should have a son, I’d tell him to be just like his daddy.

 

I’d raise him to the right thing, even if nobody else was watching.

I’d raise him to be the sort of man his grandfather would be proud to call a friend.

 

Regardless if he likes boys, girls, or something in between, my son will know how to both change a tire and make world-class brownies.

He will know how to defend himself with both words and force.

He will learn not to push someone to their breaking point just because he can’t explain he likes them.

 

If I should have a son, I will overload that boy with so much knowledge that he could dwarf Napoleon.

 

I would do all these things not make him some evil genius bent on conquering the stars, but to provide him the tools and show him that if wanted to, he could anyway.

 

I would show my boy that the world is his for the taking.

I would not demand perfection unless he demanded it from himself.

I would tell him to seek out knowledge wherever he could and make things better when given the chance.

I would tell him, “You’ve only got this one life and this one Earth, so make the best of it!”

 

And when the weight of the world grows too heavy for his shoulders to bear, I’ll wrap him arms and say, “It’s okay. Let me carry this a while. I’ll carry it just as I carried you, one day at a time.”

 

When his first lover breaks his heart in two, I’ll be there to help him pick up the pieces and clean the dishes as he eats his heartache’s weight in chocolate.

 

When his car dies on the interstate the first time, I’ll let his daddy talk him through it, even as my heart screams at me to rescue him.

 

I will be there for my son when his emotions make him feel like he’s going insane.

 

I will understand my son when he needs his father because only he can understand the silence, the nothing that is man that words simply cannot explain.

 

I will arm my son to the teeth for whatever life throws at him.

As much as I am able, I will teach my son to be a man, just like his daddy is.

 

I hear all the time, “The world needs more good men!”

I guarantee that gay, straight, bell bottom pants or mini-skirts, if I should have a son, he’d be one.  

Untitled
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

I work in healthcare.
Not in a medical way,
but I still deal directly
with patients, and sick people
can be hateful, as I’m
sure you know because you’re
human and therefore must’ve
been sick at some point
in your long or just beginning
life. But, besides certain
cases–the ones who make
me want to cry–I still
can’t help but feel
tenderness for them.

The friendly ones are what
really get to me though–the
patients that treat me like a
person and actually talk to me.
It’s hard not to learn their names
and become friends with them
and grow to love them as a friend.

And I go home each night
and pray for all the faces
I’ve seen throughout the day–
kind and otherwise–
because I know bits of their
stories from the tales
they tell, especially stories
of their sickness. And
sometimes, you go through
that sickness with them,
celebrating the ups and
mourning the downs.

I know when they’re not there.

Woman Writer
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

Even a broken clock
is correct twice a day,
but what of a broken mind?
A writer’s mind?
A writer.
A woman writer.

Have you noticed that
there is no such thing as
a man writer?
It’s typical for a man to write,
but a woman who writes
is “other,” is “abnormal.”

Patriarchy wins the day
again. I imagine
they want to put us in zoos.
Some in cages where one
can write, and some where
writing isn’t allowed.

They’d compare how
the two groups acted.
When they grew bored,
they’d turn us into cadavers
to see what it is inside
the unique brain cells

that makes a woman write.
They’re afraid to set us free
because, what would happen
if the world learned
that our otherness is a lie?

Inner Demons
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

If you sneeze,
and nobody blesses it,
what happens?

Does some invisible demon
of your sin
filter out of your nostrils,
not banished
back inside with a simple pair of words.

I wonder
what it does outside. I bet it’s
confused and scared.

Please, God, bless all my sneezes
so that I can
keep my demons safe from the world.

Mouthful
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

I hate some words, and it has very little
to do with their meaning.

When I speak
them, my mouth has extra teeth floating
around, and making toasts by clinking
their enamel against mine.

When I hear
them, those same teeth chew on my
eardrums and let out tiny screeches around
mouthfuls of my flesh.

And these teeth
birthed from nasty words taste foul.
Like infected blood, vomit rising in
the back of the throat, and all
my worse fears.

National Poetry Month!

national_poetry_monthDid you know that April is National Poetry Month? I had some plans for IBW for this month, but since I’ve been AWOL, they haven’t really happened. Tell me, how are you celebrating?

This would be a great time for anybody and everybody to submit poems here. I’m also going to share some of my own poetry this month. Since I missed the first two weeks of April, I’m going to try to share one everyday this week; otherwise, it’ll just be a couple times a week.

And, don’t forget that Thursday, April 24 is Poem in Your Pocket Day!

Anyways, here’s the first one.

Weedy Lots of Abandoned Sunflowers
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

Swallowing the sun
is like putting bathwater
into a brown paper bag.
You have to rise and dive under
as well as someone—Kiss Me
And Get Down
who hears a squeak
across some filmy surface
of a mega-jumbo scorpion.

It has been attempted once before.
But like Humpty-Dumpty,
the Martian’s body and head
were all one—Are you listening?
and he was unable to comprehend
his own folly. It was obvious to the
I’m not scared of you—other creatures
that something as mighty
as the—But you should be of me—sun
would never consent to being
consumed by something so small and round.

My inspiration is always seaweed
in that—Listen to me—it slithers around
the crevices of my brain in a slick
embrace of mind boggling ideas.
I know that it will one day rip me
apart into various unseemly—Do it
now—rampaging thoughts
but nothing else will satisfy me—You truly
know nothing of yourself—because
no idol, image, or anything
comparable to creation could ever capture
God’s essence…

This poem was birthed in Dr. Tom Hunley‘s class in response to one of the poetry exercises that are in his book, The Poetry Gymnasium. Said exercise involved a bag full of scraps of paper that Tom has accumulated over the years. Each scrap of paper has a word or phrase on it, and each student had to reach in the bag and grab a fistful as it was being passed around the room.

At first, I wasn’t so sure about the exercise because it is kind of complicated to take a bunch of random stuff and turn it into a coherent poem. The above poem is the result of much editing. If I remember correctly, the first draft was more gibberish than anything else.

And, like everything else, I’m still in the editing process with this poem. I’m rather fond of what I wound up creating, partly because I’ve never really written anything like it before. But, for that same reason, I’m not so sure about it. Especially  the parts in italics. Thoughts?