Poetry

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Ghost town

Thursday, February 25th, 2010

I feel like I’ve given up blogging for Lent.

I HAVEN’T.  I promise.

Still, though – it’s like a ghost town around these parts.

What happened to those months in 2008 when I was posting every single day?  I was an ever-flowing fountain of entertainment!  Bra shopping?  Check.  Sprite sprayed you-know-where?  You got it.  Annie Queen of Doom?  Duh.

These days, life is just sort of daily.  Here, let me write a little poem about it:

Thinking, thinking, all day long,
Wish my thoughts could be a song.
But instead they’re dull and flat,
No one wants to sing to that.

Boring errands, vapid chores,
Sweeping up my hardwood floors,
Dining in and working out,
Health within and health without.

Honda running like a champ,
Got a new shade for my lamp,
Finally the couch arrived,
In my home I now can thrive!

Hair is growing, but the same
Please don’t say about my frame:
Running 30 mile weeks,
Hope my knees don’t start to creak.

Had to switch my bank account,
Wish I had more cash to count,
But each month have just enough,
Being frugal makes you tough.

Finally got some license plates
So I won’t get arrested.

It may be a ghost town, but at least it’s a happy little ghost town.

Adding to my canon of remarkable poetry

Wednesday, May 27th, 2009

Itchy ankle, itchy ankle,
You’re the cause of all my rankle.

Damn mosquito, found my vein,
Your existence is my bane.

Can’t think clearly, can’t think straight,
Since my blood was made the bait.

All I want to do is itch,
Throw my body in a ditch

Of hydrocortisone.

My ideal world (in iambic heptameter)

Wednesday, January 28th, 2009

If everything were up to me, I tell you what I’d do:
I’d always have a good hair day and never have the flu.
I’d sleep in ’til whenever and I’d stay up ’til it’s late,
My bank account would overflow and then I’d celebrate.
I’d eat whate’er I wanted and I’d never gain a pound,
And since red wine would not stain teeth I’d never have to frown.
My temp job of a year would not turn out to be a tease,
The boss man would not tell me that they’re in a hiring freeze.
My family and my friends alike would live in the same place,
We’d see each other often but we’d still maintain our space.
I’d find a boy who loves me who would lift my heavy bags,
But I don’t want a man that I can tranquilize and tag;
For I am strong and I am not afraid to take a chance,
But I don’t want to be the one who has to wear the pants.
Some coffee in the morning, conversation late at night,
And in between, I’d write and write and write and write and write.
I’d grow in truth and knowledge as I walked from year to year,
The love of God would feed my faith and starve away my fear.
The sun would shine when I was glad and hide when I was glum,
And everyone would know that without ME it’s just AWESO.

Finally Friday

Friday, January 23rd, 2009

Holy Mother of Pearl – do you have any idea how happy all of your delurking made me? It was like the clouds opened up and God showered me with Sweet Tarts ALL DAY LONG! Reading your messages made me grin out loud, if there is such a thing – and I know there is, since I did it. I learned of people that I had no idea existed, and heard from people that I knew existed but had no idea were frequent readers.

Thank you for reading this little blog. No, I’m serious. Thank you. Your sweet words throughout the years have been life to my soul, and your companionship, even just through this crazy internet contraption, has been such an encouragement. Plus – so many of you have great blogs yourself! I’m subscribing to all sorts of new ones after your delurking yesterday.

I made cookies last night, and I came up with a brilliant idea. You know how Crisco has started packaging their shortening in little blocks wrapped in paper, for easy measuring? Gone are the days of trying to level 1 cup of Crisco in a measuring cup, which only ever winds up giving you a lardy hand.

(Sidenote:
If I ever form a band, maybe we’ll call ourselves Lardy Hand?

The Lardy Hand Band?

No?)

So here’s my idea: what Crisco has done with shortening… someone needs to do that with peanut butter. Because it’s always the same dilemma. HOW is one supposed to gracefully and easily measure peanut butter without making a huge mess? I want my peanut butter in stick form!

You heard it here first.

Tonight, I am driving to Chattanooga to take part in a Special Edition Running Club. Tomorrow morning, we’ll run along the river, and then Josh’s mom Deb is making us breakfast. Free food has always been the way to my heart, and yes, I will drive 133 miles to get it.

The last time I was in Chattanooga was in September for a wedding. I drove down by myself, and stopped at the Wal-Mart to get a card to go with my gift. And walking out of the store, in front of God and rednecks and everyone, my wrap dress came unwrapped. Just fell open, right there in the parking lot. Let’s hope for better luck this time.

And finally, based on my life every single morning, something I would like to share.

Travel Mug
– a little poem by Annie Parsons
Once
just once
I would like to discover
a travel mug that
does
not
leak

All over my lap
All over my life

Leaving behind
the evidence of
my addiction

and exposing me
as the sloven
I am.

Ailing

Sunday, December 7th, 2008

Sick in bed, sick in bed,
Massive snot balls in my head.
What to do to pass the time?
Write a poem, try to rhyme.
Scratchy throat and itchy eyes,
Achy body my demise.
Haven’t seen a soul at all,
Save the Handy Graham (who’s tall):
Bringing TheraFlu at 5,
He made sure I was alive.
Now I’m zonked and bored to tears,
Out of Kleenex, out of cheers.
Coughing, coughing, cough cough cough,
Feel my windpipe closing off.
If I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take,
But if I make it through the night,
I pray that I’ll wake up alright.
For I get no vacation days,
If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.
So go, white blood cells! Andalé!
And chase this wretched bug away.

From my bed of lonely misery,
Annie the Sick

– – – – – – – –

Update! The amazing Andy Merrick is BRINGING ME SORBET!!!!!

Ode to the boy who works at Whole Foods Market

Friday, November 21st, 2008

I’m in the grocery store of dreams
No less than once a week
To sample cheese and hummus dips
And try to sneak a peek
At you, the tall and scruffy boy
Who works the checkout lines;
You scan the produce and the bread
But sadly, not the wine
(For Tennessee is far too strict
Regarding grocery sales:
No wine or liquor on the shelves,
But only Pumpkin Ales).
You’re cute and quiet, have good shoes,
And always wear a smile,
I wait in your line even if
It’s backed up for a mile.

The end.

Vexillology

Friday, August 8th, 2008

It’s finally here: 08.08.08. How cute. If I were the marrying kind, perhaps I would choose to have a wedding on this oh-so-memorable date. But you know, I’ve always loved October. Maybe I should shoot for a wedding on 10.10.10. It’s a Sunday. Consider this my save the date – groom to be interpolated later. Maybe I’ll be like the presidential candidates, saving the grand REVEALING of their running mates until the last possible second.

Surprise, Mom. It’s Mick Jagger.

Today marks the opening ceremony of the Olympics in Beijing. I’ll be honest: I have not been excited in the slightest about this summer’s Olympic games. There has been so much controversy, from political tensions to riots at the torch relays to steroids to the revoking of Joey Cheek’s visa… Why should I get excited? There’s not exactly a lot to celebrate in our world right now.

But this morning on the Today show, I heard that out of the 205 countries that are participating in this summer’s games, 87 have never won a medal. Not one. Ever. For the overwhelming majority of the athletes who will march into China’s National Stadium today, they have no chance at winning; rather, this is the achievement – simply to be there. We might not ever know their names or their stories, but they have worked and toiled and sacrificed for years to reach this point. And that is worth both my attention and my accolades.

I understand that Michael Phelps has the very good chance at winning 8 gold medals in the various swim-events. And wouldn’t that be amazing? Making him, an insanely ripped man in a Speedo, the most decorated Olympian EVER, in all of history? However, always one to root for the underdog, part of me wonders if anyone might have the chance of beating him. Because wouldn’t THAT be even MORE amazing?

It could happen, you know. Because for some absurd reason, Phelps is currently sporting some Fu Manchu action. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t swimmers go to great length to SHED all of their hair? Anyway.


I’ll be watching tonight, if for no other reason than the fact that my Word of the Day from Dictionary.com is:

vexillology \vek-sil-AHL-uh-jee\, noun:
The study of flags.

It’s a sign.

– – – – – – – –

And finally, as a follow-up:

Turns out I was wrong:
I am dark enough for beige.
I stand corrected.

A series of potentially awkward haiku

Thursday, July 31st, 2008

Searching high and low
For one to keep me lifted
I’m brassiere shopping

White is so boring
But practical and useful
When it comes to bras

No black negligee
Or polka-dot straps for me
Just a simple one

Remember the time
When my underwire popped up
At the grocery store?

My only white bra
Is now in the garbage can
Bra-less is trashy

Sick of wearing black
I have nice white shirts to wear
But they are see-through

So I’m on the hunt
Like a stealthy lioness
One that needs a lift

But do not be fooled
By my cat-like behavior
Leopard print? No thanks

You can keep your lace
And your strapless push-up wares
Sensible will do

These are expensive
I do not have sixty bucks
I’ll go to Target

All of my money
Would be better spent on gas
But I need support

Thirty-four C cup
Or a thirty-six B cup?
Always a toss-up

You’re a poet and you didn’t even realize it

Friday, March 14th, 2008

I’m no poet.

In the past, I have fretted over the fact that I am not a poet. How can someone who loves words and beauty and communication and emotions so much not have a poetic soul – a deep spring of sparkling and devastating words, words that cause others to pause and reflect and absorb? How will I ever write a good song if I am not a poet? For the life of me, I cannot write eloquently or metaphorically or artistically. I can only write simple, tongue-in-cheek, authentic accounts of what I know to be true – which, I suppose, can work in country music and, well, blogging.

But I appreciate when other people craft their words in a way that makes me stop and think, and to emerge on the other side with a certain familiarity with myself that I didn’t have before.

Today, I got an email from my friend Miranda. Miranda occasionally offers these zingers of sentences – words that stick to my ribs and cause me to return to the idea again and again.

This is what she said:
“When part of what is in your deepest fabric is silently remembered by what is in another’s deepest fabric, you are so much more at rest.”

What a beautiful idea: silent remembrance.

That is love.