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KATRINA Downed and Drowned Crushed, forlorned wings flutter with the fury, flap in murky rivers, Soar against the pain. Thunder, downdrafts interrupting comfort, hopeful destinations stalled demonic reign. Swooping turmoil, grasping for deliverance, screaming of the carnage that was once sustained. Swoosh, the zephyr, slicing dreams and promise silences the sadness Stillness hurricaned. Falling faithful bodies bent in anguish downed and drowned Death forever drained.   By Barbara Lois Fullard

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Here's one I wrote last year and revised this year.  What do you think?

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I've been trying for months to find the lyrics to Neal Hefti's "Li'l Darlin'" by Jon Hendricks. I came upon a clip of it by this group called the Uptown Voca Jazz Quartet.  After purchasing their cd and playing the song over and over, I finally jotted down most of the words.  So here they are.

A dear friend of mine gave me the title to this next little ditty.  He said it out of defensive sarcasm, but now I take it as my anthem to the next chapter in my life.

I've been trying to write a poem about the disaster in the Gulf Coast of The United States, but each time I begin, I start to cry.  It hurts so much to watch the scenes on the television.  It's easy for me to turn it off.  The people there haven't been able to change that life channel since last week.  Having no water to drink, surrounded by carcasses and death, not being able to bathe or brush one's teeth, and having no food for days is unfathomable. 

Dear Lord,

Please bless the men, women , children, elderly, and yes, the domestic animals who are enduring this horrendous plight.  Keep a close watch over them and send aid to them quickly in their time of dire need.

Amen

A friend of mine wrote this to me in an e-mail.  I have known her for five years, but we have never met in person.  She is a friend I have known from one of my groups online.  This is what she said:

 

I'm going to convey something to you that I have experienced in a writing group.  As you can see from my work, I love meter and rhyme.  I enjoy the structure that I can bring to my poetry.  My influences have been Claude McKay, Oscar Hammerstein, Stephen Sondheim, Nikki Giovanni, William Shakespeare, and Edgar Allen Poe, all of whom used rhyme and meter with brilliance.

In my writing group, there are some young people, slaves to the Internet, who tell me that their professor states that to take away rhyming takes away the poetic net, therefore, making the work come alive in free verse.  An obvious advocate of free verse, I explained and listed the poets above who also rhymed.  I also mentioned that with experience and time, she too, will not elevate her professor as some celestial intellectual, never to be challenged or questioned.

Yes, I have written some poetry in free verse, but I admit I enjoy the discipline of my own style and technique.  I am not perfect, but I am grateful to many people who believed in me, especially my mother.  Without them, I would not have had the courage to put my life and feelings in print her and in books for all the world to see.

Here is another lyric I wrote that has yet to have music.

It's a new school year for Distrct students and teachers, beginning tomorrow.  On this day before I retired years ago, I felt like crying.  I don't know why.  Yes, the years were tough and I was anticipating new adventures, but I felt a certain sadness with the summer gone. The weather has a great deal to do with my emotions.

Barbara Lois Fullard © 2005  

Today would have been my parents anniversary.  My mother always enjoyed special days.  She put forth a great deal of effort to make then happy. 

Mom, I just want you to know that I think of you every day.  Please save me a seat in that jazz club in heaven.  I want to be there listening to you play "Stardust" on the piano.  I miss you so much, but I know that you are so very happy there with grandma and auntie Dot.  Thanks for watching over me and being by my side when I am lonely.  This is for you, Mom.

Next week, the children from Washington, DC will be venturing back to school.  This is a poem in honor of the teachers in the trenches.

This is the first poem that I wrote that was accepted by my publisher, William A. Rieser.  It was published in an anthology called Epiphanies and Other Absurdities.  It can be purchased in Borders Books, amazon.com, and Barnes and Noble. I really tasted this drink.  The rest of the scenario was fiction. 

It was at The Blues Alley jazz cabaret

Where I heard your solo, 'Round Midnight, play.

Floating on that melodic, saxual groove

I'd undulate in my seat and perpetually move.

In a blue lit corner, solitaire,

I'd sip chocolate martinis, something rare.

Swaying to and fro to Monk's subtle beat

You'd emanate passion and pulsate heat.

Rising in the crescendo of what was you

The mood felt so grandiose and so new.

Everything came together with a soft and moist kiss.

You and those martinis just couldn't miss.

We rode on the wave of smooth mystical jazz

On the crest of a love that no one else has.

That feeling was happy. We were really just fine,

Drinking chocolate martinis instead of red wine.

Later on when I'd think of the time that we met

The jazz scene was one that I'll never forget.

There you were with that sax. What a wonderful pair!

I sipped chocolate martinis and loved you right there.

Barbara Lois Fullard © 2005  

Hello My Friends,

I am trying different ways to place pictures on my work.  Apparently, I've been plagued by the Red X Baron.  Please be patient while I learn this technique.  Thanks.

      In my neighborhood about fifteen years ago, guys used to carry bog boom boxes playing loud rap music on the way to school.  One day,       while walking with his boom box, a boy was shot by two thugs while       trying to keep his music from being stolen. Here is a poem focusing on what might have been had he lived.

The Boom Box Kid        

 

There was a kid that lived in my own "hood"

He wore those Nikes, looking awfully good.

His name was Peanut.  He could jam all day

With that loud boom box he loved to play.

He could move and sway to that DC city beat,

Never missing a step or ever resting his feet.

 

Peanut rapped with people like Ja Rule

And Fifty Cent made him act like a fool.

His idol had been LL Cool J.

Who could forget the  group Kid 'N Play?

His goal was to become so rich with rap.

But he ditched school, often taking a nap.

 

Soon he dropped out and said, "What's the use?"

He hung out with his homies, gangs, and crews.

To his surprise, he found out something more.

Even rappers like 2 Pac used metaphor.

"You mean to tell me rap is poetry!",

He asked another rapper wannabe.

 

"You would have known that if you'd stayed in school."

His buddy told him he was just a fool.

Peanut was drenched in deep thought that day

A good education will lead to good pay.

So he decided to roll up his socks

At home he stored that big, loud boom box.

 

He went to school and studied. What a joy!

The Boom Box Kid became a brilliant boy.

He was respected and praised in the "hood."

He went on to college.  I knew that he could.

Learning a great lesson before it was too late

With a good education he had become first rate.

 

Barbara Lois Fullard © 2005  

On May 23, 1978, a miracle happened in my life.  I gave birth to a baby boy who became my only child.  When he was born, he was literally golden in color.  Prepubescence was a glorious time in my life.  Here is a poem celebrating my son.

When I got my first job, being in my 20s, I used to frequent thrift shops like Barbra Streisand, looking for antique, vintage furniture.  One time, on one of my treks, I found a muskrat coat.  Women used to wear mini dresses and this coat came right above my knees.  I paid $5.00 for the "mink" and I thought I had a gold mine.  What a bargain!  Here's a little ditty about the mink I once had.

Muskrat Mink

It's highly idiotic
and ludicrous to think
I'd venture to a pawnshop
to buy a muskrat mink.
Brown amber was it's color,
a rustic rodent link
enwrapped me one cold winter
on rainy days did stink.

In the mid 1960's
when shabby was so chic
old-fashioned, worn, plain, vintage,
antique, refined I'd seek.
With lining, copper satin,
mock royalty so sleek,
I donned sophistication
with clothes that were unique.

Well dressed among the snobbish
professionals and peers,
chinchilla, fox, and sable,
crowned porcelain veneers,
muskrat among the high brow
got no applause or cheers.
I held my head erect,
walking passed the snubs and sneers.

At parties I would venture
in chiffon flowing dress
with plastic "Cinderella" shoes
I was hot. I confess.
To save on transportation
I rode the late express
The subway was quite empty
I felt no sharp distress.

For comforting me always
where on the train I sat
snug tightly on my collar
without a matching hat
I proudly wore that warm coat,
not ermine. What is that?
wrapped 'round my party dress was
the mink I called muskrat.

  

This is a poem about the private school I attended back in the '60s, which has since grown into a mega building filled with hundreds of students.  It's Ben Stiller's alma mater.  Many sons and daughters of famous celebrities from New York attend Calhoun.  When I attended, it was an all-girls school, housed in a building known as a Brownstone.  Now it's a modern, co-ed institution, with state-of-the-art facilities.