Poetiosity

I had no big plans for this weekend except napping. Reading goes well with napping; you just don’t get a lot of reading done. Deliberate naps are better than accidental ones. Accidental naps leave your neck cricked and drool running out the corner of your mouth, like the old men left in the nursing home hallway. Deliberate naps require first a decision, then a pillow and an afghan (ideally, home-made). They require you to be horizontal. Cats are optional.

It’s noon Sunday now, and still relatively quiet around the neighborhood. One neighbor was painting a small privacy fence with an electric paint sprayer, but she’s done now. For me, quiet is essential to a nap (all sleeping actually). I’ve made lunch, updated a poem with a thought from late last night, and crossed off my few Sunday tasks. Once I post this I’m off to the hypnagogic state.

I’m reading stories today in preparation for my writers’ group next week. I started to wonder why we choose what we do to write about. This week has has some various offerings: one story is an adventure, replete with weapons. Another story tells of a retired couple’s “adventures” wintering in Mororocco. One writer tells the deeper history of Lincoln’s early trial lawyer days. Another has written a science fiction creature story. Most of the writers stick to a chosen genre.

I tend to write poems about what strikes me emotionally or whatever random thought drops into my head. I can’t see myself writing historical or science fiction or fantasy unless it’s a class assignment. That would be a big mental change-up for me. Which is probably why a teacher would set those assignments. I’ll have to ask the other writers what drew them to their chosen genre. Did the feel compelled? Was it a choice? I read a lot of different genres, although I prefer contemporary fiction most often. Does your writing choice align with your reading choice?

A quick google-wiki-research shows that the phrase has biblical origins, Acts 12:23, “And immediately the angel of the Lord smote him, because he gave not God the glory: and he was eaten of worms, and gave up the ghost.” In that reference, I take it mean giving up your spirit or soul. Colloquially, I think it has come to mean completely giving up — in whatever context.

Origins of the phrase notwithstanding, I’ve just realized that I DO believe in ghosts. Maybe not Charles Dickens ghosts or Patrick Swayze ghosts or Ghost Whisperer ghosts, but ghosts nonetheless. I heard the phrase, “he gave up the ghost,” and wondered about its origin and then, that moment later, thought, “You have ghosts you won’t give up.”

There’s a poem in there.

The other day one of my friends told me he visited my blog, “po-atrocity.” Or maybe it was “poe-strosity.”

I love you, too, sweetie.

My idea of how most people use Twitter is to ascertain or disseminate completely useless information, i.e., “where are you?” or “what are you doing?”. Not unlike most of the cell phone conversations I’m forced to endure in public. Anyway….

Twitter haiku is available now on Twiku. Some are a worthwhile read… some, not so much. Still, it’s more poetry moving through the universe, and that is a very good thing.