This Must Be Stopped (A Poetic Challenge For You)

I dreamed the first line of this poem.  I woke up a few nights ago, after an hour and a half of sleep, to the sound of a sick train whistle, about 2 miles away in the center of town.  I don’t know why it sounded sick that night; I don’t think train whistles usually wake me up, but this one did, because after I woke up, it went on, weirdly, for a while.  Maybe it was foggy, and that made it sound weird, maybe the train whistle was just messed up on that engine.  But it apparently woke me up from some dream, which I remember not a bit of, except that the first line of this poem, and perhaps one or two more (totally forgot ’em), were supposed to be remembered by me.  It was clear that I dreamed I was going to write this poem, not fly around or have sex with some crazy woman or co-worker, or be chased by demon-figures, or other typical dream situations.  So, apparently, since I aspire to have the ambition to write some good or average or bad-but-popular fiction, as in a novel, my dreams have to shoot me down, expecting me instead to do the ever-popular and wealth-creating endeavor of writing bad poems, sappy crap such as Jodi Picoult would write if she wrote poetry (don’t know; will have to Google it).

This must be stopped; I need to eat spicy foods at bedtime, start fights in bars, get crazily drunk downtown and make passes at young women, old women, taken women, or free women, read horror fiction, or anything which will get beginning lines of bad poetry out of my dreams, and replace them with more exciting adventures.

So, if you’re bored, I am inviting any reader to submit their own version of a poem, with the same opening line as I dreamt up the other night, short poem, long poem, rhyming poem, free-form poem, serious or facetious, just whatever you please, and link it to here if you wish.  Either that, or write an essay (or poem, for that matter), on why John Mayer should stop making crappy breathy music and thinking that he’s God’s gift to celebrity women.  I think one or the other, if done successfully, will straighten out these dreams of mine.  Thanks, and I’m sorry in advance for how sappy and bad the first line is (and probably the rest of the poem, but I’m supposed to do it, I guess), but I can’t control how dumb my dreams are, I just can remember about one percent of them.  I think I’ll call mine, simply:

SUMMER

I am, in heart, in soul, in mind, of summer,
Not of winter, fall, or spring,
Born in deepest, dark December,
To hate cold more than anything.

I long for year-round backyard lounging,
Children swimming, picnics, stars,
Evening sunshine, barefoot strolling,
Tops pulled down on girls and cars.

I think of air through open windows,
Music wafting through the trees,
Sunny walks with women laughing,
Skirts sit high above the knees.

I dream of lawn mowers, hammocks, sunscreen,
Smiling moms with koolaid drinks,
Kids in flip-flops, fireworks blasting,
Virgins in back seats, on the brink.

I am, in heart, in soul, in mind, of summer,
Not of winter, fall, or spring,
Dreaming of a summer morning,
When I could do most anything.

———–
That’s it, I’m done; I obeyed the dream. I’m serious, if you can do it better (I’m pretty sure you could) try submitting one of your own, just use the same sappy first line (or do the essay). No grand prizes, except for a warm feeling.

This is what I’m talking about–this, and dumb dreams, must be stopped:

Representative John Mayer song

I hope you’re having a fun weekend.

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7 Responses to This Must Be Stopped (A Poetic Challenge For You)

  1. I love the way dreams can spark things. I’ve written in my dreams too, but it’s amazing how different words that seemed urgent can look to me in the light of day.

    I don’t think your first line is sappy or bad. You worked it into something sweet (though not at all overly so) and honest. I like it.

    I was in the process of finishing a poem when I saw your post in my email, so finished that one and tackled your challenge right away. Mine is kinda dark I guess, but so was my last summer. http://intheforestfalling.wordpress.com/2012/11/18/in-mind-of-summer/

    • Crikey, woman, how many wordpress blogs do you have (not complaining, by the way)? I love your poem. I’m not a fan of spy thrillers at all, but I write entire little plot-threads of them, or horrors, or mysteries, at the end of dreams sometimes. I wake up thinking, what was that? Was I actually summarizing part of some movie I watched, or was I making up a story, but it seemed like I was reading it? I don’t wake up thinking they’re wonderful, and it’s just a few sentences, but I need to get a tape recorder, I think (with a huge, obvious, “Rec” button), to speak whatever I can remember of them into upon waking, because by the time I grab pen and paper it’s just too much to remember. Because they might be fun stories to write, at least. It’d be worth a try.

  2. Pingback: Challenge Accepted | Temperature's Rising

    • Thanks, I needed that. Great response to the challenge. I guess he’s considered a great guitar player, but I hate his voice, and his image. And, maybe he just looks that way, but I want some interviewer to ask him, “So, John, do you smoke weed as soon as you get out of bed in the morning or what?” Not that there’s anything wrong with that–I sort of like the idea of wealthy folk going around being impaired; it’s like they’re saying, “Screw you–I’m set for life and I’m not gonna get fired for being impaired on the job.” I’d be smug-looking too, with a chanteuse or actress on my arm, but he’s WAY too smug about it. (I always thought it was “chantreusse” but my dictionary says otherwise)

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