Category: Memories

NAPOWRIMO2020 - Poem 17

4/25/2020

Prompt: write a poem that features forgotten technology

CDs Remastered; Compact Discs Rememembered

Like 8 tracks and cassettes, CDs 💿
are almost obsolete technologies,
Just ask Sam the record man

Those shiny, silver discs once dazzled me
with magic,
Or, if you’re more scientifically inclined - a semi conductor laser wrote and read music that
enticed my ears and affected my life.

That’s the magic of the mix cd.

Now, I’m left with a museum of mementos;
thousands of sparkling memories in the mixes of youth.
Unhelpful titles scrawled across
in my 13, 17, 21 year old handwriting,
Relics representing events and feelings of ‘the best days of our lives’- not!

when ‘we were young, we were free!’

Long since forgotten what the titles mean;
they used to mean the world.
Now, a total surprise and a complete mystery
you don’t solve until you slide that cd into the player...
Wait for her to load .....
and let loose all wild a n d f r e e.
On the open road, you suddenly give nod to the equivalent of a stuck record needle, or the crumbling mess of cassette tapes, or a streaming stuckness.

Going digital is the loss of the craft.
It doesn’t have that certain slant of light;
It’s just data and it’s invisible,
all up in a cloud somewhere.
With all the space in the world, you can add or delete songs on a whim.

We used to slave over our latest creation.
Couldn’t wait for all the appreciation
Everybody wang-ed, everybody chung-ed
Everybody had fun tonight
Finite selections - 80 minutes, 18 or 19, 20 songs max -
Gotta be selective,
You had to pick and choose
Keep a specific theme or mood
Order mattered - Let’s face it,
No one knew how to work the shuffle
on those awkward clunky Discmans anyway! -
You had to be certain.
Once burned, burned forever!

Oh, and,
Never in the right case at the right time;
Chasing the perfect song,
Hunting for happiness and happy surprises.

That’s the magic of the mix cd.

(April 23, 2020)

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The Kingdom of Crazy, or That Song

9/2/2015

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The Kingdom of Crazy

Every time I hear
that song*,
I always think of you
because you are beautiful,
but mostly because of how much you
hated
that
song.

Kingdom Friday nights
of those coming-to-an-age years,
the laser lights
flashing and lashing out,
in a frenetic frenzy, and
that
song
would inescapably be played.

A ticking bomb
you couldn't really hear,
but you knew it was there;
You never knew when those pulsing drum beats-
that you could feel driving deep within your soul,
because it was so loud and because it was a big song-
You just never knew when it would happen.

In the blazing hot, ciggie stench,
(It's cool, I feel alive),
There, behind the outro,
"I'm not an addict..."
That distinct drumbeat of
that
song,
which maybe would have just been
a terrific time to go for a wee,
get another beer,
or get your best friend another beer.
Just sayin'.

But that's not what you did.
You got in a fine snit.
You stamped your feet down firmly in place,
crossed your arms against your chest,
and put on a huge scowl.
And all the while,
the rest of us Doc-stomped and moshed into you
and your statuesque stand against
that
song.

And, just as the smoke
began to come out your ears in a steady stream;
As it mixed with the ghostly hypnotic sounds
Deep In the kingdom of crazy,
The next magical memory
would play and the misery became a dream;
The song long forgotten as we spun, spun Sugar!

(*That song = Marilyn Manson's, "The Beautiful People")

And here is our Prompt for Week 2, which I'm posting in my Week 3 workshop... Hello, My Name Is…: Title as Poem Catalyst.
Think up a poem title structured as such: The [Concrete Noun] of [Abstract Noun]. So, like: “The Cheese of Time” or like “The Monkey of Holiness” or maybe “The Steak Knife of Despair.” If a title like that doesn’t get you going… Then, write a poem based on that title.

I sort of combined it with this prompt... Make A Still Life: Without All of That Messy Paint.
In the tradition of the Imagists, write a poem that describes an object. Be as literal and vivid as possible. Pick up the object (if you can), look at it from as many different angles as possible. Consider its color, its weight, its texture, its material and write up a picture!

The lyrics are somewhat explicit as you would expect in such a harsh song... (More info about the song, here.) Or, check out the choir version, or this dance...

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Original Poetry: The Fall

7/16/2015

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a bird fell out of a tree

and landed at the side of the highway

I tried to ignore what I'd seen

but I guess I became the bird that day

battered and broken, I lay there and plea

for the will and the way

to make it all okay

for dreams shatter everyday

they're crushed, like the bird who fell out of the tree

for the bird, I fear 'twas the end

a final fall into oblivion

the hurts too much to mend

its own personal Armageddon

it ended with a soft thud

I keep seeing the poor beast's downward descent

his fast fall to finality

brought about by an innocuous wind,

which wasn't even in the forecast that day

I don't want to be that bird

when life hands you shit,

write poetry

and carry on!

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NaPoWriMo, Back to Day 7;)

4/25/2015

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6 poems poeted, out of 25 possible poetic pieces

it seems I've been poetically constipated,

but it ain't so complicated.

Just couldn't find the time

to traipse through treasured tiny movie memories

of days we've danced through, no worries,

together in the moment,

and, now, in the past as I see it again

in a happy hue,

softening the harsh reality

of the cold that was to inevitably resurface

anyway,

what can I say

when I can't portray

what I think I might want to convey?

when words won't flow,

the thoughts, too slow

to tell of life and woe?

What do you see?

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Remembering My Grandparents

5/31/2011

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I SPENT A LOT OF TIME WITH MY GRANDMA AND GRANDPA NESKAR, MY MOTHER’S PARENTS. THEY HAVE BOTH PASSED AWAY, BUT THE MEMORIES REMAIN. MY GRANDPA PASSED ON NOVEMBER 15TH, 1995 ON THEIR ANNIVERSARY. MY GRANDMA, AFTER MANNY YEARS OF MISSING HIM, JOINED HIM IN AUGUST, 2008. IT IS ACTUALLY MY GRANDMA WHO FIRST BECAME INVOLVED IN FRIENDS IN GRIEF, AS IT HELPED HER DEAL WITH THE LOSS OF HER BELOVED HUSBAND. THEY ARE BOTH MISSED VERY DEARLY.

This story with written 15 years ago, by a 17 year old me (Nicola Schneider, 1996) …

My Grandpa

When I think of my Grandpa I think of many things, but my earliest memory would be sitting on his lap, “helping” him do his word-search puzzles. In actuality, I often, well… most of the time, found the words first. We’d sit for hours on his brown cushy rocking chair in the far corner of the living room, circling word after word after word.

From that same rocking chair, my Grandpa would watch people and birds through his binoculars. He liked people. He could talk for hours about anything from baseball to the bump on his forehead.

Oh, the bump on his forehead. That’s a story he enjoyed telling! “Grandpa,” I’d ask, “how did you get that bump on your forehead?”

“This here bump?” he’d say, pointing to that familiar lump, “I’ll tell you… You hit me in the head with a sledge-hammer and ever since, I’ve had this huge goose egg!”

“No, Grandpa! I didn’t,” I’d reply, giggling.

“Oh, yes,” he’d insist.

I always knew he was teasing for he had a kind, gentle way about him. It was he, my Grandpa, who first taught me to skate. Every Sunday, we’d head over to the arena where I’d slide a little on my skates, and even more frequently on my backside. But he’d always lift me up and guide me around the rink, until one day I could skate, all by myself!

Now, I think of my Grandpa whenever I go skating. He has recently passed on but he will live continually in the hearts of those who loved him, and especially in my heart. He will live on as he once was – not staring blankly or napping motionlessly in his rocking chair – but working on a word-search or peering through his binoculars… like he did when I was a child.

This was also written at that time by Me for an English Writer’s Craft assignment, Grade 12. It is loosely based in reality. I think I was going back to when I was younger. My Uncle, whom I loved dearly, died and my younger brother and I didn’t really understand what that meant. So, years later, when Grandpa died, I wrote this. I knew that Grandma was really sad because she missed her husband terribly …

What’s wrong with Grandma?

Grandma was crying. Grandma never cries, or at least never before this.

Grandpa is gone. That’s what Mommy told me. Gone where? I don’t exactly know but everyone is sad. I don’t understand why. Mommy and Daddy said he went to a better place; a place where he could be happy.

But why didn’t he take Grandma? He never goes anywhere without her. I think that’s why Grandma is crying. Poor Grandma. I’d let her come with me.

“Mommy,” I whispered, resting my head against her arm, “when is Grandpa coming back?”

“That’s when Mommy started to cry. “Mommy?” I said. I was very confused. Why was Mommy crying? Did she want to go with Grandpa, too?

Then Daddy said, “Pumpkin, Grandpa is not coming back.”

“Not ever?” I asked tearfully.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he answered, “but you must always remember that he loves you even though he is not with us.”

“Does he still love Grandma, too?” I asked, “And Mommy?”

“Of course he does, Pumpkin,” reassured Daddy.

Now Mommy had stopped crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face pale. She looked really sad. She told me that Grandpa went to a very lovely place in the sky where he can look down over us all, especially Grandma. One day, Grandma will join him there and they will be together again, but it is not time yet.

I pondered this for a while and realized that I still didn’t know where Grandpa had gone so I turned and asked Daddy. He said that Grandpa went to the same place as Mr. Orange, my pet fishy, and our cat, Scat Cat. You see, I found Mr. Orange sleeping on top of the water, one day. Mommy and Daddy told me that he had passed away and they flushed him down the toilet after saying some kind words about him. We didn’t flush Grandpa down the toilet so I don’t see how they could be in the same place.

Scat Cat was our old grey cat. (Not ours, really. He lived outside. Mommy and Daddy said he had no home.) I always thought that Scat Cat was a stupid name for a cat but that’s what Mommy and Daddy always said to him when they saw him in our backyard. But they always left him food and sometimes they let me feed him milk. I loved Scat Cat.

One day, Scat Cat did not wake up. Mommy and Daddy said that he had died, just like Mr. Orange. We did not flush Scat Cat down the toilet, he was too big, same as Grandpa. Scat Cat was buried in our backyard. Maybe Grandpa will see Scat Cat.Just then, my five-year-old cousin, Stevie came over to me. “Vickie,” he asked, “why is Grandma crying?”

“Because Grandpa is gone,” I answered.

“I know. Mommy told me,” he said, “but where did he go?”

I told him how Grandpa went to a really nice place in the sky where he can look down over all of us and how Scat Cat was keeping him company.

“But I want to see Grandpa,” said Stevie.

“Me, too,” I said. “Daddy says we can see him in the memories we have in our heads.

“Oh,” said Stevie, as he walked back to his mommy, my Auntie Lillian.

Daddy came over and said, “I heard what you told Stevie. It was the right thing to say. I think you helped him a lot. I’m proud of you, Pumpkin, for being such a big girl.”

“But Daddy, I still don’t understand any of this. I don’t know where Grandpa really is and I don’t like it when Grandma is sad,” I complained.

“It’s okay, Vickie. One day, you’ll understand,” he said. “Just know that Grandpa is okay and Grandma will be happy again.”

“Okay Daddy,” I said as he kissed me and then he left to comfort Mommy.

I ran over to Grandma and gave her a hug. “I love you, Grandma,” I whispered.

THIS POEM WAS WRITTEN A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO, AS I LOOKED THROUGH OLD PHOTO ALBUMS… REMEMBERING….

JUST A DAY, ANY DAY, AT GRANDMA's & GRANDPA's HOME

GRANDMA IS IN THE KITCHEN.
GRANDPA IS IN THE SHED.
THE SUN SHINES. WARMTH ENTERS THROUGH THE WINDOW PANE,
CURTAINS FLUTTERING IN THE BREEZE,
WHICH BLOWS IN THE SMELL OF FRESHLY CUT GRASS.
GRANDMA IS ROLLING OUT DOUGH.
GRANDPA IS BANGING A HAMMER.
WE WANT TO BE IN TOO MANY PLACES AT ONCE.
THE LEGOS HOLD OUR ATTENTION FOR A WHILE,
BUT INEVITABLY, WE ARE
IN THE KITCHEN WITH GRANDMA, OR
OUT BACK WITH GRANDPA.

SNACK TIME… WE RETREAT TO THE LIVING ROOM TOWATCH OUR FAVOURITE TV SHOW (MR. DRESS-UP).
GRANDMA BRINGS OUR SNACK: APPLES CUT INTO PERFECTLYBITE-SIZED PIECES,
PREPARED WITH THAT SPECIAL LOVE ONLY
GRANDMA CAN GIVE, FOLLOWED BY THE HEAVENLY CRUNCHY
HOMEMADE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES. THE STRAINED,
PULP-FREE OJ WAS THE PERFECT ACCOMPANIMENT.

GRANDPA COMES IN AND WASHES UP.
THERE’S NO WAY HE’S MISSING SNACK TIME!
AFTERWARDS, IT’S BACK TO WORK,
AND PLAY.
INSIDE, IN THE KITCHEN, THE DOUGH HAS BEEN FILLED
AND IS READY FOR THE OVEN.
OUTSIDE, THE LAWN MOWER HAS BEEN FIXED
AND GRANDPA CONTINUES HIS LAPS AROUND THE LAWN.
THE CHILDREN PLAY AS ONLY CHILDREN CAN…
“LET’SPRETEND; LET’S PLAY CHASE!”THEY ARE AS BUSY AS THOSE UPSTAIRS.

(NICOLA SCHNEIDER, 2007)

GRANDMOTHER

IN HER DREAMS SHE IS NOT STUCK
ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF PRISON,
WHERE LIFE IS FROZEN FOR HER.
LIFE CONTINUES OUTSIDE HER WINDOW,
BEYOND HER MEANS.
IN HER DREAMS SHE IS FREE.
THERE IS NO CONFUSION.
SHE IS NOT TRAPPED INSIDE HER MIND.
HER GRANDCHILDREN ARE NOT SILENT TO HER.
THE WORLD IS WHOLE TO HER AGAIN.
SHE STANDS IN THE KITCHEN BAKING. LOVE,
IN THE FORM OF COOKIES AND PEROGIES.
THE KITCHEN SMELLS OF TREATS TO COME.
THEY ARE GOOD FULL.

IN HER DREAMS SHE IS ON A TRAIN,
TRAVELLING TOWARDS A NEW LIFE
WITH THE MAN SHE LOVES
TO START A FAMILY OF HER OWN.

IN HER DREAMS SHE IS SURROUNDED BY HER FAMILY.
THERE IS NO CONFUSION,
NO STRETCHES OF LONELINESS.
HER GRANDCHILDREN ARE NOT SILENT TO HER.
THE WORLD IS WHOLE TO HER AGAIN.

SHE WALKS THROUGH THE HOUSE COLLECTING LAUNDRY MEMORIES…
AND TAKING CARE OF THOSE SHE LOVES FAMILY.
THE BREEZE SMELLS OF MEALS TO COME.
THEY ARE GOOD FULL.

(NICOLA SCHNEIDER, 2007)