Dog and Poetry Show
I'm Daniel Sanchez. I write poems about animals and other things.
As the title says, this is the slam version. The full version is twice as long, but I don’t think it’s clean enough for posting yet. Anyway, this is probably my best poem. I hope you enjoy it.
This one is new, and still pretty rough. It takes about three minutes and thirty seconds to read, so I’m not sure if I should tighten it up and make it a slam poem, or if I should expand upon it and save it for open mics/shows. Help me figure it out!
Another old one I had to edit. I hope I’m not the only one that’s amused by the fact that it uses the theme of returning to things. Anyway, as always, let me know what you think. By the way, this is the last of my Challenge Edits. I wanted to do one every day, but then school kicked my ass.
Even if someone’s broken your heart, you have to learn to keep moving. And sometimes that means posting your damn poems. :P
This one is fun. Let me know what you think of the editing.
This is the first real free form poem I’ve ever written, and I feel like I’ve come a long way since. I actually felt kind of bad about editing it, ha. Anyway, let me know what you think.
Most of the work done with this one was smoothing stuff out and adding minor details to make it more cohesive. Let me know what you think!
Original:
I saw you in the waiting room at the hospital,
but how I don’t know-
you were so quiet, so ghostly,
and dressed in the same pale, floral pattern
as the walls. You were
about as vivid and stiff
as the ferns waiting around you.
But still, I saw you,
because as quiet as you were,
still as a birdhouse on Christmas Eve,
I could still hear your firestarter heart,
buried, but giving the middle finger to “still”
and pounding away under your floorboard skin
like you were a drum set.
So why pretend you’re an earth girl?
Why pretend you’re a fern,
why pretend you need to have your feet
buried in the dirt to live?
You’re an air girl-
I can feel it.
So be like me, which is a helicopter
trapped in a human body, I guess,
because when I get going,
I know how to be LOUD,
and when everyone with ears
can hear my heartbeat,
that’s when I’m really flying.
And you?
You could join me.
We could be loud and fly together,
we could be a volume beyond numbers,
we could make The Bloop sound like mute,
and we could really soar!
So let’s tear the duct tape off of our hearts,
and take out the thumbtacks piercing our propellers,
clipping us onto a corkboard called courtesy!
We could be so LOUD, girl.
We could be sex before walls were built,
before there was ever any reason
to be quiet and concealed.
Now, being airborne could be dangerous.
That’s why we met in the hospital,
it’s why I’ve got this bandage on my head.
But hey, maybe the next window I jump out of
will be the right one, then
everyone will know I can fly.
So, what do you say?
Do you wanna fly out of that waiting room?
Do you wanna be LOUD?
Do you wanna be a helicopter
with me?
Edited Version:
I saw you in the waiting room at the hospital,
a stroke of fate, maybe-
you were so quiet, so ghostly, and
your dress was covered in dead flowers-
the same pattern as on the walls.
You were as still and still-life
as the ferns waiting around you.
But still, I saw you,
because as quiet as you were,
still as a birdhouse on Christmas Eve,
I could still hear your firestarter heart,
buried, but giving the middle finger to “still”
and pounding away under your floorboard skin
like you were a drum set.
So why pretend you’re an earth girl?
Why pretend you’re a fern?
Why pretend you need to live your life
with your feet already buried in the dirt?
You’re no winter, miss.
You’ve got that spring fire-
you’re a sunflower watered by the promise
of waking up each day.
You’re an air girl- I can feel it.
So be like me- a helicopter
trapped in a human body.
When I get going,
I know how to be LOUD,
and when everyone with ears
can hear my heartbeat,
that’s when I’m really flying.
And you?
You could join me.
We could start a dynasty in the sky.
We could be loud and fly together,
we could be a volume beyond the reach of numbers,
we could make The Bloop sound like mute,
and we could really soar!
So let’s tear the duct tape off of our hearts,
let’s take out the thumbtacks piercing our propellers
and clipping us onto a corkboard called courtesy
because we could be so LOUD, girl.
We could be sex before walls were ever built,
before there was ever any reason
to stay quiet and concealed.
Now, being airborne could be dangerous.
That’s why we met in the hospital,
it’s why I’ve got this bandage on my head.
But you couldn’t get more ghostly, girl.
And hey, maybe the next window I jump out of
will be the right one, then
everyone will know I’m the king of the helicopters,
everyone will know I can fly!
So what do you say, girl?
Do you wanna fly out of that waiting room?
Do you wanna be the loudest queen
this world’s ever seen?
Do you wanna shatter all the glass ceilings?
Do you wanna be a helicopter
with me?
This one was really hard to edit, since circumstances dictate that it be deliberately esoteric. That sounds really pretentious, and if you agree with that assessment, or have other comments, let me know!
Original:
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras.
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras.
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras.
Not when the echo
takes up so much space.
I thought I was the
sole tollpayer on the road
to your washing machine-
I thought a foamy baptism
could get me out
of an ark of a situation.
But I had a mirror
for a roommate-
and he brought his
psycho flamingo girlfriend with him.
My potato patch vocabulary
dressed itself in
a floating famine,
thinning, thinning,
like cheerleaders or
an increasingly jaded haircut,
trying to slip in
between bubbling
and tears.
Syllables crashed like
flies into a windshield
enough times to spell out
“Happy Birthday!” and
“You May Already Be a Winner!”
After my voicebox
ejected the tiny ballerina
working the controls,
I felt lost, but on
the way out, she taught
me how how to split.
So split I did,
with about negative
twenty-one years on the clock.
Now if you are
a historian
or a physicist,
or casually acquainted
with my legs,
you’d know that I
can’t outrun a flood,
or outswim a plot.
I mean, you probably already
saw right through me,
you know I’m a ghost,
a ghost of a zebra,
colored pink as a
Pac Man appetizer,
but I’m not here to haunt you.
I just thought, even
though we’re a tiny pink zebra
apart, and even though
it’s gonna be so
fresh and shiny,
making my majesty
look like rust,
and I got a steel wool tongue
but I’m a pink zebra,
not a dirty cat,
I thought we could pass
a ping pong ball across its back
and stuff updates
in its nucleus.
It’s just big enough
for a shrunken hairdo
or a “hello,
how are you?”
Edited Version:
Didja hear me? I said,
“There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras!
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras!
There’s no room in this town
for two pink zebras!”
Not when the echo
takes up so much space.
I was supposed to be alone
on the road to your washing machine-
the sole tollpayer
hoping to make use of your soapbox.
But when I showed up for my foamy baptism,
I bumped into my new roommate
(and my mini mirror image.)
The space invader even had the gall
to bring his psycho pink flamingo girlfriend with him.
“What punks,” I thought.
“What conquistadors!”
I tried kicking them out,
but my blood was boiling white hot,
and every word aspiring to escape me
was scrubbed into a puff of steam.
This trimmed the herd of my vocabulary
down to growls and consonants.
I was clenching my teeth so hard
that any other hopeful syllables
crashed like flies into a windshield
enough times to spell out,
“Happy Birthday!” and
“You May Already Be a Winner!”
After my voicebox ejected
the tiny ballerina working the controls,
I felt lost for a second,
because most of the time,
I can be all talk.
Fortunately, on the way out,
she taught me how to split.
So split I did, but
I was way too late to make a clean break.
The wash cycle had started,
and suds started coming down like lightning.
Now, if you are a historian,
or a physicist,
or casually acquainted with my legs,
you’d know that I can’t outrun a flood,
and I can’t paddle fast enough
to outswim a grave, or irrelevance.
(Did you know?)
I mean, you probably already
saw right through me,
and you know I’m a ghost,
the ghost of a once-white zebra
colored pink as a Pac Man appetizer,
but I’m not hear to haunt you.
I just thought that
even though we’re a tiny pink zebra apart now,
and even though it’s gonna be
so fresh and shiny like a tiny star,
and even though I’m an old pink zebra
who shrunk in the wash,
I thought we could pass
ping pong balls across its back,
stuffing updates in the nucleus.
It’s just big enough
for a photograph
and a “hello,
how are you?”
This is Poem #3 for my editing challenge. I’m really happy with this one, but I want to know what you think!
This is Poem #2 for my editing challenge! Tell me what you think!
Original:
I’m the reason you came here tonight,
the revolting coals in your one-man queue,
Dan.
I’m the springs scraping soles,
your inner arsonist who swims
in routine monsoons
and shares air with the squirrels
living in between the walls.
Staple “shadow” to my chest,
but I’d be a sunken ship
if you didn’t worship the Sun.
Shred yellows pages for an exorcist,
email a cease-and-desist
to you personal oral poltergeist,
but I wouldn’t be
the peanut butter between your teeth
if your pony pout wasn’t
screaming to speak.
Feel free to breathe in the fumes
born from burning your bondage license.
You’re not built for
sitting around in a cell.
Besides, everyone knows you’re
too sweet for sadism, and
too fragile for masochism.
Take the souffle soliloquy
you would’ve stuffed your pillow with,
and make it her birthday.
Effervesce together.
Condense into clouds,
and ride the lovechild lightning
smack into the ground- get scorched
if that’s what pays to
stop floating around.
Come on, man.
You’re the city slugger,
not the stoopstuck slug.
You can crunch in or strike out,
but you’re long out of walking,
because the catcher’s
just a ghost story by now.
I’ll be here to cradle
your cage-sized nerves
if you’re scared of splinters,
so long as you swing.
So long as you swing,
I’ll be your swimming lessons.
I know storms like her
have practiced blitzkrieg against your lungs,
but today, stay your melting hands
and what you understand,
because today,
your eyes and ears
are first at bat,
buddy.
Edited version:
I’m the reason you came here tonight.
I’m the revolting coals burning up your one-man queue,
Dan.
I’m the one shouting “Next!”
I’m the springs scraping soles,
the inner arsonist who’s ready to
bounce through this monsoon
like it was my third or fourth cup of coffee
so I can start a fire on the other side.
I’m the tenant sharing air
with the squirrels inside your walls.
If you’ve ever felt your house move,
now you know who to thank.
So let’s get this house shaking again.
Woah, woah, man! Drop the vacuum! I’m no ghost!
I’m more like your shadow.
A shadow that sells self-help books.
So before you staple “spirit” to my forehead,
before you shred the yellow pages for an exorcist
or send me a cease-and-desist letter,
remember that I’d cease to exist
if you didn’t need someone
to stick peanut butter between your teeth
so you could neigh today, little horsey.
This jail cell’s too small and the art scene sucks,
so let’s burn this baby down.
Give me your shaking. Give me your shackles.
We’ll need plenty of kindling.
Peace out, prison! Bon voyage, bondage years!
And don’t worry, man- everyone knows
you’re too sweet for sadism
and too fragile for masochism, anyway.
Let’s take the souffle you baked,
the soliloquy of a pastry you planned on
stuffing into your pillow,
and instead, make it a dance floor.
Strut up to that girl you’ve been eyeing,
and make it her birthday.
Effervesce together.
Condense into clouds, then ride
the lovechild lightning
smack into the ground.
Show everyone how deities dance.
Come on, man.
You’re the city’s number one slugger,
but you’re putzing around in the dugout!
It’s time to crunch in or strike out.
You ran out of walking ages ago,
and the catcher’s just a ghost story by now.
But I’ve got your back.
I’ll pick the splinters out of your palms,
so long as you swing.
So long as you swing,
I’ll be your coach. Hell, I’ll be your bat.
I know storms like her
have practiced blitzkrieg against your lungs,
but take a deep breath,
because today, your trembling hands will swing.
Today, the lion inside of you is first at bat,
buddy.
