Tag Archives: poetry

Audio Practice – There Will Come Soft Rains

This poem was requested by @brangwy. You can find her online at elanorhughes.blogspot.com. I took care to read this more slowly, and in post I only applied one effect.

Here is the original recording, with background noise.


  1. Download Audacity
  2. Open and record, including 5 seconds at beginning and/or end of “silence” so you can capture your base noise level.
  3. Select noise sample
  4. In the Effect menu, select “Noise Removal”
  5. “Get Noise Profile”
  6. Select all (ctrl + a)
  7. In the Effect menu, select “Repeat Removal”


Do you notice a difference? Any suggestions?


Announcement! Radio Play: Unfortunate Demonic Incident No. 271

“Some people were born with spina bifida, I was born with a demon in my head.”
-Kara, Unfortunate Demonic Incident No. 271


Coming soon to Sherri’s Playhouse, a radio-play with all things excellent, including (but not limited to):

  • Lovers!
  • Demons!
  • Grandmas!
  • Salad dressing!

It’s the perfect post-Halloween audio treat.


That’s not blood.



Singing in the Kitchen

I listened to the Guys & Dolls  not too long ago, so that kind of music has been in my head even though it’s not my favorite genre. I’ve been dancing around the kitchen humming and writing this song in anticipation of tomorrow night’s dinner, which I don’t have to cook.


Some girl’s babies make them swoon and crawl
Wind ’em round their finger till they drop their drawers
And once they’re done
They’re on the run
Because they had their cake
But my baby, he just makes me steak.

Some girl’s babies buy them fancy things
Cars and clothes and sparkling little diamond rings
Until they see
That the love ain’t free
And they’re rudely shocked awake
But my baby, he just makes me steak.

Some girl’s babies have just one thing on their mind
A family name, some kittens, and the daily grind
But my boy and me
We let each other free
‘Cause a ring’d be a mistake
That’s why my baby, he just makes me steak.

Dirty Limericks

Many years ago, I had a disastrous falling-out with a friend. A week ago we reconnected and decided to let bygones be bygones. As though no time had passed, we fell into old patterns — one of which was the exchange of limericks. His are far better than mine, and he has given me permission to share a few with all of you.


An athletic young lady from Dallas
Used a dynamite stick as a phallus.
They found her vagina
In North Carolina
and her buttocks at Buckingham palace.

That old chicken farmer from Hay
Had chickens that just wouldn’t lay.
The problem was Brewster,
His champion rooster.
Brewster the rooster was gay.

Our most glorious king of An Tir
At the top of his lungs yelled, “more beer!”
We ran out of brew,
So we fed him some glue,
Now he can’t take a piss for a year.

There once was a Scot named McAmeter,
Whose tool had prodigious diameter.
But it wasn’t his size
That gave girls their surprise…
‘Twas his rhythm — iambic pentameter.

Poem for Winter Solstice

Candles in the window
And a chill beyond the wall
My kin are far, the minutes slow
And silent in my hall

I stay awake for Longest Night
The world a wash of grey
Remembering my fam’ly’s light
That each year summoned day

Decades passed and every year
Our dear friends packed together
Laughing, singing, drawing near
Regardless of the weather

My family is scattered now
My voice is weak and drawn
No snow alights on any bough
But I still sing for dawn


 Happy Winter to the Northern Hemisphere

Happy Summer to the Southern Hemisphere

Spine Poetry

This is a fun game.  I took this picture a month or two ago, and then I found other bloggers who did this too. My buddy Bjorn just posted his spine poetry, so I feel justified in posting mine.  He suggested checking out http://dversepoets.com to find more.

Basically, line up your books to tell a story with their titles.

Here’s what I found in front of a bookshop:


The Ragged Way People Fall Out of Love
There are no Children Here
The Last Word
Where the Right Went Wrong
Sex with Strangers
A Beginner’s Goodbye


It’s neat to look at things from a different angle. In a way, that’s our job.

These Are The People I Want In My Life

I found this beautiful poem through a friendship with a musician with a beautiful soul. I would not have met her if I didn’t know writers with beautiful souls. Beautiful souls are true, and shine bright, whether they glow with compassion or writhe in their own torment. For me, beauty lies solely in entelechy.

The Invitation
by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can  disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.