Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Our First Podcast -- Megan Freeman

Below, you'll find a direct link to the CSUWP's first podcast. Over the next few days, I'll be posting more information about what podcasting is, how you can subscribe to podcasts, and the free software that you can use to make a podcast and receive them right on your home computer and in your MP3 player (although you certainly don't need an MP3 player to listen to podcasts).
Our featured author today is Peak to Peak Charter School's very own Megan Freeman. She's reading three poems on the show. Below, you'll find the full text of her poems. If you'd like to be a featured author on a future podcast (I'll do them every day that we've got a volunteer. Or I'll volunteer you.), simply ask me and I'll get you recorded.
Enjoy, and congratulations, Megan. Good stuff here and a great first podcast.
Here is the direct link to the podcast. You will need software capable of playing MP3's to hear it. I like ITunes or Windows Media Player. (They're both free.)


Ears are shrinking.

With each generation
people’s ears are getting smaller.
The oldest members of the population
have the largest ears.

Ear lobes used to hang down and away
from the sides of the face.
Now they are attached.
New babies’ ears slope gently into their cheeks
with no space/no dangly skin.
Perhaps that’s why people are finding
other places to pierce?

Uncle Bud could fold up his ear
and tuck it
into his head.
It was like a deformed knob on the side
of his bumpy bald skull.
Then he’d growl and
exhale tobacco breath laughter
as we watched
enthralled and terrified.

“Count to three!” he’d bark and we’d
leap out of our skin, practically peeing with fear.
“One, two, three,” we’d say
with what little breath we had.

Fwuap! His ear would explode out of his head
as his yellow teeth grinned and
he wheezed with pleasure at the execution
of his best trick.

satisfied silence

she reading her novel
me reading her hand

pink chenille in the early mornings and
olives in the guacamole

cross stitch and postage stamps

if she’s an acquired taste
I’m a connoisseur

discerning ear
exacting brain

my only onliest mother
sending me London Fog and goose down
in the icy January of the break-apart

holding me up with her ether

no doormat here
only a fortress of loyalty

heart broken in many tiny shards
repaired with duct tape and ferocity
a mosaic
of good intentions and questionable judgment

Lioness of my pride.

All I Want For Christmas

little wolf cub
pushing lisped syllables
over naked pink gums

sharp incisors
pointing out
the absence
of the anchor teeth

apples gnawed on like sugar cane
sticky-lickable cheeks

milky spoonfuls of corn
shaved from the cob

dedicated tongue
earnest conversation
made somehow more dear
by the gaping
victory of your little body

I see you, little wolf cub.
I am listening.
I am paying attention.

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