the pages of their minds went missing today
and wouldn't answer when they tried to call them back.
they went in circles trying to find them
looking in dark closets and under-the-bed spaces.
they thought they found them at first
in cardboard photo boxes
but the pictures were all too yellow
and the laughing faces inside were just as closed
as the glossy shuttered houses they’d never remember
no matter how hard they squinted.
still
until their fingerprints were full of dust,
they traced the shadows
huddled at dusktime with blurry hands plunged deep into jean pockets
and children playing hockey in an empty street and yelling
mouths wide open in some forgotten outrage.
in other pictures they thought they found
themselves
drinking around beach bonfires and holding lost newborns.
but the sand was always too dark
the hallways always too long
the faces all too narrow
and they couldn't remember any of it.
so they pulled away,
threw the photographs down
and opened their front doors to run.
when they looked outside
the houses were all shuttered shut
the pavement was too black
and they saw
everything real was gone.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Monday, September 12, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Dublin
time flies away here.
it darts from your hands
pulled by high-heeled cobblestone roads
murderous taxis
trampled newspaper mush cigarette butts
years of bikes rusting algae in the Liffey
and mute nights where it only rained.
it takes away spinning
midnight pub worlds with their stomping and dancing and hidden corners
in seconds, takes
picnics of wine and tree climbing castle climbing life swirling,
accents that turn talking
into a song,
and the wind that makes you fly into busy anything streets
into leafy iron gated parks sprawling
with all of Ireland on its lunch break except you have all day.
then turns it all into a dream.
it darts from your hands
pulled by high-heeled cobblestone roads
murderous taxis
trampled newspaper mush cigarette butts
years of bikes rusting algae in the Liffey
and mute nights where it only rained.
it takes away spinning
midnight pub worlds with their stomping and dancing and hidden corners
in seconds, takes
picnics of wine and tree climbing castle climbing life swirling,
accents that turn talking
into a song,
and the wind that makes you fly into busy anything streets
into leafy iron gated parks sprawling
with all of Ireland on its lunch break except you have all day.
then turns it all into a dream.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Three Poems
LOOK I'M POSTING AGAIN. Weird, right?
she didn’t know it
when his heart stopped
beating. their sleep disappeared that night
and when she woke
he was cold, more stone than infant
than baby, her child. they say,
so early, it’s a blessing. poor thing
didn’t suffer long. look
at them, us, look at you, nothing
but bones, but skin. but
she didn’t know it when
his heart stopped beating and that meant
his heart stopped beating.
his heart stopped beating.
the house is broken with the rhythm
of the thousand bodies it couldn’t shelter.
it stands there a shattered
bombsite
ticking with every heartbeat
pushed aside
and put out too early.
they were once people
and back then they fought,
protested with fists and guns and tears
until their everyday laughter, everyday hopes switched
and burst
into the stillness of a billion muted bones.
now the house lies starving in Ireland
In Darfur, huddled bloody
and wasting for water in Haiti
sick and dying.
it’s on every street
in every country
beating loudly and helpless
filled with too many ghosts
and a ticking that can never end.
she stands in front of the bathroom mirror
clutching windex
kool-aid blue.
no matter how much she scrubs
she can’t change what she sees.
once, in a century forgotten decades ago
half a culture starved
until they were nothing but rib cages.
but she could never eat a potato.
they’re too big and they remind
her too much
of what she sees in the mirror.
Anyway, I wrote these for my creative project for one of my classes. They're all inspired by the Irish Famine, so that means they're really cheerful, obviously.
PS, comments are spectacular and make me really happy. So comment.
***
in the night
she didn’t know it
when his heart stopped
beating. their sleep disappeared that night
and when she woke
he was cold, more stone than infant
than baby, her child. they say,
so early, it’s a blessing. poor thing
didn’t suffer long. look
at them, us, look at you, nothing
but bones, but skin. but
she didn’t know it when
his heart stopped beating and that meant
his heart stopped beating.
his heart stopped beating.
famine house
the house is broken with the rhythm
of the thousand bodies it couldn’t shelter.
it stands there a shattered
bombsite
ticking with every heartbeat
pushed aside
and put out too early.
they were once people
and back then they fought,
protested with fists and guns and tears
until their everyday laughter, everyday hopes switched
and burst
into the stillness of a billion muted bones.
now the house lies starving in Ireland
In Darfur, huddled bloody
and wasting for water in Haiti
sick and dying.
it’s on every street
in every country
beating loudly and helpless
filled with too many ghosts
and a ticking that can never end.
potatoes
she stands in front of the bathroom mirror
clutching windex
kool-aid blue.
no matter how much she scrubs
she can’t change what she sees.
once, in a century forgotten decades ago
half a culture starved
until they were nothing but rib cages.
but she could never eat a potato.
they’re too big and they remind
her too much
of what she sees in the mirror.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Lightning Bugs
I don’t know if you remember but
once we went dancing
in your bumpy green front yard
and laughed at all the passing cars.
They were in such a hurry
and the warm swirling air
couldn’t hold their burning metal as closely as it did us.
We didn’t stop brightlight spinning until the sun
became the moon
even though we knew that the moon was just as beautiful.
Next time, we said, and under it whispered
secret silences
and questions we knew could only be true.
The grass tickled our faces
and the moon had never shown so bright.
We took its glow as a promise
that life might stand still, just for a few more years.
It didn’t, but that night
we watched the white moths flutter in slow motion
and were sure our hearts stopped beating.
I don’t want to add you to my list
of all I’ve lost.
If I could,
I would race for a plane so I could paint the sky
a fluorescent pink lightning cloud sunset,
all so that I could run back to your house and point,
say, “look. The moon’s almost out.
Let’s go dancing.”
once we went dancing
in your bumpy green front yard
and laughed at all the passing cars.
They were in such a hurry
and the warm swirling air
couldn’t hold their burning metal as closely as it did us.
We didn’t stop brightlight spinning until the sun
became the moon
even though we knew that the moon was just as beautiful.
Next time, we said, and under it whispered
secret silences
and questions we knew could only be true.
The grass tickled our faces
and the moon had never shown so bright.
We took its glow as a promise
that life might stand still, just for a few more years.
It didn’t, but that night
we watched the white moths flutter in slow motion
and were sure our hearts stopped beating.
I don’t want to add you to my list
of all I’ve lost.
If I could,
I would race for a plane so I could paint the sky
a fluorescent pink lightning cloud sunset,
all so that I could run back to your house and point,
say, “look. The moon’s almost out.
Let’s go dancing.”
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Gretel
I have some questions about this one. Mostly, is it good? Also, is it too dramatic? Do you think the first half of the third stanza is okay? I'm thinking of changing it, but I haven't decided what I would change it to even if I do. Anyway, the more advice, the better!
She gasps in gusts of damp pine needle air
for breakfast.
She says, reciting on a static loop,
It’s better this way.
This way, she can only taste the Earth,
the soft, sopping, cradling, zero calorie zero fat sky and trees and dirt.
She says that that's enough but her eyes
***
She gasps in gusts of damp pine needle air
for breakfast.
She says, reciting on a static loop,
It’s better this way.
This way, she can only taste the Earth,
the soft, sopping, cradling, zero calorie zero fat sky and trees and dirt.
She says that that's enough but her eyes
don't agree.
And she falls,
she crumbles, flutters whenever
And she falls,
she crumbles, flutters whenever
an attack of cooking wind blows near her.
Gingerbread houses, she thinks,
and fights to keep her breath from leaving her throat.
She can’t stop her hands from shaking
Gingerbread houses, she thinks,
and fights to keep her breath from leaving her throat.
She can’t stop her hands from shaking
or her mind.
At night she quivers delicious nightmares.
Her heart wanders dreams to cushiony bread soaked in olive oil
and zesty garlic. Bowls of pink
and chocolate ice cream. Cheese sliced so
thin it melts over her tongue in seconds.
Artichoke Hearts
PeanutButter WhippedCream
BreadSticksFriedDoughTubsOf
At night she quivers delicious nightmares.
Her heart wanders dreams to cushiony bread soaked in olive oil
and zesty garlic. Bowls of pink
and chocolate ice cream. Cheese sliced so
thin it melts over her tongue in seconds.
Artichoke Hearts
PeanutButter WhippedCream
BreadSticksFriedDoughTubsOf
FrostingDon’tEvenBotherWithACakeGiveMeAFuckingSpoon.
She says indulge is the most terrifying word
the one that makes her fists pound,
beat at her mirror.
She says indulge is the most terrifying word
the one that makes her fists pound,
beat at her mirror.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Exhale
New Poem!
there’s a place
that exists only in the deepest corners of your sighs,
and in the flexings of your breath.
the people there,
or whatever they are,
sail through the rippling currents of your exhales
over and over again
and they never leave you.
they whisper memories when you need them
your favorites
hiding in the tiny pockets of air they find in your chest
as you wait to be shipwrecked.
you’ll never know them
so you'll never be able to see
Really, though, I'm probably way to sleep deprived to post this. I was probably too sleep deprived to even write it. And I'm definitely too sleep deprived to write this-- I just made about 11 hundred typos. Like slepp. And splep. And a bunch of others that you're probably just not interested in. You probably weren't interested in slepp or splep, either, and you're probably not finding this funny. But I have had basically no sleep in the last two days, and tonight isn't looking that good either, and this is entertaining me, dammit.
For serious, though (for serious..) what do you guys think? Do you like it? What do you get from it, if anything? How could I make it better? And stuff like that.
***
that exists only in the deepest corners of your sighs,
and in the flexings of your breath.
the people there,
or whatever they are,
sail through the rippling currents of your exhales
over and over again
and they never leave you.
they whisper memories when you need them
your favorites
hiding in the tiny pockets of air they find in your chest
as you wait to be shipwrecked.
you’ll never know them
so you'll never be able to see
them breathing, just sometimes, air into their own stories
hidden in blurry blue flecks of beach glass.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A poem with no name. Yet.
she was born beside graves of crisp white sheets
bleached too many times to count,
and beds that could never stay warm long.
she learned to talk listening to footsteps that couldn’t remember
how to hold onto the floor,
under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers.
there were never any songs sung, not
to her, but as she got older
she learned to make her own,
molded from the smiles that echoed out of her scratchy TV.
she swirled words under her tongue
and hid them there,
waited for the day They would come one last time,
wearing cartoon scrub shirts and sudden, sudden smiles--
take out her tubes and wires
take off her bandages
and say, Be Free.
she saved her songs for running in the bright yellow
leaves she could see falling from her window.
but, whenever They came, Their palms
clutched no key, no quick happy chance
of a drifting cloud dancing dream, just rain,
coloring books stained with fingerprints, and I’m Sorry.
bleached too many times to count,
and beds that could never stay warm long.
she learned to talk listening to footsteps that couldn’t remember
how to hold onto the floor,
under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers.
there were never any songs sung, not
to her, but as she got older
she learned to make her own,
molded from the smiles that echoed out of her scratchy TV.
she swirled words under her tongue
and hid them there,
waited for the day They would come one last time,
wearing cartoon scrub shirts and sudden, sudden smiles--
take out her tubes and wires
take off her bandages
and say, Be Free.
she saved her songs for running in the bright yellow
leaves she could see falling from her window.
but, whenever They came, Their palms
clutched no key, no quick happy chance
of a drifting cloud dancing dream, just rain,
coloring books stained with fingerprints, and I’m Sorry.
Friday, August 20, 2010
2:22 AM
Okay, so I need help on this one! Do the stanzas work? I mean they all take place in different places, with different people, but does that work? And is it obvious that the stanzas are still all about the same subject? And, any advice for anything?
***
2:22 rushed in through the window shades
with sirens and lights flashing hollow, urgent ribbons.
A girl sat quiet on the bed.
She’d been trying too long for dreams
and she couldn’t shut her ears
even after the jumbled life cries flew away.
Cars drove by the twisted, sprained metal,
headlights stared at it, a gallery,
engines wondered.
Blinking night owls murmured curious sympathies,
knowing the rain will fall soon enough.
The kids laughed together in their hoodied huddle,
clinging to their Dunkin’ Donuts cups against
frosty sunrise air. They whispered flickers
of this time and that time
and hanging on rollercoasters one last time,
before winter suspended all life in the air.
They didn’t know, yet.
***
2:22 rushed in through the window shades
with sirens and lights flashing hollow, urgent ribbons.
A girl sat quiet on the bed.
She’d been trying too long for dreams
and she couldn’t shut her ears
even after the jumbled life cries flew away.
Cars drove by the twisted, sprained metal,
headlights stared at it, a gallery,
engines wondered.
Blinking night owls murmured curious sympathies,
knowing the rain will fall soon enough.
The kids laughed together in their hoodied huddle,
clinging to their Dunkin’ Donuts cups against
frosty sunrise air. They whispered flickers
of this time and that time
and hanging on rollercoasters one last time,
before winter suspended all life in the air.
They didn’t know, yet.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Almost
Sun
beating down heavy
light. Tropical sugar sunscreen seeped
beating down heavy
light. Tropical sugar sunscreen seeped
into the poetry of air.
We could be at the beach,
our feet buried in sand.
Warm, soft.
A thousand beads of sunshine,
freezing waves lapping close,
and we can feel the ocean
currents swaying inside our skin.
We aren’t. But the passing cars
roaring beside us
and the people
tossing and turning together
remember the sea
rolling back and forth
endlessly.
We could be at the beach,
our feet buried in sand.
Warm, soft.
A thousand beads of sunshine,
freezing waves lapping close,
and we can feel the ocean
currents swaying inside our skin.
We aren’t. But the passing cars
roaring beside us
and the people
tossing and turning together
remember the sea
rolling back and forth
endlessly.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
telephone lines
she followed the lines,
the sunset sepia ghost roads
for hours
counting the telephone poles:
one one hundred two hundred.
the sunset sepia ghost roads
for hours
counting the telephone poles:
one one hundred two hundred.
infinity.
names and tones thunder leapt from the wires
into her throat.
they cried out conversations
secreted away like lies
years ago.
they marked her like a bruise,
the truths,
the panics and the cries.
she walked that long road
to the sea.
the last pole was just
an indented slice of drift wood
shifting inwardly between the surf
names and tones thunder leapt from the wires
into her throat.
they cried out conversations
secreted away like lies
years ago.
they marked her like a bruise,
the truths,
the panics and the cries.
she walked that long road
to the sea.
the last pole was just
an indented slice of drift wood
shifting inwardly between the surf
and the blinking highway.
the sky stretched
aimlessly, rusted
with cracked mascara and dew.
she turned around before her heels could sink
into the shore.
the sun rose and set
and she walked back.
the historic static heaved
away from her with each step,
each gust.
only a few buzzing fragments stayed, still
piercing her eyes
with barbed wire and muttered
moments.
the sky stretched
aimlessly, rusted
with cracked mascara and dew.
she turned around before her heels could sink
into the shore.
the sun rose and set
and she walked back.
the historic static heaved
away from her with each step,
each gust.
only a few buzzing fragments stayed, still
piercing her eyes
with barbed wire and muttered
moments.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Wall
Okay, guys, I actually need some help with this. I can't figure out what to do with the first stanza of this poem. Part of me just wants to get rid of it, but I'm worried that then the poem won't make any sense. Or maybe it would since its title is The Wall? So, basically, I want you to tell me what you think. But don't limit yourself to just talking about that. I want all the advice I can get.*
**
The bubblegum paint’s on top, pealed
away telephone wire lines-- remember, the same color as the ball--
(look how high it can go
up up up over the house
almost to the sun)
On the bottom, the scribbles
are almost gone.
Scraps of names and voices collect
ripped and faded waiting
to be puzzled back together before
they’re blown away. Hoping.
Floorboards are sad company.
The hydrangea wallpaper behind it all
is the one the most awake.
You can see it in the corner, by the bits of wrinkled
scratch marks. That tiny speck of yellow dimness splatter.
Soon, soon, it knows
it will be back to before.
Cerulean petals and glimmering in the flashes of
once again.
The bubblegum paint’s on top, pealed
away telephone wire lines-- remember, the same color as the ball--
(look how high it can go
up up up over the house
almost to the sun)
On the bottom, the scribbles
are almost gone.
Scraps of names and voices collect
ripped and faded waiting
to be puzzled back together before
they’re blown away. Hoping.
Floorboards are sad company.
The hydrangea wallpaper behind it all
is the one the most awake.
You can see it in the corner, by the bits of wrinkled
scratch marks. That tiny speck of yellow dimness splatter.
Soon, soon, it knows
it will be back to before.
Cerulean petals and glimmering in the flashes of
once again.
***
*Update: I got rid of the first stanza. I'll post it in the comment section, though, incase anyone else wants to see it or something.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Just Live
I'm going back to work at the Christmas Tree Shop in the morning. Seven hours. It's going to be the first time this year. (Stoked, right?) So, I figured, what better thing to post than a poem partly to do with being lazy? Well, it's more than just that, but still.
Anyway, as always, I heart comments. Is it good? Bad? Wicked awful? How can I make it better?
Oh, and it's probably obvious, but I wrote this a while ago. I've been editing it every once in a while over a few months, but I started it on that first beautiful day in March. Even though the grass was dead, it wasn't covered in snow, and the air was full of crisp warmth and amazingness. All anyone wanted to do was lie down in the sun.
let’s do nothing today
just lie down on the wet dirt
khaki straw grass and airy sun.
just live.
we can say
all those things we need to
and never do.
let’s pick at the grass
still dead
from that long winter.
it falls apart
so easily
in your fingers when you pull.
we don't have to race to the sky
right now.
climbing the criss-crossing
roads on top bridges
can wait.
we can do life slowly.
we can shut our eyes
from everything you don’t want.
all those falling stars.
we can,
can't we, just stay here
lying in the grass,
eyes shut in the glowing.
Anyway, as always, I heart comments. Is it good? Bad? Wicked awful? How can I make it better?
Oh, and it's probably obvious, but I wrote this a while ago. I've been editing it every once in a while over a few months, but I started it on that first beautiful day in March. Even though the grass was dead, it wasn't covered in snow, and the air was full of crisp warmth and amazingness. All anyone wanted to do was lie down in the sun.
*
Just Live
let’s do nothing today
just lie down on the wet dirt
khaki straw grass and airy sun.
just live.
we can say
all those things we need to
and never do.
let’s pick at the grass
still dead
from that long winter.
it falls apart
so easily
in your fingers when you pull.
we don't have to race to the sky
right now.
climbing the criss-crossing
roads on top bridges
can wait.
we can do life slowly.
we can shut our eyes
from everything you don’t want.
all those falling stars.
we can,
can't we, just stay here
lying in the grass,
eyes shut in the glowing.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
An onslaught of pictures and a tiny sort-of poem
Nature's pretty. Even when viewed from the eyes of a terrible cellphone camera.
Le Poem (if it's even long enough, or good enough, to call it that):
nothing gives you the goosebumps
more than bees
hovering by your ear.
Oh, and props to anyone who knows where the pictures were taken. I'm guessing only Dennis kids will :)
Monday, April 19, 2010
Banana Boat
(I'm not entirely sure about the title. I had it as 'Faded' before, but I thought that sounded too depressing, especially since I don't really consider this poem to be that at all, really. Tell me what you think!!)
***
Early nights,
the sky glows cobalt, not
ready for the stars.
Watching our Crazy Snake Man
Steve Irwin
in big T-shirts and drying hair.
Surrounded by armies of Beast Wars
and the Barbies they always saved.
The sunscreen that turned our skin
the colors of popsicles
long washed away by
fun noodle gymnastics
and splashing to catch tiny shrimp
tickling our feet in tide pools.
Those sunscreen summers so
full of Kool-Aid
Bursts and collected beach glass
faded by the days
I thought I'd always have.
***
Early nights,
the sky glows cobalt, not
ready for the stars.
Watching our Crazy Snake Man
Steve Irwin
in big T-shirts and drying hair.
Surrounded by armies of Beast Wars
and the Barbies they always saved.
The sunscreen that turned our skin
the colors of popsicles
long washed away by
fun noodle gymnastics
and splashing to catch tiny shrimp
tickling our feet in tide pools.
Those sunscreen summers so
full of Kool-Aid
Bursts and collected beach glass
faded by the days
I thought I'd always have.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
beauty
So, I have another poem. And, seriously, tell me what you think. Comments and criticism are always wicked awesome, no matter who they're from or what they say. <3
***
ugly, they call, like a
plague.
they say,
those streets, so littered so dirty so dark.
that house, crumpled in on itself,
such an eyesore
someone needs to fix it.
get rid of it.
that person,
so misshapen, so fat
look how wrong
it is.
***
ugly, they call, like a
plague.
they say,
those streets, so littered so dirty so dark.
that house, crumpled in on itself,
such an eyesore
someone needs to fix it.
get rid of it.
that person,
so misshapen, so fat
look how wrong
it is.
eyes not big enough arms not small enough
just not good enough.
they don’t know that anything
that everything
everyone
that ever witnessed the blink of a smile or
held away broken tears
is beautiful.
and your flaws are
perfect.
just not good enough.
they don’t know that anything
that everything
everyone
that ever witnessed the blink of a smile or
held away broken tears
is beautiful.
and your flaws are
perfect.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Alina Dreamt
I have a new poem! It's kind of depressing (I'm not sure why, but that's just what came out). Anyway, tell me what you think!
Alina dreamt of bombs
landing on their house
every night.
She had three kids
three babies
one after another.
Each time, she wept
for those tiny fingers
blinking eyes, dandelion hair.
They wouldn’t be able to
survive it
when the world shattered.
She wouldn’t have another one.
She didn’t know, she said,
the point of new life
with that bomb floating over
their heads.
She held her babies to her
and shivered.
They crawled walked ran
laughed
grew.
Alina dreamt.
Alina dreamt of bombs
landing on their house
every night.
She had three kids
three babies
one after another.
Each time, she wept
for those tiny fingers
blinking eyes, dandelion hair.
They wouldn’t be able to
survive it
when the world shattered.
She wouldn’t have another one.
She didn’t know, she said,
the point of new life
with that bomb floating over
their heads.
She held her babies to her
and shivered.
They crawled walked ran
laughed
grew.
Alina dreamt.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Shadow People
So, I have a new poem! I actually wrote this really quickly, but I'm kind of proud of it. Anyway, though, what do you guys think? Do the stanzas work? Is the repitition okay? Thanks <3
we’re the shadow people
when you
and everyone else
aren’t watching.
we run through parking lots
and play tag with cars
trying to back up.
nothing can see us.
we lie on dirty sidewalks
and watch feet pass through
the foggy grey of our skin.
no one can hurt us.
in winter we jump
naked into crystallized ponds,
swim in the deep black frost.
nothing can make us.
nothing can know us.
***
we’re the shadow people
when you
and everyone else
aren’t watching.
we run through parking lots
and play tag with cars
trying to back up.
nothing can see us.
we lie on dirty sidewalks
and watch feet pass through
the foggy grey of our skin.
no one can hurt us.
in winter we jump
naked into crystallized ponds,
swim in the deep black frost.
nothing can make us.
nothing can know us.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Write like the Ocean
So, lately I've been feeling kind of uninspired with my writing and basically everything. I think I'm starting to get it back, though. I have a bunch of ideas, but none of them are too solid yet. I still have to work on them. But, here's a poem. I wrote it a few months ago, but I think it fits.
I want to write like the
ocean. I want my thoughts to
roll like waves and
pull like the undertow,
capturing me.
I want them to be as beautiful as a siren
or a mermaid, and as
desperate,
desolate, as
hopeful.
I want souls to swim to the farthest,
most confusing depths and then come up,
staring into the crystallized rainbow sun
peering through the blurry
shield of the water and then they
hear the seagull’s wail because they’re near
land and everything’s
probably gonna be okay.
I want to look out into the deepest parts of the sea and think,
oh,
I helped make that.
I want to write like the
ocean. I want my thoughts to
roll like waves and
pull like the undertow,
capturing me.
I want them to be as beautiful as a siren
or a mermaid, and as
desperate,
desolate, as
hopeful.
I want souls to swim to the farthest,
most confusing depths and then come up,
staring into the crystallized rainbow sun
peering through the blurry
shield of the water and then they
hear the seagull’s wail because they’re near
land and everything’s
probably gonna be okay.
I want to look out into the deepest parts of the sea and think,
oh,
I helped make that.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Stuff
It's actually pretty nice to be home. I mean, I miss my Champlain people a wicked lot, but it's just really relaxing here. It's nice not to have to do anything. So, I've just been hanging out and writing. I actually got on a wicked roll last night and wrote about seven pages in two hours. (Okay, for most people that might be slow, but I'm special and for me, that's fast :p) I'm not saying what it's about yet, though... not yet.
Anyway, I feel like I should actually post something of substance. Sooo I'll post a poem I wrote a while (and by 'while,' I mean like months... it's actually kinda wicked old. From, like, last April or something) ago...
The Sun sees a lot during the day,
when he’s on top and gleaming
white fire, when he’s the one with power
(except for when the clouds try to cover him with their smoke.
Oh my God, he often thought,
he doesn’t consider himself particularly violent, but he’d kill them if he could.)
When everything is bright, he
sees people moving
quickly
slowly
laughing
silent
talking
lying.
It’s interesting, but so
busy.
And, really, he’s busy, too,
trying to keep the warm places warm and the cold places cold.
When he starts to fall,
he can lean back and
watch
his little world as
vibrant pink and sherbet ribbons chase away the blue of the sky.
He can watch people be people,
running in the forests of the grass
making footprints in the sand like glaciers
laughing
joking
dancing
sitting
eating
watching him right back.
Anyway, I feel like I should actually post something of substance. Sooo I'll post a poem I wrote a while (and by 'while,' I mean like months... it's actually kinda wicked old. From, like, last April or something) ago...
The Sun
The Sun sees a lot during the day,
when he’s on top and gleaming
white fire, when he’s the one with power
(except for when the clouds try to cover him with their smoke.
Oh my God, he often thought,
he doesn’t consider himself particularly violent, but he’d kill them if he could.)
When everything is bright, he
sees people moving
quickly
slowly
laughing
silent
talking
lying.
It’s interesting, but so
busy.
And, really, he’s busy, too,
trying to keep the warm places warm and the cold places cold.
When he starts to fall,
he can lean back and
watch
his little world as
vibrant pink and sherbet ribbons chase away the blue of the sky.
He can watch people be people,
running in the forests of the grass
making footprints in the sand like glaciers
laughing
joking
dancing
sitting
eating
watching him right back.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Flying
(This is probably not that good, since I don't tend to be that good at poems, but yeah.)
The first time she
flew she didn’t know it. She thought she was
asleep and she wasn’t but she thought she was and
sometimes
that’s all you need. So, she
flew
flew out the window without
bothering to open it. The world was foggy
dark but she could still make out the tiny
yellow flower dots on the ground and she
fell she
landed in the daytime.
There was a boy and he started walking to her through the dew and sun
but then everything
stopped and she was alone and
couldn’t tell that she wasn’t lost.
The second time she flew she didn’t fly and
wasn’t asleep.
She was in the kitchen, putting apples and cheddar together when the
wooden door knocked and it was the
boy and he stood there, and she didn’t
wake up. His mouth opened but there wasn’t anything to say.
She held her apple and
watched as he watched her, and as he
walked away.
The third time she flew, it was a
wish. She sat at the white table in the
white room, filling out taxes or paying bills or
applying to a job so that she could do those things, and she
thought, no, I want a
castle and
the fountain of youth and to
fly. So she shut her eyes and in her mind
she did. Behind her eyes she saw
herself, dancing like a ripple above the blue
grey ocean, salt spray rushing through her, not
touching her, and she wanted to go there. She got
up and pushed the white chair under the
white table and stepped outside. She
stretched her arms out in the sun and she
felt the gold all around her and she thought she
saw the boy but then
he was nowhere, and she wondered if people could
think themselves invisible.
When she went to bed that night, she said,
tomorrow I’ll fly, and find the boy or a
castle, and I’ll stay there
forever. It will be
Beautiful. But when she woke into her dream,
she didn’t know. She didn’t know
why there was smoke everywhere or
why unrecognizable expressions didn’t
recognize, or maybe even see
her sitting in the middle of the crowded grey road and holding
clutching to herself and then there was the
boy and he said, do you want to be a
cloud? And she said,
yes.
The first time she
flew she didn’t know it. She thought she was
asleep and she wasn’t but she thought she was and
sometimes
that’s all you need. So, she
flew
flew out the window without
bothering to open it. The world was foggy
dark but she could still make out the tiny
yellow flower dots on the ground and she
fell she
landed in the daytime.
There was a boy and he started walking to her through the dew and sun
but then everything
stopped and she was alone and
couldn’t tell that she wasn’t lost.
The second time she flew she didn’t fly and
wasn’t asleep.
She was in the kitchen, putting apples and cheddar together when the
wooden door knocked and it was the
boy and he stood there, and she didn’t
wake up. His mouth opened but there wasn’t anything to say.
She held her apple and
watched as he watched her, and as he
walked away.
The third time she flew, it was a
wish. She sat at the white table in the
white room, filling out taxes or paying bills or
applying to a job so that she could do those things, and she
thought, no, I want a
castle and
the fountain of youth and to
fly. So she shut her eyes and in her mind
she did. Behind her eyes she saw
herself, dancing like a ripple above the blue
grey ocean, salt spray rushing through her, not
touching her, and she wanted to go there. She got
up and pushed the white chair under the
white table and stepped outside. She
stretched her arms out in the sun and she
felt the gold all around her and she thought she
saw the boy but then
he was nowhere, and she wondered if people could
think themselves invisible.
When she went to bed that night, she said,
tomorrow I’ll fly, and find the boy or a
castle, and I’ll stay there
forever. It will be
Beautiful. But when she woke into her dream,
she didn’t know. She didn’t know
why there was smoke everywhere or
why unrecognizable expressions didn’t
recognize, or maybe even see
her sitting in the middle of the crowded grey road and holding
clutching to herself and then there was the
boy and he said, do you want to be a
cloud? And she said,
yes.
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