So there's this thing I've been trying out on my poetry for a little while. I wrote two separate poems on different days, and I decided after reading them both a couple of times that I wanted to put them together. So I waited a while and then alternated the lines. Then, after looking at them again a little while later, I edited. And then today I came across them after not seeing them for a while and edited again (haha my break from studying for my european history final). Yes, they are kind of depressing, as is most of my work, so sorry in advance if you like happy poems.
ORIGINAL TWO:
Learning
To break the spirit you must touch
crush, and then watch carefully
as the soul begins to seep
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
Watch as the limbs grow into branches
branching out, but never reaching
Roots travel deeper and deeper
How does it feel to be so stationary?
The eyes will sweep across the room
screaming because the mouth can't.
The arms will bend and twist like torture
when they're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
And then, only then,
when the unteachable learn their lesson,
will a girl flourish in such company.
Again, still.
The corners slept shrouded by the shadows,
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
AND THENNN TOGETHER WITH ALTERNATING LINES
To break the spirit you must touch
the corners that sleep shrouded by the shadows.
Crush, and then watch carefully
as their breaths become the whispers of the night,
as the soul begins to seep,
as his broken spirit lays wounded
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
While his too-long legs dangle over
watch as the limbs grow into branches
the side of his too-small bed
branching out, but never reaching.
No longer do the ghosts of his past haunt him
but roots travel deeper and deeper
and the ones of his present stay the night instead.
How does it feel to be so stationary?
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
The eyes will sweep across the room
and close, as if they were asleep,
screaming because the mouth can't.
But their whispers have joined the corners'
the arms will bend and twist like torture
in a song of guilt and shame.
And they're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
then, and only then,
but it was just too far away.
when the unteachable learn their lesson,
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread--
will a girl flourish in such company?
--and listened to the wind tap on her window.
THENNN MY MOST RECENT!
Step 1.
To break the spirit you must touch
the corners that sleep shrouded by the shadows.
Step 2.
Crush.
3.
Watch carefully
as their breaths become the whispers of the night,
as the soul begins to seep,
as his broken spirit lies wounded
from the crevices left by that earthquake on Sunday.
Step 4.
While his too-long legs dangle over
watch as the limbs grow into branches
the side of his too-small bed
branching out, but never reaching.
5.
No longer will the ghosts of his past haunt him
but roots travel deeper and deeper
and the ones of his present stay the night instead.
How does it feel to be so stationary?
Step 6.
Curling up by his closet, they will lean their heads on the wall
The eyes will sweep across the room
and close, as if they were asleep,
screaming because the mouth can't.
7.
But their whispers have joined the corners'
the arms will bend and twist like torture
in a song of guilt and shame.
They're trying to get something from you that you don't want to give up.
8.
She will try reaching for forgiveness,
then, and only then,
but it will be too far away.
9.
So when the unteachable learn their lesson,
she will sit on her polka-dot bedspread
and listen to the wind tap on her window.
Will a girl ever flourish in such company?
tell me what you think.
:) keep writing. love, me.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Again, still.
The corners slept shrouded by the shadows,
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
their breathing the whispers of the night.
His broken spirit lay wounded
while his too-long legs dangled over
the side of his too-small bed.
No longer did the ghosts of his past haunt him
but the ones of his present stayed the night instead.
Curling up by his closet, they leaned their heads on the wall
and closed their eyes, as if they were asleep.
But their whispers joined the corners'
in a song of guilt and shame.
She had tried reaching for forgiveness,
but it was just too far away.
So she sat on her polka-dot bedspread
and listened to the wind tap on her window.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Maybe.
Maybe these six word things will help me write again.
I miss the feeling of pen on paper. I miss
sharpening my pencils.
Or waking up in a panic at three o'clock in the morning just to write four words down because they're in such a perfect order that if you forget then your life is over.
I miss writing something and editing and editing
and editing. or even writing something
and knowing, at least for five minutes, that you got it right the first time.
I even miss writers block.
I miss the rush- when your handwriting becomes illegible because your mind is moving too fast for your hand and there is no possible way you can keep the entire sentence in there.
I miss writing in the margins.
Keeping three sentences in my head at once and moving them around as I walk to my next class.
I miss being able to get inspiration from anywhere and everywhere.
I miss knowing that my handwriting was going to change
halfway through a sentence.
(I miss the smell of bookstores and old books.)
I miss trying to figure out what I had written five minutes before.
I miss writing.
I miss the feeling of pen on paper. I miss
sharpening my pencils.
Or waking up in a panic at three o'clock in the morning just to write four words down because they're in such a perfect order that if you forget then your life is over.
I miss writing something and editing and editing
and editing. or even writing something
and knowing, at least for five minutes, that you got it right the first time.
I even miss writers block.
I miss the rush- when your handwriting becomes illegible because your mind is moving too fast for your hand and there is no possible way you can keep the entire sentence in there.
I miss writing in the margins.
Keeping three sentences in my head at once and moving them around as I walk to my next class.
I miss being able to get inspiration from anywhere and everywhere.
I miss knowing that my handwriting was going to change
halfway through a sentence.
(I miss the smell of bookstores and old books.)
I miss trying to figure out what I had written five minutes before.
I miss writing.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
mirages, holographs, etc. (for corey)
i haven't written in a while. which depresses me. but i was washing dishes (when i do all of my deepest thinking, randomly) and decided to write. here's what came out. still a work in progress i think.
Sometimes things aren't what they seem.
They shimmer at the edge of your senses
so you can feel them, but you try and touch
and they dissipate at your fingertips
disappearing into a world you can only hope to ever see again.
the rythmic hum of your heart sounds under my ear.
it calms me and my breath in and out match the beat
there is no beginning or end,
and i forget where you start and i finish,
where we meet is all i dream of.
I bring my fingers to my mouth and taste the iridescence.
i think it tastes like you, but i'm no longer sure.
it's been so long.
i reach further and further back into my mind
streching to the recesses,
wondering if i'll ever remember.
and then you're back
and its been so long.
But my lips remember the way yours wrap around them
and my fingers remember how they intertwine
my body remembers how it feels when you touch me
and when my eyes find yours easily in this crowded room
i know i never forgot.
Sometimes things aren't what they seem.
They shimmer at the edge of your senses
so you can feel them, but you try and touch
and they dissipate at your fingertips
disappearing into a world you can only hope to ever see again.
the rythmic hum of your heart sounds under my ear.
it calms me and my breath in and out match the beat
there is no beginning or end,
and i forget where you start and i finish,
where we meet is all i dream of.
I bring my fingers to my mouth and taste the iridescence.
i think it tastes like you, but i'm no longer sure.
it's been so long.
i reach further and further back into my mind
streching to the recesses,
wondering if i'll ever remember.
and then you're back
and its been so long.
But my lips remember the way yours wrap around them
and my fingers remember how they intertwine
my body remembers how it feels when you touch me
and when my eyes find yours easily in this crowded room
i know i never forgot.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
apology.....
so because I actually just moved all of my posts, some of the time references will not make sense... however, some are timeless.
you'll figure it out.
happy writing :)
you'll figure it out.
happy writing :)
6.2.09: (I don’t know what to title it yet)
I wrote this in the morning on the bus. You would think that the poem would be happier. It was sunny and I wasn’t at all in a bad mood. Who knows…. when the words come, they come….
I move slower than myself in spirit form
because it hurts to be away from my body for so long.
It’s harder to bear separation when you’re not used to it,
when your heart has never had a piece wrenched from it,
when your soul is still as unblemished as the day
you tumbled from your mother’s body.
A piece of her was ripped out then, too.
You were unaware that one day you would cry out
because your spirit was being torn from you,
leaving you only to wish that being meant you never felt pain.
I move slower than myself in spirit form
because it hurts to be away from my body for so long.
It’s harder to bear separation when you’re not used to it,
when your heart has never had a piece wrenched from it,
when your soul is still as unblemished as the day
you tumbled from your mother’s body.
A piece of her was ripped out then, too.
You were unaware that one day you would cry out
because your spirit was being torn from you,
leaving you only to wish that being meant you never felt pain.
6.1.09: Father and Son
This was also written during and after seeing Rita speak. I hadn’t written in a little while, at least, not poetry. But this moved me. So I wrote.
The father and the son walk through the crowded rows of books.
They both have the remnants of a smile resting on their faces
from some shared inside joke.
They’re reuniting- boy returning home after years of schooling
that taught him less than his mama and her waltzing feet did.
And father- just happy to see that his son is growing up
into perhaps, just perhaps, more of a man than he was.
The son holds his jacket in the crook of his arm- the slight breeze doesn’t bother him-
and his hands are thrust into his pockets.
And like a dutiful son, his collared shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
But he smiles, watching his father squint at the small letters
on the back of the book,
And with a chuckle, plucks his father’s bifocals out of the breast pocket
With a movement too quick to feel his heart beat.
But knowing, assured, that it’s there
Although for how long, indeterminate.
The father and the son walk through the crowded rows of books.
They both have the remnants of a smile resting on their faces
from some shared inside joke.
They’re reuniting- boy returning home after years of schooling
that taught him less than his mama and her waltzing feet did.
And father- just happy to see that his son is growing up
into perhaps, just perhaps, more of a man than he was.
The son holds his jacket in the crook of his arm- the slight breeze doesn’t bother him-
and his hands are thrust into his pockets.
And like a dutiful son, his collared shirt tucked into his belted jeans.
But he smiles, watching his father squint at the small letters
on the back of the book,
And with a chuckle, plucks his father’s bifocals out of the breast pocket
With a movement too quick to feel his heart beat.
But knowing, assured, that it’s there
Although for how long, indeterminate.
6.1.09: To The Books I Haven’t Picked Up In A While: Reading
I wrote this in Harvard Book Store on Mass Ave. while watching a little girl pick a book out with her mother. I was there for a poetry reading by Rita Dove, who by the way, is amazing. She speaks as though she’s singing, some inner rhythm pulsing through her.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
Shimmery Black Holes & Dead Stars
Sometimes I wonder if you’re actually here.
Or if you’re floating between two worlds
not really sure which one is real.
Am I some mirage you stumbled upon
in a drunken state, that you see
but don’t understand how it got there
or whether or not it will disappear in the next moment?
Is the effervescent irridescence ethereal
or do those shiny things we wish on last forever?
Is forever really what it seems, or are those
supposedly logical people relying on an
infinity that doesn’t actually exist?
Sometimes I wonder if you actually see me
or if I’m transparent, like a fog hanging over
a still-sleeping town.
Or if you’re floating between two worlds
not really sure which one is real.
Am I some mirage you stumbled upon
in a drunken state, that you see
but don’t understand how it got there
or whether or not it will disappear in the next moment?
Is the effervescent irridescence ethereal
or do those shiny things we wish on last forever?
Is forever really what it seems, or are those
supposedly logical people relying on an
infinity that doesn’t actually exist?
Sometimes I wonder if you actually see me
or if I’m transparent, like a fog hanging over
a still-sleeping town.
summer
i hate not knowing what i’m going to do with myself this summer….. argh.
………..but its really my fault. so i have no right to complain
………..but its really my fault. so i have no right to complain
Hi people…
Hi… I have no idea who reads this, and if anyone does. But if you do, I’m sorry that I haven’t written in so long. But hopefully I’m back School is about to be out, and these past few weeks have been reallly reallly stressful.
Blogging/ writing in general helps me to relieve some of that. I’m actually thinking of moving this blog to a place a little more open… maybe blogspot or something, who knows? but for now I’m staying with edublogs I’m not going anywhere yet.
sooo… a little while ago, my AP Drawing class went on a field trip to a cemetary up the street from Forrest Hills Station in Boston. We were told to just go out in pairs and find a little spot and do a couple of drawings. Afterwards, you could do whatever you wanted: read, nap, write, eat, whatever…
I decided to write, and a poem came out of it. argh….. don’t remember the date. I want to say it was the 3rd of April… but I’m really not sure.
Listen to the wind.
Let it say what it has to before interrupting,
thinking that you know everything.
You, with your pen in your hand:
Take time to watch the waves dance with the fish
before painting them like someone important enough
to think you can capture this on canvas.
Let the rain touch you, run down your face.
Lift the wobbly glass to your mouth
and taste the reality that you will never
truly know.
Understand that not even by changing the background,
or the lighting, or the day, or time, media, or colors,
can you ever get it right.
Blogging/ writing in general helps me to relieve some of that. I’m actually thinking of moving this blog to a place a little more open… maybe blogspot or something, who knows? but for now I’m staying with edublogs I’m not going anywhere yet.
sooo… a little while ago, my AP Drawing class went on a field trip to a cemetary up the street from Forrest Hills Station in Boston. We were told to just go out in pairs and find a little spot and do a couple of drawings. Afterwards, you could do whatever you wanted: read, nap, write, eat, whatever…
I decided to write, and a poem came out of it. argh….. don’t remember the date. I want to say it was the 3rd of April… but I’m really not sure.
Listen to the wind.
Let it say what it has to before interrupting,
thinking that you know everything.
You, with your pen in your hand:
Take time to watch the waves dance with the fish
before painting them like someone important enough
to think you can capture this on canvas.
Let the rain touch you, run down your face.
Lift the wobbly glass to your mouth
and taste the reality that you will never
truly know.
Understand that not even by changing the background,
or the lighting, or the day, or time, media, or colors,
can you ever get it right.
(1/4/08- Morning after wake): Dear Sœur Suze,
L’Éternel est mon berger:
je ne manquerai de rien.
Il me fait reposer dans le
I hope you’re lying in green pastures.
You know, they read that
psalm at the wake,
the deacons and the deaconesses
walking single file into the church.
It wasn’t a large affair,
I mean, it was a big church
but the service was small, humble, like you.
The pastor was supposed to console us.
I guess in a way he did, how he kept
rambling on about the night.
I wanted him to say something like
“It’s when it gets as dark as it can get
the stars come out.” But he didn’t.
He just kept going on and on about the night.
I wonder what souls look like:
where they go. Is yours a wanderer?
Is it floating, an effervescent bubble,
Like the one she just popped by
coming into my room and asking questions?
You can’t ask Death questions like
Why? or What are you doing?
I read once that Death is like
a blind man, pointing a bony finger…
something like that.
I pray for your soul.
That it isn’t just out there,
that it has found a resting place,
that you have found a resting place,
where Death can’t interrupt anymore.
je ne manquerai de rien.
Il me fait reposer dans le
I hope you’re lying in green pastures.
You know, they read that
psalm at the wake,
the deacons and the deaconesses
walking single file into the church.
It wasn’t a large affair,
I mean, it was a big church
but the service was small, humble, like you.
The pastor was supposed to console us.
I guess in a way he did, how he kept
rambling on about the night.
I wanted him to say something like
“It’s when it gets as dark as it can get
the stars come out.” But he didn’t.
He just kept going on and on about the night.
I wonder what souls look like:
where they go. Is yours a wanderer?
Is it floating, an effervescent bubble,
Like the one she just popped by
coming into my room and asking questions?
You can’t ask Death questions like
Why? or What are you doing?
I read once that Death is like
a blind man, pointing a bony finger…
something like that.
I pray for your soul.
That it isn’t just out there,
that it has found a resting place,
that you have found a resting place,
where Death can’t interrupt anymore.
(12/17/08): Laura
Navigational systems only take you so far.
Far enough that you can see the end of the street,
and you can touch the end of the street,
but you can’t go past it.
The annoying voice tells you when to go right,
or left, but then leaves you hanging at the intersection because it has to reset itself.
–
There was a time when I couldn’t feel anything.
When I wouldn’t see the stars come out
and it wouldn’t bother me because the shining
and the winking had no meaning.
A time when each would sit on a shoulder
and whisper light and dark into my ears,
and I had to choose between the two.
It was about that time when my GPS stopped working
and I would stay lost for long periods of time.
My compass had no magnet
pinning it to the earth and it would spin freely.
It was when I could dance ballet,
and pirouette on the big toe of my left foot.
And then, upon falling, I wouldn’t get up.
–
But it was then Laura’s voice would return
to bring me back to the top of the street.
Far enough that you can see the end of the street,
and you can touch the end of the street,
but you can’t go past it.
The annoying voice tells you when to go right,
or left, but then leaves you hanging at the intersection because it has to reset itself.
–
There was a time when I couldn’t feel anything.
When I wouldn’t see the stars come out
and it wouldn’t bother me because the shining
and the winking had no meaning.
A time when each would sit on a shoulder
and whisper light and dark into my ears,
and I had to choose between the two.
It was about that time when my GPS stopped working
and I would stay lost for long periods of time.
My compass had no magnet
pinning it to the earth and it would spin freely.
It was when I could dance ballet,
and pirouette on the big toe of my left foot.
And then, upon falling, I wouldn’t get up.
–
But it was then Laura’s voice would return
to bring me back to the top of the street.
Persona Poem: Nana’s Broken Taillight
For this exercise we had to write a poem about someone else in the class. We sat and talked for a little while, asked eachother questions, and then wrote. I wrote a poem about McCallum & his nana.
He’s long forgotten his dream, and is staring
at the red lines in the American Flag above his bed.
Not sure what they remind him of, he shuts his eyes
And breathes: in, out, in, his breath catches.
A sparkle of light finds the tear as it rolls
down the plane of his face towards his ear.
He doesn’t wipe it away and it pools
In the space at the crest of helix. It tickles.
So he swings his legs down, and places
His feet on the floor. He reaches for his shoes
Left first, then right. He needs the routine
More then ever now, for what he’s about to do.
Nana’s already awake and he can hear her voice
in the kitchen, her soft steps on the hardwood.
In the hallway wanting to dream again, he closes his eyes
but is thrust back into the darkness when he hears
“Mac, is that you? Come on in here… Breakfast is on the table.”
Hesitating a fraction of a second before the slightly open door,
he stands up straight and opens it wider,
momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the kitchen.
His grandmother walks over to say good morning,
and he lets her, a shadow passing over his face.
He knows he doesn’t deserve her affection.
His mother catches it and looks at him, questioning.
But he can’t tell her, because he has to tell Nana.
“Nana, can I tell you something?”
His shoulders are hunched and he can’t meet her gaze.
He begins to stutter out, “Nana, Nana, I….”
Her softly lilting voice interrupts, and he finally remembers.
“I know Mac, I know, and you’re forgiven.”
He’s long forgotten his dream, and is staring
at the red lines in the American Flag above his bed.
Not sure what they remind him of, he shuts his eyes
And breathes: in, out, in, his breath catches.
A sparkle of light finds the tear as it rolls
down the plane of his face towards his ear.
He doesn’t wipe it away and it pools
In the space at the crest of helix. It tickles.
So he swings his legs down, and places
His feet on the floor. He reaches for his shoes
Left first, then right. He needs the routine
More then ever now, for what he’s about to do.
Nana’s already awake and he can hear her voice
in the kitchen, her soft steps on the hardwood.
In the hallway wanting to dream again, he closes his eyes
but is thrust back into the darkness when he hears
“Mac, is that you? Come on in here… Breakfast is on the table.”
Hesitating a fraction of a second before the slightly open door,
he stands up straight and opens it wider,
momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the kitchen.
His grandmother walks over to say good morning,
and he lets her, a shadow passing over his face.
He knows he doesn’t deserve her affection.
His mother catches it and looks at him, questioning.
But he can’t tell her, because he has to tell Nana.
“Nana, can I tell you something?”
His shoulders are hunched and he can’t meet her gaze.
He begins to stutter out, “Nana, Nana, I….”
Her softly lilting voice interrupts, and he finally remembers.
“I know Mac, I know, and you’re forgiven.”
(12/14/08): The Snooze Button
No longer do I understand the point of asking questions
if they are not going to be answered anyway.
The question is in the air filling space,
floating between two worlds, unused.
The sweetness of punctuation has been lost
in the noise that the words surrounding create.
A long awaited pause is necessary, but it never arrives,
creating a traffic jam on the interstate-95.
The excess fluid overflows, into the street,
and forms a towering wave of bubbles,
popping silently over the stalled cars.
No one tries to catch the snowflakes anymore.
The weather isn’t great, so not a lot of people are out
But out are the worms, chewing the soft dirt
and turning it over and over and over,
rhythmically to the beat of nature.
And I tap my foot softly to that song
that’s been in my head all day, and hasn’t left yet.
And I ask my self whether or not I will wake up early
tomorrow morning, or if I’ll just sleep in.
if they are not going to be answered anyway.
The question is in the air filling space,
floating between two worlds, unused.
The sweetness of punctuation has been lost
in the noise that the words surrounding create.
A long awaited pause is necessary, but it never arrives,
creating a traffic jam on the interstate-95.
The excess fluid overflows, into the street,
and forms a towering wave of bubbles,
popping silently over the stalled cars.
No one tries to catch the snowflakes anymore.
The weather isn’t great, so not a lot of people are out
But out are the worms, chewing the soft dirt
and turning it over and over and over,
rhythmically to the beat of nature.
And I tap my foot softly to that song
that’s been in my head all day, and hasn’t left yet.
And I ask my self whether or not I will wake up early
tomorrow morning, or if I’ll just sleep in.
(12/13/08): Ignis Fatuus
“Everything happens for a reason” -Anonymous
I have no idea what I was put on this Earth to do.
I am wandering aimlessly upon this hard ground
kneeling on rocks that pierce my skin and bruise,
and pinch, and create sores that travel
all the way to my soul.
Walking though the fields, I bend and my back smarts
from the whip that has been brought down
one too many times upon the skin that seems not able
to protect what’s within.
I have been put here for nothing, forever running
towards a future I cannot see, blinded by noxious fumes
I cough, and out comes a mucus so thick that it chokes
the life that was put in these veins for a reason.
Further and further away I climb away, or towards
but the staircase never ends. Its supposed to.
I’m supposed to be at the top, but life doesn’t work
the way its supposed to.
Knowing I have to live has made life that much harder
Knowing I can’t just opt out, check a box and be free.
Knowing that climbing won’t do anything,
but that I have to climb, towards nothing
but those noxious fumes.
I have no idea what I was put on this Earth to do.
I am wandering aimlessly upon this hard ground
kneeling on rocks that pierce my skin and bruise,
and pinch, and create sores that travel
all the way to my soul.
Walking though the fields, I bend and my back smarts
from the whip that has been brought down
one too many times upon the skin that seems not able
to protect what’s within.
I have been put here for nothing, forever running
towards a future I cannot see, blinded by noxious fumes
I cough, and out comes a mucus so thick that it chokes
the life that was put in these veins for a reason.
Further and further away I climb away, or towards
but the staircase never ends. Its supposed to.
I’m supposed to be at the top, but life doesn’t work
the way its supposed to.
Knowing I have to live has made life that much harder
Knowing I can’t just opt out, check a box and be free.
Knowing that climbing won’t do anything,
but that I have to climb, towards nothing
but those noxious fumes.
(12/6/08): The Air Near Me
Riverbeds aren’t rocky or round
And I like the sun better than any of the other things
that come from the sky. Together
or apart. The rain washes me over and over again.
The piano keys dwarf my fingers
They used to, anyway, when the sun would shine
through the window and land,
catching itself in the net of my hair, stuck.
The insects would land in my hair
too. But I acted like I didn’t notice so my body
could be near his when he reached over
and plucked them out, a smile in the corner of his mouth.
The rain and the leaves are coming
down together but one day I know they’ll come alone.
No longer sharing the same particles,
they will go their separate ways and not talk again.
The grass used to be lush green
but now I’m afraid to sit down on it for fear that I would
sit in one of the patches
and get the dress I had borrowed from my mother dirty.
Even so, I like the stars sometimes,
and I lie back with my hands behind my head, a pillow,
and look for the North Star
But I start to cry because I can’t find it; I don’t know where I am.
And I like the sun better than any of the other things
that come from the sky. Together
or apart. The rain washes me over and over again.
The piano keys dwarf my fingers
They used to, anyway, when the sun would shine
through the window and land,
catching itself in the net of my hair, stuck.
The insects would land in my hair
too. But I acted like I didn’t notice so my body
could be near his when he reached over
and plucked them out, a smile in the corner of his mouth.
The rain and the leaves are coming
down together but one day I know they’ll come alone.
No longer sharing the same particles,
they will go their separate ways and not talk again.
The grass used to be lush green
but now I’m afraid to sit down on it for fear that I would
sit in one of the patches
and get the dress I had borrowed from my mother dirty.
Even so, I like the stars sometimes,
and I lie back with my hands behind my head, a pillow,
and look for the North Star
But I start to cry because I can’t find it; I don’t know where I am.
SDLC/PoCC(11/5/08): I Know Where I’ve Been
I know where I’ve been.
It was a place where you could touch
The creamy clouds and sit with God.
A place where I was a live and well
I was infused with an energy
That was not my own; I was home.
I opened my mouth and took step
Not realizing that I had traveled
To a place where I had never been.
A place of effervescent light
Shimmering brightness, blinding.
But I can see clearer than ever before.
I don’t know where I’ve been
An ignorance shuts me off from the
World from which I am- the world
To which I’m supposed to belong.
My shadows are reaching, trying
To connect to theirs. And I’m trying-
I’m trying to understand my place,
And my life, my purpose, my being,
My spirit, my God, my reason, my passion,
Me.
But you can’t tell me where I’ve been,
Who I am, what I need. Not why I’m here,
Until I know, until I understand.
I understand, and you understand
That you can’t judge, and I can’t judge
And you don’t know me,
And I don’t know you.
But I can question.
I have the ability to ask, ponder.
Think, process. The ability to move on-
Move on from this time,
These unmoving breezes that aren’t
Bringing me- bringing us anywhere.
To move past the statues that
Block my path, choke my dreams,
Squeeze the life from these veins.
Yes, I can be free and you can’t
Tell me no. Because if I don’t believe,
It won’t be true.
It was a place where you could touch
The creamy clouds and sit with God.
A place where I was a live and well
I was infused with an energy
That was not my own; I was home.
I opened my mouth and took step
Not realizing that I had traveled
To a place where I had never been.
A place of effervescent light
Shimmering brightness, blinding.
But I can see clearer than ever before.
I don’t know where I’ve been
An ignorance shuts me off from the
World from which I am- the world
To which I’m supposed to belong.
My shadows are reaching, trying
To connect to theirs. And I’m trying-
I’m trying to understand my place,
And my life, my purpose, my being,
My spirit, my God, my reason, my passion,
Me.
But you can’t tell me where I’ve been,
Who I am, what I need. Not why I’m here,
Until I know, until I understand.
I understand, and you understand
That you can’t judge, and I can’t judge
And you don’t know me,
And I don’t know you.
But I can question.
I have the ability to ask, ponder.
Think, process. The ability to move on-
Move on from this time,
These unmoving breezes that aren’t
Bringing me- bringing us anywhere.
To move past the statues that
Block my path, choke my dreams,
Squeeze the life from these veins.
Yes, I can be free and you can’t
Tell me no. Because if I don’t believe,
It won’t be true.
Dawn Advanced Power: The Ultra Concentrated Kind
The soap didn’t want to go into the container.
It kept spilling over- the thick blue liquid
moving ever so slowly down the black surface.
I told her to take out the funnel- that worked-
but only for a little while, until it overflowed
again. She said it just wasn’t her day.
It kept spilling over- the thick blue liquid
moving ever so slowly down the black surface.
I told her to take out the funnel- that worked-
but only for a little while, until it overflowed
again. She said it just wasn’t her day.
(12/14/08): The Snooze Button
My shades are closed even though the light wants in
I like the dark. She of all people should know that.
Yet one morning she comes in my room and finds me
sitting in the dark, as always, but she has the audacity
to say, “You’re making your life miserable.”
Honestly, I’m better off than she’s been in a while.
I could tell her that, but I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut
when she’s making no sense. She doesn’t even know me.
I like the dark. She of all people should know that.
Yet one morning she comes in my room and finds me
sitting in the dark, as always, but she has the audacity
to say, “You’re making your life miserable.”
Honestly, I’m better off than she’s been in a while.
I could tell her that, but I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut
when she’s making no sense. She doesn’t even know me.
Visiting Donald- Arbour Hospital, 2008
The light wasn’t as harsh as I thought it would be
It came from one source in the almost square room
and didn’t reflect off of the pastel colored walls.
It should have been brighter, but maybe they were using it
as a calmant– something to help us understand why
Why he didn’t want to see us. Its not like the drive was long
But still. It would have been nice if we could have
seen his face. The nurse said he was “adamant”.
I guess she wasn’t lying because he never came out.
My grandma and my mom just sat there whispering
about some girl who was my age, and how people go crazy.
I didn’t say anything, just sat there wondering about the light.
It came from one source in the almost square room
and didn’t reflect off of the pastel colored walls.
It should have been brighter, but maybe they were using it
as a calmant– something to help us understand why
Why he didn’t want to see us. Its not like the drive was long
But still. It would have been nice if we could have
seen his face. The nurse said he was “adamant”.
I guess she wasn’t lying because he never came out.
My grandma and my mom just sat there whispering
about some girl who was my age, and how people go crazy.
I didn’t say anything, just sat there wondering about the light.
From the girl on the trolley you keep looking at:
Did you ever stop to think that I feel pain too?
That I notice the people who stare straight at me
and at the same time avoid my glance
when I enter the car of a train, because they
think I have some sort of disease that I could
pass on to their daughter. Or how those days
on the trolley pushing my stroller, not asking
for pity, or your money, or your eyes to bore
into my back, I walk past, a story untold.
But you think that you can tell my story
for me. Right? But that’s not the way things are.
Because if you looked at me before, you would
think that I was perfect, that I didn’t carry a stigma
in my stomach, the perfect little thing that made me
imperfect. That I was normal, just a teenager
going to school on a Tuesday morning, not to
Planned Parenthood for some sort of test
that would confirm what I already knew.
You would look at my face and have the impression
or just make yourself believe that the expression
there was one of frustration over school or something
not that tears were welling up because that morning
my mom had told me to get out of the house. Anyway,
who are you to judge? Because you’re no better than me
and I’m no better than you, so I guess we’re all the same
and I’m not gonna give your daughter some disease,
so could you please move over so I could take a seat?
That I notice the people who stare straight at me
and at the same time avoid my glance
when I enter the car of a train, because they
think I have some sort of disease that I could
pass on to their daughter. Or how those days
on the trolley pushing my stroller, not asking
for pity, or your money, or your eyes to bore
into my back, I walk past, a story untold.
But you think that you can tell my story
for me. Right? But that’s not the way things are.
Because if you looked at me before, you would
think that I was perfect, that I didn’t carry a stigma
in my stomach, the perfect little thing that made me
imperfect. That I was normal, just a teenager
going to school on a Tuesday morning, not to
Planned Parenthood for some sort of test
that would confirm what I already knew.
You would look at my face and have the impression
or just make yourself believe that the expression
there was one of frustration over school or something
not that tears were welling up because that morning
my mom had told me to get out of the house. Anyway,
who are you to judge? Because you’re no better than me
and I’m no better than you, so I guess we’re all the same
and I’m not gonna give your daughter some disease,
so could you please move over so I could take a seat?
Braided Free Write (10/27/08):I Miss You More Than I Thought I Did
Gladness struggles to survive
in this world that no longer
welcomes it at family reunions
and birthday parties.
Resentment is invited instead.
Family conversations made me glad,
but that was a long time ago, before
the mess and the yelling and the screaming
that now we can’t talk without.
It was back when sweet chicks
never spoke bad about anyone,
when they never said mean things
or swore. But now people just say
good girls are bad girls that don’t
get caught. I guess.
When the light begins to show
only in the corners, the sky is
a fading needlepoint of stars,
a tapestry that gets taken away
every morning so we can learn
to appreciate it before the next.
I doubt anyone pays attention
to it anymore though.
They made me glad back when
the man in the yellow hat
used to be my friend.
We used to chat it up
early in the mornings
when he would be on TV.
But then he left. Or I
left. One of us left
the other one and I
have the feeling that
it was me. I would.
Because I stopped wearing
barrettes and ribbons in my hair
and I no longer found a friend
in him or his little monkey
(even though I sneak sometimes).
in this world that no longer
welcomes it at family reunions
and birthday parties.
Resentment is invited instead.
Family conversations made me glad,
but that was a long time ago, before
the mess and the yelling and the screaming
that now we can’t talk without.
It was back when sweet chicks
never spoke bad about anyone,
when they never said mean things
or swore. But now people just say
good girls are bad girls that don’t
get caught. I guess.
When the light begins to show
only in the corners, the sky is
a fading needlepoint of stars,
a tapestry that gets taken away
every morning so we can learn
to appreciate it before the next.
I doubt anyone pays attention
to it anymore though.
They made me glad back when
the man in the yellow hat
used to be my friend.
We used to chat it up
early in the mornings
when he would be on TV.
But then he left. Or I
left. One of us left
the other one and I
have the feeling that
it was me. I would.
Because I stopped wearing
barrettes and ribbons in my hair
and I no longer found a friend
in him or his little monkey
(even though I sneak sometimes).
Blurb on the nation (10/23/08):State of the Nation
we are only as much as we put into
the melting pot they say this country is
mixing, bubbling over, until it overflows
and those that are out never get back in
to the race that life has become
to the house and the car and the 2.5 kids.
there is more out there than what we can see
but we shut it out like a hose being strangled
and shut by a hand that knows its own strength.
no more do we expect them to care for us
because we won’t care for them, so why does
any one care about anyone else anymore?
aren’t those days over when we could lean
on our neighbor becuase he would help carry
the sorrows that were given to us by the same
ones who act like they will help you.
when they won’t.
and they make you believe that everything
is going to be alright and you tell your family
and they tell their friends, and soon the world
is believing a lie that didn’t even start out as truth.
so what have we been reduced to? The haze
must lift before you will see, see clearly,
not what you see now which are the lies fed
to you from birth, but instead what your heart
knows is real, and finally, when the veil is lifted
and we can see clearly because the rain is gone
we will say that we are proud of our country.
the melting pot they say this country is
mixing, bubbling over, until it overflows
and those that are out never get back in
to the race that life has become
to the house and the car and the 2.5 kids.
there is more out there than what we can see
but we shut it out like a hose being strangled
and shut by a hand that knows its own strength.
no more do we expect them to care for us
because we won’t care for them, so why does
any one care about anyone else anymore?
aren’t those days over when we could lean
on our neighbor becuase he would help carry
the sorrows that were given to us by the same
ones who act like they will help you.
when they won’t.
and they make you believe that everything
is going to be alright and you tell your family
and they tell their friends, and soon the world
is believing a lie that didn’t even start out as truth.
so what have we been reduced to? The haze
must lift before you will see, see clearly,
not what you see now which are the lies fed
to you from birth, but instead what your heart
knows is real, and finally, when the veil is lifted
and we can see clearly because the rain is gone
we will say that we are proud of our country.
Just Write poem (10/10/08): “At The Playground Next To Azia’s House”
Beyond the cobalt blue shells with metallic underbellies
and the mirror that reflects someone you aren’t anymore
is the rain, and the colors that come with it:
spelling promise out for the illiterate of the bunch.
No longer do I bend over to pick up the sea glass
or the bottle caps, or even the smooth stones,
because I have found the promise elsewhere:
in that rainbow I saw the other day when I found
myself staring blankly out of the bus window.
and the mirror that reflects someone you aren’t anymore
is the rain, and the colors that come with it:
spelling promise out for the illiterate of the bunch.
No longer do I bend over to pick up the sea glass
or the bottle caps, or even the smooth stones,
because I have found the promise elsewhere:
in that rainbow I saw the other day when I found
myself staring blankly out of the bus window.
I remember poem(10/7/08): “I’m pretty sure”
nothing out of the ordinary happened
for the first part of the day. I think.
Its a blur really, morning. Until
somewhere around early afternoon
when I spotted a foot, a really small
foot disappear behind the front door.
Instinct made me run, reach, and grab.
for the first part of the day. I think.
Its a blur really, morning. Until
somewhere around early afternoon
when I spotted a foot, a really small
foot disappear behind the front door.
Instinct made me run, reach, and grab.
From Photo(10/7/08): “Fleeting Foot”
I’ve only just turned the corner
from one white wall to another
but shadows bend for me to pass.
Not caring, a table gets in my way.
Its bigger than normal and has
more than the standard four legs.
Even though, I skirt around it like
it was never there to begin with.
from one white wall to another
but shadows bend for me to pass.
Not caring, a table gets in my way.
Its bigger than normal and has
more than the standard four legs.
Even though, I skirt around it like
it was never there to begin with.
From Photo(10/6/08): “Geese Tracks”
It only becomes a wild goose chase
if someone else is chasing you.
But if your shadows are the ones
chasing—what is it called then?
if someone else is chasing you.
But if your shadows are the ones
chasing—what is it called then?
Political Poem (10/3/08): “Wind erases all,”
It wasn't a political poem to begin with.... but then wayyyy too many people thought it was. So I changed it...
Makes everything new. Still
not precise, exact, or perfect,
but the birds keep flying towards
a perfection that can never be reached.
They are tossed around by the strong gusts
Their wings pulled back, past feeling, past thought
Their wails are lost in the wind
Words are drowned out as though they were never said.
Their leader does not care for what they feel
For the wind has not cleared his head
of the noxious fumes.
Nor has it fixed his morals.
They are aware of better days,
Or at least that is what they hope.
No longer do they care about today,
Rather, they focus on tomorrow.
The peace that had once been found on earth
Has gone away, carried
on the doting back of the wind.
It carries more than it knows.
Not only their screeching,
their shouts and their wails
But mine as well,
Losing the fight, wanting peace.
Makes everything new. Still
not precise, exact, or perfect,
but the birds keep flying towards
a perfection that can never be reached.
They are tossed around by the strong gusts
Their wings pulled back, past feeling, past thought
Their wails are lost in the wind
Words are drowned out as though they were never said.
Their leader does not care for what they feel
For the wind has not cleared his head
of the noxious fumes.
Nor has it fixed his morals.
They are aware of better days,
Or at least that is what they hope.
No longer do they care about today,
Rather, they focus on tomorrow.
The peace that had once been found on earth
Has gone away, carried
on the doting back of the wind.
It carries more than it knows.
Not only their screeching,
their shouts and their wails
But mine as well,
Losing the fight, wanting peace.
Story From a Photo: Normal
In my poetry class we did this exercise where we clip a picture from a magazine and write a story about it. This is what came out of it...
I loved her, I know I did, but sometimes I wanted to kill her. Just put her out of her suffering. Maybe what I did was a little selfish, because after a while I got fed up with taking care of her or something, but what else could I do? So, when the opportunity presented itself, I already knew what I was going to do.
-----
I was born with spina bifida, a condition where your spine grows outside of your body. People told me that when I was born, my mom almost gave me away, but she didn’t because she was “raised better than that”. So, she kept me.
-----
I knew I could have gotten rid of her from the start. But I didn’t want to bring shame to my family for giving her up as a baby. So, under the watch of my husband and my mother, I cared for that baby like as was my little angel. But she wasn’t, and I think she finally figured out she would never be. She was more like a curse.
-----
I always had a better relationship with my father. He was the one who took me out to the park to play and stuff, and helped me along when I couldn’t do things on my own. He was patient with me, unlike my mom. It was different with her. In front of everyone, she would act all cuddly and warm, but once behind closed doors she would release all her anger towards me, yanking me out of my wheelchair and throwing me to the floor, sometimes leaving me there for hours until right before my father came home. And that wasn’t even the worst.
My mother’s presence had a tendency to quiet me immediately into a nobody, a no name who for some reason was living under the sam roof as her. I had always been terrified of my mother, but soon her abusive rage became the “norm”. So I understood perfectly why I wasn’t surprised the day I didn’t wake up.
-----
I loved her, I know I did, but sometimes I wanted to kill her. Just put her out of her suffering. Maybe what I did was a little selfish, because after a while I got fed up with taking care of her or something, but what else could I do? So, when the opportunity presented itself, I already knew what I was going to do.
-----
I was born with spina bifida, a condition where your spine grows outside of your body. People told me that when I was born, my mom almost gave me away, but she didn’t because she was “raised better than that”. So, she kept me.
-----
I knew I could have gotten rid of her from the start. But I didn’t want to bring shame to my family for giving her up as a baby. So, under the watch of my husband and my mother, I cared for that baby like as was my little angel. But she wasn’t, and I think she finally figured out she would never be. She was more like a curse.
-----
I always had a better relationship with my father. He was the one who took me out to the park to play and stuff, and helped me along when I couldn’t do things on my own. He was patient with me, unlike my mom. It was different with her. In front of everyone, she would act all cuddly and warm, but once behind closed doors she would release all her anger towards me, yanking me out of my wheelchair and throwing me to the floor, sometimes leaving me there for hours until right before my father came home. And that wasn’t even the worst.
My mother’s presence had a tendency to quiet me immediately into a nobody, a no name who for some reason was living under the sam roof as her. I had always been terrified of my mother, but soon her abusive rage became the “norm”. So I understood perfectly why I wasn’t surprised the day I didn’t wake up.
-----
Haiku(9/8/08): “In My Room At Nightfall”
lets start with a haiku...
My heavy head rests
no longer bearing its weight.
Now, the pillow will.
My heavy head rests
no longer bearing its weight.
Now, the pillow will.
writing
As for writing... I write all the time. Random places, the bus, home, the kitchen, bookstores, the train, in the car, doctor's office, little cafes... everywhere. And honestly, that's the way it should be.
While most of my early posts are poetry, I am not just a poet. I have written non-fiction, fiction, and also write music. I also act, sing & am a visual artist (preferred media: pencil & collage.)
sooo... enough about me (i'll probably add more later)... and onto the writing :)
happy writing :)
While most of my early posts are poetry, I am not just a poet. I have written non-fiction, fiction, and also write music. I also act, sing & am a visual artist (preferred media: pencil & collage.)
sooo... enough about me (i'll probably add more later)... and onto the writing :)
happy writing :)
hi :)
I recently became interesting in blogging, when we had to start a blog for my poetry class. Since then, I have decided to move all of my posts from my last blog (edublogs.com) here to blogspot. So all these posts did not just materialize :P They were well thought out... they've just been transplanted.
As for the name (no pun intended)... I love stars. i have this weird obsession with them. this obsession is moving slowly to numbers, but as for now, it's still on stars.
My name is Elizabeth, but my family and close family friends call me Lily
hence stars&lilies.
happy writing :)
As for the name (no pun intended)... I love stars. i have this weird obsession with them. this obsession is moving slowly to numbers, but as for now, it's still on stars.
My name is Elizabeth, but my family and close family friends call me Lily
hence stars&lilies.
happy writing :)
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