His body has failed him.
Shut down
around a mind that is still
yearning to express,
to experience –
His body has -- failed
him.
And I stand here
trying to find words to
rattle off about my day
so that I can fill the -- stilted
silence,
while he is trying
struggling
to -- communicate --
through the tangle of failed nerve synapses
or whatever it is
that has -- so cruelly --
imprisoned him –
He is trying to speak to me
and I know the words he is trying to speak
are words
of interest, words of
love --
and I cannot,
I can not
handle it.
But I cannot
not handle
it -
so I stay awhile
wanting to
but -- unable
to cry.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Makes You Feel Right At Home
Part 1
I sit on
moss covered rocks
watching
as the water
flows by
dead trees
laying perfectly still
on the shore
waves
crashing
on the rocks
the sun setting
over the water
I wait
for the next day
Part 2
I stand
at the helm
of a sail boat
sailing along the coast
of Vancouver Island, Canada
the water
being so great
I am one
with the boat and the water
gliding through it
effortlessly
powered by the wind
in the deep blue sea
going towards
our next destination
at the end
of the day
we go into port
and I say
I miss you open sea
I miss you all powerful wind
but all I can do is
wait for the next day
Part 3
In the morning
the inside of
the boat
makes you feel right at home,
get out of bed
move to the tiny kitchen
and cook
eggs and bacon
for the family
and then
head out
to the deep blue sea
going to San Juan Island
to take a plane ride
to Seattle
Part 4
In Seattle
I sit back down
on a moss covered rock
watching the water
waiting,
just waiting
for the next time
I can go back
out to the deep blue sea
-Burns Duncan
I sit on
moss covered rocks
watching
as the water
flows by
dead trees
laying perfectly still
on the shore
waves
crashing
on the rocks
the sun setting
over the water
I wait
for the next day
Part 2
I stand
at the helm
of a sail boat
sailing along the coast
of Vancouver Island, Canada
the water
being so great
I am one
with the boat and the water
gliding through it
effortlessly
powered by the wind
in the deep blue sea
going towards
our next destination
at the end
of the day
we go into port
and I say
I miss you open sea
I miss you all powerful wind
but all I can do is
wait for the next day
Part 3
In the morning
the inside of
the boat
makes you feel right at home,
get out of bed
move to the tiny kitchen
and cook
eggs and bacon
for the family
and then
head out
to the deep blue sea
going to San Juan Island
to take a plane ride
to Seattle
Part 4
In Seattle
I sit back down
on a moss covered rock
watching the water
waiting,
just waiting
for the next time
I can go back
out to the deep blue sea
-Burns Duncan
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Mottled Brown Vase
The mottled brown vase
lies in shattered
mayhem
while the grey concrete bleeds
its distaste.
It turns up its nose
with a sniff
at the audicity
of it all -
says:
“I told you so.”
For that mottled brown vase
had decided
it must experience
flight.
-Siri Hammond
(I dropped one of my parents' wedding presents on the ground at Beasley Coliseum last fall. Whoops.)
lies in shattered
mayhem
while the grey concrete bleeds
its distaste.
It turns up its nose
with a sniff
at the audicity
of it all -
says:
“I told you so.”
For that mottled brown vase
had decided
it must experience
flight.
-Siri Hammond
(I dropped one of my parents' wedding presents on the ground at Beasley Coliseum last fall. Whoops.)
The Mirror's martyr.
Today,
she spends roughly twelve-and-a-half minutes in front of the Mirror,
a typical morning.
She tries on three or four outfits,
each discarded in turn,
having failed
inspection,
to land in a pile in the bathtub,
a pile from which one sorry winner
is eventually retrieved,
accompanied by a sigh of concession.
She has admitted defeat.
Today, her clothes will not be perfect.
Another five or so minutes she spends
veiling her skin
with paints and pigments,
hiding each tiny flaw,
trying
in hopeless concentration
to emphasize those features she wishes
were larger,
more seductive,
more intriguing –
But long curling lashes, it seems, are in nature reserved for boys.
It isn’t fair.
Still, with reddened cheeks and heavy eyes,
having wielded a pair
of potentially lethal curling tongs
in a hurried attempt
to exercise some fleeting control over her hair –
she rushes out the door.
She is late to choir again –
She is late.
What else in life has she arrived late for,
misssed out on,
all because of these
“necessary”
moments spent in pas de deux
with the Mirror,
split-second glances that turn into minutes,
becoming hours –
glances that sacrifice time
that sacrifice love,
even, in this martyrdom
for Beauty?
And to what avail is it,
when at the end of the day,
her careful mask has faded,
smudged -
and she looks tired,
not immaculate, composed
not glowing –
to what avail can it be?
All this she wonders,
but cannot answer,
still.
So more precious hours she will
despense
in contemplation
towards thinner waist
and brighter smile
and sweeter expression,
all this to mask
the pain
of
knowing
that she is neither pure
nor
perfect.
-Siri Hammond
she spends roughly twelve-and-a-half minutes in front of the Mirror,
a typical morning.
She tries on three or four outfits,
each discarded in turn,
having failed
inspection,
to land in a pile in the bathtub,
a pile from which one sorry winner
is eventually retrieved,
accompanied by a sigh of concession.
She has admitted defeat.
Today, her clothes will not be perfect.
Another five or so minutes she spends
veiling her skin
with paints and pigments,
hiding each tiny flaw,
trying
in hopeless concentration
to emphasize those features she wishes
were larger,
more seductive,
more intriguing –
But long curling lashes, it seems, are in nature reserved for boys.
It isn’t fair.
Still, with reddened cheeks and heavy eyes,
having wielded a pair
of potentially lethal curling tongs
in a hurried attempt
to exercise some fleeting control over her hair –
she rushes out the door.
She is late to choir again –
She is late.
What else in life has she arrived late for,
misssed out on,
all because of these
“necessary”
moments spent in pas de deux
with the Mirror,
split-second glances that turn into minutes,
becoming hours –
glances that sacrifice time
that sacrifice love,
even, in this martyrdom
for Beauty?
And to what avail is it,
when at the end of the day,
her careful mask has faded,
smudged -
and she looks tired,
not immaculate, composed
not glowing –
to what avail can it be?
All this she wonders,
but cannot answer,
still.
So more precious hours she will
despense
in contemplation
towards thinner waist
and brighter smile
and sweeter expression,
all this to mask
the pain
of
knowing
that she is neither pure
nor
perfect.
-Siri Hammond
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Chessmen
The men line up
In rows for battle
Staring across
At the opposition
Anticipating
The next move
Taken aback
Strategy takes a role
Within the
Mastermind's scheme
Recruits fall dead
While royalty
Still stands
One move
Decides fate
Of the war
It is over
A race is
Extinguished
While another
Reigns
A king
Stands tall
With his
Remaining people
While a king
Meets his end
-Jeff Harris
In rows for battle
Staring across
At the opposition
Anticipating
The next move
Taken aback
Strategy takes a role
Within the
Mastermind's scheme
Recruits fall dead
While royalty
Still stands
One move
Decides fate
Of the war
It is over
A race is
Extinguished
While another
Reigns
A king
Stands tall
With his
Remaining people
While a king
Meets his end
-Jeff Harris
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Runoff-Lisette
From the pipe flows
Runoff
Mostly clean now
Making bubbles
Washing away the old bridge
The old growth
The old pains.
It calms
As the bubbling subsides to the serene pools
a Styrofoam peanut escapes
New growth is peeping through
Water
Rocks
Dead reeds
Moving on
Leaving way
For new life
Runoff
Mostly clean now
Making bubbles
Washing away the old bridge
The old growth
The old pains.
It calms
As the bubbling subsides to the serene pools
a Styrofoam peanut escapes
New growth is peeping through
Water
Rocks
Dead reeds
Moving on
Leaving way
For new life
Monday, February 23, 2009
A New World
A small page rests on the still table
Crinkled and slightly worn.
Aging with a yellow tint, becoming feeble
Concealing its original content, which from the author, was born
I read the flowing words with interest
A picture is vividly formed and shaped in my mind
I feel as if I can see everything described within the page
My old memories and the story together they bind
At the puns and happiness I grin
Feeling myself becoming so engaged
Experiencing animosity for the character, which is a pest.
As I finish reading, I slowly return to my life
Trying to store the experience away in my brain
Attempting to remember smaller experiences I strife
As graphic elements touch me, and with the outcome I strain
And I ponder the story at random moments
I recall the story years later and I struggle to retell the experience
Remembering the unimportant details
Filling in the gaps with other memories, which make sense
And at some instances my memory flails
But, I'm glad I read it and my wasted time I do not lament.
-Jeff Harris
Crinkled and slightly worn.
Aging with a yellow tint, becoming feeble
Concealing its original content, which from the author, was born
I read the flowing words with interest
A picture is vividly formed and shaped in my mind
I feel as if I can see everything described within the page
My old memories and the story together they bind
At the puns and happiness I grin
Feeling myself becoming so engaged
Experiencing animosity for the character, which is a pest.
As I finish reading, I slowly return to my life
Trying to store the experience away in my brain
Attempting to remember smaller experiences I strife
As graphic elements touch me, and with the outcome I strain
And I ponder the story at random moments
I recall the story years later and I struggle to retell the experience
Remembering the unimportant details
Filling in the gaps with other memories, which make sense
And at some instances my memory flails
But, I'm glad I read it and my wasted time I do not lament.
-Jeff Harris
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Our Movment
Being in touch
Grounded well rounded
Running up the walls Much
Tic tac scratch sounded
Flowing through the scene
Grounded well rounded
Flying through the air rolling on green
Launch to a vault tagging both hands
Flowing through the scene
Slowing to balance across the high bands
Scrapping pavement to speed
Launching to vault tagging both hands
Sprinting jump, dash, to lead
Creating suspicion
Scraping pavement to speed
Movement with description
Being in touch
Creating suspicion
Running up the walls much.
Loren C.
Grounded well rounded
Running up the walls Much
Tic tac scratch sounded
Flowing through the scene
Grounded well rounded
Flying through the air rolling on green
Launch to a vault tagging both hands
Flowing through the scene
Slowing to balance across the high bands
Scrapping pavement to speed
Launching to vault tagging both hands
Sprinting jump, dash, to lead
Creating suspicion
Scraping pavement to speed
Movement with description
Being in touch
Creating suspicion
Running up the walls much.
Loren C.
L
The beauty is every where, much of a cure
beauty like lines on a canvas art
every curve freckle and dimple so pure
lashes like lines leading to the heart
I instill the features, the hook at the edge of her mouth
feeling like the streaked lines of rain
following boarders and edges north and south
pounding not like butterflies but war drums to the silent vein
the warm morning light casts soft shadows
eyes like stain glass windows with movement
apparent movement but much to clouded to see in
Im outside like a need with held, never spent
Every look and expression so troubled but clean
to hold and comfort is like a warm winters dream.
Loren C.
beauty like lines on a canvas art
every curve freckle and dimple so pure
lashes like lines leading to the heart
I instill the features, the hook at the edge of her mouth
feeling like the streaked lines of rain
following boarders and edges north and south
pounding not like butterflies but war drums to the silent vein
the warm morning light casts soft shadows
eyes like stain glass windows with movement
apparent movement but much to clouded to see in
Im outside like a need with held, never spent
Every look and expression so troubled but clean
to hold and comfort is like a warm winters dream.
Loren C.
With In
The lion is pounding at my door
his main wisping in the violent wind
the violent cat eats all in store
killing and slaughtering helpless kin
the blood of the family runs dry
mixed with the mud and mangled fur
the enormous lion turns to cry
sitting in the majestic plains under the stars lure
the rolling winds sweep the gold of the grass
tuffing rugged lines across his spine
the creature bolts to flee the night and pass
running as the wind in an untouched line
he sets with what little was left of the sun
because he knows this lion will always be on the run.
Loren C.
his main wisping in the violent wind
the violent cat eats all in store
killing and slaughtering helpless kin
the blood of the family runs dry
mixed with the mud and mangled fur
the enormous lion turns to cry
sitting in the majestic plains under the stars lure
the rolling winds sweep the gold of the grass
tuffing rugged lines across his spine
the creature bolts to flee the night and pass
running as the wind in an untouched line
he sets with what little was left of the sun
because he knows this lion will always be on the run.
Loren C.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Tiny Imperfections
Warped from the weight of paint, and hands, and plaster
colors, vibrant, swim across its length:
an ocean sunset
an arc of flame
a tired, twilight storm.
And here--the end is tightly wrapped in bandages of glue
cracked and faded, so the paint shines through.
Who can say how many others have held this,
how many walls came alive when hands, laughing,
pushed this slender stick aside to drown their brush
in these hazy, shining, creamy hues?
And who knows how many masks, façades, first breathed
with this plaster coating their lungs, caking their cheeks?
Perhaps these tiny imperfections--
bubbles on the surface--
are a fingerprint.
Perhaps my hands are echoing another's,
retracing their steps.
Like stars, I see the afterimages
(preserved in paint, and hands, and plaster)
of life in this room, and on this stage;
the colors have come from somewhere.
-Madeline S.
(The imagery assignment. Based on the stir stick that inhabits the lower shelf of the DVD cart.)
colors, vibrant, swim across its length:
an ocean sunset
an arc of flame
a tired, twilight storm.
And here--the end is tightly wrapped in bandages of glue
cracked and faded, so the paint shines through.
Who can say how many others have held this,
how many walls came alive when hands, laughing,
pushed this slender stick aside to drown their brush
in these hazy, shining, creamy hues?
And who knows how many masks, façades, first breathed
with this plaster coating their lungs, caking their cheeks?
Perhaps these tiny imperfections--
bubbles on the surface--
are a fingerprint.
Perhaps my hands are echoing another's,
retracing their steps.
Like stars, I see the afterimages
(preserved in paint, and hands, and plaster)
of life in this room, and on this stage;
the colors have come from somewhere.
-Madeline S.
(The imagery assignment. Based on the stir stick that inhabits the lower shelf of the DVD cart.)
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
He lies there silently, alone on the desk
Ever ready to awake, yet content to stay at rest
His eyes lay shut gently,
not closed tight for protection,
just enough that he can sleep
Grout and sediments collect
at the corners of his eyes
from years without opening
But he looks unbothered
by the grey pools of muck
covering his face
He has no ears on the sides
where they should be
But this does not make him unhuman,
He simply does not need them
On his right cheek
a pool of flesh color
seems to flow from bottom to top
as if he is slowly coming back to life
And so we wait,
but still he lays silently,
alone on the desk
~Brad C
Ever ready to awake, yet content to stay at rest
His eyes lay shut gently,
not closed tight for protection,
just enough that he can sleep
Grout and sediments collect
at the corners of his eyes
from years without opening
But he looks unbothered
by the grey pools of muck
covering his face
He has no ears on the sides
where they should be
But this does not make him unhuman,
He simply does not need them
On his right cheek
a pool of flesh color
seems to flow from bottom to top
as if he is slowly coming back to life
And so we wait,
but still he lays silently,
alone on the desk
~Brad C
A Terzanelle for You
I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear
This is what I meant to say
There’s someone who will love you dear
You’ve done wrong but it’s ok
So have I but now I’m new
This is what I meant to say
The perfect ones they are not few
They don’t exist we’ve all done wrong
So have I but now I’m new
Now I’m new I’ll sing a song
Unlike the perfect ones
They don’t exist we’ve all done wrong
Which father would send their son
With a message to save your soul
Unlike the perfect ones
There’s one who will make you full
I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear
With a message to save your soul
There’s someone who will love you dear
Beth Van Wie
This is what I meant to say
There’s someone who will love you dear
You’ve done wrong but it’s ok
So have I but now I’m new
This is what I meant to say
The perfect ones they are not few
They don’t exist we’ve all done wrong
So have I but now I’m new
Now I’m new I’ll sing a song
Unlike the perfect ones
They don’t exist we’ve all done wrong
Which father would send their son
With a message to save your soul
Unlike the perfect ones
There’s one who will make you full
I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear
With a message to save your soul
There’s someone who will love you dear
Beth Van Wie
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Two-Face
Putting on the mask, I gain a different face
Exploring the world through new perceptions.
Developing my character at an unfamiliar pace
Original personality hiding within my concentration
Buried beneath the new emotions.
My pink rosy cheeks transform a palish gray,
Wrinkles now visible under my eyes,
The soft wind causes my frail mustache to sway,
But my ancient appearance seems wise
and my fragile image is expressed through my motions
Taking off the mask, I reveal my former self,
Free from my imitation of another personality,
Regaining the appearances of my former self.
Again feeling young and mighty,
but forgetting who I originally was momentarily.
Later I become stressed and put the mask back on,
Releasing me from my own prison,
Wishing to avoid my problems for eons.
Realizing stress is inevitable again my old self is reawakened,
But I discover this transition can be used effectively.
-Jeff Harris
Exploring the world through new perceptions.
Developing my character at an unfamiliar pace
Original personality hiding within my concentration
Buried beneath the new emotions.
My pink rosy cheeks transform a palish gray,
Wrinkles now visible under my eyes,
The soft wind causes my frail mustache to sway,
But my ancient appearance seems wise
and my fragile image is expressed through my motions
Taking off the mask, I reveal my former self,
Free from my imitation of another personality,
Regaining the appearances of my former self.
Again feeling young and mighty,
but forgetting who I originally was momentarily.
Later I become stressed and put the mask back on,
Releasing me from my own prison,
Wishing to avoid my problems for eons.
Realizing stress is inevitable again my old self is reawakened,
But I discover this transition can be used effectively.
-Jeff Harris
The Value of Texting
In explanation:
Ethan and Clara
began to text each other
their observations.
Chronological
is the order of these texts,
as conversation.
That foul knave Ethan
is in dark oppressive bold;
Clara is normal.
A harsh wind blows now
out the mouth of that new one;
she drinks tea quietly.
Alex talks to him,
her laughter ringing throughout
she ignores her turn.
Kate sings Creole songs
and texts poetic gay boys
in man withdrawal.
Michael sings of plants,
while now strutting to and fro
his eyes a glad smile
Like Corinthian,
behind those nice smiling eyes
are savage dentures.
The young girl giggles,
clinging to dyslexia;
silly, silly child.
A harsh woman laughs
to herself, always alone
this is all that's left
Unfortunately,
with regret and aloofness,
I don't understand.
She knows the real truth
in-between the tears and chips
she will find her fate
Lonely nights, cheap beer,
inevitable failure;
I accept my fate.
Her fate is not that;
a life of base servitude
she's never fulfilled
At least she shall not
lose tenure at Uck Irvine
whilst feeding four kids.
Anyway, the Neffs
enjoy us here, but we should
leave 'round eleven
The revenant walks
along the road, scythe in hand -
its swift pace quickens.
Sweaty men on field
throwing odd discs back and forth
their plight is my joy
Eggplantosaurus,
possessed by iv'ry and brass,
plays that jazzy Duke.
My Latin textbook
is battered, and somewhat wet
because of a puddle
Alas, alack, sir!
Try sep'rating the pages
with paper towels?
With a girlish squeal,
The Irishman doth approve
of our small shortcakes.
Coquettish Chloe
smiling at us hideously
her mouth a rictus
Clara composing
counting words on her fingers
clearly enjoying it
You compose haikus
except then sometimes you don't
which is annoying.
Ethan and Clara
began to text each other
their observations.
Chronological
is the order of these texts,
as conversation.
That foul knave Ethan
is in dark oppressive bold;
Clara is normal.
A harsh wind blows now
out the mouth of that new one;
she drinks tea quietly.
Alex talks to him,
her laughter ringing throughout
she ignores her turn.
Kate sings Creole songs
and texts poetic gay boys
in man withdrawal.
Michael sings of plants,
while now strutting to and fro
his eyes a glad smile
Like Corinthian,
behind those nice smiling eyes
are savage dentures.
The young girl giggles,
clinging to dyslexia;
silly, silly child.
A harsh woman laughs
to herself, always alone
this is all that's left
Unfortunately,
with regret and aloofness,
I don't understand.
She knows the real truth
in-between the tears and chips
she will find her fate
Lonely nights, cheap beer,
inevitable failure;
I accept my fate.
Her fate is not that;
a life of base servitude
she's never fulfilled
At least she shall not
lose tenure at Uck Irvine
whilst feeding four kids.
Anyway, the Neffs
enjoy us here, but we should
leave 'round eleven
The revenant walks
along the road, scythe in hand -
its swift pace quickens.
Sweaty men on field
throwing odd discs back and forth
their plight is my joy
Eggplantosaurus,
possessed by iv'ry and brass,
plays that jazzy Duke.
My Latin textbook
is battered, and somewhat wet
because of a puddle
Alas, alack, sir!
Try sep'rating the pages
with paper towels?
With a girlish squeal,
The Irishman doth approve
of our small shortcakes.
Coquettish Chloe
smiling at us hideously
her mouth a rictus
Clara composing
counting words on her fingers
clearly enjoying it
You compose haikus
except then sometimes you don't
which is annoying.
A Man Of High Class
Me, a man of royalty
I have facial hair
I have fur
I have a pretty plaid cape
Having gold pieces is great
I have peasants
Pointing my finger
To give directions
They say “yes sir”
My people are starving like baby chickens
I am not
My feasts are grand
Wild pigs with an apple in the mouth
Fruit piled high like the great pyramids
My belly is full
After supper
I retire for the evening
My bed is grand
My pillows are soft
And I fall asleep fast
- Burns Duncan
I have facial hair
I have fur
I have a pretty plaid cape
Having gold pieces is great
I have peasants
Pointing my finger
To give directions
They say “yes sir”
My people are starving like baby chickens
I am not
My feasts are grand
Wild pigs with an apple in the mouth
Fruit piled high like the great pyramids
My belly is full
After supper
I retire for the evening
My bed is grand
My pillows are soft
And I fall asleep fast
- Burns Duncan
Common Classroom Clock
In a world obsessed with color,
What appeal can be found
In a faded parchment-colored circle,
With black lines and curves, just one
Streak of color - red?
In an age fixated on progression,
Why do three hands,
Who only move in circles,
Again, again, again, same pace,
So often catch the attention of students?
In a generation focused on uniqueness,
What is special about each circle,
Found in nearly every room, everywhere,
With even marks around the edges,
And a diversion only from three uneven lines?
Perhaps it is the human nature,
A love of the known, of constants,
That draws eyes to black-and-white,
Moving in circles, so we always know
Just what comes up next.
~Harshini Jayaram
What appeal can be found
In a faded parchment-colored circle,
With black lines and curves, just one
Streak of color - red?
In an age fixated on progression,
Why do three hands,
Who only move in circles,
Again, again, again, same pace,
So often catch the attention of students?
In a generation focused on uniqueness,
What is special about each circle,
Found in nearly every room, everywhere,
With even marks around the edges,
And a diversion only from three uneven lines?
Perhaps it is the human nature,
A love of the known, of constants,
That draws eyes to black-and-white,
Moving in circles, so we always know
Just what comes up next.
~Harshini Jayaram
Saturday, February 14, 2009
A Techie's View of a Scale Model of the Stage
Short, profuse grey stubble –
television snow, static –
marks the parts that are not,
as if all that goes beyond
this floor, so thoroughly
trodden upon – all that
comes after this scene,
this act,
simply
drops
off.
End programming. Cue
the national anthem.
But
we are young
elitist liberals who say
things like,
“constructing a false proscenium”
and
we strut about our false world,
reveling.
How tiny each reveler
if built to scale.
A quarter of an inch for every foot.
Two wings, one on either side,
too small to lift us away,
No curtain
to protect us, hide us.
But
I know this space,
have known it from twenty feet
(five inches)
above,
from the tool crib
(tools replaced by some sort of stale bread crumb?),
from scraping my knees
on the floor, from getting paint on my pants
(though no artist am I),
and,
of course,
from the drop-off,
from the static,
from the reverb,
from the darkness.
-Clara Walton
television snow, static –
marks the parts that are not,
as if all that goes beyond
this floor, so thoroughly
trodden upon – all that
comes after this scene,
this act,
simply
drops
off.
End programming. Cue
the national anthem.
But
we are young
elitist liberals who say
things like,
“constructing a false proscenium”
and
we strut about our false world,
reveling.
How tiny each reveler
if built to scale.
A quarter of an inch for every foot.
Two wings, one on either side,
too small to lift us away,
No curtain
to protect us, hide us.
But
I know this space,
have known it from twenty feet
(five inches)
above,
from the tool crib
(tools replaced by some sort of stale bread crumb?),
from scraping my knees
on the floor, from getting paint on my pants
(though no artist am I),
and,
of course,
from the drop-off,
from the static,
from the reverb,
from the darkness.
-Clara Walton
These Things
I've never really trusted you.
From the start I've seemed to know
I'm never sure your words are true.
Since I with smiling, pleading eyes renew
My pleas; and yet no kindness you bestow,
I've never really trusted you.
Since you with easy, empty sighs construe
My fears as meaningless, I nod, although
I'm never sure your words are true.
From time to time I would your glance imbue
With qualities that then seemed apropos, but
I've never really trusted you.
And if your time would somehow fears subdue,
Would cause some gaudy reprieve from my woe,
I'm never sure your words are true.
But this when I by dying light review,
I find no reason in my mind to know
I've never really trusted you,
I'm never sure your words are true.
From the start I've seemed to know
I'm never sure your words are true.
Since I with smiling, pleading eyes renew
My pleas; and yet no kindness you bestow,
I've never really trusted you.
Since you with easy, empty sighs construe
My fears as meaningless, I nod, although
I'm never sure your words are true.
From time to time I would your glance imbue
With qualities that then seemed apropos, but
I've never really trusted you.
And if your time would somehow fears subdue,
Would cause some gaudy reprieve from my woe,
I'm never sure your words are true.
But this when I by dying light review,
I find no reason in my mind to know
I've never really trusted you,
I'm never sure your words are true.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Beach Combing
The rumble of distant yells
Knocks her world off its stand.
Rolling towards the floor –
It’s going to smash, it’s too fragile for the floor –
I catch it.
The cool curves are too small, for the world –
But not for her,
Because the curve of that bottle green glass holds her caught –
What a reverie –
She’s taken back to days spent searching the sand
For that single green float
Tucked among the driftwood.
Waiting.
But her throat must be hurting
Because she is yelling so loud.
I raise my eyebrows up real
Careful, real high
So I don’t hear the screaming
So I don’t break my treasure.
It’s mine.
Branded with a number, like a prisoner of war
Let out too late to like the sun anymore,
The sea float is the product of a glassblower’s
End of day pessimism.
Sixty four: the ridges of the numbers are imperfect –
The glassblower’s trembling arm translates to ripples,
Interrupting the calm sea of the glass’s surface,
The base hastily finished, a scab of opaque glass
That tries to keep the sea float still – tries to keep her world stable.
She’s yelling at me – again.
It’s not the words she’s saying,
It’s the memory she’s thinking,
That keep me clutching the greenish glass.
If only, if only she could find a glass ball
To call her own.
She searches the damp, sandy beach,
Sweat held still in the pits
Of the pores on her forehead.
I follow, sullenly.
“Faster,” she says
“Keep looking,” she says.
But the splinters my feet have
From searching the driftwood hurt.
“You’re not going to find it,”
I mutter.
And that bottle green glass,
Though she wishes it was,
Just isn’t the world.
She’s yelling –
Her voice carries
Up the stairs.
Opens the door.
Comes in my room.
She’s yelling and crying,
And what did I do?
Found a little ball of greenish glass
In a patch of sea grass.
Knocks her world off its stand.
Rolling towards the floor –
It’s going to smash, it’s too fragile for the floor –
I catch it.
The cool curves are too small, for the world –
But not for her,
Because the curve of that bottle green glass holds her caught –
What a reverie –
She’s taken back to days spent searching the sand
For that single green float
Tucked among the driftwood.
Waiting.
But her throat must be hurting
Because she is yelling so loud.
I raise my eyebrows up real
Careful, real high
So I don’t hear the screaming
So I don’t break my treasure.
It’s mine.
Branded with a number, like a prisoner of war
Let out too late to like the sun anymore,
The sea float is the product of a glassblower’s
End of day pessimism.
Sixty four: the ridges of the numbers are imperfect –
The glassblower’s trembling arm translates to ripples,
Interrupting the calm sea of the glass’s surface,
The base hastily finished, a scab of opaque glass
That tries to keep the sea float still – tries to keep her world stable.
She’s yelling at me – again.
It’s not the words she’s saying,
It’s the memory she’s thinking,
That keep me clutching the greenish glass.
If only, if only she could find a glass ball
To call her own.
She searches the damp, sandy beach,
Sweat held still in the pits
Of the pores on her forehead.
I follow, sullenly.
“Faster,” she says
“Keep looking,” she says.
But the splinters my feet have
From searching the driftwood hurt.
“You’re not going to find it,”
I mutter.
And that bottle green glass,
Though she wishes it was,
Just isn’t the world.
She’s yelling –
Her voice carries
Up the stairs.
Opens the door.
Comes in my room.
She’s yelling and crying,
And what did I do?
Found a little ball of greenish glass
In a patch of sea grass.
Gazing into starlight night,
Comets catching straying thoughts,
Dreams launching into flight,
Laying warm in blanket cots,
Cooling breeze fills night's air,
Comets catching straying thoughts,
Thinking of the beauty fare,
Countless stars to make a wish,
Cooling breeze fills night's air,
Descisions made streaming foolish,
Regreting choices made to past,
Countless stars to make a wish,
Longing to change so I can last,
Loving stars that shine above,
Regreting choices made to past,
Finding everlasting love,
Gazing into starlight night,
Loving stars that shine above,
Dreams launching into flight.
-Ellen Simonsen
Comets catching straying thoughts,
Dreams launching into flight,
Laying warm in blanket cots,
Cooling breeze fills night's air,
Comets catching straying thoughts,
Thinking of the beauty fare,
Countless stars to make a wish,
Cooling breeze fills night's air,
Descisions made streaming foolish,
Regreting choices made to past,
Countless stars to make a wish,
Longing to change so I can last,
Loving stars that shine above,
Regreting choices made to past,
Finding everlasting love,
Gazing into starlight night,
Loving stars that shine above,
Dreams launching into flight.
-Ellen Simonsen
Life's Time
Life cannot be held at bay
it moves along like light
when seconds tic' away
Life is in sight
but time is never immovable
time, is slight
Everything is capable
it just consumes the clock
we all can have a fable
Nothing can block
an unstoppable force
start the talk
take a corse
take a chance
take remorse
life is always growing shorter
life cannot be held at bay
so form it with mortar
when seconds tic' away.
Adam George
Life cannot be held at bay
it moves along like light
when seconds tic' away
Life is in sight
but time is never immovable
time, is slight
Everything is capable
it just consumes the clock
we all can have a fable
Nothing can block
an unstoppable force
start the talk
take a corse
take a chance
take remorse
life is always growing shorter
life cannot be held at bay
so form it with mortar
when seconds tic' away.
Adam George
A unique falcon goes for a fly.
The mourning is cool though sun's rays,
the bird's feathers flap in the sky,
free from what other birds say.
But as the sunrises in its' daily chore,
other falcons wake to take the free air,
some flying high so far away from the core,
others flapping strong, quickly, with confidence like a bear.
The unique bird is lost in the others.
Not flying as high, not flying as strong,
just an average falcon admist his brothers,
but freedom is not lost, nothing is wrong.
This falcon can still take pride
because he is unique on the inside.
Adam George
The mourning is cool though sun's rays,
the bird's feathers flap in the sky,
free from what other birds say.
But as the sunrises in its' daily chore,
other falcons wake to take the free air,
some flying high so far away from the core,
others flapping strong, quickly, with confidence like a bear.
The unique bird is lost in the others.
Not flying as high, not flying as strong,
just an average falcon admist his brothers,
but freedom is not lost, nothing is wrong.
This falcon can still take pride
because he is unique on the inside.
Adam George
The very tragic tale of the one-cup coffee pot (that Mr. Nice forgot!)
She sits, pending, in the corner
a siren once seductive,
now abandoned for sleeker, more efficient models.
A snaking tail protrudes, coiling around her body
its two prongs, devil-like,
poised in resentful wait.
Her silver arm extends
in a beckon once inviting,
now only a crooked testimony
to how one,
nearly comatose, perhaps
would reach for her bloodless, bewitching form,
removing her molded polypropylene coronet
to pour moist, blackened grittiness into the dark orifice below
reaching for the pinpoint of migraine-inducing infrared,
to induce the drip-drip of liquid carcinogens
- akin to draining gutter contents after a flash flood -
into the crystal chamber just big enough for one
solitary
cup
of bitterness -
A cavern now sullied by a glaze of dead skin cells and miniscule pollen fibers,
a tell-tale whorl of a stain
the faded lipstick print of an open-mouth kiss.
A cavern that now only holds such treasures
As headless, withered jewels of insects
Ladies adorned in red and black with filmy, crumpled sashes...
Instead of enticing liquidated cinders.
The damsel sits, pending, in the corner.
Forever in wait.
Should you wish to draw her out,
to ignite her inner mechanisms into caffeinated frenzies once again -
Tread carefully.
Pay close attention to the warning
inscribed on her pallid shoulder:
"Caution:
Relieve pressure through steam tube before removing cap or brew basket."
A worthy piece of advice
when dealing with any
tempestuous vessel.
-Siri Hammond (02/12/09)
a siren once seductive,
now abandoned for sleeker, more efficient models.
A snaking tail protrudes, coiling around her body
its two prongs, devil-like,
poised in resentful wait.
Her silver arm extends
in a beckon once inviting,
now only a crooked testimony
to how one,
nearly comatose, perhaps
would reach for her bloodless, bewitching form,
removing her molded polypropylene coronet
to pour moist, blackened grittiness into the dark orifice below
reaching for the pinpoint of migraine-inducing infrared,
to induce the drip-drip of liquid carcinogens
- akin to draining gutter contents after a flash flood -
into the crystal chamber just big enough for one
solitary
cup
of bitterness -
A cavern now sullied by a glaze of dead skin cells and miniscule pollen fibers,
a tell-tale whorl of a stain
the faded lipstick print of an open-mouth kiss.
A cavern that now only holds such treasures
As headless, withered jewels of insects
Ladies adorned in red and black with filmy, crumpled sashes...
Instead of enticing liquidated cinders.
The damsel sits, pending, in the corner.
Forever in wait.
Should you wish to draw her out,
to ignite her inner mechanisms into caffeinated frenzies once again -
Tread carefully.
Pay close attention to the warning
inscribed on her pallid shoulder:
"Caution:
Relieve pressure through steam tube before removing cap or brew basket."
A worthy piece of advice
when dealing with any
tempestuous vessel.
-Siri Hammond (02/12/09)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Of Siblings and State Buildings
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.
Years later, he threw her.
The pinnacle of fourteen years spent shouting in public halls.
She took his spotlight, invaded his small
Attentive atmosphere.
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.
She took his space, and made it fall
From the sacred height he revered,
Giving way to fourteen years spent shouting in public halls.
He took her heart and made it crawl
Into a world engineered.
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.
They often uttered nothing at all,
A silency heavy, austere.
The rest of those fourteen years were spent shouting in public halls.
It was only a toy, insignificant, small.
But the repercussions were severe.
She threw the Empire State Building across the wall,
Cutting the ribbon to years spent shouting in public halls.
- Siri Hammond (02/11/09)
Years later, he threw her.
The pinnacle of fourteen years spent shouting in public halls.
She took his spotlight, invaded his small
Attentive atmosphere.
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.
She took his space, and made it fall
From the sacred height he revered,
Giving way to fourteen years spent shouting in public halls.
He took her heart and made it crawl
Into a world engineered.
She threw the Empire State Building against the wall.
They often uttered nothing at all,
A silency heavy, austere.
The rest of those fourteen years were spent shouting in public halls.
It was only a toy, insignificant, small.
But the repercussions were severe.
She threw the Empire State Building across the wall,
Cutting the ribbon to years spent shouting in public halls.
- Siri Hammond (02/11/09)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Shadows
Alone, I sat in a darkened room,
no light, only the computer screen illuminating my presence.
Haunted by the shadows, I wonder why I have no fear,
then I remember in the shadows, She was always near,
Like an illusion, Her taking the dark,
Me taking Her pain,
Together, We were making it all disappear.
Where are you Dear Sister? Who now will wipe your tears?
I search Her name on this page everyone calls their own,
But Her page is only accessed by private,
In the darkness I sat alone.
I stare blankly at the portrait on display,
Where is my Dear Sister? Who is this young woman in her place?
At this moment I realized, a stranger She has become,
We were once bound at the heart,
Now only by titles; Daughter, and Forsaken Son.
Where are you Dear Sister? Why are we so far apart?
I don’t recognize her smile, or those eyes like mine,
I only recognize the shadows with me, intertwined.
The room is no longer blackened,
Brought to life by morning light,
I’ve been awake for days.
Still in darkness I sit alone,
Forever missing my Dear Sister, hoping all is alright.
Where are you my Dear Sister? When will you come home?
~Wes Francis Maga'Lahi Castro
no light, only the computer screen illuminating my presence.
Haunted by the shadows, I wonder why I have no fear,
then I remember in the shadows, She was always near,
Like an illusion, Her taking the dark,
Me taking Her pain,
Together, We were making it all disappear.
Where are you Dear Sister? Who now will wipe your tears?
I search Her name on this page everyone calls their own,
But Her page is only accessed by private,
In the darkness I sat alone.
I stare blankly at the portrait on display,
Where is my Dear Sister? Who is this young woman in her place?
At this moment I realized, a stranger She has become,
We were once bound at the heart,
Now only by titles; Daughter, and Forsaken Son.
Where are you Dear Sister? Why are we so far apart?
I don’t recognize her smile, or those eyes like mine,
I only recognize the shadows with me, intertwined.
The room is no longer blackened,
Brought to life by morning light,
I’ve been awake for days.
Still in darkness I sit alone,
Forever missing my Dear Sister, hoping all is alright.
Where are you my Dear Sister? When will you come home?
~Wes Francis Maga'Lahi Castro
Monday, February 9, 2009
Exposure
She outlawed the Polaroid picture
Because she was scared of the truth it wouldn't hide,
And she invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Her first rolls of film were taken when her hands were newer,
The subjects, her mother and her father, blurry and ready to collide,
So she outlawed the Polaroid picture.
The taste her parents' yelling left, steeped inside her head had no cure,
And through the lens she noticed their smiles start to slide.
She invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Her fingers ran along the pockmarked walls, empty except for the mirror,
Frames with smashed glass and scissors surrounded mother after father took a ride.
She outlawed the Polaroid picture.
Her mother's definition of the word "taboo" centered around the fixture
That was her father's face, so the way she felt she knew she couldn't confide.
She invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Her loss came sharply into focus, discarding reminders the only cure.
She cropped her father out in Photoshop, and, just like her mother, she lied.
So, she outlawed the Polaroid picture
And she invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Because she was scared of the truth it wouldn't hide,
And she invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Her first rolls of film were taken when her hands were newer,
The subjects, her mother and her father, blurry and ready to collide,
So she outlawed the Polaroid picture.
The taste her parents' yelling left, steeped inside her head had no cure,
And through the lens she noticed their smiles start to slide.
She invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Her fingers ran along the pockmarked walls, empty except for the mirror,
Frames with smashed glass and scissors surrounded mother after father took a ride.
She outlawed the Polaroid picture.
Her mother's definition of the word "taboo" centered around the fixture
That was her father's face, so the way she felt she knew she couldn't confide.
She invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
Her loss came sharply into focus, discarding reminders the only cure.
She cropped her father out in Photoshop, and, just like her mother, she lied.
So, she outlawed the Polaroid picture
And she invented digital to leave her failings fewer.
there is a monster that sleeps beside me
this nightmare awaits my deepest slumber
haunting since age ten, i have not been free
when do i escape? the light i can't see
there is a monster that sleeps beside me
red glowing eyes and black outsides to match
the screeching claws resonate in my ears
no cage contains this beast, no key, no latch
there is a monster that sleeps beside me
whose relentless cries i cannot defeat
with wings unfurled, i can't sleep, i can't be
this beast won't stop, an unthinkable feat
this monster that sleeps beside me, i alone have set
in simpler terms, an alarm clock, whose match i have not met
haley snodgrass
this nightmare awaits my deepest slumber
haunting since age ten, i have not been free
when do i escape? the light i can't see
there is a monster that sleeps beside me
red glowing eyes and black outsides to match
the screeching claws resonate in my ears
no cage contains this beast, no key, no latch
there is a monster that sleeps beside me
whose relentless cries i cannot defeat
with wings unfurled, i can't sleep, i can't be
this beast won't stop, an unthinkable feat
this monster that sleeps beside me, i alone have set
in simpler terms, an alarm clock, whose match i have not met
haley snodgrass
Flight
As I look up, lazily,
I am overwhelmed by a pale blue face,
I feel stifled by its enormity,
the futures of an entire race.
Nothing is brighter, or more hopeful,
like a cleansing waiting to occur… I must be insane.
The cloudy ,toothy smile above has made me hopeful.
Hopeful for what I cannot hope to obtain.
My eyes travel downward, to reality,
just as I travel east.
I see the veil of society
over man, like lipstick on the Beast.
This is the affirmation of my reality,
my return to land.
With the sunset on my hopeful duality,
the future, now, more than ever, looks so grand.
Dylan Moore, February 3, 2009
I am overwhelmed by a pale blue face,
I feel stifled by its enormity,
the futures of an entire race.
Nothing is brighter, or more hopeful,
like a cleansing waiting to occur… I must be insane.
The cloudy ,toothy smile above has made me hopeful.
Hopeful for what I cannot hope to obtain.
My eyes travel downward, to reality,
just as I travel east.
I see the veil of society
over man, like lipstick on the Beast.
This is the affirmation of my reality,
my return to land.
With the sunset on my hopeful duality,
the future, now, more than ever, looks so grand.
Dylan Moore, February 3, 2009
The Dive
I am God, illuminated by a flashlight’s glow,
tired after this long week.
The tiny shrimps below
do not know it is their death I seek.
The spear is poised to strike,
it is Zeus’s lightning in my hands.
My subjects are all so alike,
hopefully their taste won’t be as bland.
However, they are quicher than I thought.
Their defiance shows audacity,
but this escape is all for naught,
for I pursue them only passively.
Oh no! A reminder of reality;
I hear the dreadful warning beep.
I must return to my mortality;
I have dove too deep.
Dylan Moore, February 2, 2009
tired after this long week.
The tiny shrimps below
do not know it is their death I seek.
The spear is poised to strike,
it is Zeus’s lightning in my hands.
My subjects are all so alike,
hopefully their taste won’t be as bland.
However, they are quicher than I thought.
Their defiance shows audacity,
but this escape is all for naught,
for I pursue them only passively.
Oh no! A reminder of reality;
I hear the dreadful warning beep.
I must return to my mortality;
I have dove too deep.
Dylan Moore, February 2, 2009
Vancouver
From under the city light,
the embers of a lost life appear,
asking me to do what is right,
but her image obscures the plea I barely hear.
Devoid of humane contact, walking,
like a scarred ghost, through a city that passes her by,
she has forgotten the art of talking;
she won’t look me in the eye.
What happened to her hopes?
Who destroyed her dreams?
Why must she now desperately grope
for life? There are still half a million to ignore her screams.
A dollar is her only need,
one hundred cents to just get by,
or perhaps for the drugs that let her concede.
She’ll get high, then find another to believe her lie.
Dylan Moore, january 28, 2009
the embers of a lost life appear,
asking me to do what is right,
but her image obscures the plea I barely hear.
Devoid of humane contact, walking,
like a scarred ghost, through a city that passes her by,
she has forgotten the art of talking;
she won’t look me in the eye.
What happened to her hopes?
Who destroyed her dreams?
Why must she now desperately grope
for life? There are still half a million to ignore her screams.
A dollar is her only need,
one hundred cents to just get by,
or perhaps for the drugs that let her concede.
She’ll get high, then find another to believe her lie.
Dylan Moore, january 28, 2009
Daddy's Girl
My father's hands coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar
Half-asleep I sit close by and absently, we harmonize -
Our music must be permanent, though few things ever are.
It was here that I was lulled to sleep, off to dreamlands far
From the tiny world that was all I knew, blinking shut my baby eyes
As my father's hands coaxed melodies from his old beat-up guitar.
And now I am a grown-up girl, and time's begun to mar -
I catch the moments that his fingers fumble; sure enough, they bring surprise,
But our music must be permanent, though few things ever are!
As I am somehow no longer a child, Perfection has raised its bar
It's become a feat to hang the stars and moon up in my skies -
still, my father's hands coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar.
When did his hair morph to silver grey? The sight comes with a shocking jar -
I've watched it turn but it seems its truth has long been in disguise.
Still, our music must be permament, though few things ever are!
At least, I've tried to make it so, tried with my fears to spar,
But with each year it becomes more like lashing out with delusional lies -
Will my father's hands still coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar?
Can our music be permanent, when few things ever are?
-Siri Hammond, 02/06/09w
at
Half-asleep I sit close by and absently, we harmonize -
Our music must be permanent, though few things ever are.
It was here that I was lulled to sleep, off to dreamlands far
From the tiny world that was all I knew, blinking shut my baby eyes
As my father's hands coaxed melodies from his old beat-up guitar.
And now I am a grown-up girl, and time's begun to mar -
I catch the moments that his fingers fumble; sure enough, they bring surprise,
But our music must be permanent, though few things ever are!
As I am somehow no longer a child, Perfection has raised its bar
It's become a feat to hang the stars and moon up in my skies -
still, my father's hands coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar.
When did his hair morph to silver grey? The sight comes with a shocking jar -
I've watched it turn but it seems its truth has long been in disguise.
Still, our music must be permament, though few things ever are!
At least, I've tried to make it so, tried with my fears to spar,
But with each year it becomes more like lashing out with delusional lies -
Will my father's hands still coax melodies from his old beat-up guitar?
Can our music be permanent, when few things ever are?
-Siri Hammond, 02/06/09w
at
"Let there be Light"
In the glimmering night
God did decree
“Let there be light.”
Obliviously:
“For it is good,”
God did decree.
The light did drop
And darkness came,
“For it is good.”
When light did wane,
Virtue took flight…
And darkness came.
When God made light
He thus made dark…
Virtue took flight.
With that first spark
In the glimmering night
He thus made dark.
“Let there be light.”
God did decree
“Let there be light.”
Obliviously:
“For it is good,”
God did decree.
The light did drop
And darkness came,
“For it is good.”
When light did wane,
Virtue took flight…
And darkness came.
When God made light
He thus made dark…
Virtue took flight.
With that first spark
In the glimmering night
He thus made dark.
“Let there be light.”
Sunday, February 8, 2009
She
She
I.
Pursue you I should not,
For I was banished from the lot,
Branded as a sinner,
My love grows not thinner,
You are the light
That illuminates my darkest night,
I spend many a night in my tower,
Pacing for many a hour,
In the dungeon is where I reside,
It is a shame it is love I am forced to hide,
The demons that possess the “pure”,
Successfully from truth they lure,
Alas, I was abandoned,
All because I was branded
II.
An angel is she,
The unworthy one is me,
I seek to capture her eyes,
Bound to banishment, my soul dies,
I long to touch her soft face,
Or to feel her everlasting grace,
Nevertheless I cannot disguise,
How I wish to look into her eyes
III.
From my tower I see a lake,
Sometimes she walks along the shore,
To greet her would be a mistake,
Nonetheless she is all I adore,
Sneak from the tower must I,
Or from heartbreak I will die
IV.
It is evening,
I am leaving,
Out the door,
Crawling along the floor,
And through the woods,
I spot the pure ones and their hoods,
The bat out of hell,
Is feeling unwell,
A cave is near,
Retreat into the darkness without fear,
Darkness protects me,
Best of friends are we,
At last the pure ones leave,
To the hope of her, I cleave
At last I reach the lake,
My insides violently quake,
Nothing can save me
For it is She.
V.
Her figure outlined by silver light,
Sends my heart into flight,
Though the flame in her I wish to ignite,
To offer her my heart would give her a fright,
Because our love would be forbidden,
It would be kept well hidden,
Over a rock, I trip
Blowing my cover, I let out a yip,
Fear and panic grapple at my being,
For it is me she is seeing,
Towards me she walks, with a curious tilt of her head,
Oh no, I am bound to be dead!
Ah, but what’s this?
Do I sense a hint of bliss?
Does she approach me with a smirk?
Attempting to escape my body goes berserk,
She has trapped me with her gaze,
Unable to move, my head can only raise,
To look upon her lovely face,
Once again my heart begins to race,
How long will I be here,
Until she regards me with fear?
VI.
At last she reaches me,
I am unable to flee,
She laughs, the most beautiful music ever heard,
I mutter not one word,
I shuffle into sitting position,
Ready again for the inquisition,
My sheepish expression of shame,
Causes her to feel the blame,
What was once light has turned to rain,
Seeing my face has caused her pain,
Her eyes express regret,
Something I will never forget,
She needs not to apologize,
For it was I who had caused the surprise,
Sensing my forgiveness, my shy essence,
She sits beside me, Oh her presence,
Her beauty under the moon,
Causes me to swoon,
Her mind…
Her body…
Her soul…
VII.
Quite friendly is she,
To remain here beside me,
Even though she knows why I was banished,
It was thought that I vanished,
Does she remember
That one dark December?
How does she know of me
When I have kept away from she?
With nothing to lose,
To utter the truth I refuse.
VII.
I believe it was seven years ago,
When the pure ones forced me to go,
Upon heresy I was convicted,
A crime most restricted,
According to them I was going to hell,
All of this said with a yell,
For it is sinful to love am member,
Of your same gender, hence December,
When I was found out,
Without a doubt,
That I was gay,
Soon to come would be my darkest day.
VIII
The shadow of my past ingrained on my skin,
Why does she not fear my sin?
I recall the torches and the mob,
With the intent of my life to rob,
They had promised me three days
Before I had to part ways
Alas, the folks did not agree
To let me go free
So they turned to their weapons,
The mob truly threatens,
Thousands of stones pelt the roof,
Several cuts on my skin are proof,
The windows shattered,
Leaving my flesh tattered.
I grab one possession
Hoping they will end their malevolent procession
Upon my horse I mount,
A lifetime of goodness does not count,
As I rode away
Soon to come would be the next day.
IX
Wounded and sick,
I lay in a crick,
With little desire to live,
My life to the townsfolk I did give,
They find one minor flaw,
That was all they saw,
My vision grew blurry with tears,
I was loved for years,
As I lay sobbing,
My cuts began throbbing,
I remember seeing
my beloved’s face prior to fleeing,
She was preoccupied
To win her heart I would have gladly died,
Alas death will take me soon,
And my corpse will lie forever under the moon.
X.
Darkness comes…
Angel with your lovely wings
Take me away from all cruel things.
No.
I am reminded that all is not well,
For it is I who must go to hell.
So will I lead an empty life
Cold and empty without a wife?
Or will I hear death’s bell
And descend to hell.
With both options bad,
Doomed forever am I to be sad
Lay in darkness still,
And let your heart fill,
For happiness is on the road ahead
For it you must not be dead.
XI.
My heart beats, I am alive,
My illness and wounds I did survive,
How I survived I do not know,
Away, life I shall never again throw,
Something odd occurred,
My vision is no longer blurred,
My pain has lifted,
Whoever helped me was certainly gifted.
XII.
As memories pass by,
I remember the night sky,
I feel warmth beside me,
It is She!!!
Returned to the present,
I remain loathsome as a peasant,
Curse those who shoved me into exile
I suppose it has been a while
There is a mysterious spark in her eyes,
I wonder if questioning her would be unwise,
A trace of warmth
A pile of guilt
A spark inside
What does she hide?
No words spoken
No silence broken
No voice heard
All is expressed without a word
XIII.
Two souls in existence
Acceptance and resistance
One longing
One belonging
United under one sky
Bound together until they die
XIV.
A gentle breeze brings chill,
To know what she is thinking I would kill,
I sense guilt
The suspense is making me wilt,
Suddenly she turns,
For her my heart yearns,
The love I feel, to my surprise,
I fail to disguise,
I cannot do so longer,
My love for her grows stronger,
Do I sense a flame?
One powerful enough to overcome shame?
A whisper brushes my ear,
So gentle one cannot hear,
Suddenly I see,
that she indeed loves me!
Such joy, such glee,
Cannot be explained by me,
With a delighted expression,
I end my love’s repression
Upon her lips I kiss
Filled with everlasting bliss
All those years
Of heartbreak,
Of watching her at the lake
Of being nature’s mistake
Matter no longer
For I have grown stronger
She is with Me
Forever happy we will be
I am free to see
What it truly means to be me
All because of She.
-Laura Hamada
I.
Pursue you I should not,
For I was banished from the lot,
Branded as a sinner,
My love grows not thinner,
You are the light
That illuminates my darkest night,
I spend many a night in my tower,
Pacing for many a hour,
In the dungeon is where I reside,
It is a shame it is love I am forced to hide,
The demons that possess the “pure”,
Successfully from truth they lure,
Alas, I was abandoned,
All because I was branded
II.
An angel is she,
The unworthy one is me,
I seek to capture her eyes,
Bound to banishment, my soul dies,
I long to touch her soft face,
Or to feel her everlasting grace,
Nevertheless I cannot disguise,
How I wish to look into her eyes
III.
From my tower I see a lake,
Sometimes she walks along the shore,
To greet her would be a mistake,
Nonetheless she is all I adore,
Sneak from the tower must I,
Or from heartbreak I will die
IV.
It is evening,
I am leaving,
Out the door,
Crawling along the floor,
And through the woods,
I spot the pure ones and their hoods,
The bat out of hell,
Is feeling unwell,
A cave is near,
Retreat into the darkness without fear,
Darkness protects me,
Best of friends are we,
At last the pure ones leave,
To the hope of her, I cleave
At last I reach the lake,
My insides violently quake,
Nothing can save me
For it is She.
V.
Her figure outlined by silver light,
Sends my heart into flight,
Though the flame in her I wish to ignite,
To offer her my heart would give her a fright,
Because our love would be forbidden,
It would be kept well hidden,
Over a rock, I trip
Blowing my cover, I let out a yip,
Fear and panic grapple at my being,
For it is me she is seeing,
Towards me she walks, with a curious tilt of her head,
Oh no, I am bound to be dead!
Ah, but what’s this?
Do I sense a hint of bliss?
Does she approach me with a smirk?
Attempting to escape my body goes berserk,
She has trapped me with her gaze,
Unable to move, my head can only raise,
To look upon her lovely face,
Once again my heart begins to race,
How long will I be here,
Until she regards me with fear?
VI.
At last she reaches me,
I am unable to flee,
She laughs, the most beautiful music ever heard,
I mutter not one word,
I shuffle into sitting position,
Ready again for the inquisition,
My sheepish expression of shame,
Causes her to feel the blame,
What was once light has turned to rain,
Seeing my face has caused her pain,
Her eyes express regret,
Something I will never forget,
She needs not to apologize,
For it was I who had caused the surprise,
Sensing my forgiveness, my shy essence,
She sits beside me, Oh her presence,
Her beauty under the moon,
Causes me to swoon,
Her mind…
Her body…
Her soul…
VII.
Quite friendly is she,
To remain here beside me,
Even though she knows why I was banished,
It was thought that I vanished,
Does she remember
That one dark December?
How does she know of me
When I have kept away from she?
With nothing to lose,
To utter the truth I refuse.
VII.
I believe it was seven years ago,
When the pure ones forced me to go,
Upon heresy I was convicted,
A crime most restricted,
According to them I was going to hell,
All of this said with a yell,
For it is sinful to love am member,
Of your same gender, hence December,
When I was found out,
Without a doubt,
That I was gay,
Soon to come would be my darkest day.
VIII
The shadow of my past ingrained on my skin,
Why does she not fear my sin?
I recall the torches and the mob,
With the intent of my life to rob,
They had promised me three days
Before I had to part ways
Alas, the folks did not agree
To let me go free
So they turned to their weapons,
The mob truly threatens,
Thousands of stones pelt the roof,
Several cuts on my skin are proof,
The windows shattered,
Leaving my flesh tattered.
I grab one possession
Hoping they will end their malevolent procession
Upon my horse I mount,
A lifetime of goodness does not count,
As I rode away
Soon to come would be the next day.
IX
Wounded and sick,
I lay in a crick,
With little desire to live,
My life to the townsfolk I did give,
They find one minor flaw,
That was all they saw,
My vision grew blurry with tears,
I was loved for years,
As I lay sobbing,
My cuts began throbbing,
I remember seeing
my beloved’s face prior to fleeing,
She was preoccupied
To win her heart I would have gladly died,
Alas death will take me soon,
And my corpse will lie forever under the moon.
X.
Darkness comes…
Angel with your lovely wings
Take me away from all cruel things.
No.
I am reminded that all is not well,
For it is I who must go to hell.
So will I lead an empty life
Cold and empty without a wife?
Or will I hear death’s bell
And descend to hell.
With both options bad,
Doomed forever am I to be sad
Lay in darkness still,
And let your heart fill,
For happiness is on the road ahead
For it you must not be dead.
XI.
My heart beats, I am alive,
My illness and wounds I did survive,
How I survived I do not know,
Away, life I shall never again throw,
Something odd occurred,
My vision is no longer blurred,
My pain has lifted,
Whoever helped me was certainly gifted.
XII.
As memories pass by,
I remember the night sky,
I feel warmth beside me,
It is She!!!
Returned to the present,
I remain loathsome as a peasant,
Curse those who shoved me into exile
I suppose it has been a while
There is a mysterious spark in her eyes,
I wonder if questioning her would be unwise,
A trace of warmth
A pile of guilt
A spark inside
What does she hide?
No words spoken
No silence broken
No voice heard
All is expressed without a word
XIII.
Two souls in existence
Acceptance and resistance
One longing
One belonging
United under one sky
Bound together until they die
XIV.
A gentle breeze brings chill,
To know what she is thinking I would kill,
I sense guilt
The suspense is making me wilt,
Suddenly she turns,
For her my heart yearns,
The love I feel, to my surprise,
I fail to disguise,
I cannot do so longer,
My love for her grows stronger,
Do I sense a flame?
One powerful enough to overcome shame?
A whisper brushes my ear,
So gentle one cannot hear,
Suddenly I see,
that she indeed loves me!
Such joy, such glee,
Cannot be explained by me,
With a delighted expression,
I end my love’s repression
Upon her lips I kiss
Filled with everlasting bliss
All those years
Of heartbreak,
Of watching her at the lake
Of being nature’s mistake
Matter no longer
For I have grown stronger
She is with Me
Forever happy we will be
I am free to see
What it truly means to be me
All because of She.
-Laura Hamada
Broken Mirror
Broken Mirror
Darkness descends upon a lost soul,
Consuming it with a blistering fire,
Shadows over a mirror, black clouds roll,
Vicious pain meets hopeless desire.
Falling, the mirror meets the ground,
Shatter into a million pieces,
No one hears the sound,
Life ceases.
A million shards pierce the flesh,
Red pools stain the floor,
All wounds fresh
A plea is engraved on the wooden door.
Alas the mirror has broken,
Its final last words left unspoken.
-Laura Hamada
Darkness descends upon a lost soul,
Consuming it with a blistering fire,
Shadows over a mirror, black clouds roll,
Vicious pain meets hopeless desire.
Falling, the mirror meets the ground,
Shatter into a million pieces,
No one hears the sound,
Life ceases.
A million shards pierce the flesh,
Red pools stain the floor,
All wounds fresh
A plea is engraved on the wooden door.
Alas the mirror has broken,
Its final last words left unspoken.
-Laura Hamada
Mats
Mats
A cold night brings bitter chill,
Two bodies grow cold,
An embrace, everything still,
Such warmth never grows old.
I gaze upon deep pools of blue,
The window to his soul,
Romance begins fresh and new
The moon is full.
Sculpted from the gods, perfect hands carve him lightly,
He is perfection in the human form,
Moving in, I kiss his lips ever so slightly,
His tender lips are warm.
From that moment I knew we would be together,
I hope it will last forever.
-Laura Hamada
A cold night brings bitter chill,
Two bodies grow cold,
An embrace, everything still,
Such warmth never grows old.
I gaze upon deep pools of blue,
The window to his soul,
Romance begins fresh and new
The moon is full.
Sculpted from the gods, perfect hands carve him lightly,
He is perfection in the human form,
Moving in, I kiss his lips ever so slightly,
His tender lips are warm.
From that moment I knew we would be together,
I hope it will last forever.
-Laura Hamada
Dying Shadow
Dying Shadow
A golden sphere rises into the sky,
The midnight sun, long gone,
All darkness comes to die.
All light greets dawn,
Darkness recedes into the dying shadow,
The midnight sun, long gone.
On a fallen tree sits a caddow,
A bird of darkness,
Darkness recedes into the dying shadow.
The fallen tree, conspicuous in its starkness,
All life stripped away,
A bird of darkness.
On the tree, the bird does sway,
Away the bird flies,
All life stripped away.
All that is dark dies,
A golden sphere rises into the sky,
Burned alive, the shadow cries,
All darkness comes to die.
A golden sphere rises into the sky,
The midnight sun, long gone,
All darkness comes to die.
All light greets dawn,
Darkness recedes into the dying shadow,
The midnight sun, long gone.
On a fallen tree sits a caddow,
A bird of darkness,
Darkness recedes into the dying shadow.
The fallen tree, conspicuous in its starkness,
All life stripped away,
A bird of darkness.
On the tree, the bird does sway,
Away the bird flies,
All life stripped away.
All that is dark dies,
A golden sphere rises into the sky,
Burned alive, the shadow cries,
All darkness comes to die.
Rock Band
I am on vocals, I scream
My band is the best
To my team
First one song as a test
Foreplay/Long Time
My band is the best
I don’t sing like a mime
I said hell no, I want to play Guns N Roses
Foreplay/Long Time
I am Moses
You can never sink my boat
I said hell no, I want to play Guns N Roses
My vocals keep this ship afloat
I really am Axl Rose
You can never sink my boat
I never pose
I am on vocals, I scream
I really am Axl Rose
To my team
-Burns Duncan
My band is the best
To my team
First one song as a test
Foreplay/Long Time
My band is the best
I don’t sing like a mime
I said hell no, I want to play Guns N Roses
Foreplay/Long Time
I am Moses
You can never sink my boat
I said hell no, I want to play Guns N Roses
My vocals keep this ship afloat
I really am Axl Rose
You can never sink my boat
I never pose
I am on vocals, I scream
I really am Axl Rose
To my team
-Burns Duncan
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Annabelle
Fingers softly caressed her neck,
Gently composing a song of love.
A new note rang with each small peck,
To send their song to the heavens above.
A tune for two, this song was theirs,
Only they knew how to sing its key.
"You are mine" to her, he declares,
"I am yours" she says to me.
This song we wrote, it is sincere,
A new verse is written everyday.
I'll take her waist and draw her near,
So again tonight we can play.
Tomorrow we rest, our song unsung,
The strings of our lives, still being strung.
-adam ward
Gently composing a song of love.
A new note rang with each small peck,
To send their song to the heavens above.
A tune for two, this song was theirs,
Only they knew how to sing its key.
"You are mine" to her, he declares,
"I am yours" she says to me.
This song we wrote, it is sincere,
A new verse is written everyday.
I'll take her waist and draw her near,
So again tonight we can play.
Tomorrow we rest, our song unsung,
The strings of our lives, still being strung.
-adam ward
Cold Desert
Between the mountains and past the stream,
Where the sun shines cold and little grows,
Lies a frigid desert seldom seen,
Its lonely life nobody knows.
Too often man has trudged a trail,
Through wisping sand and lonely stones,
One by one, they fell, too frail,
Gritty sand masking their frozen bones.
A sad tale indeed
Of those who did not last.
But those who are led by greed,
Are claimed by the desert's grasp.
An unforgiving place, this land can be,
And mercy unto those who disagree.
-adam ward
Where the sun shines cold and little grows,
Lies a frigid desert seldom seen,
Its lonely life nobody knows.
Too often man has trudged a trail,
Through wisping sand and lonely stones,
One by one, they fell, too frail,
Gritty sand masking their frozen bones.
A sad tale indeed
Of those who did not last.
But those who are led by greed,
Are claimed by the desert's grasp.
An unforgiving place, this land can be,
And mercy unto those who disagree.
-adam ward
Little Girl
Little girl you're as lonely as the sea,
All alone in this world without a home.
Where is your family? Where could they be?
How could they leave you to let you roam?
Little girl you're as icy cold as the snow,
You shiver in rags on the side of the street.
Is this the only life you've grown to know?
Do you struggle to sleep on this damp concrete?
Little girl I wish I could guide you,
But I am as occupied as the bees.
I can give you some change, a dime or two,
But I know money can't warm you from the breeze.
I hate to leave you, I hate to go,
I hate to let you freeze in the cold, cold snow.
-adam ward
All alone in this world without a home.
Where is your family? Where could they be?
How could they leave you to let you roam?
Little girl you're as icy cold as the snow,
You shiver in rags on the side of the street.
Is this the only life you've grown to know?
Do you struggle to sleep on this damp concrete?
Little girl I wish I could guide you,
But I am as occupied as the bees.
I can give you some change, a dime or two,
But I know money can't warm you from the breeze.
I hate to leave you, I hate to go,
I hate to let you freeze in the cold, cold snow.
-adam ward
High School
In one moment it flashes by
Four years goes faster than you think
So be careful not to close your eyes
Because it will all be gone if you blink
Stand out in the pouring rain
Even when thunder is cracking
Because sticking it out is worth the pain
Enjoy it now, time is what we're lacking
Grey skies may seem to never end
Lighting may strike wherever you turn
In those times hold tight to a friend
An important lesson you just might learn
Your hopes and dreams you must explore
Because life still has so much in store
-Val Sias
Four years goes faster than you think
So be careful not to close your eyes
Because it will all be gone if you blink
Stand out in the pouring rain
Even when thunder is cracking
Because sticking it out is worth the pain
Enjoy it now, time is what we're lacking
Grey skies may seem to never end
Lighting may strike wherever you turn
In those times hold tight to a friend
An important lesson you just might learn
Your hopes and dreams you must explore
Because life still has so much in store
-Val Sias
My Old Friend
Once again we are friends,
we pick up where we were ending.
Our future lies within our hands
of joy and all pretending.
Our time apart- it always mends
we pick up where we were ending.
The two weeks past- not an end,
but only a beginning,
our time apart- it always mends.
Remember when our biggest happenings
were apple trees and picket fence,
it was only a beginning.
The fun we've shared,
togethers adventures so grand
were those of apple trees and picket fence.
Once again together we stand,
once again we are friends,
togethers adventures so grand,
our future lies within our hands.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
we pick up where we were ending.
Our future lies within our hands
of joy and all pretending.
Our time apart- it always mends
we pick up where we were ending.
The two weeks past- not an end,
but only a beginning,
our time apart- it always mends.
Remember when our biggest happenings
were apple trees and picket fence,
it was only a beginning.
The fun we've shared,
togethers adventures so grand
were those of apple trees and picket fence.
Once again together we stand,
once again we are friends,
togethers adventures so grand,
our future lies within our hands.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
Jocko
Like a bird bobbs in the ocean,
as the waves toss and toil,
though he's always in constant motion,
Jocko is all worth while.
His scales like bark
and his horns like branches,
a fallen tree makes a mark
on a child's imaginations.
We all climb on
for he fits twelve kids,
of Jocko we are so fond-
our dragon kin.
Jocko bobbs up and down
like a bird in the sea,
as we ride all around-
dragon riders are we.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
as the waves toss and toil,
though he's always in constant motion,
Jocko is all worth while.
His scales like bark
and his horns like branches,
a fallen tree makes a mark
on a child's imaginations.
We all climb on
for he fits twelve kids,
of Jocko we are so fond-
our dragon kin.
Jocko bobbs up and down
like a bird in the sea,
as we ride all around-
dragon riders are we.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
Viper
Bloodshot eyes, they gaze at me.
The viper has found his prey.
The unkown figure is all I see,
I know what he's done today.
He wails an awful hiss
then stammers out of view.
All I want is a goodnight kiss
and ask, papa, what has come of you.
All the viper tastes is his venom,
What supplies his unfairness.
When mama says, just stay clear of him-
he's obviously not with us.
I cry myself to sleep that night
and pray for God to come,
to help my viper win his fight,
to help him find his home.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
The viper has found his prey.
The unkown figure is all I see,
I know what he's done today.
He wails an awful hiss
then stammers out of view.
All I want is a goodnight kiss
and ask, papa, what has come of you.
All the viper tastes is his venom,
What supplies his unfairness.
When mama says, just stay clear of him-
he's obviously not with us.
I cry myself to sleep that night
and pray for God to come,
to help my viper win his fight,
to help him find his home.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
Your Dust
I built you a wall today, but it wasn’t strong enough,
Who am I to you? Someone you love, or just another roadblock?
If I died would you weep? Or would I only be your dust?
As I rest, I can’t breathe, smothered, I can’t talk.
I can see you enjoy boasting you have no emotion,
Who am I to you? Someone you love, or just another roadblock?
You act like this “kid” I am is the path that I’ve chosen,
I’m terribly sorry I shame everything, and my mistakes can’t be undone.
But I can see you enjoy boasting you have no emotion.
When I do everything you say, it’s my fault who I’ve become,
I need my father, but you don’t need to hold my hand through life’s busy streets.
I’m terribly sorry I shame everything, and my mistakes can’t be undone.
So is this wall for you, or for me? Separation by miles, not feet.
I’ve broken all the mirrors, ‘cause all I see is your face so disappointed in me.
I need my father, but you don’t need to hold my hand through life’s busy streets.
When you look in my face, I wonder what you see.
I built you a wall today, but it wasn’t strong enough,
I’ve broken all the mirrors, ‘cause all I see is your face so disappointed in me,
If I died would you weep? Or would I only be your dust?
Who am I to you? Someone you love, or just another roadblock?
If I died would you weep? Or would I only be your dust?
As I rest, I can’t breathe, smothered, I can’t talk.
I can see you enjoy boasting you have no emotion,
Who am I to you? Someone you love, or just another roadblock?
You act like this “kid” I am is the path that I’ve chosen,
I’m terribly sorry I shame everything, and my mistakes can’t be undone.
But I can see you enjoy boasting you have no emotion.
When I do everything you say, it’s my fault who I’ve become,
I need my father, but you don’t need to hold my hand through life’s busy streets.
I’m terribly sorry I shame everything, and my mistakes can’t be undone.
So is this wall for you, or for me? Separation by miles, not feet.
I’ve broken all the mirrors, ‘cause all I see is your face so disappointed in me.
I need my father, but you don’t need to hold my hand through life’s busy streets.
When you look in my face, I wonder what you see.
I built you a wall today, but it wasn’t strong enough,
I’ve broken all the mirrors, ‘cause all I see is your face so disappointed in me,
If I died would you weep? Or would I only be your dust?
Unite
We the people must unite
and learn what it means to live,
and we the people must learn to fight
to fight for what we can give.
We are all one people
sharing this planet,
we cannot be blameful
but must choose a gambit.
One in which will change our direction
and save our blissful lands.
All that is needed is a little action,
so come, lend us your hand.
We shall learn what it means to live.
We will all learn to fight.
We as a people will learn to give.
We as the world will unite.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
and learn what it means to live,
and we the people must learn to fight
to fight for what we can give.
We are all one people
sharing this planet,
we cannot be blameful
but must choose a gambit.
One in which will change our direction
and save our blissful lands.
All that is needed is a little action,
so come, lend us your hand.
We shall learn what it means to live.
We will all learn to fight.
We as a people will learn to give.
We as the world will unite.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
This Dry Bone
Across the road I gaze in fear,
What has come of my former home.
Only to think its been not a year
When I arrived at this dry bone.
All the many weeds-they hiss
The pond run out of waves
I still remember the frog I kissed
Then was told to behave.
Yet only two, I still remember
the clarity and joy of the Bend.
The soil stained with darkened ember
and swollen pebbles on end.
I feel someday I will return
to the dry bone left here,
and I'll try to refuse the hardened burn
of tears I will not bear.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
What has come of my former home.
Only to think its been not a year
When I arrived at this dry bone.
All the many weeds-they hiss
The pond run out of waves
I still remember the frog I kissed
Then was told to behave.
Yet only two, I still remember
the clarity and joy of the Bend.
The soil stained with darkened ember
and swollen pebbles on end.
I feel someday I will return
to the dry bone left here,
and I'll try to refuse the hardened burn
of tears I will not bear.
-Maja Olson
February 3, 2009
Liberty
Well, she got old. And she hates it.
She can't stand time for what it's done
to her, to the beauty and wit
she used to have. Her looks could stun...
But now her skin sags, and the lines,
The wrinkles, won't hide anymore.
They weren't from laughs, just princess grins
of youthful days she now abhors.
She feels threatened by younger,
more beautiful people, the ones
for which those magazines hunger.
She's not aware of what's begun.
Please don't give up on your beauty:
we still need you, Lady Liberty.
She can't stand time for what it's done
to her, to the beauty and wit
she used to have. Her looks could stun...
But now her skin sags, and the lines,
The wrinkles, won't hide anymore.
They weren't from laughs, just princess grins
of youthful days she now abhors.
She feels threatened by younger,
more beautiful people, the ones
for which those magazines hunger.
She's not aware of what's begun.
Please don't give up on your beauty:
we still need you, Lady Liberty.
The Envelope
An envelope waits in the dark mailbox
where it's been lying for many a year,
spelling out unread tales of joy and fear
whose words bled long ago into blotches.
The black ink, now watercolor splotches,
disfigures the letter of parchment sheer.
Deliv'ring the lonely envelope here
was one of a new postman's first botches
the house is empty, as it was years ago,
when the envelope was first placed inside.
'Twas to someone else this letter was quilled,
but 'twas to this mailbox it was bestowed,
and so it lies here forever denied:
the envelope's job will ne'er be fulfilled
where it's been lying for many a year,
spelling out unread tales of joy and fear
whose words bled long ago into blotches.
The black ink, now watercolor splotches,
disfigures the letter of parchment sheer.
Deliv'ring the lonely envelope here
was one of a new postman's first botches
the house is empty, as it was years ago,
when the envelope was first placed inside.
'Twas to someone else this letter was quilled,
but 'twas to this mailbox it was bestowed,
and so it lies here forever denied:
the envelope's job will ne'er be fulfilled
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Swallow's Rapture
Flitting, fleeting,
Floating, free.
Wings a-beating,
Come to me.
Dodging, dropping.
Skies of clear.
Never stopping,
Ever near.
Flying higher
Than can be,
Failure’s pyre
Of misery.
Swallow’s rapture,
Come to me!
Now I capture…
Set it free.
Floating, free.
Wings a-beating,
Come to me.
Dodging, dropping.
Skies of clear.
Never stopping,
Ever near.
Flying higher
Than can be,
Failure’s pyre
Of misery.
Swallow’s rapture,
Come to me!
Now I capture…
Set it free.
The City
City of night, of water, of sailing;
City of magic, and myst’ry abound.
Take flight on rooftops – ignore the railings.
Darkness is coming – the tension of sound.
Slice through the water off bridges of stone.
Revel in moonlight and glide through the air.
Keep to the shadows – let nothing be shown.
Running and jumping and – vanishing there.
City of lace, of statues, of climbing
Up stairs. Through alleys, then out in the open.
City of height, of depth and of timing.
City of secrets – whispered – unspoken.
City of motion, harmony, gravity.
City of things that aren’t what they seem.
The sun and the moon casting shadows. The city
That’s only been seen in a dream.
City of magic, and myst’ry abound.
Take flight on rooftops – ignore the railings.
Darkness is coming – the tension of sound.
Slice through the water off bridges of stone.
Revel in moonlight and glide through the air.
Keep to the shadows – let nothing be shown.
Running and jumping and – vanishing there.
City of lace, of statues, of climbing
Up stairs. Through alleys, then out in the open.
City of height, of depth and of timing.
City of secrets – whispered – unspoken.
City of motion, harmony, gravity.
City of things that aren’t what they seem.
The sun and the moon casting shadows. The city
That’s only been seen in a dream.
The Museum of Natural History (or 'Tyrannosaurus-Ex')
Dusty, dirty, dry, and cracked
Bones that tell a tale of time;
Sharp and jagged jointed, stacked –
Lasting eons past their prime.
Speak a story of history –
Relate a record of life,
Or reconstruct the misery
Of death, the final strife.
Fossils, tell me what occurred
When you took your final breath?
How were your remains procured?
Tell me, what is death?
How can I avoid your fate?
What must I perform?
Is it already too late;
Can history reform?
Bones that tell a tale of time;
Sharp and jagged jointed, stacked –
Lasting eons past their prime.
Speak a story of history –
Relate a record of life,
Or reconstruct the misery
Of death, the final strife.
Fossils, tell me what occurred
When you took your final breath?
How were your remains procured?
Tell me, what is death?
How can I avoid your fate?
What must I perform?
Is it already too late;
Can history reform?
Sunset and Sunrise
Sunset and sunrise
The beginning and the end,
Yet both bring beauty to my eyes
What a wonderfull way to send
Off and welcome a day.
A sunrise paints the world with a steady
Growing flame, while a sunset in a way
Is like a candle that is ready
To die. Sunset and sunrise, the beginning
And the end. The rosy light
slowly reaching out, spreading
Across the sky, with colorfull splendor and might.
Both sunset and sunrise are
The beginning and the end. Ending of the dark
Beginning of the light. Far
Apart, yet both have a vibrant spark.
KT McMurray February 2009
The beginning and the end,
Yet both bring beauty to my eyes
What a wonderfull way to send
Off and welcome a day.
A sunrise paints the world with a steady
Growing flame, while a sunset in a way
Is like a candle that is ready
To die. Sunset and sunrise, the beginning
And the end. The rosy light
slowly reaching out, spreading
Across the sky, with colorfull splendor and might.
Both sunset and sunrise are
The beginning and the end. Ending of the dark
Beginning of the light. Far
Apart, yet both have a vibrant spark.
KT McMurray February 2009
Love and C++
Shall I compare thee to a format string?
Truly you are no two-bit operand
Indeed, in this binary flatland
Of ones and zeros you are surely king
Upon one question I again and again muse:
How long will it take me to compile
The love I have written in ASCII text file?
Oh! there is no one else I could ever choose
I wanted to write you a poem of love
Alas! I am far too analytical
And frankly, these words are too pitiful
To ever warrant a program debug
So though I want you to be my hero
I only ever type return zero
- Miya "Dorkface" Schneider
Truly you are no two-bit operand
Indeed, in this binary flatland
Of ones and zeros you are surely king
Upon one question I again and again muse:
How long will it take me to compile
The love I have written in ASCII text file?
Oh! there is no one else I could ever choose
I wanted to write you a poem of love
Alas! I am far too analytical
And frankly, these words are too pitiful
To ever warrant a program debug
So though I want you to be my hero
I only ever type return zero
- Miya "Dorkface" Schneider
Rhythm of Harvest
The rhythm of harvest
Is akin to the rhythm of a band;
In the morning it is the slowest
As the workers spread across the land.
For fear of being workless
Players and farmhands don't dare make a mistake
For fear of being forever marked worthless
And for fear of the conductors of farmers wrath they will have to take.
In preperation for the big event
The player places his bow
Upon his instrument.
The farmer pulls his hat down low,
He rises from his seat,
Sets the tempo,
Now the farmhands must take the beat,
Keeping it steady, untill as the sun sets you hear the creshendo.
KT McMurray February 2009
Is akin to the rhythm of a band;
In the morning it is the slowest
As the workers spread across the land.
For fear of being workless
Players and farmhands don't dare make a mistake
For fear of being forever marked worthless
And for fear of the conductors of farmers wrath they will have to take.
In preperation for the big event
The player places his bow
Upon his instrument.
The farmer pulls his hat down low,
He rises from his seat,
Sets the tempo,
Now the farmhands must take the beat,
Keeping it steady, untill as the sun sets you hear the creshendo.
KT McMurray February 2009
Homework
Homework seems to be like Chores
You have to do them whether you like it our not
Seeming to be all about the scores
But, at least you get taught
It taunts you once you get it
Burdens you until its done
Procrastinators have that bad habit
Doing it, last moment, when they have a lot
Almost finished you are
Excitement fills your system
You draw the last bar,
And you also possess eminent wisdom
Finally you reach your goal
The assignment is completed
You go out for an amusing stroll
And then the thought is deleted
By: Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
You have to do them whether you like it our not
Seeming to be all about the scores
But, at least you get taught
It taunts you once you get it
Burdens you until its done
Procrastinators have that bad habit
Doing it, last moment, when they have a lot
Almost finished you are
Excitement fills your system
You draw the last bar,
And you also possess eminent wisdom
Finally you reach your goal
The assignment is completed
You go out for an amusing stroll
And then the thought is deleted
By: Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
Oh-oh
The feeling in my gut when I dont know what Im doing
When Im only tempting fate.
My nails I am chewing.
Oh, how long must I wait!
How could i fake it so long,
I have lost the fight.
I know procrastination is wrong,
Now I must stand up and recite.
Mr. Nice is giving me the evil eye,
I know Im going to get a firm rebuff,
I feel like I should cry
As if I havent been humiliated enough.
Im all alone,
But wait...this doesnt quite seem...
The only one who didnt write a poem...
Oh, thank goodness its only a dream!
KT McMurray January 2009
When Im only tempting fate.
My nails I am chewing.
Oh, how long must I wait!
How could i fake it so long,
I have lost the fight.
I know procrastination is wrong,
Now I must stand up and recite.
Mr. Nice is giving me the evil eye,
I know Im going to get a firm rebuff,
I feel like I should cry
As if I havent been humiliated enough.
Im all alone,
But wait...this doesnt quite seem...
The only one who didnt write a poem...
Oh, thank goodness its only a dream!
KT McMurray January 2009
Memories
Quietly riding back to the old sawmill
Whishing I could go back.
Smiling as I crest the last hill,
I want to stop, I give the reins slack.
All the memories here,
Of generations past
Friends, good times, probably a little beer,
Even as the people pass their memories will last.
My great grandpa who I never knew,
Working his footprints in this land,
My grandpa, uncle and dad too,
Now they leave their footprints in the sand.
I meet myself back when I was seven,
The crazy kid I was...still am
At the ripe old age of eleven.
Lost in the past, reliving old days, I come to the present with a bam.
KT McMurray January 2009
Whishing I could go back.
Smiling as I crest the last hill,
I want to stop, I give the reins slack.
All the memories here,
Of generations past
Friends, good times, probably a little beer,
Even as the people pass their memories will last.
My great grandpa who I never knew,
Working his footprints in this land,
My grandpa, uncle and dad too,
Now they leave their footprints in the sand.
I meet myself back when I was seven,
The crazy kid I was...still am
At the ripe old age of eleven.
Lost in the past, reliving old days, I come to the present with a bam.
KT McMurray January 2009
Times of Fun
Reminiscing those adventurous exciting days
All those fun times we spent
We always played our own weird ways
How those timely hours came and went
We played Barbie Dolls
Pretended to be wizards
Bounced on the trampoline with lots of falls
And tried to catch those fast, swift lizards
Now we e-mail
Run through the school halls
Loudly we wail and hail
So "maturely" shopping the crowded malls
Older are we now
Going about more important things
I still have that scar on my leg, but how?
Venturing with my audacious, euphoric cousin Ashleigh
By:Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
All those fun times we spent
We always played our own weird ways
How those timely hours came and went
We played Barbie Dolls
Pretended to be wizards
Bounced on the trampoline with lots of falls
And tried to catch those fast, swift lizards
Now we e-mail
Run through the school halls
Loudly we wail and hail
So "maturely" shopping the crowded malls
Older are we now
Going about more important things
I still have that scar on my leg, but how?
Venturing with my audacious, euphoric cousin Ashleigh
By:Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
Jackets
All sorts of fashionable, fabulous jackets
Awe and determination as I speculate each one
Other customers make a racket
People leave with a ton
Bombers, Knit tops, Sweatshirts
A hideous one I spot
Vomit green, silver, and "creatively" designed by Kirt
A sigh I push it aside
Dress coats, Shawls, Petticoats
This one costs a wonder
Intricate, Delicate with jewels shaping a sixteenth note
Sad fate as the other
Pick a lucky coat up, I try it on
It fits perfectly
Just my size, I feel like Genghis Khan
Then out I go from the store, for the world to see.
By: Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
Awe and determination as I speculate each one
Other customers make a racket
People leave with a ton
Bombers, Knit tops, Sweatshirts
A hideous one I spot
Vomit green, silver, and "creatively" designed by Kirt
A sigh I push it aside
Dress coats, Shawls, Petticoats
This one costs a wonder
Intricate, Delicate with jewels shaping a sixteenth note
Sad fate as the other
Pick a lucky coat up, I try it on
It fits perfectly
Just my size, I feel like Genghis Khan
Then out I go from the store, for the world to see.
By: Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
Music is Food
Music is Food
Powering our hungry body's
Determining our moods
And boosting exuberant creativity's
Listening and eating it up
Different types of fuel
Tasty delicacies from Gallup
Spiciness very cruel
Varieties of unique genres
Ten times all the types of spices
There are no music laws
iTunes knows the prices
Music can taste Hot, Spicy, Sweet or Sour
Treats to our humble ears
People jam all through the hour
New sounds for coming years
By:Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
Powering our hungry body's
Determining our moods
And boosting exuberant creativity's
Listening and eating it up
Different types of fuel
Tasty delicacies from Gallup
Spiciness very cruel
Varieties of unique genres
Ten times all the types of spices
There are no music laws
iTunes knows the prices
Music can taste Hot, Spicy, Sweet or Sour
Treats to our humble ears
People jam all through the hour
New sounds for coming years
By:Tatiana Benally 02/03/09
Apple Tree
Atop the tree are the few perfect fruit,
They are shiny, red and untouched,
Somewhere up there is the perfect suit,
Longing for their man so much.
Upon the ground lie the fallen many,
The shine worn from other use,
Rotten with bites a plenty,
Barely containing any juice.
You stand below, hunger so great,
Contemplating your two choices,
Climb and risk falling to your fate?
Or calming your inner cowardly voices?
So you reach down like most would do,
Leaving the tree top alone and blue.
Michael Scourey
They are shiny, red and untouched,
Somewhere up there is the perfect suit,
Longing for their man so much.
Upon the ground lie the fallen many,
The shine worn from other use,
Rotten with bites a plenty,
Barely containing any juice.
You stand below, hunger so great,
Contemplating your two choices,
Climb and risk falling to your fate?
Or calming your inner cowardly voices?
So you reach down like most would do,
Leaving the tree top alone and blue.
Michael Scourey
Monday, February 2, 2009
Numb
As I lay here, I cannot help but think
About life and who I am currently
Numb to everything surrounds. Can't blink
For fear the thing I am missing simply
Will pass me by. Is it something primal
The need for another body, heat source?
Surely not now, useless, it's criminal
My inhibitions' solutions force.
I may fight or try to ignore demands,
But the emptiness soon consumes ending
All my work. Pulling me from understand-
Ing how to fill this hole, stop my falling.
Now at the age of eighteen without any
Answers discovered I look to other,
More terrifying answers so many.
This is how I know, begin to shudder.
Everyone around me can now see it.
I have gone further than my body will
It starts to deny my form of treatment.
The systematic destruction kills.
Now all the poison exits my body
Empty once more, the need never ending.
-Ben Grimes
A Red Feather
(I just finished this. There are a few things I'd like to change, such as word choice, but other than that, I am happy with this.)
The glowing ambers are silent,
But inside still burns a fire.
Born not of rage, burning and violent,
But love, true, without strings or wire.
Like the Phoenix, with wise old gaze,
Eyes shine full of truth and passion.
For you, I soar, with wings ablaze,
Till my heart finds words to fashion.
The time we share, precious and dear,
Memories slip by, specks of joy
Like sand in the hourglass, held so near,
Between the two, this girl and this boy.
Like the Phoenix, fire anew,
Glistening brightly; I love You.
-Jeff Dougherty
The glowing ambers are silent,
But inside still burns a fire.
Born not of rage, burning and violent,
But love, true, without strings or wire.
Like the Phoenix, with wise old gaze,
Eyes shine full of truth and passion.
For you, I soar, with wings ablaze,
Till my heart finds words to fashion.
The time we share, precious and dear,
Memories slip by, specks of joy
Like sand in the hourglass, held so near,
Between the two, this girl and this boy.
Like the Phoenix, fire anew,
Glistening brightly; I love You.
-Jeff Dougherty
Ebony and Ivory
As I walk towards the faded black
years old memories
come flooding back...
The music, ebony, and ivory.
I remember parts of this
sitting down so carefully
ensuring not a single miss
as I played on ebony and ivory.
I place my hands
tentatively
Oh, make sure that this not lands
I pray to ebony and ivory.
I begin to play
forgetting these past memories
not the troubles of the current day
Only of the music, ebony and ivory.
~Vishaka Muhunthan - January 30, 2008
years old memories
come flooding back...
The music, ebony, and ivory.
I remember parts of this
sitting down so carefully
ensuring not a single miss
as I played on ebony and ivory.
I place my hands
tentatively
Oh, make sure that this not lands
I pray to ebony and ivory.
I begin to play
forgetting these past memories
not the troubles of the current day
Only of the music, ebony and ivory.
~Vishaka Muhunthan - January 30, 2008
Success
It is a power
that ignites
a willingness to bolster
those endless godforsaken fights.
It keeps us moving
when the going gets tough
to live for the next morning
after a night full of rough.
It makes us strong
an elixir of gin
however, I'd rather not prolong
the endless suppositions that one should always win.
It is aspiration
prowess
and action.
It is none other than mighty success.
~Vishaka Muhunthan - January 31, 2008
that ignites
a willingness to bolster
those endless godforsaken fights.
It keeps us moving
when the going gets tough
to live for the next morning
after a night full of rough.
It makes us strong
an elixir of gin
however, I'd rather not prolong
the endless suppositions that one should always win.
It is aspiration
prowess
and action.
It is none other than mighty success.
~Vishaka Muhunthan - January 31, 2008
The Passing of Power
The rivals face each other
concentrating on the face across the net
the victory must be a smother
there are appetites to be whet.
The battle is long
both soldiers fight well
but it's the challenger who is strong.
It's the defender's reoccurring, personal hell.
He kisses the trophy
tears in his eyes
but feels a touch of sympathy
for the man standing dejected at his side.
All I see is carrion
his dethroning is really quite saddening.
It signifies the fall of a champion
and the rising of a new king.
~Vishaka Muhunthan - February 1, 2009
concentrating on the face across the net
the victory must be a smother
there are appetites to be whet.
The battle is long
both soldiers fight well
but it's the challenger who is strong.
It's the defender's reoccurring, personal hell.
He kisses the trophy
tears in his eyes
but feels a touch of sympathy
for the man standing dejected at his side.
All I see is carrion
his dethroning is really quite saddening.
It signifies the fall of a champion
and the rising of a new king.
~Vishaka Muhunthan - February 1, 2009
The Light
The warmth shines down from up above
And floods the world with radiance
The stars return that lent glow of
The one who’s chosen as the Prince
Throughout the day the sun will shine
While shadows stay beyond His reach
And in the night there comes a time
When darkness reigns and won’t be breached
Then light will strive to ward it off
Without avail for now is when
In cloaks and shrouds the night will scoff
As light retreats into its den
Now light will hasten back to dawn
Creating day forever long
Beth Van Wie 2/2/09
And floods the world with radiance
The stars return that lent glow of
The one who’s chosen as the Prince
Throughout the day the sun will shine
While shadows stay beyond His reach
And in the night there comes a time
When darkness reigns and won’t be breached
Then light will strive to ward it off
Without avail for now is when
In cloaks and shrouds the night will scoff
As light retreats into its den
Now light will hasten back to dawn
Creating day forever long
Beth Van Wie 2/2/09
A Fallen Star
As she departs from her fellow luminates
she falls graciously from heaven to earth,
leaving behind past life's reminants,
traveling slowly to a place of Rebirth.
She resides in the darkness,
as the telescopes search for her ever changing position,
she soars across the sky, fearless.
No telescope can track her ambition.
She gradually drifts out of view,
but her remains still sparkle in the sky.
The telescopes can stil see her, but those who look become few.
She may be gone, but the spot she held will never die.
The lucky, unsuspecting astronomers who viewed her grace
will never find another star who will ever take her place.
-Olivia Yates
she falls graciously from heaven to earth,
leaving behind past life's reminants,
traveling slowly to a place of Rebirth.
She resides in the darkness,
as the telescopes search for her ever changing position,
she soars across the sky, fearless.
No telescope can track her ambition.
She gradually drifts out of view,
but her remains still sparkle in the sky.
The telescopes can stil see her, but those who look become few.
She may be gone, but the spot she held will never die.
The lucky, unsuspecting astronomers who viewed her grace
will never find another star who will ever take her place.
-Olivia Yates
With Him
Like a leaf in the breeze
My heart takes a turn
A bird hiding in trees
Evading the tears, my eyes start to burn
As I walk down the hall
I catch a gleam in Your eyes
Like a leaf about to fall
I remember our old times
For days on end I cried for You
Like a babe for an old Teddy
With all of this that I've gone through
To move on, I think I'm ready
As a smile grows upon His face
Your eyes escape my view
With Him, my hearts in a different place
With Him, I forget You.
-*LeArNiNg~FrOm~FaLlInG*
My heart takes a turn
A bird hiding in trees
Evading the tears, my eyes start to burn
As I walk down the hall
I catch a gleam in Your eyes
Like a leaf about to fall
I remember our old times
For days on end I cried for You
Like a babe for an old Teddy
With all of this that I've gone through
To move on, I think I'm ready
As a smile grows upon His face
Your eyes escape my view
With Him, my hearts in a different place
With Him, I forget You.
-*LeArNiNg~FrOm~FaLlInG*
The Place
There was a place,
Where I used to go,
Hidden away, on a mountain face,
All covered in snow.
There was a place where I used to go,
Just to get away.
And to learn what I did not know
And sometimes just to play.
But then they came,
Like some monstrous beast,
And ruined our peace, they are to blame
Upon our tranquility they feast.
And now that place,
Where I used to go,
No longer is hidden away, on that mountain face,
All covered in snow.
Christopher Robert Keizur, Jan 27, 2009
Where I used to go,
Hidden away, on a mountain face,
All covered in snow.
There was a place where I used to go,
Just to get away.
And to learn what I did not know
And sometimes just to play.
But then they came,
Like some monstrous beast,
And ruined our peace, they are to blame
Upon our tranquility they feast.
And now that place,
Where I used to go,
No longer is hidden away, on that mountain face,
All covered in snow.
Christopher Robert Keizur, Jan 27, 2009
The Land of Fog
Choking fog is all around,
And as I walk along the cold wet sand,
I can hear waves crashing, upon that sand they pound.
And I walk through the fog, through this land.
Few others have trod this path,
And yet I go on,
The wind howls, somehow I incurred its wrath,
Simply because I walk, from the rest of the world I am gone.
No advice reaches me, I am on my own.
No map to guide me,
Here I am alone.
But then I see,
The fog is abating, could it be true?
After all this, I might be okay?
Escape is drawing closer, somehow I always knew.
I just have to find my way.
Christopher Robert Keizur, Jan 25, 2009
And as I walk along the cold wet sand,
I can hear waves crashing, upon that sand they pound.
And I walk through the fog, through this land.
Few others have trod this path,
And yet I go on,
The wind howls, somehow I incurred its wrath,
Simply because I walk, from the rest of the world I am gone.
No advice reaches me, I am on my own.
No map to guide me,
Here I am alone.
But then I see,
The fog is abating, could it be true?
After all this, I might be okay?
Escape is drawing closer, somehow I always knew.
I just have to find my way.
Christopher Robert Keizur, Jan 25, 2009
you'll see them
in the blue sky so very high
their wings flap with melody
soaring above clouds flying by
with a bird and human similarity
god has made them they have praised him
thier job is to always watch over me
they fill my cup and raise me up
a unique species that are niether he or she
but some become heathens
beyond underground
anytime of season
you'll see them around
now i have reasons
to face my demons
Nick Meines
their wings flap with melody
soaring above clouds flying by
with a bird and human similarity
god has made them they have praised him
thier job is to always watch over me
they fill my cup and raise me up
a unique species that are niether he or she
but some become heathens
beyond underground
anytime of season
you'll see them around
now i have reasons
to face my demons
Nick Meines
Collateral Damage
She haunts me:
a thin, scarfed silhouette searching
for a face lost in history.
Abandoning her
to an uncertain fate
a pariah among her people.
We all look the same to her.
Our uniforms blend us
into shades of tan and brown.
Yet she hopes
and still searches
thinking one of us might be him.
She walks past, unescorted,
for a quick glace
avoiding eye contact
trying to preserve the disguise
of a lost dignity, a cultural rule
that was broken
and can never be mended
She stops at a distance
to search hopefully
for one recognizable sign:
how we stand or talk;
a vain hope,
then turns the corner
a slim, scarfed shadow.
A spirit.
And like a specter
she reappears to my left
where she began.
Moving at a measured pace,
a funeral walk,
towards me, then away.
Stops, observes, turns,
And reappears.
She continues this
haunting march
hoping he will call to her,
break the spell,
but the words will never come.
He is not there,
and she is alone.
None will walk with her now.
She reappears
a timid smile
moving towards us,
towards me
gracefully silent
hopeful
holding something to her breast.
She held out a picture
battered and creased, faded,
of a small group of
young American soldiers.
They were smiling and cocky.
Her treasure.
Especially one of them.
She pointed to him,
and raised her hand
in question.
Where was he? Did I know him?
Smiling, consoling,
I shook my head.
I did not know him, how to
contact him.
He was merely memory now,
a soldier passing through
history, and long gone home.
She stared with an intensity
that belied the tears
forming in her eyes
blinking,
and lightly touched her belly.
I knew then
he had ruined her somehow,
shamed her in the eyes of her people.
He was the reason
she walked alone,
lost,
without escort or friend.
A brave smile above a quivering chin,
she turns, a hint of jasmine,
and is blown down the street
to uncertainty
the unknown.
Another product of our
great democracy.
There is truth
in our believing
We cause greater harm
in our attempts to heal.
She is proof.
The silent, scarfed shadow
that haunts my life.
-Brent Nice 01/27/2009
a thin, scarfed silhouette searching
for a face lost in history.
Abandoning her
to an uncertain fate
a pariah among her people.
We all look the same to her.
Our uniforms blend us
into shades of tan and brown.
Yet she hopes
and still searches
thinking one of us might be him.
She walks past, unescorted,
for a quick glace
avoiding eye contact
trying to preserve the disguise
of a lost dignity, a cultural rule
that was broken
and can never be mended
She stops at a distance
to search hopefully
for one recognizable sign:
how we stand or talk;
a vain hope,
then turns the corner
a slim, scarfed shadow.
A spirit.
And like a specter
she reappears to my left
where she began.
Moving at a measured pace,
a funeral walk,
towards me, then away.
Stops, observes, turns,
And reappears.
She continues this
haunting march
hoping he will call to her,
break the spell,
but the words will never come.
He is not there,
and she is alone.
None will walk with her now.
She reappears
a timid smile
moving towards us,
towards me
gracefully silent
hopeful
holding something to her breast.
She held out a picture
battered and creased, faded,
of a small group of
young American soldiers.
They were smiling and cocky.
Her treasure.
Especially one of them.
She pointed to him,
and raised her hand
in question.
Where was he? Did I know him?
Smiling, consoling,
I shook my head.
I did not know him, how to
contact him.
He was merely memory now,
a soldier passing through
history, and long gone home.
She stared with an intensity
that belied the tears
forming in her eyes
blinking,
and lightly touched her belly.
I knew then
he had ruined her somehow,
shamed her in the eyes of her people.
He was the reason
she walked alone,
lost,
without escort or friend.
A brave smile above a quivering chin,
she turns, a hint of jasmine,
and is blown down the street
to uncertainty
the unknown.
Another product of our
great democracy.
There is truth
in our believing
We cause greater harm
in our attempts to heal.
She is proof.
The silent, scarfed shadow
that haunts my life.
-Brent Nice 01/27/2009
The Carousel
From a tinny box with the usual schmaltz
Comes the bittersweet tune of Musetta's Waltz.
Around and around the Carousel turns
And carries to ears who, remembering, yearn
For the giddy laughter of a starry-eyed girl
As she sat on a horse trimmed in ribbons that curled
A marv'lous steed with expression untame
And jewels on its browband, gold tassels and reins.
Now a tear trickles down a long-wrinkled cheek
The horses lilt softly, their eyes seem to speak
As lovers tarry hours, riding hand-in-hand,
Beside babes held steady by parents who stand,
'Till Carousel slows and Music winds to a fin -
Some get on, some get off, and again it begins.
-Siri Hammond
Comes the bittersweet tune of Musetta's Waltz.
Around and around the Carousel turns
And carries to ears who, remembering, yearn
For the giddy laughter of a starry-eyed girl
As she sat on a horse trimmed in ribbons that curled
A marv'lous steed with expression untame
And jewels on its browband, gold tassels and reins.
Now a tear trickles down a long-wrinkled cheek
The horses lilt softly, their eyes seem to speak
As lovers tarry hours, riding hand-in-hand,
Beside babes held steady by parents who stand,
'Till Carousel slows and Music winds to a fin -
Some get on, some get off, and again it begins.
-Siri Hammond
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Wait
The weight of my branches, I cannot hold;
The countless nights of chill and fog
have caused my branches to look very old.
Can you help me kind sir or the kind dog?
The man will walk, never hear my thought
above the howling wind, you see. It loves
to shadow every move, yet I cannot
combat the wind, with a golden glove.
O why o why can they not hear my cry?
Do I not sell the yell and the bellow?
Am I too quiet? Do branches not sigh?
A kind dog hears and offers a hello.
At last, a someone has perceived my please,
A soul who cares about the poor old trees.
~Helen
The countless nights of chill and fog
have caused my branches to look very old.
Can you help me kind sir or the kind dog?
The man will walk, never hear my thought
above the howling wind, you see. It loves
to shadow every move, yet I cannot
combat the wind, with a golden glove.
O why o why can they not hear my cry?
Do I not sell the yell and the bellow?
Am I too quiet? Do branches not sigh?
A kind dog hears and offers a hello.
At last, a someone has perceived my please,
A soul who cares about the poor old trees.
~Helen
Tick Tock
When one is perpetually stalked,
One will eventually fall. One can
Run and evade, but we are only man
And thus mortal. The eternal "tick tock"
Cannot be undone. Unlike Cold, life's clock
Cannot be fought, for time has its own plan.
Everyone, from young to old, is damned
To succumb to the talons of the hawk.
Though a predator time bay be, it forms
Us, defines us, builds us to who we are.
The Predator destroys and teaches you.
A wise mentor and a terrible storm,
Time is a unique force. Though it may mar
Us, it is part of our life, and death, and truth
-Alex Sirotzki
One will eventually fall. One can
Run and evade, but we are only man
And thus mortal. The eternal "tick tock"
Cannot be undone. Unlike Cold, life's clock
Cannot be fought, for time has its own plan.
Everyone, from young to old, is damned
To succumb to the talons of the hawk.
Though a predator time bay be, it forms
Us, defines us, builds us to who we are.
The Predator destroys and teaches you.
A wise mentor and a terrible storm,
Time is a unique force. Though it may mar
Us, it is part of our life, and death, and truth
-Alex Sirotzki
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Mediocrity
In the darkest dregs of suppressed uncertainty,
Where self-loathing sleeps and nightmares leak
Like blood into the blackness; a slitted mouth speaks
An epithet that goads and taunts; honoring your mediocrity.
It sings of how you feign lofty superiority
And hold your head above those others bleak
Who swarm around you; of how you, wavering, seek
To walk tall and hide your loathed insecurities,
When in truth there is only paste and gold paint
Holding you together; when you are ripped apart
By cruel and greedy hands, brought down a fallen saint
Who could not be less holy – the truth will your name taint,
For only bits of tulle and flimsy wire form a cage for your fragile heart
A heart that beats in vain to surpass Mediocrity’s constraints!
- Siri Hammond
Where self-loathing sleeps and nightmares leak
Like blood into the blackness; a slitted mouth speaks
An epithet that goads and taunts; honoring your mediocrity.
It sings of how you feign lofty superiority
And hold your head above those others bleak
Who swarm around you; of how you, wavering, seek
To walk tall and hide your loathed insecurities,
When in truth there is only paste and gold paint
Holding you together; when you are ripped apart
By cruel and greedy hands, brought down a fallen saint
Who could not be less holy – the truth will your name taint,
For only bits of tulle and flimsy wire form a cage for your fragile heart
A heart that beats in vain to surpass Mediocrity’s constraints!
- Siri Hammond
Blackened Love
If I could tear from you your false encumbrance
I would rend the shadows through and bring forth the real
And if in turn I soared away to the edge of distance
I would soar with the stars and the void at my heels
If I could peel away the chains, the restrains
In a moment, if I could, I would change the world
And if in that moment, a blank white page I became
In your open hands I would in happiness unfurl.
But you are bound in blackened love it seems
To troubles that love you more than I ever could
And the void, with razors clenched tightly it screams
For how could I in your limp hands have truly ever stood?
So I’ll dream, I’ll feel, I’ll love, and I’ll heal
Until the end of time, until my time love steals.
-Shashank
I would rend the shadows through and bring forth the real
And if in turn I soared away to the edge of distance
I would soar with the stars and the void at my heels
If I could peel away the chains, the restrains
In a moment, if I could, I would change the world
And if in that moment, a blank white page I became
In your open hands I would in happiness unfurl.
But you are bound in blackened love it seems
To troubles that love you more than I ever could
And the void, with razors clenched tightly it screams
For how could I in your limp hands have truly ever stood?
So I’ll dream, I’ll feel, I’ll love, and I’ll heal
Until the end of time, until my time love steals.
-Shashank
To Speak of Gods
We spoke of gods, so long ago when
By night round fires we sat with spears of stone
And ivory fashioned in morbid primeval chains
To the beat of the drums and the sound of the earth by moonlight.
Yet even now, when past those times
We have progressed, to a higher plane
of something, just what, god only knows,
we speak of them still; just what is it we seek?
Whatever it is, it matters less
Than even the weight of the world itself
Than the burden of human suffering alone
Itself, a mote in the eye of the grand scheme of it all.
For how many others, out there in the stars
Also speak of gods?
How many are there that cannot see
The truth in the non-purpose, the beautiful complexity.
The spirit of the universe is nothing more
Than an enchanting dance of matter and energy.
-Shashank
By night round fires we sat with spears of stone
And ivory fashioned in morbid primeval chains
To the beat of the drums and the sound of the earth by moonlight.
Yet even now, when past those times
We have progressed, to a higher plane
of something, just what, god only knows,
we speak of them still; just what is it we seek?
Whatever it is, it matters less
Than even the weight of the world itself
Than the burden of human suffering alone
Itself, a mote in the eye of the grand scheme of it all.
For how many others, out there in the stars
Also speak of gods?
How many are there that cannot see
The truth in the non-purpose, the beautiful complexity.
The spirit of the universe is nothing more
Than an enchanting dance of matter and energy.
-Shashank
Those Eyes
A diffuse chill wraps around my being
as the snow clouds around me fall from
this sky; no sight; no longer seeing
what made me look upon
those eyes.
As the snow clouds around me fall from
Your soul, I know just what you
made me; look upon this scroll
and hope you’ll learn to love,
not prize.
Not mine, no rhyme, no reason to taste
Or sense behind some veiled ignorance
Why you don’t see yourself as you should
As if whatever those were, they weren’t
False cries.
I hope one day you’ll realize
Just why I say what I do, and what I don’t
To tell you what I feel, and why I won’t
Just let you drown in your own self loathing, closing forever
those beautiful brown eyes.
-Shashank
as the snow clouds around me fall from
this sky; no sight; no longer seeing
what made me look upon
those eyes.
As the snow clouds around me fall from
Your soul, I know just what you
made me; look upon this scroll
and hope you’ll learn to love,
not prize.
Not mine, no rhyme, no reason to taste
Or sense behind some veiled ignorance
Why you don’t see yourself as you should
As if whatever those were, they weren’t
False cries.
I hope one day you’ll realize
Just why I say what I do, and what I don’t
To tell you what I feel, and why I won’t
Just let you drown in your own self loathing, closing forever
those beautiful brown eyes.
-Shashank
A Cerebral Dance
A cerebral dance, there was no movement
But my imagination began to run, what could it be
That set such lingering beauty free to me?
what warm reminder of our meaningless torrent?
A hand divine, or a structured abandonment?
What could it be? What had it been
That unto these heavens sprayed such a scene
Of motionless chaos, such inspirational stillness?
I look in your eyes, and these thoughts are borne
Forged deep within my heart; to look alone
Would have been enough, but I could have sworn
I saw you look back; and for a moment, our thoughts were one
Till then your eyes with my own sight I’d filled
But when you looked right back, my heart lay still.
-Shashank (Poetry dump time).
But my imagination began to run, what could it be
That set such lingering beauty free to me?
what warm reminder of our meaningless torrent?
A hand divine, or a structured abandonment?
What could it be? What had it been
That unto these heavens sprayed such a scene
Of motionless chaos, such inspirational stillness?
I look in your eyes, and these thoughts are borne
Forged deep within my heart; to look alone
Would have been enough, but I could have sworn
I saw you look back; and for a moment, our thoughts were one
Till then your eyes with my own sight I’d filled
But when you looked right back, my heart lay still.
-Shashank (Poetry dump time).
The Score
Black ink marks up the pages of my life,
the lines are as important as the white.
White spaces hold my future and my strife,
those things that are not yet within my sight.
Bass clef brings in the lows, the flats, the cries,
the sorrowful, grievous harmonies;
the chords diminished help display the lies:
deceptive thougts escape the lock and key.
The treble gets to keep the points so high:
our laughter-sweetened melodies of joy.
Adventures' notes are soaring through the sky
and major thirds with justice strike down ploys.
My life is but a complex music score
whose notes have kept me living evermore.
-Samantha
the lines are as important as the white.
White spaces hold my future and my strife,
those things that are not yet within my sight.
Bass clef brings in the lows, the flats, the cries,
the sorrowful, grievous harmonies;
the chords diminished help display the lies:
deceptive thougts escape the lock and key.
The treble gets to keep the points so high:
our laughter-sweetened melodies of joy.
Adventures' notes are soaring through the sky
and major thirds with justice strike down ploys.
My life is but a complex music score
whose notes have kept me living evermore.
-Samantha
Sing to me
Come, sing to me through my bedroom window,
Throw up a stone and lightly tap the glass.
I want a melody hummed from below,
Is a seranade too much to ask?
Come take my hand and lead me through the dark;
whisper sweet nothings into my ear.
Wisk me to our wonderland at the park,
Promise whenever I call you'll appear.
Come look with me at the bright starry sky,
hold tight my gaze while a promise you say:
"Together we'll jump into the heav'ns and fly,
and your love I will cherish ev'ry day."
Our love for each other will bond us tight
and forever we'll soar into the night.
-Samantha
Throw up a stone and lightly tap the glass.
I want a melody hummed from below,
Is a seranade too much to ask?
Come take my hand and lead me through the dark;
whisper sweet nothings into my ear.
Wisk me to our wonderland at the park,
Promise whenever I call you'll appear.
Come look with me at the bright starry sky,
hold tight my gaze while a promise you say:
"Together we'll jump into the heav'ns and fly,
and your love I will cherish ev'ry day."
Our love for each other will bond us tight
and forever we'll soar into the night.
-Samantha
Friday, January 30, 2009
Fluorescent Heart
It must be just as obvious
To everyone, they all must stare --
The way my poor fluorescent heart
Lights my translucent skin so fair.
I am trying, for the moment,
To mute my effervescent glow;
Last I tried, my filament went:
Connection broken, answer "no."
But if we get the chance, maybe
You'll try your bulb inside my heart
To see how well it beats in me.
I can't decide if this will thwart
The cycle: Light replacing light,
But I will soon know if I'm right.
To everyone, they all must stare --
The way my poor fluorescent heart
Lights my translucent skin so fair.
I am trying, for the moment,
To mute my effervescent glow;
Last I tried, my filament went:
Connection broken, answer "no."
But if we get the chance, maybe
You'll try your bulb inside my heart
To see how well it beats in me.
I can't decide if this will thwart
The cycle: Light replacing light,
But I will soon know if I'm right.
The Furrow in My Brow
When the casual days of leisure came
Abruptly to an end (they seemed eterne),
The times spent watching television tamed
The passion in my mind to soon return.
Instead of wishing, fondly wishing to
Look deeply in you animal-black eyes,
Your touch, your breath, they repulsed me. And through
My filter -- or, in other words -- my lies;
You saw my reluctance to speak idly
Of even which TV show I liked best:
Indifference, so opposite your wildly
Played passion, left me a horrible mess.
The sun has long set on our "perfect day,"
Harboring resentment won't make me pay.
Abruptly to an end (they seemed eterne),
The times spent watching television tamed
The passion in my mind to soon return.
Instead of wishing, fondly wishing to
Look deeply in you animal-black eyes,
Your touch, your breath, they repulsed me. And through
My filter -- or, in other words -- my lies;
You saw my reluctance to speak idly
Of even which TV show I liked best:
Indifference, so opposite your wildly
Played passion, left me a horrible mess.
The sun has long set on our "perfect day,"
Harboring resentment won't make me pay.
Past Complaints
My own small world, inside my own head --
I choose my own limit, my hands aren't tied.
The snow is falling softly now, I've fed
The waiting beast; down the slope, down I slide.
Into the mud on which frost is freezing,
One thought -- repressed -- seems about to emerge,
The fear contained within my heart seizing;
Rock bottom and I are nearly converged.
But the cause of my woes won't leave, I know,
'Til I beat the beast, 'til I pay his fee.
And my winter escape just goes to show,
I feel I'm never where I need to be.
Until, my dear, I learn my place is here:
The present, where future is rarely clear.
I choose my own limit, my hands aren't tied.
The snow is falling softly now, I've fed
The waiting beast; down the slope, down I slide.
Into the mud on which frost is freezing,
One thought -- repressed -- seems about to emerge,
The fear contained within my heart seizing;
Rock bottom and I are nearly converged.
But the cause of my woes won't leave, I know,
'Til I beat the beast, 'til I pay his fee.
And my winter escape just goes to show,
I feel I'm never where I need to be.
Until, my dear, I learn my place is here:
The present, where future is rarely clear.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
learning.
won't you make my heart grow
faster?
won't you make my soul fly
higher?
won't you make my dreams linger
longer?
I thought you would.
I thought you could.
instead my heart, it faltered
sooner
and my soul, it sank
lower
and my dreams, they flickered
sooner
because you wouldn't.
because you couldn't.
but now my heart is growing
wiser
and my soul is gliding
smoother
and my dreams taste much
sweeter -
because I will.
because I can.
- Siri Hammond 01/03/2009
(last one for today, I promise!)
faster?
won't you make my soul fly
higher?
won't you make my dreams linger
longer?
I thought you would.
I thought you could.
instead my heart, it faltered
sooner
and my soul, it sank
lower
and my dreams, they flickered
sooner
because you wouldn't.
because you couldn't.
but now my heart is growing
wiser
and my soul is gliding
smoother
and my dreams taste much
sweeter -
because I will.
because I can.
- Siri Hammond 01/03/2009
(last one for today, I promise!)
Blind Spots
I'm looking up,
I'm looking down...
I can't see behind me though --
Must be a blind spot.
If I could see behind me
I could probably stop
All the things like
Tears that don't really manifest,
Days that don't really go anywhere,
Feelings that don't actually mean anything.
Driving in the car
Is as close to the end as
I want to get.
I could crash in one wrong second.
Crash because I'm blind.
There are people in their cars
Tiptoeing brashly around me without
A thought of who I am or
Where I need to go.
Walking is safer,
Slower, but safer.
And even in a tide of people
Going all different directions,
Bumping legs and shoulders,
There is no accident worse than a
Bruise.
Bruising hurts though, so maybe I ought
To consider how I might see behind my back...
I want to look at that boy bad.
So bad that when he plays the drums
(Incidentally beating out the rhythm my heart makes)
I can't help but let all those times he told
Me
(With his mouth, with his eyes, with his back)
That he only liked people with skin like a sunset
Show up on my face.
The hurt is there
In the vulnerable
Protrusion of my lips.
It's the only thing I have...
If I were smart I would go for what I can
See straight ahead of me,
Out the windshield of my
Car, which has never seemed that safe.
There is a real blond head like a sunrise
And a face that makes me feel like
Chuckling very quiet,
Not loud enough for anyone to hear.
There isn't much noise in a dream...
I'm not happy, I'm not sad,
I'm an amoeba, caught in the sand
Of my own contempt for my
Passive state.
Where is the vibrance,
The brilliance,
The hate?
Peripheral vision makes
A boy
Look like a god.
Love isn't what you think it is,
It's just the blind spots,
The weak points
We have.
The Devil Gets His Due
The Devil Gets His Due
A windy,
cool, spring rain fell
clearing the air,
serpentining from the eaves
of the school.
Someone asked
if the class
could go play
in the fat drops of water.
I told her they
(the class)
would have to make a deal
with the Devil
(me).
Unaware
of how the Devil’s bargaining system works
the kids foolishly asked
what the payment
would end up being.
“That,” I said,
“Will be told later. So
is it a deal? Yes, or no?”
“Yeeees…”
I said they would probably lose interest
pretty quickly,
so I allowed for five minutes.
Payment would be due
upon return.
I avoid the rain’s touch
not wanting to ruin its sanctity,
for their sake.
As they crash through the doors with joyous shrieks
and scramble around
below me.
As expected,
they quickly run out of ideas
for play,
and I am saddened by the fact
that at the dawn of their lives
eighteen year olds
(for the most part)
have forgotten the simple joys
of playing. Breaking free
and embracing
the youthful fire
of merely being.
They stand around
suddenly feeling awkward,
exposed.
More like orphaned kittens
than young adults.
Marilyn Monroe
is standing in the corner
playing a scene from
The Seven Year Itch.
(You know the one…)
Others take faint stabs at games.
Playing tag
to relieve the awkwardness
but feeling all the more awkward
because it isn’t planned out
or compartmentalized.
or ready-made.
(Yes…rather sad.)
I relieve them
from this limbo.
Calling them in with
the usual adult saying,
“I told you so.”
Then
I see a curious,
joyful smile
as one young lady
takes time to look
at each wet footprint
she leaves behind her.
Peering back,
as she steps carefully,
to see the marks she leaves
vanishing, yet eternal.
The Devil has been paid in full,
and I am satisfied.
-Brent Nice 05/23/2008
A windy,
cool, spring rain fell
clearing the air,
serpentining from the eaves
of the school.
Someone asked
if the class
could go play
in the fat drops of water.
I told her they
(the class)
would have to make a deal
with the Devil
(me).
Unaware
of how the Devil’s bargaining system works
the kids foolishly asked
what the payment
would end up being.
“That,” I said,
“Will be told later. So
is it a deal? Yes, or no?”
“Yeeees…”
I said they would probably lose interest
pretty quickly,
so I allowed for five minutes.
Payment would be due
upon return.
I avoid the rain’s touch
not wanting to ruin its sanctity,
for their sake.
As they crash through the doors with joyous shrieks
and scramble around
below me.
As expected,
they quickly run out of ideas
for play,
and I am saddened by the fact
that at the dawn of their lives
eighteen year olds
(for the most part)
have forgotten the simple joys
of playing. Breaking free
and embracing
the youthful fire
of merely being.
They stand around
suddenly feeling awkward,
exposed.
More like orphaned kittens
than young adults.
Marilyn Monroe
is standing in the corner
playing a scene from
The Seven Year Itch.
(You know the one…)
Others take faint stabs at games.
Playing tag
to relieve the awkwardness
but feeling all the more awkward
because it isn’t planned out
or compartmentalized.
or ready-made.
(Yes…rather sad.)
I relieve them
from this limbo.
Calling them in with
the usual adult saying,
“I told you so.”
Then
I see a curious,
joyful smile
as one young lady
takes time to look
at each wet footprint
she leaves behind her.
Peering back,
as she steps carefully,
to see the marks she leaves
vanishing, yet eternal.
The Devil has been paid in full,
and I am satisfied.
-Brent Nice 05/23/2008
To Crystal
Your tears well up and though repressed, spill over,
As I struggle to think of what words I can say.
So I hold you and whisper what wisdom I have to offer
But what good can it do, when your friend died today?
A life’s been cut short, plucked too soon from the vine,
Full of promise, full of love, leaving grief that’s so pure,
A sorrow that dearly I wish instead could be mine,
For ‘tis cruelty, ‘tis injustice that it is you who must endure.
But instead I am lost and you’re right, ‘tis not fair -
And helpless I can only pretend to be strong,
For what more can I do, raise my voice up in prayer
To a God whose choice has surely been wrong?
For when all's said and done, I know not what to say,
For what comfort can I give, when your friend died today?
- Siri Hammond 01/26/09
As I struggle to think of what words I can say.
So I hold you and whisper what wisdom I have to offer
But what good can it do, when your friend died today?
A life’s been cut short, plucked too soon from the vine,
Full of promise, full of love, leaving grief that’s so pure,
A sorrow that dearly I wish instead could be mine,
For ‘tis cruelty, ‘tis injustice that it is you who must endure.
But instead I am lost and you’re right, ‘tis not fair -
And helpless I can only pretend to be strong,
For what more can I do, raise my voice up in prayer
To a God whose choice has surely been wrong?
For when all's said and done, I know not what to say,
For what comfort can I give, when your friend died today?
- Siri Hammond 01/26/09
Dancing Bird
He saw me dance on a makeshift stage
Of wildflowers and long grass sweet,
In a summer dress and callused bare feet -
So he brought me home in a golden cage.
I did not mind, was content to stay,
For my eyes and ears were all aglow,
Bewitched by hands like Michelangelo -
Not even a thought then, of flying away.
Then the gilding on the bars began to lose its shine,
And in me smoldered a fever that ran deep -
As if waking from a hazy sleep,
I saw the truth of that prison of mine.
So I fled, half-recovered from his drug induced trance,
to find once again the freedom to dance.
-Siri Hammond 01/28/09
Of wildflowers and long grass sweet,
In a summer dress and callused bare feet -
So he brought me home in a golden cage.
I did not mind, was content to stay,
For my eyes and ears were all aglow,
Bewitched by hands like Michelangelo -
Not even a thought then, of flying away.
Then the gilding on the bars began to lose its shine,
And in me smoldered a fever that ran deep -
As if waking from a hazy sleep,
I saw the truth of that prison of mine.
So I fled, half-recovered from his drug induced trance,
to find once again the freedom to dance.
-Siri Hammond 01/28/09
I know you...
Why do I know you? Why do I now what
You would have become? How can I know you
When I've never met you, for you were cut
Off, torn away from them? They barely knew
You, yet your worth surpassed anything they
Had known, just as the anguish they felt when
You died in their arms. He took you away,
He was to blame fro the pain felt within.
Though their scars still exist, their hatred of
Him faded; they found peace. As I listened
To them I finally knew why: their love,
their joy, and their pain they shared with me, and
Now I can see you, know you, as they do.
Yet most importantly. I can love you.
-Alex Sirotzki
You would have become? How can I know you
When I've never met you, for you were cut
Off, torn away from them? They barely knew
You, yet your worth surpassed anything they
Had known, just as the anguish they felt when
You died in their arms. He took you away,
He was to blame fro the pain felt within.
Though their scars still exist, their hatred of
Him faded; they found peace. As I listened
To them I finally knew why: their love,
their joy, and their pain they shared with me, and
Now I can see you, know you, as they do.
Yet most importantly. I can love you.
-Alex Sirotzki
Autumn Birds
Autumn Birds
The slender fingers of golden poplar trees
shadow a flock of shivering students,
and wave wistfully and stiff
in the cold breeze of autumn.
The students perch on my balcony,
gazing to the horizon,
then back, and to the horizon again.
Trying to find one significant something.
Some complain of cold, and huddle
together for warmth. Others protest
they can’t see anything, don’t understand.
Sparrows and chickadees needing encouragement.
Others intently survey the world.
Spotting a bit of red here, a tall structure
there, finding interest and exploring
the uniqueness of this small patch of world.
Eyes keen as the red-tailed hawk,
they dive upon ideas,
and write impressions
on frayed notebook paper.
Still others display a talent
for hiding themselves, disguised,
minds camouflaging genius behind simple humor.
Unwilling to display the color hiding beneath.
Perhaps the autumn breeze is too cold,
their fledgling wings unsure
of who they are. Still afraid
to lift their voices up in individual song.
But Spring will touch us soon.
I hope my birds will find the strength
to experience the world unencumbered
by the bounds of those they call friends.
-Brent Nice 11/07/2008
The slender fingers of golden poplar trees
shadow a flock of shivering students,
and wave wistfully and stiff
in the cold breeze of autumn.
The students perch on my balcony,
gazing to the horizon,
then back, and to the horizon again.
Trying to find one significant something.
Some complain of cold, and huddle
together for warmth. Others protest
they can’t see anything, don’t understand.
Sparrows and chickadees needing encouragement.
Others intently survey the world.
Spotting a bit of red here, a tall structure
there, finding interest and exploring
the uniqueness of this small patch of world.
Eyes keen as the red-tailed hawk,
they dive upon ideas,
and write impressions
on frayed notebook paper.
Still others display a talent
for hiding themselves, disguised,
minds camouflaging genius behind simple humor.
Unwilling to display the color hiding beneath.
Perhaps the autumn breeze is too cold,
their fledgling wings unsure
of who they are. Still afraid
to lift their voices up in individual song.
But Spring will touch us soon.
I hope my birds will find the strength
to experience the world unencumbered
by the bounds of those they call friends.
-Brent Nice 11/07/2008
Writing Lesson
Writing Lesson
A sea of varying shades and hues,
shaggy, short, manageable, spikey,
don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,
long and flowing…
Serious faces with down-cast eyes,
sometimes straying to see
another’s progress. Did I say
the right things? Have I written
enough? Something meaningful?
Confident, contemplative, often stern
glances challenging one
another to judge their words.
Hoping they performed the assignment correctly.
Trying to find the perfect word,
a way to stop, put on the brakes,
without sounding foolish.
Knowing there is no real ending.
Just a pause at the crest of the hill,
before the roller-coaster plunges down again.
How do I instill
the idea that there is no right or wrong,
rather, they take a risk
or short-change themselves?
That, in the end,
is the real lesson.
-Brent Nice 11/13/2007
A sea of varying shades and hues,
shaggy, short, manageable, spikey,
don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,
long and flowing…
Serious faces with down-cast eyes,
sometimes straying to see
another’s progress. Did I say
the right things? Have I written
enough? Something meaningful?
Confident, contemplative, often stern
glances challenging one
another to judge their words.
Hoping they performed the assignment correctly.
Trying to find the perfect word,
a way to stop, put on the brakes,
without sounding foolish.
Knowing there is no real ending.
Just a pause at the crest of the hill,
before the roller-coaster plunges down again.
How do I instill
the idea that there is no right or wrong,
rather, they take a risk
or short-change themselves?
That, in the end,
is the real lesson.
-Brent Nice 11/13/2007
Picture Window
Picture Window
My friends, the robins, have returned again,
perhaps confused by nature’s trickery.
They dance in pairs with snowflakes, then
roost in the frosty limbs of nearby trees.
How I miss your calls on dreary winter days;
the cheerful warble of each voice upon voice.
Bright flash of orange-red so well betrays
you have come by accident and not by choice.
So go my friends, this is no time for you.
Fly off to warmer, gentler climes than these.
As sure as Spring returns so shall you
again to chatter and flit in old fir trees.
Farewell my fragile friends, our time is ever brief,
stolen by solemn winter, the cold and heartless thief.
-Brent Nice, 01/24/2009
My friends, the robins, have returned again,
perhaps confused by nature’s trickery.
They dance in pairs with snowflakes, then
roost in the frosty limbs of nearby trees.
How I miss your calls on dreary winter days;
the cheerful warble of each voice upon voice.
Bright flash of orange-red so well betrays
you have come by accident and not by choice.
So go my friends, this is no time for you.
Fly off to warmer, gentler climes than these.
As sure as Spring returns so shall you
again to chatter and flit in old fir trees.
Farewell my fragile friends, our time is ever brief,
stolen by solemn winter, the cold and heartless thief.
-Brent Nice, 01/24/2009
It's Cold Outside
Have you ever stepped out in a place where
All feeling is lost, numbed, gone to the Cold?
Where Cold creeps through you, an icy cancer
Eroding you from within. Now you're pulled
Into the everlasting battle, doomed
To fall in the end, for you are only
Temporary, whilst Cold forever looms
On, an eternal plague set on slaying.
Yet hope remains for those who persevere.
Singularly we die, but as one whole
We are unending with nothing to fear.
If but one fights, our race is immortal
To any may oppose us. Remain.
Resist on, for it is never in vain.
-Alex Sirotzki
All feeling is lost, numbed, gone to the Cold?
Where Cold creeps through you, an icy cancer
Eroding you from within. Now you're pulled
Into the everlasting battle, doomed
To fall in the end, for you are only
Temporary, whilst Cold forever looms
On, an eternal plague set on slaying.
Yet hope remains for those who persevere.
Singularly we die, but as one whole
We are unending with nothing to fear.
If but one fights, our race is immortal
To any may oppose us. Remain.
Resist on, for it is never in vain.
-Alex Sirotzki
A Sonnet of Sarcastic Sleep
If I again from slumber wake too late
And glimpse just dream's far-distant rocky shore
Still will I think this madness is my fate?
Will I be damned to sleep forevermore?
A kingdom can't divorce itself from lore,
Nor months disgorge holidays from their date,
Nor can I make a couple hours more;
Why must I by this always arise late?
O prince! When you with tender darkness mate,
And bring your forsworn child to the fore,
Remember this! Let me its hunger sate!
Bring me swiftly to Morpheus' door:
For if I am condemned to lasting sleep,
Let it be repose blissful and deep.
- Ethan Osten
And glimpse just dream's far-distant rocky shore
Still will I think this madness is my fate?
Will I be damned to sleep forevermore?
A kingdom can't divorce itself from lore,
Nor months disgorge holidays from their date,
Nor can I make a couple hours more;
Why must I by this always arise late?
O prince! When you with tender darkness mate,
And bring your forsworn child to the fore,
Remember this! Let me its hunger sate!
Bring me swiftly to Morpheus' door:
For if I am condemned to lasting sleep,
Let it be repose blissful and deep.
- Ethan Osten
Can we, really?
Upon you we lay our hopes and our dreams.
Upon you we cast aside all our fears.
In you we find humanity still gleams.
It’s you we find beyond the veil of tears.
You came to us in times of desp’rate need.
Our land, our people full of utter strife;
By words of leaders, innocents did bleed;
The words of few destroyed many a life.
And then you came, and brought with you such change –
we could not help but see you and believe.
From coast to coast, our feelings shall arrange,
once you have mended us, our pains relieved.
In future they shall know how we began,
In hearts and minds one small phrase, “Yes we can.”
-Clara Walton
I know not what my fleeting glance perceives,
When probing obscure corners of my mind,
But something there of madness I conceive
Which flits not before my eyes, but behind!
The dragons of enchantment will not own
That we elected demons to Congress
The Devil as our President is known,
But to this truth no man would soon confess.
Yet know I well that all these things are real,
That our nation stands on the precipice;
And if we jump, the world itself will feel
The falseness of Obama's stately bliss!
For if I am mad, let it be said,
His words were worthless, but they were read.
-Ethan Osten
(Ethan's a jerk.)
Upon you we cast aside all our fears.
In you we find humanity still gleams.
It’s you we find beyond the veil of tears.
You came to us in times of desp’rate need.
Our land, our people full of utter strife;
By words of leaders, innocents did bleed;
The words of few destroyed many a life.
And then you came, and brought with you such change –
we could not help but see you and believe.
From coast to coast, our feelings shall arrange,
once you have mended us, our pains relieved.
In future they shall know how we began,
In hearts and minds one small phrase, “Yes we can.”
-Clara Walton
I know not what my fleeting glance perceives,
When probing obscure corners of my mind,
But something there of madness I conceive
Which flits not before my eyes, but behind!
The dragons of enchantment will not own
That we elected demons to Congress
The Devil as our President is known,
But to this truth no man would soon confess.
Yet know I well that all these things are real,
That our nation stands on the precipice;
And if we jump, the world itself will feel
The falseness of Obama's stately bliss!
For if I am mad, let it be said,
His words were worthless, but they were read.
-Ethan Osten
(Ethan's a jerk.)
At The Piano
To think of ivory piano keys -
That are yellow by clammy fingers stained,
Interspersed by interruptions in ebony -
Is to wonder how many before me remained
For hours, wandering aimlessly
Up and down this path of white stones,
Composing endless apologies:
For missed notes, for fumbling arpeggios.
So many of them had hardly been trained -
Like me, they managed to fake their way through,
And in earnest, what is it we have gained,
But a collection of melodies that barely we knew?
A lifetime spent searching for some ephemeral Grace -
Which few but those blessed can aspire to trace.
- Siri Hammond
That are yellow by clammy fingers stained,
Interspersed by interruptions in ebony -
Is to wonder how many before me remained
For hours, wandering aimlessly
Up and down this path of white stones,
Composing endless apologies:
For missed notes, for fumbling arpeggios.
So many of them had hardly been trained -
Like me, they managed to fake their way through,
And in earnest, what is it we have gained,
But a collection of melodies that barely we knew?
A lifetime spent searching for some ephemeral Grace -
Which few but those blessed can aspire to trace.
- Siri Hammond
An Ode to Splintered Tartlets
The great divide, the fractured crust we grasp
As the fruits spill out and leave their stains on you
The clean and gleaming marble; they poison and clasp
What remains of dignity, of trust and truth.
Yet when that divide I cross to reach that plane
With open arms and open hearts am I met
And the sweetness remains on the most heinous stain
As the fruits, though spilt, upon my plate softly set.
Then to which false conscience do we turn and shout
Perfection and virtue is the only way to stay?
When a pastry itself may turn our minds inside out
And upon our tongues a slice of vagueness lay, you see:
In the face of all the maddening waste we eye
Human suffering and love in a broken pie.
-Shashank Dwivedi
As the fruits spill out and leave their stains on you
The clean and gleaming marble; they poison and clasp
What remains of dignity, of trust and truth.
Yet when that divide I cross to reach that plane
With open arms and open hearts am I met
And the sweetness remains on the most heinous stain
As the fruits, though spilt, upon my plate softly set.
Then to which false conscience do we turn and shout
Perfection and virtue is the only way to stay?
When a pastry itself may turn our minds inside out
And upon our tongues a slice of vagueness lay, you see:
In the face of all the maddening waste we eye
Human suffering and love in a broken pie.
-Shashank Dwivedi
Creepers...
Do you know what it's like to be ignored?
Or are they all collapsing at your feet?
Do you suppose that all of us are meat?
Is contacting your friends so huge a chore?
When pleading voicemails fail to strike a chord,
When cajoling with only silence meets,
When it's made clear I'm not of your elite,
I must confess that I can get quite bored.
Ennui makes me turn to the internet.
Once there, at pictures of you I look.
Your wall-to-walls with others make me fret.
On Lil' Green Patch you swiftly got me hook'd.
I won't allow you to forget me yet.
In lieu of talk, I'll stalk you on Facebook.
-Clara Walton (who is really not this creepy)
Or are they all collapsing at your feet?
Do you suppose that all of us are meat?
Is contacting your friends so huge a chore?
When pleading voicemails fail to strike a chord,
When cajoling with only silence meets,
When it's made clear I'm not of your elite,
I must confess that I can get quite bored.
Ennui makes me turn to the internet.
Once there, at pictures of you I look.
Your wall-to-walls with others make me fret.
On Lil' Green Patch you swiftly got me hook'd.
I won't allow you to forget me yet.
In lieu of talk, I'll stalk you on Facebook.
-Clara Walton (who is really not this creepy)
An Emotional Spotlight
In the fragile way she has, she tries:
She shows her weakness, followed with kisses,
But her arm, like her heart, barely misses -
His ego excused a whole train of lies.
She possesses one play, and this she buys.
With blue and white outfit fond in the misses,
She struts down the aisle, hoping it pisses
Her squad members off; she's sealed her demise.
Typically disappointing, his soirees
Left her looking heavenward, and the scars
She knew came later provoke me to say
That maybe what her eyes see is the stars.
Because although he left her, white and whey,
Her eyes still turn upwards, her trite memoirs.
-Chloe Haagen
She shows her weakness, followed with kisses,
But her arm, like her heart, barely misses -
His ego excused a whole train of lies.
She possesses one play, and this she buys.
With blue and white outfit fond in the misses,
She struts down the aisle, hoping it pisses
Her squad members off; she's sealed her demise.
Typically disappointing, his soirees
Left her looking heavenward, and the scars
She knew came later provoke me to say
That maybe what her eyes see is the stars.
Because although he left her, white and whey,
Her eyes still turn upwards, her trite memoirs.
-Chloe Haagen
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