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

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

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

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

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).

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.)

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

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

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)

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