fifteen; the garden

Raindrops like tsunamis
erode canyons in our earth;
we sway, bend, bow to Light Giver.

After the rainstorm ends
our roots absorb Life Liquid;
our petals slowly shine shine shine.

The Spider and the Butterfly
emerge from their hidden home;

Weaving webs of green and new life
and fluttering up, away;

Light Giver breaks forth, shattering
clouds as her face peers through the carnage;

Our stems wave, our petals shake
because the winds embrace our bodies;

we are not alone.

we are those who pepper the mountainside
and feed the beasts who circle around us;
we grow and pollinate, with time to bide
before the Cold Time will kill us.

we live together, amongst the Garden
turning our faces to the sky;
day after day we beg your pardon
before we are picked and die.

fourteen; chess

i don’t ever want us to be anything but what we are
i can’t imagine us
being anything but what we’ve grown to be

and i hate how you always say you’re sorry
when it’s my fault we’re in this mess

our chess pieces are mirrored
but something’s wrong
and a stalemate is where we’ve met

on a battlefield of hurt feelings and
emotions that don’t belong

our pieces move in tandem
yet we’re broken somewhere in the
middle

but i can’t remember how to feel

thirteen; we are, we are

like footsteps on pavement
in suburban city streets
we are natural, we are comfortable, we are content

like warm fires at night
in fireplaces at our feet
we are calming, we are reassuring, we are safe

like books on shelves
in the library of our hearts
we are close, we are ancient, we are bound together

and like the curtains on the windows
in the old home we used to share
we are hiding, we are translucent, we are faded by the sun.

twelve; growing up

I don't really have much to say. So. I hope this speaks for itself.


our shapes are those of phantoms
who phase through emotions (like walls)

and pretend that spikes are cotton swabs
and moving on is like eating your favorite meal

and fire is nothing but the burning in our souls
moving away like two compasses gone awry

we were a pair, inseparable as siamese twins
and now our silhouettes are drawing away

so long, sweet summer;
your rays of warmth are long dead; my heart grows chilly

you are who you are now

and growing up hurts more than I ever thought it would

eleven; cardboard

I'm sorry I suck so much :( I totally forgot about this. :| This past week has been busy as hell. No parents are home, so I've been running around like crazy. Here's something I just wrote. A few minutes ago, completely unedited.

and when you lie to me, tell to me
the things you know I want to hear
I just can’t – won’t
trust you anymore.

we’re falling apart
like a house decays with age

and

we were once made
of stone, never weathered or
eroding

but now

we’re cardboard boxes in the rain
and if you only knew
that I would shield you from this storm
and if you only knew
that I don’t because I don’t know

if you want me to
like I want to
or if you want what
I could never give

but it breaks my heart

ten; a mother that cares

So, I'm super slack and forgot to post yesterday. :| Sorry, guys. I suck. And today really sucked, and I hurt my foot, and my stomach is aching so I'm feeling really uninspired and I just want to go to bed. Happy fourth, everyone.

Upon the hallowed halls of the Vatican,
Clipped the heels of a woman, hand to her bodkin.
A man in fur, vision of her nightmares,
Brings her to Italy, to make her repairs.
At home in Brooklyn she slinked her street,
Committing sins so her son can eat.
Mary was her name, ironic in origin,
She fled her early home, that desolate dungeon,
To make a new life, away from there,
And she comes full circle, making a prayer.
She takes a knee, eyes to the Lord,
Feeling the tightening of her metaphorical cord,
Around her neck, where she placed it ere,
In her duty as a mother to care,
For her son, the child of a man she loved.
She pledged her soul to her beloved above.

nine; like bars

This is one of my pieces written during Calculus class (; It's focus is on friendship, and the...issues that come with it. I think tomorrow I may post a full explication of the work, because for one, I don't feel like typing it up, and for two, the poem + explication is a little much for one day :P

friends make lines (bars)
between
one – two – three five

but four;
if I wanted four as
unattainable goals
(including those unseen)

I could cut, scissor, slash
apart (bars)
but bars don’t break;

bars melt like molten
words

and I’m left behind
(bars)
where four is
unattainable.

eight; a clean break

I don't really know what to say about this one. Tell me how it makes you feel? :)

A glimpse of a calm scene
Never lasts more than a second
For once, my love is a burden
Suffering, my heart threatens to burst.
I lay alone on the icy floor.
Betraying me, my heart thunders,
Purple veins bulge warm and thick
I don’t believe a word you say.
A light flickers on in the distance
Guilty circles run round in my head.
I heave a breath
Putrid odor burns the air
Look at myself, yourself, us –
perfect?
I tried to kill, the fire roars
I saved you instead, perfectly
Lonely I cried out, grief-stricken.
Alone, hope flew in through my open window.
Evil vanquished in the dead of night.
Triggered in silence, God swooped.
Struck, crazed, air-tight.
Salvation imminent, outstretch.
Hide, eat your heart out full of sorrow.
Shot by remorse and I pull the trigger.
Paralyzed, strong inside.
Color flooded my eyes and
ruby was my visage.
Right through me and smothered.
Vases sliding off tables shatter.
For one second I’ll keep you tight.
Kiss one last time, speak in half-lies.
Eternity blossomed in a rose bud.
Clench dead fingers to an iron heart.
“a clean break” I screamed.
It’s not time, it’s not hate, it’s just over.
Head in icy fingers, mirror smashes.
A bite from an apple and the worm arrives.
You can’t kill me, it’s not over.
Steal my heart, arms outstretched
lips cold, trickle blood
a rose on my chest, eyes squeezed tight.
A clean break.

seven; the circus

So the other day, my friend Michelle (and an anon commenter) said that one of my poems was a bit "bad touch" as in, pedophilia/rapist. Therefore, I decided to post my poem that actually IS bad touch. Violaa~

At the circus,
children scream
delight, delight.

They squeal and laugh,
and run past
in blurs of joy.

Shadows shiver,
creep and crawl.
Someone is there.

Cotton candy
fills your head,
while he comes close.

Again you turn,
his arms open;
where are you now?

Dark, deaf, and blind;
at his mercy,
judgment does come.

Before you can
scream for help,
where are you now?

Screaming for mom,
lost and dazed,
what just happened?

For seven years,
you think daily
of the circus.

six; groceries

This is a short story I wrote a long time ago for Literary Club. It's kind of awkward, and I haven't even read through it in a long time, but you know what? I don't care. Tell me what you think.

True held his mother’s hand tightly. His wide, striking blue eyes surveyed the scenery out the window of the bus. His fingers traced the contours of the hand which held his. He felt safe in her grasp, and smiled to himself. He turned to look at her, and found her boredom-filled eyes staring blankly ahead. He attempted to see what she was looking at, but was too short to see very well over the seat, and decided to forget it. Leaning forward slightly, he peered around his mother’s slight form. His blue eyes met those of a man sitting across from them. The man’s eyes were a dark, chocolate brown, and seemed to smile without the man having to do anything but look around. He wore naught more than rags, but he made up for his obvious poverty with his purity of soul. True could look at the man and see that he could do no harm. True smiled genuinely at the stranger, who suddenly looked down, as though he could feel himself being watched. The man’s warm brown eyes lit up at the sight of True looking at him. He grinned as well, and bent to bring his face in line with True’s. He winked, and True let out a giggle.
His mother looked down, to see her laughing child looking across her to a completely strange man. He smiled, and looked up at her. He met eyes with her, and said; “Ma’am, I’d say that’s a right nice boy you got there.”
She furrowed her eyebrows, jerking True back against the seat with her hand. She glared at the man, whose warm brown eyes widened in surprise. To True’s mother, however, those same eyes were full of nothing but lies and deceit. She was already throwing up her guards, ready to fend off any attempt at an advance that he made. True felt confused, and tugged on his mother’s sleeve, asking why she had pulled him back from the nice man. She shushed him and pulled him to his feet with much more gusto than was needed, and stepped off the bus as it arrived at their stop. The market.
True continued to pester his mother, until she pulled him to the side of the sidewalk and knelt down next to him.
“That was not a nice man, True,” she said, harshness in her voice. “You saw the way he dressed; he was obviously a danger to society!”
True remembered the man’s less than nice clothes, and looked down with shame at his own. He had only a few different shirts, and had worn his least dirty one to go out into public. His pants had holes in the knees, and what shoes he wore were so thin he might as well have not worn any at all. He briefly wondered if that meant he was a danger to society too. His clothes obviously did not bode well, but he felt they were not much better than what the man on the bus wore. His eyes clouded, and he thought of what his mother said. He continued thinking about it as she stood up and dragged him down the road to the entrance of the market.
They stepped in, and True’s mind was suddenly clear of worry as all the shiny objects that littered the tables entered his view. He grinned a boyish grin, and tried to dash away to where he saw a very old, tired looking black woman weaving baskets. He found himself jerked back instead, the grip on his hand tighter than ever. His body ached to go look at the baskets, but his mother’s restraining grip would not permit it. Instead, he glumly watched her fret over prices of foods, and listened to her attempt to haggle the prices to an affordable place.
It was after a moment that he realized his mother’s continuous stream of whines and negotiations had stopped, that he looked up. He found his hand empty.
It was all he could do not to scream. He felt abandoned, He turned and twisted, looking for a familiar waist to cling on to. He saw naught but a sea of unfamiliar bodies and not a single mother’s hip in sight. He started to run, hoping he could catch up with her, if only she had just left. He knocked into a man, and rebounded into a woman. Cries of indignation rose up as he tried to hurry his way through the crowd. He broke free into a small space of air, where no one appeared to be standing. He glanced around, and saw two people leaning against the pale, faded pink stone wall. He instantly recognized the face of his mother, and dashed up to her. He threw his arms around her waist, saying, “Mommy! Mommy I thought you left me!”
His mother looked down to see her son clinging to her. She rolled her eyes and unstuck him from her. She held his hand again, muttering about children overreacting.
Her eyes instead traveled up to the man in front of her. He was tall. Taller than True’s mother, which was a feat, in True’s eyes. He had short, messy brown hair, and very small, beady eyes. He glanced down at True, whose piercing blue eyes bored holes in those of the man. True suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and ran to the side of the road to retch. Even in an open air market, where everyone is pushing everyone else, people notice when a small boy retches loudly into a drain. At least, most people do.
True looked up from his puddle of sick to see his mother still chatting happily with the man who had caused True his sickness. His eyes suddenly felt full of tears, and he sat back on his haunches, willing himself not to cry. He didn’t want to look like a baby, especially if his mother saw. She always got irritated when he cried in public, but at home she comforted him. He crawled to the wall in which his mother was engaging the beady eyed man, and sat back against it. He took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself. No one stopped even for a moment to see if the red eyed, pale faced, sickly eight year old was okay. He closed his eyes, but only for a moment. He kept them instead on his mother, who he was afraid might leave him at any moment. Instead, she eventually turned away from the man, flashing him a smile and a wink, and stomped over to True. She picked him up by his arm and pulled him away into the crowd.
They made their way home by foot instead, all the while True being pulled along by the arm, while his mother carried a bag of groceries in the other.
“Mommy, do you want me to carry the groceries?” True asked, after a few moments of silence.
She did not respond.
True waited a while before repeating his question. This time, she stopped completely, and let go of True’s arm. Before he had time to react, she shoved the bag upon him, knocking him over backwards. A bottle of something fell out and smacked him in the head, followed by the entire contents of the shopping bag. Spilled out across the sidewalk, the goods were ruined. True hurriedly tried to stand up, and nearly fell down again. His head throbbed, and his vision swam. He looked up into his mothers eyes to find them furious. He quickly bent to try to salvage the still unbroken jars, and he hastily shoved them in the bag, as his mother began to storm away down the street. He grabbed what more he could, and, hefting the bag in front of him, trying not to drop it, he hurried after his infuriated mother.
For thirty-seven blocks she stormed ahead, quickly stomping. True tried to hurry as best he could, without dropping anymore produce items. When they got separated by a street light, he danced nervously, trying not to start crying. He didn’t know exactly the way home, and most certainly didn’t want to lose his mother, or the groceries, or his way. He ran after her, noticing that she not once glanced back to see if he was following. She stomped up the front steps of their faded yellow house and slammed the front door open. She also slammed it behind her, which True barely heard, huffing and puffing his way down the street, as fast as his small, tired legs could carry him.
He got to the door, and opened it gingerly, bringing the bag in with him. He went to the refrigerator, which was stuck shut, and pried it open enough to get the cold items in. By now they were lukewarm items, but he wanted to try anyway.
He heard his mother in their room, muttering angrily to herself, so he went outside and sat on the front porch step.
He stared morosely at the unkempt lawn, remembering when his father used to play with him in it. He sighed, squeezing his eyes tight, and permitting only a single tear to touch his lip, before letting himself go, with wracking sobs.

five; chronicle

Another one of my favorites. This piece was originally one large work, but I felt as though the entirety simply felt too disjointed to be flowing enough for a single work. so I took them apart, carefully, and together they work better when read as parts of a whole, I think. It's sort of...a journey.

Preface
A loss of time. Infinity. a blur; a face
A hook and anchor. my sails aloft, full.
My hometown gone, woods thickly green.


I
I’m here, I’m there
where are you?
A dandelion in winter,
icy fragile, bittersweet
longing
A world apart, but
inches away. grasping
gasping
for air. Smile wanly,
touch the clouds. Hooked on with a string
weigh me down
make me free


II
hands, pale touching
a car, not mine
a sound, too loud
gone, fingertips in blizzards
empty chairs, half filled hearts
walking by without a glance; passed.


III
Begin again, Romeo- I lack the strength.
up down up down, left
Egypt seems familiar now
chariots on wings with me and fire; aloft, full
touch of ice in the desert
a single cloud – nimbus, cirrus, cumulus
a shadow cloud


IV
Voices, chords of heaven - down on leaves and sea
yellow gold and white - calm, nurture


Epilogue
Return, go back, be gone
green, in all and oxygen abide
how it should be
be strong - don’t hide
This is how it should be.

four; starlight

This is just a little teensy poem that came to me a while back, while thinking about how senior year was almost over. (:


the end draws near, our last days together dwindling
like the last vestiges of light at dusk.
soon, we will see the stars.

three; song of silence

This work is something I really enjoyed writing, and really just came from nowhere. Inspired mostly, I think, by the rushing feel of being alone in an empty field, the wind whipping about you, and the feel of something much more, something magnanimous about you. Something you can't understand; something special and magical, even.



From far away I can hear you
As the full moon rides on Her journey
Across a gossamer sky
A soft, wild wind surrounds me
Calls to me
Beckons me
to come and play awhile
There are secrets in the air that only Those who listen know
A wind filled with silent communication
This wind holds echoes
Of little girl giggles
And grown men’s laughter
And the deep, rich silence
That takes a lifetime to build.

oneandahalf; a rosen summer evening

The poem I posted two days ago, A Rosen Summer Evening, has a choral counterpart, written by my friend Zachary Cotton. You can find his choral composition of the work here, at his blog:

http://albinoechidnamusic.blogspot.com/2010/06/rosen-summer-evening.html

two; we stalk by night, we inspire by day

Something Halloween-inspired. Sorry I missed today. It's actually 2:41AM and I just got home, so I haven't gone to bed yet...therefore in my mind it's still the 25th. You'll have to deal (:

cold
the night air is.
I shiv-er and s.h.a.k.e
and the ground starts to q.u.a.k.e

ghosts
walk the streets
and I pass them – blind
a mummy staggers. the road is lined

icy
and the sunshine stripes
glare at me as I cross them, eyes
ever upward. the frigid, darkening skies

open to reveal
every-
thing
and yet –

nothing at all except for what is inside your mind and
nothing at all except for what you want to believe but
everything that you’re scared of in the night and
everything that you wish never existed but can’t control


Sunrise breaks and brings a new day,
it falls through the trees and leads a new way.

one; a rosen summer evening

I figured I'd go ahead and start the posting with one of my favorite works. Generally different from my usual tone, but something I feel really came from the heart.


Alas, the crimson –
waves
of the evening sun
wa – sh;

they create bars –
streams
of light to fall and
(cascade)
across my face;

soft breathing; whispers
flow
slowly – leisurely – and in pink
(caress)
the soft edges
and hard corners

of a looking glass that
churns
whirls
turns
like an (o c e a n) of uncertainty

through my window

To start things off.

This is just a first post to ensure I understand how to fully work this website (It's my first time here!). Feel free to subscribe to my feed, and I hope that you all feel free to critique (constructively) and comment on your opinions about the works that will be posted here. :)

First official post will probably be tomorrow or Saturday. (: