I wrote this while sitting in the middle of the quad on my college campus, while I don't remember what the assignment was. It was for Writers Reading Poetry. I handed in a revised version as part of the final with suggestions the professor made, and while he is very talented, I, for some reason, liked this version better.
Into You
Even blaring headphones create a silence
as the bay breeze chills and thrills.
Starting to feel like fall, I wish it would appear the same;
the trees still green with envy, as well as I.
Clouds are a foggy grey for once in a long while;
only a few bodies pass by as the rest are fighting sleep,
the sun playing peekaboo as it brings slight warmth,
and I jump as the bell tolls half past.
The silence is broken for a moment or so.
Re-emerging September air sweeps my hair across my face and gently, I push it back,
so if only for a little while, I can maybe see more clearly.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Your 5-Step Program For Me.
This was an assignment in Writers Reading Poetry where we had to somehow use the five senses to describe something. The subject of the poem is pretty self-explanatory.
Your 5-Step Program For Me
My face is red, flushed and flustered;
I look at you in disbelief.
My rage streams clumsily in breathless tears,
fluttering down my pre-aging skin.
I wish there was a way for you to see
this pain that makes me fight for nothing;
but is it really nothing?
A rise of frustration asking myself such
makes me tense, painfully sore, unbearably weak.
You make me want to run away,
but your eyes let me do nothing but stand perfectly still;
your gaze tells me you know I won’t move.
Now, I’m in shock from the lack of control;
you have this power without a reason why,
and it chills me to my aching bones.
I’m scared not knowing what will become of me
since I’m granting you your 6th second chance;
because lights that reside at most tunnels’ ends,
have begun to shine on you.
Your 5-Step Program For Me
My face is red, flushed and flustered;
I look at you in disbelief.
My rage streams clumsily in breathless tears,
fluttering down my pre-aging skin.
I wish there was a way for you to see
this pain that makes me fight for nothing;
but is it really nothing?
A rise of frustration asking myself such
makes me tense, painfully sore, unbearably weak.
You make me want to run away,
but your eyes let me do nothing but stand perfectly still;
your gaze tells me you know I won’t move.
Now, I’m in shock from the lack of control;
you have this power without a reason why,
and it chills me to my aching bones.
I’m scared not knowing what will become of me
since I’m granting you your 6th second chance;
because lights that reside at most tunnels’ ends,
have begun to shine on you.
The Best Advice I Could Give.
This was a pantoum I did for Intro. to Poetry and we had to take the lines from another source, and the theme had to be about love. I used lines from famous movies.
The Best Advice I Could Give
Don't cry at the beginning of the date.
Kiss me as if it were the last time.
You'll always know when the right person walks into your life.
It's up to you to make it happen.
Kiss me as if it were the last time.
Love won't obey our expectations.
It's up to you to make it happen.
You are what I never knew I always wanted.
Love won't obey our expectations.
We aren't right for anyone else.
You are what I never knew I always wanted.
In the end it all comes down to one.
We aren't right for anyone else.
The world kind of magically faded away.
In the end it all comes down to one.
He was the one thing I followed.
The world kind of magically faded away.
You'll always know when the right person walks into your life.
He was the one thing I followed.
Don't cry at the beginning of the date.
The Best Advice I Could Give
Don't cry at the beginning of the date.
Kiss me as if it were the last time.
You'll always know when the right person walks into your life.
It's up to you to make it happen.
Kiss me as if it were the last time.
Love won't obey our expectations.
It's up to you to make it happen.
You are what I never knew I always wanted.
Love won't obey our expectations.
We aren't right for anyone else.
You are what I never knew I always wanted.
In the end it all comes down to one.
We aren't right for anyone else.
The world kind of magically faded away.
In the end it all comes down to one.
He was the one thing I followed.
The world kind of magically faded away.
You'll always know when the right person walks into your life.
He was the one thing I followed.
Don't cry at the beginning of the date.
Goodbye, autumn.
I wrote this for Writers Reading Poetry...not sure exactly what the assignment was.
Goodbye, autumn.
As days fall crisp and breezy, gloves and coats
emerge from darkened closets. Chilled apple cider is
the seasonal treat, tasting sweet
through all its’ bitterness. Then there’s the night of
candy and spooks, sending kin on a never-ending dash
for sugar-induced insanity, snuffing the silence parents rarely hear.
Leaves morph into colors other than their norm, dying to protect
the also-dying ground beneath. Their assumed slumber becomes disturbed
as they are jumped upon and carelessly thrown. Soon though,
I will wake to Jack Frost, and scarves will shield my faded cherry
nose. When the first snow begins to fall, I’ll be welcoming to
frigidness like it’s just another day.
Goodbye, autumn.
As days fall crisp and breezy, gloves and coats
emerge from darkened closets. Chilled apple cider is
the seasonal treat, tasting sweet
through all its’ bitterness. Then there’s the night of
candy and spooks, sending kin on a never-ending dash
for sugar-induced insanity, snuffing the silence parents rarely hear.
Leaves morph into colors other than their norm, dying to protect
the also-dying ground beneath. Their assumed slumber becomes disturbed
as they are jumped upon and carelessly thrown. Soon though,
I will wake to Jack Frost, and scarves will shield my faded cherry
nose. When the first snow begins to fall, I’ll be welcoming to
frigidness like it’s just another day.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Like Heaven
I know this may sound odd, but this was my second poem for Contemporary American Poetry that I made as an elegy to Heath Ledger. I was never a huge fan of his, but thought he was a great actor and this is an account of my reactions that I felt when I found out he had died. The title is a reference to his role in "10 Things I Hate About You" when he sings to Kat.
Like Heaven
The spotlight shone upon you for
strongly defending a forbidden love that
made you weak, and for being the knight
in shining armor that stole girls’ fairy tale
hearts. Your rebellion was just a phase
until you were called out on the ten things
that she hated about you. You fought against
the norm to make yourself a revolution, and
you sacrificed yourself for the most recent
role you got to play, taking your sense of
humor a bit too seriously. 3:26 is the time
I will always remember as the moment
when I lost all hope for the rest of us when
tomorrow’s legend would never wake up.
Like Heaven
The spotlight shone upon you for
strongly defending a forbidden love that
made you weak, and for being the knight
in shining armor that stole girls’ fairy tale
hearts. Your rebellion was just a phase
until you were called out on the ten things
that she hated about you. You fought against
the norm to make yourself a revolution, and
you sacrificed yourself for the most recent
role you got to play, taking your sense of
humor a bit too seriously. 3:26 is the time
I will always remember as the moment
when I lost all hope for the rest of us when
tomorrow’s legend would never wake up.
Everywhere's Winter
This was my first poem for Contemporary American Poetry in the Spring 2008 semester.
Everywhere's Winter
Silence is usually golden, but
has turned to an angelic white.
Red fogs across the muffled sky,
and moonlight the shade of periwinkle gives
a different shade to all that lies as shadows.
Speckles appear only in lights’ eyes, and
then in ours for the duration of a fluttering lash;
and for the time that the chill saturates our skin,
the chill outside seems much the same
as everything freezes to a healthy glow.
Everywhere's Winter
Silence is usually golden, but
has turned to an angelic white.
Red fogs across the muffled sky,
and moonlight the shade of periwinkle gives
a different shade to all that lies as shadows.
Speckles appear only in lights’ eyes, and
then in ours for the duration of a fluttering lash;
and for the time that the chill saturates our skin,
the chill outside seems much the same
as everything freezes to a healthy glow.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
#6.
This was a poem I wrote a couple weeks after watching Bill Buckner walk with tears in his eyes to throw the first pitch at the Red Sox home opener.
#6
Ever since my three months from coming into
this world, I still appreciate what you did
that night, breaking a number of hearts,
but granting a miracle to especially one. I was
in the room with him and kicked in excitement,
wishing I could see what all the fuss was about
as my identical, parental counterpart engaged in
such a leap of faith that almost broke one of his strong,
comforting hands on the wooden beam that gave the
ceiling a seventies-retro persona when the rest of the
world had moved on to 1986. While it was a couple of
terrible twos working against them when it came to
runs and outs, it was the singles that made all the difference.
Fans a little bit further North became tongue-tied
and tortured as their troubled team looked as though
they’d stay that way for another eighteen years. The only
other time his team had triumphed was when he had that many
years behind him, and this time would be the last time for him.
Now, as a fan whose heart you would have broken, I cried as
you walked into Fenway to start another season for a team
who has since triumphed, and my tears were not only thank
you for your time at first base, but for letting
my dad see his Mets win it one last time.
To Bill Buckner
#6
Ever since my three months from coming into
this world, I still appreciate what you did
that night, breaking a number of hearts,
but granting a miracle to especially one. I was
in the room with him and kicked in excitement,
wishing I could see what all the fuss was about
as my identical, parental counterpart engaged in
such a leap of faith that almost broke one of his strong,
comforting hands on the wooden beam that gave the
ceiling a seventies-retro persona when the rest of the
world had moved on to 1986. While it was a couple of
terrible twos working against them when it came to
runs and outs, it was the singles that made all the difference.
Fans a little bit further North became tongue-tied
and tortured as their troubled team looked as though
they’d stay that way for another eighteen years. The only
other time his team had triumphed was when he had that many
years behind him, and this time would be the last time for him.
Now, as a fan whose heart you would have broken, I cried as
you walked into Fenway to start another season for a team
who has since triumphed, and my tears were not only thank
you for your time at first base, but for letting
my dad see his Mets win it one last time.
To Bill Buckner
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
My Beautiful Miss Nikki.
This poem breaks my heart. I wrote it recently about losing my dog, Nikki. She was a 10-year-old beagle who was taken way too soon. While I still have Cleo in my life, and now have another puppy named Brady, a piece of my heart is missing with the loss of Nikki, as she and I had an incredible bond. Every time I came home from college, she was so excited to see me, and I likewise. Even the day I came home to say goodbye, she still got up to greet me, as this poem demonstrates. I love you, my baby girl, and I hope you're keeping daddy company. My life isn't the same without either of you.
My Beautiful Miss Nikki
Your eyes tried to shine in devastating moments
of weakness, and my heart leapt at the painful
sentiment of knowing you were to leave.
With legs that’d lost their strength, you rose
to greet me still with your happiness that
was shown with your joyful tail.
Your coat still smooth and shiny, I shook
seeing how what was underneath had
begun to waste away even with desperate attempts
of trying to keep you safe and sound.
You lived with a willingness greater than that of beings
much larger, and the daunting task of deciding your fate
is still impossible to live with as I remember how hard you tried.
I hope you felt some comfort as we sat in our chair; your head found
solace underneath my chin, and your paw was placed
restfully on my shoulder; my breath then taken away from
the sadness that poured out of my regretful eyes.
I thought back to so many other times that we sat
together, drifting off to sleep or just enjoying each other’s company,
but the other times didn’t have that constraint
of knowing you would never be in our chair again.
My Beautiful Miss Nikki
Your eyes tried to shine in devastating moments
of weakness, and my heart leapt at the painful
sentiment of knowing you were to leave.
With legs that’d lost their strength, you rose
to greet me still with your happiness that
was shown with your joyful tail.
Your coat still smooth and shiny, I shook
seeing how what was underneath had
begun to waste away even with desperate attempts
of trying to keep you safe and sound.
You lived with a willingness greater than that of beings
much larger, and the daunting task of deciding your fate
is still impossible to live with as I remember how hard you tried.
I hope you felt some comfort as we sat in our chair; your head found
solace underneath my chin, and your paw was placed
restfully on my shoulder; my breath then taken away from
the sadness that poured out of my regretful eyes.
I thought back to so many other times that we sat
together, drifting off to sleep or just enjoying each other’s company,
but the other times didn’t have that constraint
of knowing you would never be in our chair again.
Persuasion.
This is just one those poems about the kind of tension that you could cut through with a knife :P
Persuasion
What of the chance we could lie together,
breathing in unison and quickening the
pace; my eyes straining to keep consciousness;
yours are just a bit too much of heaven.
I lose control of my hands as they find your face,
and I shiver as I’m sure you will. Closer,
just a little closer, I inhale to get closer;
you’re too good to give it away.
Persuasion is such a funny thing.
Persuasion
What of the chance we could lie together,
breathing in unison and quickening the
pace; my eyes straining to keep consciousness;
yours are just a bit too much of heaven.
I lose control of my hands as they find your face,
and I shiver as I’m sure you will. Closer,
just a little closer, I inhale to get closer;
you’re too good to give it away.
Persuasion is such a funny thing.
September 23, 1992.
This poem was originally written during my senior year in high school, and went untouched until maybe last week. I changed it a lot, but kept a lot of the same imagery and ideas. It's about the night I found out my dad had passed away.
September 23, 1992
Just a playful five year-old waiting patiently
in my aunt’s quaint house, my reflection smiled back
from the window I looked out with the light from
the kitchen creating a blinding glare.
Outside, daylight faded away more quickly; nature’s
bold statement telling us summer’s over; although it
would seem my life was over instead.
I was sleepy and lethargic when my mom returned,
and the headlights shone in the window but quickly dimmed
when she shut off the ignition of my father’s car.
She dragged herself in the house with an expression unknown.
Even then, I didn’t know my house would shelter one less.
She sat on the couch, she took my hands, and hers were a mess;
cold, aching, tired, shaking.
“Kristen, daddy’s gone.”
Those words will forever haunt my heart,
but I didn’t cry because I didn’t understand.
I thought I’d go home and he'd come back one day.
September 23, 1992
Just a playful five year-old waiting patiently
in my aunt’s quaint house, my reflection smiled back
from the window I looked out with the light from
the kitchen creating a blinding glare.
Outside, daylight faded away more quickly; nature’s
bold statement telling us summer’s over; although it
would seem my life was over instead.
I was sleepy and lethargic when my mom returned,
and the headlights shone in the window but quickly dimmed
when she shut off the ignition of my father’s car.
She dragged herself in the house with an expression unknown.
Even then, I didn’t know my house would shelter one less.
She sat on the couch, she took my hands, and hers were a mess;
cold, aching, tired, shaking.
“Kristen, daddy’s gone.”
Those words will forever haunt my heart,
but I didn’t cry because I didn’t understand.
I thought I’d go home and he'd come back one day.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunrise.
This was a sonnet that I had to write for Intro. to Poetry. I really liked how it came out and I didn't revise it at all.
Sunrise
I see a sky full of beauty,
And of sadness untold
Taking care of the lost is its duty;
Its colors though, I still behold.
Holding onto those who have passed;
Those taken too soon or for reasons inhumane.
Photographs make their memory last,
Still, without them, I’m not the same.
As the sun rises, I look around,
To find a fading star that draws me in.
My sluggish eyes shut and I don’t hear a sound;
Thinking about what could have been.
To all, my best wishes as I end this prayer,
And love that I feel you in this cold, morning air.
Sunrise
I see a sky full of beauty,
And of sadness untold
Taking care of the lost is its duty;
Its colors though, I still behold.
Holding onto those who have passed;
Those taken too soon or for reasons inhumane.
Photographs make their memory last,
Still, without them, I’m not the same.
As the sun rises, I look around,
To find a fading star that draws me in.
My sluggish eyes shut and I don’t hear a sound;
Thinking about what could have been.
To all, my best wishes as I end this prayer,
And love that I feel you in this cold, morning air.
The Bride.
This was when the hopeless romantic in me had an out-of-body experience and wrote a poem.
The Bride
A pearly dress flows to the ground, and in the
mirror I see a different me. Stray strands of hair
flow beside my pale, anxious skin, and I shield my
nervous eyes with a sheet of see-through satin, tickling
my arms as it settles. I grab a meticulously matched
bouquet of roses; a simple, pure white. I hold it to
my side as I take deep breaths in an imagined silence.
I bat my eyes and watch my eyeshadow shimmer,
trying to hold back rivers of happiness and joy.
“It’s time” I hear and I look towards the door; I slowly
breathe out and walk toward what has only been my dream.
Now all eyes are on me but I smile so wide,
because all I can see is him smiling back.
The Bride
A pearly dress flows to the ground, and in the
mirror I see a different me. Stray strands of hair
flow beside my pale, anxious skin, and I shield my
nervous eyes with a sheet of see-through satin, tickling
my arms as it settles. I grab a meticulously matched
bouquet of roses; a simple, pure white. I hold it to
my side as I take deep breaths in an imagined silence.
I bat my eyes and watch my eyeshadow shimmer,
trying to hold back rivers of happiness and joy.
“It’s time” I hear and I look towards the door; I slowly
breathe out and walk toward what has only been my dream.
Now all eyes are on me but I smile so wide,
because all I can see is him smiling back.
Fan Formalities.
This poem is a stylistic imitation of Lisa Jarnot's "Swamp Formalism", which is actually written to Donald Rumsfeld. We had to imitate a poem of hers for the Writers Reading Poetry Seminar, and I chose this, and wrote about the Red Sox during the 2007 ALCS when they came back against the Cleveland Indians.
Fan Formalities
As if they can’t believe,
Excited, anxious, with ears as if they heard
Everything in the park, in an
Anticipated way, with their widened
Headlight eyes, as if they were
Tired and scared and waiting
As if there were a hero or two or more
As if this isn’t over when it seemed
To be, outs count to 27 against green
Sturdy walls, as if from the
Grass that they graciously stand
And live through 38,000 as if
They are the team, like an
Unbreakable bond as if the
Stressful pain of useless error
In gloves that should make the play
As if it didn’t kill the fans, the
Pitcher, and the manager, as if the
Field and the ring were not
Diamond shaped and prized,
Allowing in the region, breathing
Sighs, in relief, in the
One October, and 3 years ago when
One October changed.
Fan Formalities
As if they can’t believe,
Excited, anxious, with ears as if they heard
Everything in the park, in an
Anticipated way, with their widened
Headlight eyes, as if they were
Tired and scared and waiting
As if there were a hero or two or more
As if this isn’t over when it seemed
To be, outs count to 27 against green
Sturdy walls, as if from the
Grass that they graciously stand
And live through 38,000 as if
They are the team, like an
Unbreakable bond as if the
Stressful pain of useless error
In gloves that should make the play
As if it didn’t kill the fans, the
Pitcher, and the manager, as if the
Field and the ring were not
Diamond shaped and prized,
Allowing in the region, breathing
Sighs, in relief, in the
One October, and 3 years ago when
One October changed.
Quite the Lady (bug).
This was written as an exercise in Writers Reading Poetry Seminar, and was supposed to be repetitive; but I ended up changing some of the words in editing.
Quite the Lady (bug)
Red and dotted with symmetrical spots, making dotted
lines on leaves in May. When you’re seen, a squeal of joy presents,
as you continue dotting gardens with your microscopic toes.
Marching in an army of little red soldiers, I see
you as an army of one; defending Black Eyed Susans
with familiar spots of their own and protecting your
femininity with your simple name.
Quite the Lady (bug)
Red and dotted with symmetrical spots, making dotted
lines on leaves in May. When you’re seen, a squeal of joy presents,
as you continue dotting gardens with your microscopic toes.
Marching in an army of little red soldiers, I see
you as an army of one; defending Black Eyed Susans
with familiar spots of their own and protecting your
femininity with your simple name.
A Handsome Eye.
This poem was written for my Writers Reading Poetry Seminar, and it had to be an ode to something. I have edited it a lot since the first draft, and this is my final piece; for now.
A Handsome Eye
Nature’s grace is charging, legs pounding the
ground below. The tail’s turned into rivers as
the long, course, horsehair flows.
There’s a face that’s so intent, filled with honesty and
strength, and charging towards what is to come, while
shying from what was. It lifts itself to begin to fly
over obstacles in the way. It tucks its knees to ensure
it’s clearing them with ease. Then landing on the
other side, and moving on more clearly;
Its neck arches with a selfless pride, and flashes a
handsome eye as long legs keep it running
and it can leave the past behind.
A Handsome Eye
Nature’s grace is charging, legs pounding the
ground below. The tail’s turned into rivers as
the long, course, horsehair flows.
There’s a face that’s so intent, filled with honesty and
strength, and charging towards what is to come, while
shying from what was. It lifts itself to begin to fly
over obstacles in the way. It tucks its knees to ensure
it’s clearing them with ease. Then landing on the
other side, and moving on more clearly;
Its neck arches with a selfless pride, and flashes a
handsome eye as long legs keep it running
and it can leave the past behind.
I've wanted to do this for a while.
Something has clicked lately, and I'm finally taking the advice of so many creative writing professors. "Write," they say, and I am. And to even my surprise, most of my recent work and interest lies within a shocking genre; poetry.
In high school, my poetry was atrocious. I thought it had to rhyme, I thought it had to have an obnoxious rhythm, and just be corny as all hell. Luckily, coming to college has shown me otherwise, and I've actually become so inspired that I'm working on revising some poems that date back to my senior year of high school. Is it wrong, though, that I have this guilt trip that I haven't written a real piece of fiction in almost two years, when I used to seem so dedicated to it? I guess things change.
So the purpose of this blog; to finally share of my writing. Some people sound surprised when I express my love for writing, and after a lot of hard work, I want to show people what I'm really capable of. I know I'm no Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, or even a Stephen King, but I have become content and sometimes downright happy with my work, and I want to put myself out there. I want the people who know me to see a different side of me, and to know that this really is one of my passions.
What I'm asking is for any feedback on anything I decide to post here. If you read something, please comment on it and tell me what you think. Constructive criticism helps me more than you'll ever know. I just hope one day my fiction and poems will be reaching a much bigger group of readers, and I can walk into Barnes & Noble and see my name on the binding of a brand-new, uncreased paperback.
In high school, my poetry was atrocious. I thought it had to rhyme, I thought it had to have an obnoxious rhythm, and just be corny as all hell. Luckily, coming to college has shown me otherwise, and I've actually become so inspired that I'm working on revising some poems that date back to my senior year of high school. Is it wrong, though, that I have this guilt trip that I haven't written a real piece of fiction in almost two years, when I used to seem so dedicated to it? I guess things change.
So the purpose of this blog; to finally share of my writing. Some people sound surprised when I express my love for writing, and after a lot of hard work, I want to show people what I'm really capable of. I know I'm no Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, or even a Stephen King, but I have become content and sometimes downright happy with my work, and I want to put myself out there. I want the people who know me to see a different side of me, and to know that this really is one of my passions.
What I'm asking is for any feedback on anything I decide to post here. If you read something, please comment on it and tell me what you think. Constructive criticism helps me more than you'll ever know. I just hope one day my fiction and poems will be reaching a much bigger group of readers, and I can walk into Barnes & Noble and see my name on the binding of a brand-new, uncreased paperback.
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