#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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.