This Particular Now

This,

Right now,

Is what I want.

Always.

I want the smell of theatre mingling with sunset,

I want the infinite days and the starry nights.

I want the pain that comes with laughing this hard,
with feeling this much.

I want all of it.  

I want the nostalgia and the euphoria and the pain and the loss and the love.

I want the memories that drown me, I want the experiences and adventures
 that show and shape and change me.

I want to meet people that I deserve to live within walking distance of.  

I want it to be more of a blessing than a curse to feel this much.

I want to always have this golden iridescent lense that I see through,
 I want everything to be singed with light.

I want to learn to embrace the night and encircle the stars.

I want my everything to always feel like the thud of the bass
 through my chest,

the feeling that I know can't last forever, the one that is best felt
 with a heavy dose of starlight.

This,

This particular now,

Is all I want,

All I need.

sWiM aT yOuR oWn RiSk

Swim at your own risk, they told us.
No lifeguard present, the sign read.

A brisk disclaimer, a bullshit excuse for something they called safety.

What did they expect of us?
They threw us in and we didn’t even know how to swim.
They threw us in and spoke the words.

They never warned us. They never showed us the way.

Tools, a few.
Dreams, a handful.
Wishes, several
Thoughts, too many .

Through the shadow of what is and what isn’t they reached through with a gloved hand.
The hand was there and then gone.

A split second of relief
A fake net

We thought that help was there. Just when we felt that it was all for something,
Something not for nothing.
But no. Something from the deep grabbed me, pulling me down until the light faded to a sparkle far above and the cool silent darkness surrounded.

We thought, maybe, that good would come.
Maybe, like sunsets we'd seen for years,
The sun would set and our time would arrive.

The place where the time is ours.
When the light goes down and the feelings rise up, we could run free in a space all our own.

Safety? Not really
Luck? Not so much

It was not what it seemed.
It was not what we'd hoped.

Give me a chance. Give me some hearts that are compatible with the one in me.
Some thoughts that match up, someone whose hope reflects the color of mine.

Someone who will run out into the eye of the storm with me and dance in it.
Someone who will see a burning fire where I see dying coals and give me the energy to carry on.

Then, maybe, we will learn how to swim.

This Town

We are children
This town is our playground
The sky is grey,
Our eyes are clear.

We are actors
This town is our stage
The moment is fleeting
We are free from our cage.

We are lovers
This town is our bed
Show me the image,
It's mixed up in my head.

We are creatures
This town is our zoo
I might stumble and fall,
But I'll come back to you.

Free Writing Meant For Two

       Abstract this may be, prepare your mind.
You may get lost in my words, they may trap you in a web.  They may seem like a fog, and I apologize. If that is the case, you may go now, the door is there.
No hard feelings, he understands.  I know it may be hard, I'm not forcing you to try and untangle the mess that is my mind.
I just ask that you stand here, that you stand by me, that you hear me, listen, hold me when it's cold.  Heaven, if there is one, knows I would do the same for you.

       This blog started out as a place to report life as I saw it.  A place to keep all you lovely readers updated on what was happening on my journey across the states.  and here I am now, back where I started.  Have I changed for the better? For the worse?
people around me have changed, that is certain.  I see the differences as clear as if suddenly the sky was red.
       Others call me crazy, am I true?
       Is this even real?
       I learned from a bespectacled curly-haired man that dreams are not dreams just the opposite, sleeping version of our daytime realities.  Is that true? He told me that the daytime is not any more real than the dream world.  He told me we should not question our dreams any more than we question our life during the day.
      What do you think?
       I find that hard to think about.  Our dreams being as important as our waking life is a concept that is hard for me to grasp.  I think it completely possible, 67% plausible, but it is a big thing for me to think about.

Fifteen Hundred Words

Something inside us compels us, pushes us through life.
When the demons emerge, late at night, hidden behind the glow of a screen,
Then we have to watch out.
The masks are pulled on easily, taken off just as quick.
Fifteen hundred words on a page, if I could turn them into dollars I'd be set.
A dollar for a word, a penny for my thoughts,
I'm standing up now.
Why ask why?
Why ask why not?
Take a stand when you can,
Take a stand when you want.
The end result, a change, will be better,
More valuable,
More precious,
Than any safe silence could have ever been.

Night Moods

The clouds looked like waves from below.
They rippled and looked rather menacing, their color a gradation from black to grey.
the edges are fuzzy and sharp all at once.
Is this life, they ask?
Is this real, is this what we are here for?
They whisper memories of a day long past,
They think, they dream, they wish, they hope.
They are parts of us and we parts of them.

They are the unspoken words tattooed on the inside of our lips.
They are the silent things we appreciate.
They are slow smiles hidden behind a curtain of blue.
They are lists and post it notes and lunch leftovers closed up with a ribbon of saran wrap.
They are small rooms hidden in the back of kitchens, tiny stories that I keep in my back pocket.

For me they happen to cover every metaphor that I need them to, every silent musing.

Like

All of the Feelings

The memories are infinite
They are very diverse, the objects of my memory
They flow from people to place to moment to minute to word to smile to laugh.
Even though the subjects come and go, the feeling, the atmosphere, is the same.

The color of the feeling is half-baked sunlight.  The magical hour just before sunset.  Between afternoon and dusk.
A deep, shimmery golden with a tinge of purple at the edges.
The feeling itself is happy. Deeply at peace and permanently content.
No one to disappoint and no one disappointed.  My responsibilities were easily reachable and the constant prize was a hug.  So many hugs.
How many?
All of them.

How many smiles?
All of them.
How many laughs?
All of them.
How many musics?
All of them.

I miss them all.  They were the best solid ten days of my life I have yet lived.
I will cherish them always and the people are some of my favorite.

There are others, this is certain. But the majority live there, here, in my heart, everywhere.

No VIP

This is the best spot up here.
Front row seats no VIP price can buy.
Close your eyes.
Take a deep breath.
Doesn't it taste like dew drops?

Everything around us has been dipped in sunlight and set here to dry.
The edges are soft and they shimmer, reminiscent of a child's innocence.
The leaves on the trees glow and the animals sparkle.
Grass becomes light itself and the sun sets the whole place on fire.

You couldn't recreate this moment with a thousand words, and no picture will do it justice.

The colors meld and blend until the sky begins to melt, yellow becoming orange becoming purple becoming blue.
More vivid than any imagination and brighter than any paint palette.
Enjoy it while you can, because even more bright than its light, even more vivid than its color,

is the fleeting moment for which it is ours.

Renaissance of Thought

Sometimes a march.
Sometimes a quiet coasting on feathered wings.
Sometimes an un-catchable faerie it flits around outside, its drumbeat a static:
Erratically fast yet dependably there.

Always a fragile stillness late in hour,
well past sunset in any time zone.

It might be past Cinderella's last hour when my renaissance of thought comes traipsing through.

This ability to turn scribbles on a page into words into feeling is a fragile art.

Give me solitude in darkness and a heavy dose of nostalgia and I'll have three or more in your hands by morning.

But this motion,
This monotony,
This repetition of up and down,
predictably so...

This will be the death of me.

Miniscule

Towering tall on each side,
but not for a moment do I suffocate.
They are huge, and I feel
miniscule. 
Less important.
Humility.
I know a few people who could benefit from this feeling.
Two symmetrical gouges look like lungs,
and I see the mountain breathe.
With a deep shudder it inhales.
Rocks shift,
plants fall,
water tumbles.
Life is rearranged.
A new course begins,
things shift and settle.
A millennium later,
two,
maybe three.
It exhales.
Letting out the breath it has held since before our time.

This is Me

This is me, believing in something more. 
This is me, dipping my toes in reality,
this is me, diving into life and falling from the universe.

I search for clovers, I pick daisies, I catch dreams, in my spare time. 

I brush my teeth with pondering.
I comb my hair with a seashell.
I feast on sunshine, drinking dew drops.
I take adventure from a teaspoon when I'm not feeling well.

This is me,
forever.

Here We Go

Tomorrow,
Off again we go.
Over mountain and plain we will drive,
Leaving so much behind,
gaining even more.

Home awaits us, ocean waves goodbye. (see what I did there?)

Sometimes a poet must use another, borrow some words, maybe a phrase.
We will go our fastest, my loves.  We will drive our best because awaiting us is you.
Thank you, Robert Frost, for saying what I cannot.

Miles to go before I sleep,

Miles to go,
before,
I,

sleep.

Sometime Last Summer

      I'm not sure of the day exactly, but I think I remember it being hot and sticky.  A usual Midwestern summer day, where the trees drip with heat and the asphalt shimmers.  We had found shelter in the large cool house, the one with black shutters and glowing candles at Christmas time. The memory has faded but the feeling is still.  The light was at it's golden hour and we were running around laughing, giggling, screaming may have been involved.  For some currently unknown reason I decided then was a good time to lock myself in the upstairs bathroom and proceed to escape the bathroom someway other than the door.  Keyword in this sentence: UPSTAIRS batroom.
       The only way out of this bathroom that is not the door is the small window, and outside this window is nothing more than two small, scraggly pine trees with barely enough substance in their trunks for a family of squirrels.  So I have no idea what I was thinking when I tried my luck at opening the window and removing the screen.  For some reason the screen does not seem to be built to be removed, so it did not fit back into the house through the window.
      Now, I'm nearly positive it was an accident, but a little tiny part of me, probably the small devil on my shoulder is squeaking in my ear, "Lydia, are you sure?"  Either way, the screen ended up on the ground below the window, or it might even be stuck in the small pitiful pine tree, but it is stuck there, not in the window, not being of any use, and the only thing either of us can remember is how terribly funny it was.

Half Baked

Take that money, watch it burn,
Sink in the river the lessons I've learned,

It's a new art form showing people how little we care (yeah)

A stranger can sum up our feelings three minutes easier than we can in hours, maybe years.
The magic of song lyrics is kind of unbelievable, actually.

I'm sorry. That's not what I came here to say.

The fireworks sound like bombs and somehow remind me of a war I was not part of.  The sadness never seems to fade though, over millenniums the feelings live on, gouged deep in the earth and threatening to burn holes.
Like the scars they try so hard to hide they peek through, showing an inner turmoil and confusion.
I wasn't there, I didn't feel the losses, but somehow I've managed to imagine based on a cookie dough mix of my own.
It came in a box labeled "life", nothing more, and I foolishly added my own dreams.  I stirred twice left three times right and ended up with this..
Something half-baked
Something with no substance or hope for the future.

But I popped it in the oven anyway, hoping for something I could survive off of.
And what emerges is this:
A dream, some friends, and hope for the future full of resounding joy.

Rejection

I have experienced my first rejection as a writer.  Of course I've gotten negative comments about my writing before, but this was legit rejection.  Straight up drowning in my own grief.  My poetry was crushed in the merciless jaws of harsh judgements and unforgiving contests.  But of course, I exaggerate.

It wasn't really so terrible. I entered a poem in a contest.  How this contest works is whoever enters becomes a judge.  So for three weeks, I was a judge, a part of other people rejections, I guess you could say.  But also a part of other people's winnings.  Once a week I got an email that told me to "log into sixfold and check my dashboard"  And there would be six poems waiting for me, to read, comment and rate from one through six.

I read a lot of really good poetry, and some I didn't like as much, but for some reason I always felt bad when I rated someone as 6th.  The people who read my poem had no such reservations.  I didn't even make it past the first round of voting, which means that four out of the six people reading my poem rated me as 6th place.  Some of the comments had good critiques, things that could help me improve, such as "make a concrete storyline" and "decide what you're trying to say."

But there was this one comment, this one jibe that shattered me, and all it said was this:

"too abstract, no story."

Insert sound of glass shattering, of babies crying, of a gunshot, of a bomb exploding a city.  This comment pretty much ruined me.  So yesterday after I read that I slammed lockers and ripped up flowers and swung on swings rather violently.  I know that rejection is part of being a writer.  I know that.  But it still isn't any fun.  But the fact that I am writing about this so soon means that I will be able to scrape myself up from off the pavement and continue on, with one more layer of armor around my little scribbled writer heart.    

Glistening Eyes

I wish I could be one of your tears, he said.
But then you would only be here when I'm sad, she said.
And when you're very happy, he said.
But mostly sad, she said.  I want you to see the happiness of me too, she said.  You're incredibly sweet to always be here for me when I'm sad, but I need someone to laugh with also.  And you must get sick of hearing my sadness, she said.
Oh never, he said.  I want to be the one always here for you.  I want to feel your sadness with you and be there for you when you cry.  If I am here for your sadness it would make me happy.  And best of all, if I am one of your tears, I would be born in your eyes, run down your cheeks, and die on your lips.
Her eyes glistened then, out of complete happiness they sparkled, and he was there for every second of her joy.

A Walk

Into the forest, I disappear
The trees embrace me, and I let them.
Finally, someone who unquestioningly takes me into their arms and holds no grudge or judgement against me.
Someone who does not laugh at my pure enthusiasm for life or my juvenile yet real dreams.
Pure music floats in one ear and through the other, curling up through the air like smoke.

I pass by a mother and a daughter, the truest kind of love.
The mother wears a shirt decorated with a bulls eye. I briefly wonder if this is her subconscious reaching out for someone to hold her.  "shoot for me," it cries.  "I may be flawed but I still need love."  Because apart from the raven-haired child she looks awfully alone.
They stoop to pick daisies and I smile at them.  I remember a certain day when I was a daisy-picker myself.  I quite devoted one, at that.

I poke and prod at the edges of my mind and wonder what it is that is stuck there.
I consider myself.  Not selfishly.  But I need not explain myself to you, selfless reader.  You're just here for the ride.

I see the world in colors.  When I see a person I think not about what they are or who they wish to be.  I think of them in uniqueness.  Of course the visual is there so it is impossible not to make observations, only they be kind ones coming from this mind.  I wonder who they are, and my thoughts are usually proven wrong.
I wonder if we can be truly truly unique.  Because when it comes down to it we all need the same things.  Love, happiness, nourishment and joy.  Something to keep us going when the going gets tough.  Why do we judge if we could be just as easily judging ourselves?

What if we were born as different people, and one day we passed ourselves on the street and judged us?  What if our eyes met and something linked?

Are we all really so different? People who categorize themselves as different want to be different.  But there is more than one person who wants to be different, so therefore all the different people are united and now kind of the same. And everyone is different from each other, so why do those special few get to be the "different" ones?

At the end of the day, the only things that matter are the dreams we hold most sacred in our hearts, and that is what unites us all.

Sunburn

The sun, as we know
is bright
and strong
and hot
and golden.

The sun, as we know
is loved
by us.

It soaks into my skin and leaves me golden,
although sometimes fried to a crisp.
like lobster
or deep fried green beans
at the county fair.

The County Fair
Is the perfect place
to acquire sunburn
it is forgotten as you ride the Ferris wheel and watch the world turn by from your high high perch
but quickly remembered
when you hit the ground
and see your reflection squirm by in the fun house mirror.

It seeps into your skin
coloring it deep and bringing the freckles out of hiding.

Summer time freckles splash across noses
and the heat from the sun stays
warm on your face
reminding you of fun times past

And more to come.

The Pool

The shadows hide around corners and sneak under doors
The mere idea of light scares them off.
They slither away as fast as they came

With the sunset, the heat does not stray.
It crawls into our very pores and curls up, sucking out all moisture and life.
Motivation
to do anything
vanishes as quick as the dew
Glinting,
Flashing, for a moment and then gone.
It is pushed away with the idea of cold lemonade and heat-heavy dreams

The air is so dry it nearly scratches our throats out.
Each molecule is laden with heat and the night settles
heavy as a wool blanket,
but not nearly as comforting.

We wish we could pant,
like the dog lying spread-eagle in that rare patch of shade
because sweating is not enough.
Sweating does not save us from this heat.  It seems to make it worse.

The only relief would be
a crisp
clear
swan dive
into the deep end of the pool

Where you disappear,
safe and saved,
cool
and cold
and refreshed,
a speck at the bottom of the pool.  

A Picnic Long Forgotten

Paper plates and plastic forks,
Seeds shot from empty teeth.
Smell of sulfur,
Burning lights,
Distant thunder,
Endless nights.

Words all mixed together,
Laugh until it hurts,
Fly so fast dear summer,
Bring back that lovely fun.

Bring back the stars that shine this bright
Bring back the gleaming sun,
Bring back my heart, my dreams, my dear,
We all need you here.

Only So Much Happy

Like the wind through the trees she ran
Like the bird song on the breeze she sang
Like the sunset she smiled
But for what?
Like a saint she gave
She was the new Robin Hood,
the new Peter Pan.
But for what?
Her life was a mess,
her home a war zone
But she woke up and painted on her mask,
buried under her sparkling smile
and singing voice
but for what?
For who?
Why smile when all you have is hurt?
Why run to when from is so much better?
She had no one to smile for,
no one to trade secrets with,
no one but the trees.
The trees and the river and the birds were there,
always,
but never enough.
It gets a little hard when they never talk back.
There's is only so much happy one can have
when none is reciprocated.

Hey Orange

"Hey Orange,"
I challenge you to a duel of soccer.  A fight (to the friendship)
Can you even comprender?
"Hey Orange,"
Lets go on an adventure.
Lets drive off into the sunset in this red truck and eat tamales until we're stuffed.
Then we'll eat some more.
"Hey Orange,"
Let's be friends forever and ever even though we live in two different countries.
But no matter.
Country lines change not feelings or the stars.
They change not words, they only translate them.
"Hey Orange,"
These days are dwindling.  Why must you leave?
Who will I make weird faces at in the middle of clase de matematicas?
"Hey Orange,"
I wasn't sure if you had left yet or not, so I ran to the bus station to see if you had gone.
I saw only a flash of hair as you disappeared, a whiff of a memory.
Why must these things end so quickly?
Why do all the good things end, when the bad things seem to never go away?
"Hey Orange,"
Who even is in charge of life? Who even makes up these rules, and makes us follow them? Why only 5 days, why not a month?
Tape this sacred piece of red to your wall.  The one with the remembrances and blue jeans interwoven.
And one last thing.
"Hey Orange,"
Never forget me.

A Week Away From Home

On Friday the 7th of March, at about 6 o' clock a van full of Waldorf children pulled up to the Waldorf School of Orange County.  The van stopped, and they all piled out, running to their parents and shouting greetings in Spanish.  The reason for the Spanish is that the students had just returned from a week in Mexico, and it seems that they had temporarily forgotten English.
Every year the Waldorf School of Orange County hosts 13 or so Mexican students from CETYS University in Mexicali, Mexico.  10th grade families host these kids for 5 days (which is far too short if you ask me) and at the end they return to Mexico whence they came.  4 months later, in March, the host kids of the families head over to Mexico for 5 days and stay with their long lost hermanos.  They spend 5 days there, essentially becoming a Mexican for their time there.  Spanish is spoken and many tamales eaten, many friends made and too many names forgotten.  They are introduced to so many different people, how can they possibly remember all the names?
Of course the children were happy to be home--were happy to see their parents, but a little part of them was having a very hard time with the fact that they were no longer with their happy-go-lucky new friends.
You see, the children in Mexico, at least the ones they met, are very different from California kids.  They seemed to be happy the whole time.  There was never a shortage of conversation topics, and everyone was so welcoming.  They made the Waldorf kids feel special.  They asked them all about their lives, how it was different.  They joked around with them, called them "orange." (as they are from Orange County this is a very fitting name.)
And even though it was only 5 days, by pulling them into their family, their culture, and treating them as their best friends, for those 5 short days the kids of Waldorf School of Orange County felt special.

Manifest Destiny

Man-i-fest
verb
1) to make clear or evident to the eye or the understanding; show plain.
2)to prove; put beyond doubt or question
Des-ti-ny
noun
the predetermined, usually inevitable or irresistible, course of events.

Manifest Destiny

noun

the belief or doctrine, held chiefly in the middle and latter part of the 19th century, that it was the destiny of the U.S. to expand its territory over the whole of North America and to extend and enhance its political, social, and economic influences.

To manifest ones destiny is a completely different idea than Manifest Destiny, in the Puritan's sense of the words.  The Puritans used this "manifest destiny" as an excuse to kill off all the Natives and take their land.  In the name of "God", in the name of "freedom", and in the name of European "Union".  

To manifest ones destiny is different.  To put all of your energy and belief towards one goal, one end point, one checkpoint.  To make your life what you want it to be is beautiful, not at all like what the Europeans did to America.  I believe that if we all put our energy and our thoughts and our good intentions towards one collective goal, it will happen.  

This manifestation of our own destiny is what we are doing right now.  We want so badly to get back to our home in Wisconsin, but everything that life throws at us is making it a little difficult right now.  But we have decided to manifest our own destiny and push all of our energy and good thoughts towards August 1st, and us being home and sitting by our bubbling stream by that date.

So help us manifest our destiny! With multitudes of combined thoughts and good intentions pushing us towards that date, the universe won't be able to refuse us.  With everyone focusing on one clear goal it is bound to come true.        

Nothing lost but Lipstick

The music could have been better but the food was fantastic.
There was pineapple and melon and popcorn and chips and sandwiches. I'm still confused about why I was the only one eating the strawberries. They had a Snow-Cone machine and ice cream.  All for free.  How nice of dear Pasadena Waldorf High School.
That is where all the memories of my 9th & 10th grade Winter Formal are stored.  They are captured in moments of time and beats of a song.  They are ground into the dirt by the bouncing heels. They are spilled down the front steps like glitter and lost on the bus with my disappearing lipstick. They are happening again and again in alternate universes and I am overjoyed every time they play the song again.
I met a person named Quinn who had boundless energy and was from San Diego, introducing himself to us to "break the ice."  He reminded me of Patrick from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, except for the gay part--I met his girlfriend too.
A side note: If you haven't seen The Perks of Being a Wallflower, stop reading this immediately and go watch it.  If you're under 13, tell your parents first and then go watch it.  It is not a cheesy chick flick in the slightest and if you say you don't like it, we can no longer be friends.  I'm sorry.  And for all you movie vs. book critics out there, the movie is directed by the author, so whatever argument you think you have is no longer valid. (EOE, ZAM)
Anyways, Quinn and his girlfriend reminded me of Sam and Patrick in their shameless dancing and nonjudgmental character.  I seriously thought to myself that I would like to meet someone who I can be like that with when I grow up.  Who am I kidding-I'm never growing up.
The music drifted between dubstep and dubstep, with the occasional dubstep thrown in.  When they finally played something danceable they cut it off in the middle of the song.  In what universe does that make sense? The real question is, who rules that universe?
The bus ride on the way back was considerably less loud than the one on the way there, and this one was filled with the sharing of life stories.  (there is surprisingly a lot of information under the 'Life story' category for a 16 year old.)
Many hugs were exchanged when we reached the school, even though we would be seeing each other in less than 36 hours. A party can do that to people-The love is magnified.
I grew closer to the people I wanted to and the only thing I lost was my lipstick.
I met some people who renewed my faith in the teenage race and showed me we might have a chance of not destroying the world with our shallow attitudes.
And since I'm terrible at endings I'm just going to end this now.  Good Night.

The Crazies

The words flow effervescent from my lips like a silent dance.
Effervescent is not often compared to silent.  The sky was the color of dreams: lavender silk.
How does one keep this up?
This constant reaching, pulling, tugging, cutting.  How does one continue for so long?
I’m already beginning to admit defeat.  The sky is turning dark.
The buttons on my jacket sparkle red.  The rich clink quietly against each other.
The light bounces off one and lands on another, each diamond fighting for the spotlight.
A deafening drop resonates through the marrow in every one's bones.
How dost thou even heist??
How dost thou even dream of a heist??
These words drip gold from the now-emerald sky and pile themselves at my feet.
I trip.
I fall.
The ground turns water than glass than fire than smoke.
I plummet through them all, leaving no trace but a singed bit of hair.
My DNA floats above me, untraceable unless you are crazy.
Only crazy people can understand crazy people.
The sane ones all run and hide.
They lock themselves up in their big cars and their little houses and hope for the best.
They turn on the news and wait for someone to tell them what's going on.
But we crazies, we run out into the storm and frolick in the eye of it.
The sound hurts their ears but we only dance faster.
Spinning until we match the pace of this whirlwind.
The eye of the storm, the heart of it, the next best thing to life, is sizing us up.
Do we deserve this flee-ridden joy? I would say yes, of course we do.

A Quote

"We need never be hopeless,
because we can never be irreparably broken.
We think that we are invincible because we are.
We cannot be born, and we cannot die.
Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old.
They get scared of losing and failing.
But the part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail."
-John Greene

From Looking for Alaska

Secret Sister Whispers

~To My Secret Sister Whisperer~

Secret sister whispers

       Are best

In dead of night

Secret sister whispers

      Are best

Without the light

Hidden under blankets

Hidden behind trees

My secret sister whisperer is

surely the bee's knees

We whisper quietly together

   Let not the parents hear

For if the do our work is ruined

We worked so hard my dear

We built the lighthouse tall and strong

It can weather any storm

And it took a long long time to get here,

But now we're never wrong

So secret whispers in the night

Are very much the best

I love you sister whisperer

You fill my days with zest.

A Significant Song

Life's for the Living~Passenger

Well grey clouds wrapped round the town like elastic
Cars stood like toys made of Taiwanese plastic
The boy laughed at the spastic dancing around in the rain
While laundrettes cleaned clothes, high heals rub toes
Puddles splashed huddles of bus stop crows
Dressed in their suits and their boots well they all look the same

I took myself down to the cafe to find all the boys lost in books and crackling vinyl
And carved out a poem above the urinal that read
Don’t you cry for the lost
Smile for the living
Get what you need and give what you’re given
Life’s for the living so live it
Or you’re better off dead

While the evening pulled the moon out of it’s packet
Stars shone like buttons on an old man’s jacket
We needed a nail but we tacked it ’til it fell of the wall

While pigeon’s pecked trains, sparks flew like planes
The rain showed the rainbows in the oil stains
And we all had new iPhones but no one had no one to call

And I stumbled down to the stomach of the town
Where the widow takes memories to slowly drown
With a hand to the sky and a mist in her eye she said
Don’t you cry for the lost
Smile for the living
Get what you need and give what you’re given
Life’s for the living so live it
Or you’re better off dead

Well I’m sick of this town, this blind man’s forage
They take your dreams down and stick them in storage
You can have them back son when you’ve paid off your mortgage and loans
Oh hell with this place, I’ll go it my own way
I’ll stick out my thumb and I trudge down the highway
Someday someone must be going my way home

Till then I’ll make my bed from a disused car
With a mattress of leaves and a blanket of stars
And I’ll stitch the words into my heart with a needle and thread
Don’t you cry for the lost
Smile for the living
Get what you need and give what you’re given
You know life’s for the living so live it
Or you’re better off dead

Don’t you cry for the lost
Smile for the living
Get what you need and give what you’re given
Life’s for the living so live it
Or you’re better off dead

This is an Imagery Poem describing something--Try and guess what it is.

Stand tall, stand strong, what other choice do I have?

I have no will, no ability to move.

And trust me, if I could I would.

I would run and yell and whoop and holler, but for me that is impossible.

I will never be heard, I will never be valued in the way you are.

Me and my kind will always be taken for granted.

Our time has come and pass.

They give me no choice as they bring the blade to my feet; they give me no option,

No second chance. No redo for my mistakes.

Was it me?

Did I cause this? Did I do something wrong?

I was doing my best you know.

I am your very intake of breath, and without me you would be nothing.

And this is how you repay me?

No last smile, no last wave?

With barely recognition you march toward me like a reaper to the grave.

I gave you shelter, freedom, air and life,

And all you bring for me is this, this glistening blade and leaden dread,

And with one, two, three swings of your arm it is all brought to and end.

A Poem in Anapest Trimeter

Anapest Trimeter is the rhythm that this poem is measured in.  The rhythm goes...
short short long, short short long...and so on.  It is written like this:  . . -  . . -  . . -
which looks suspiciously like Morse code to me...
Anywayzzzz....

A Poem in Anapest Trimeter
Wishful thinking is what got us here.
Now all that we're left with is fear.
Help me dear, please save me, I'm so close
To the ends of the earth I would fly
But my wings are all broken and red.
Catch my fall, weave the net, use my mind
Save not one little thread, use them all,
They are hidden in my smallest drawer.
Heart Shaking, earth quaking,I tried, really I did.
But it is just too much to carry
Even my shadow is heavy please
Don't let me break, no not, not like this.

The Most Complicated Feeling

The assignment for this poem was to write a "Simile Poem".  For those of you who don't know, a simile is a poetic device that is used to compare to things using "like" or "as".  It is used to compare to things in a more interesting and understandable way.  An example: 

"The sun rose and poured over the land like melted butter on mashed potatoes."

So the assignment was to write a poem about something, start it out with "Like..."  and end it with the thing we were describing.

Here's mine.

The Most Complicated Feeling

Like the soft whisper of summer breezes humming in my ear,

Barely brushing against my conscience,

A sigh, a nearly spoken thought.

Like the cat on silent paws,

Treading it way lightly.

You would never know it was there if not for the faint hiss.

Like the ocean, the continuous lapping that becomes lost so easily, that becomes habit.

Like the bashful sunlight that pours over the earth on an early spring day, slowly enveloping everything in its warmth.

Like those first few moments when sleep is winging on its way

That nirvana that comes with morning peace and blessed abeyance.

Like the cold blade against soft skin,

The loss of all thought and the sharp tang of pain.

Like cold snow falling softly on sun-warmed roads.

Like the wind beneath the wings of a bird, lifting up and up.

Like a roller coaster, dipping and spinning on the narrow metal track, threatening to overturn with every squeal of the brakes.

Such is the feeling of love. 

 

This Late Hour

This short poem is a Shakespearean Sonnet.  A sonnet is a poem about a problem or conflict that is solved and resolved in the last six lines.
It is a 14 line poem.  The first 8 lines are the problem, the next 4 is a solution, and the last 2 are the resolution.
A sonnet is also written in a quatrain rhyme scheme with the last two lines in couplet.

This Late Hour
I envy her sleeping across the room,
Visions of sugarplums filling her head
And I am back here with this chilling doom.
I wish that I were sleeping in my bed.
The clock is ticking quickly now and my
Time's running out to finish and not fail.
It may be time for me to say good-bye,
Or I might just have to finally bail.
But wait, I might be able to finish,
I just have to think hard and then must hurry
And when, at last my mind does turn to rubbish,
I can say that I tried in such a flurry.
At last I escape this terrible fate,
And can fall into bed and close the gate.

Ramblings to the Extreme

So many things in my mind but not enough words to say them.
I write on this blog to write them out.
And they're not even bad feelings.  They're not even really feelings.  They're just thoughts running around the inside of my mind, bouncing against the walls and each other.  But that's good right?  That I have a busy mind?  It certainly doesn't seem good when I'm trying to fall asleep at night.

Whenever I write on here I find myself wondering if someone important is reading this.  (Of course you're all important. You know what I mean.)  I guess I phrased that wrong.  I wonder if a future publisher is reading this.  And then I wonder what they're thinking, if they find it something people would want to read.
I actually wonder what any of you are thinking when you read this, because no one ever COMMENTS. (hint, hint)
The posts are mostly ramblings, me pursuing what ever thought or notion has been nagging me all day.

Have you ever realized how nice lists are?  It's so easy to make lists.  There's no embellishment necessary, no description necessary, no need to truly express the feelings.  You can simply write everything down with only a number to put it in context.  Let me make a list.
Things running through my Mind: (note that "Mind" is capitalized)
1) Have you ever noticed how weird the seeds of a papaya are?
2) I'm pretty lucky.  I should appreciate that more.
3) I need to call him back.
4) Bring ukulele to school tomorrow.
5) I wish I was reading manga right now.
6) I should probably go practice my violin...
7) Salad sounds  really good right now.
8) I want to go cliff-diving before I die.
9) "Palm trees are not real trees"
10) I wish people would comment on my blog so I know what they think (again, hint, hint)
11) Why should I care? This is my blog.
12) If you want to tell me anything about this blog, or random life stuff in general, please email me!!
withglitteringwings@gmail.com
13) I need to empty the trash tonight.
And trust me, it gets so much worse when I'm (trying) to do homework.
14) What if this isn't real life.  What if we're dreaming, and dying is just waking up, and when we wake up everything is so much brighter and clearer and more vibrant.  We wake up and everyone who died before us is there and they all tell us how long we were sleeping and that "It's about time you woke up!" And dying isn't dying it's waking up and we've just been asleep for so long that what we think is life seems real but whenever someone dies they're just waking up before us? And we were asleep for so long that actual life that was going on before we went to sleep was completely forgotten but when we wake up everything comes rushing back and we know completely different people and we tell them all about "The strangest dream I just had..."
OK. Now that I wrote all that out of me I really should go do my homework.  And call him back.
Writing really is quite cleansing.  I highly suggest it to anyone who doesn't do it on a regular basis.