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 Posted: Sun Apr 10, 2005 4:54 pm
Welcome to my lovely little hollow of the Writer's Menagerie guild. I'll be posting mostly poetry and prose, and will try to update as frequently as possible. Hope you all enjoy.Updates 4-10-05: Run With It
4-11-05: (1) A Standardized Poem (2) More Than A Blustery Day, Pooh.
4-12-05: Hopping Patches
4-15-05: Thaw
4-24-05: Crappy Untitled Cannon Poem
6-13-05: The Queen Has Lost Her India
8-23-05: Then.
10-4-05: Thoughts in Winter
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Posted: Sun Apr 10, 2005 4:55 pm
4-10-05
Run With It
Pulled up my hood and ran,
like there was something past
this gleaming rain drop here,
or that one further down.
Steaming wet, I panted, smiling
like I thought this rain could make
my insides brim and spill
with happiness;
pour with it,
shine with it.
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Posted: Mon Apr 11, 2005 11:46 am
4-11-05
(Keep in mind this is a joke poem not to be taken seriously. I wrote it after two solid weeks of state-wide standardized testing.)
A Standardized Poem
There once was a standardized test
that old people thought would be best
for students whose names
in bar codes remained
with protractors stabbed in their chests.
*snaps*
(The next poem, in contrast, is very serious... and actually quite personal.)
More Than A Blustery Day, Pooh.
Wandering in the aftermath of a wind
too strong for flowers unprepared
and lawn chairs forgotten, that lay
scattered about the yard, dazed.
.............I dreamt of flying then,
an umbrella in hand, riding the wind
to far reaches of the damp, shiny city.
But in the yard's war-torn grass, there
were skeletal branches, green
needles and pine cones, and
the dream was gone.
.............In the puddles
I imagined Piglet- floating haplessly
in varied directions atop a leaf-
displaced. And Rabbit would stand
near the edge and cry, use your feet to
paddle! across uneasy ripples of
murky water.
.............The branch of a willow tree
was torn from its hinges, exposing fleshy wood
beneath weathered bark and moss- sad
as its surviving branches hung low
in mourning; flags at half-staff.
.............Did Owl ever land here? And perch
with an air of nobility, high above my head?
Alas, there were no birds that day, and no
Owl to be seen. A soft rattling of leaves and rush
of wind in some distant neighboring yard- a call
like church bells to the others.
.............Come inside, the wind
is picking up again, my mother called.
But what of Pooh? I wondered. Where
might he be; in all this mess
was he lost without a honey pot?
Come! Hurry in! and with slow reluctance
in I did come.
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Posted: Tue Apr 12, 2005 4:54 pm
4-12-05
(I wrote this a few weeks ago.... Just remember: Suula is a metaphor whore xd )
Hopping Patches
I was hopping patches;
one dry splotch of pavement
for a single foot,
from one safe spot to another,
finding foot-holds.
Uneven rhythms
and splashing puddles'
contents; sick
sparkling fans of it.
But I was hopping patches.
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Posted: Fri Apr 15, 2005 1:53 pm
4-15-05
(A bit of prose.)
Thaw
It's been nearly three weeks, and he called today. I moved dream-like to the kitchen phone, as if Spring itself had numbed me with rebirth, and I stared down at the Caller-ID's intuitive digital premonition:
.....Unknown Name
.....Unknown Number
But it wasn't unknown; it was him. The repetitive ring snared against the birds' chirping, the breeze blowing, the walkers chatting, all heard through the newly opened window. I wondered how long the phone would ring before stopping. I'd never really counted before; never really thought that much about it. So I stood and wondered. Stood and stared. Stood and waited... with that numbing Spring at my back.
And then it was gone. No more blips from a strange subterranean creature, moving closer with the threat of that Unknown Name. That Unknown Number.
The words blinked off the key pad.
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Posted: Wed Apr 20, 2005 5:16 pm
I really like your poems. I don't know why. It's just an attraction that I have! Still I feel like I'm missing something, I was never the greatest with metaphores! Keep writing!
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Posted: Thu Apr 21, 2005 6:16 pm
[Estelle] I really like your poems. I don't know why. It's just an attraction that I have! Still I feel like I'm missing something, I was never the greatest with metaphores! Keep writing!
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Posted: Sun Apr 24, 2005 1:25 pm
4-24-05
This poem isn't all that great, or really complete for that matter. I'm still messing with it, but it basically sucks in my opinion. So c&c is muchmuchmuch appreciated. heart
Untitled Cannon Poem
I wondered why the cannon sat- heavy cast
iron and all, among the slabs of stone errected
like morbid name-tags for the dead.
Hello, my name is...
No ammunition, sealed up from birds' nests
and doe-eyed curiousity, I sat
on that useless cannon, as if it were
a friend from my aching childhood-
another world.
I sat there so maybe I wouldn't have to stand
on the ground above you-
so maybe I'd forget you had been there
all along.
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Posted: Thu Apr 28, 2005 4:13 pm
Wow. I really like these. Not the latest one as much, but the rest. I can really feel the rhythym in your poetry, which is essencial I think. I applaud.
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Posted: Fri Apr 29, 2005 12:45 pm
Emerald_Ink Wow. I really like these. Not the latest one as much, but the rest. I can really feel the rhythym in your poetry, which is essencial I think. I applaud.
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Posted: Wed May 04, 2005 5:11 am
I love your poems! You have a unique style that commands attention. I can't wait to read the next one!
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Posted: Wed May 04, 2005 12:49 pm
Lady Mamoru I love your poems! You have a unique style that commands attention. I can't wait to read the next one!
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Posted: Sun May 08, 2005 10:30 pm
Hmm, I like all of your poems, but the one that I really loved was "It's a Blustery day, Pooh". It made me feel a bit melancholy and nostalgic. Your poetry is great. Keep writing! smile
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Posted: Mon May 09, 2005 11:46 am
fyrefoxx516 Hmm, I like all of your poems, but the one that I really loved was "It's a Blustery day, Pooh". It made me feel a bit melancholy and nostalgic. Your poetry is great. Keep writing! smile
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Posted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 12:33 pm
4-24-05
[old poem]
The Queen Has Lost Her India
Green blades of shadow slice
a filmy curtain.
Glowing wounds bleed golden
sun, filtering
in murky beams that turn
ancient dust
to floating ghosts.
Through somber grains
of atmosphere,
the brilliant blood
strikes sedentary paws
of oak.
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