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your desire is unconditional
a gentle wonder
generous
young brother
i dazzle gold
eternity loverCurrent Mood:  confused Current Music: "The Calendar Girl" - Stars |
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I found something that I wrote in addition to Silence Heals and Silence Betrays.
( Before I lose it again )Current Mood:  tired Current Music: "Rilkean Heart" - Cocteau Twins |
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While I was at SEP, I supervised Poetry in the Park as a Special Event.
I found these snippets of poems written on the backs of receipts in my wallet.
I will share them with you.
And maybe someday seriously revise them and introduce them to something greater.
( Poetry in the Park )Current Mood:  sick Current Music: "A Is For Alison" - Cary Aria |
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I’ve memorized vocabulary lists five seconds before the bell rings.
I’ve memorized lyrics from poems that real people felt before they became insincere wavelengths.
I’ve memorized useful ways to get myself out of awkward situations.
Do you want a drink, are you over eighteen, do you want some money?
I’ve memorized all the words I could have said, all the words I shouldn’t have said,
And I’ve memorized the fact that I regret nothing.
I’ve memorized the ways that people cry: silent, shaking, starving.
I’ve memorized words and phrases forbidden in the house of my parents.
I’ve memorized your eyes, misplaced with words and mistaken emotions.
Then I promptly tried to forget them on August 1st.
I’ve memorized the smell right before it rains from the seat of a bus smiling at a little boy.
I’ve memorized the secret language of awkward friendships with boys named disaster.
But I haven’t decoded it.
I’ve memorized betrayed glances: a dirty, red ink screaming culprit at my visage.
I’ve memorized the sadness in your deep pools of death, black as a mourning dress, haunted.
I’ve memorized that permeating silence each time I admit lies, each time you deny truth.
But I’ve forgotten a time when every smile, every word, every breath was genuine.
[I did edit this for internet purposes. I left out some names. I like it this way too...]Current Mood:  anxious Current Music: "Vapour Trail" - Ride |
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Starry Night
Twilight waves of rough blue and white swirl thousands of swept up stars. The moon radiates yellow in the night's abyss. A town sleeps under this quiet, intense masterpiece of gold and navy. Wind tosses and twirls like child's play in the sky. An edge of light hugs the horizon, casting shadows on dancing trees and creeping branches. But the sky is not done with its festivities. The smallest stars shine a pale glow over the wind. Colors like a complicated Russian dance, painted on a canvas.
Crows Over A Cornfield
As the darkness seeps into the land, two lovers meet the fork in the road hand-in-hand. The crows have settled over the fields as the light quietly escapes the horizon. If they did not go soon, they would no make it to their respective homes unharmed by the shadow's looming slaves. Even under all the heaven's deep cloud cover, the fields d'or shine, swept and swaying with a threatening breeze. The fields must be lit from below, though the man. Our hearts must heat up the sand, though the woman. And as their hands untied, the golden fields of corn lit up the horizon once more and led them to their beds. They would see each other gain, at another fork in the same two roads.Current Mood:  chaotic |
| » place poem - assignment two |
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A Place Many Have Called Home
Every time I visit it is spring.
The air bites at my nose, but is inviting nonetheless.
Welcoming me to a place that could someday be my home.
Wind blows up and down my spine.
Leaves are budding on the trees, and so am I.
Mornings are still bitter in April,
but I cannot stay in my hotel bed.
The cobblestone streets and brick buildings are older than everything else I’ve ever met.
Determination and prestige: click. clack.
The little graveyard on the way to town
offers no foreboding death, but only lives we can imagine.
Those who carried books and wrote them too.
Grave etchings worn away from hundreds of winter rains.
The air I breathe in each spring, is the same air as my mother’s
and the air of Thoreau, quite a few presidents, and E.E. Cummings
The wind whips harsher at these thoughts pressed into my mind.
Every time I visit it is spring.
Street signs will point in other directions
The Yard will be green with great oaks – great family lineages
And ghostly trilling birds will join a slightly pattering rain on my shoulders. Like home.
Feb. 9th, 2006 @ 08:36 pm
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| » descriptive narrative - assignment one |
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We wanted to go shopping. It started simply as that. Soon enough the rain was shattering the clouds into tiny shards, pelting our small frames. Caught between buildings on 3rd and something, our faces showed a mixture of incredulousness and hilarity. Nature persisted unforgivingly, and our mouths began to form the sounds of shrieks and whimpers. This was war, we three decided. Sprinting through streets and boulevards, our bodies (toting bags) blurred into the bricks and cobblestones. Civilians dashed around us, a rapid dance of legs and limbs as we made our way back to the train stop. Streaks of rain plummeted between footfalls and sidesteps. At midday the darkness deceived like it was midnight. Overhangings of buildings did not do their job, offering us little protection from the 45º slant of the downpour. Chaos dripped from our garments. Water collected with our purchases. There was nothing between us and Mother Nature. Mankind had tried its hardest to shield itself from its true environment, and we will forever be trumped. Once warmth overtook us later in the evening, I paused in admiration. Something so common yet so destructive yielded its powers in a magnificent splash, or two, that day. Gravity may have been harsh, with tiny bullets singeing our legs. But I had never experienced something so raw and exquisite as that day we tried to get away.
Any criticism/feedback would be wonderful. I hope to turn this in by the end of the week.
Feb. 7th, 2006 @ 06:24 pm
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| » keeping the distance mutual |
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you have that earthly glow after you've had relations
and sometimes i think
that the reason we are so seperated, you and i
is because of another cycle
no relations
from lack of confidence -
from lack of enthusiasm
and lack of proposals -
because of a lack of earthly glow and appreciation
because of no relations
and cycles have a tendency to continue forever
two seperate worlds that don't integrate:
but if there is even hope for emily milty
then there is surely hope for everyone else.
Jan. 2nd, 2006 @ 01:05 pm
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| » Dialogue With God paper |
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Last year during Religion & Philosophy I was forced to write a Dialogue With God paper. I figured I'd share it with you all since it's actually kind of funny. I had a hard time writing this, and I haven't looked at it since then.
( Dialogue With God: First Semester, Sophomore Year )
Dec. 29th, 2005 @ 09:10 pm
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| » SA work from 2004 |
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Decided I wanted to copy these into this journal so I wouldn't lose them somehow along the way of my every-journeying personal journal. It is often subjected to spontaneous delete rants. I wrote these in July 2004. When I actually had someone to help prompt me. And I had people to critique me, but they were my friends, which helped. Good Saturday Academy times with Kengo and Angela.
( what the cabbage wrote )
Written from a template piece by some person at a night school in Portland. The name has been lost in the process. If you'd like to know specifically, I can probably dig up the paper somewhere in my "reading packets" storage in my room. Yes. I actually have a place where I keep many readings from lessons that I enjoyed.
( How To Like a Guy and Then Realize He's an Idiot )
People easily figured out who this was about, even in my SA class. Meh. I try to be funny, and sometimes it works.
Nov. 3rd, 2005 @ 08:18 pm
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| » we count our lives by the months, not years |
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It was a cold, late spring that year. The air still grazed our cheeks like razors, the buds on the trees still embryonic, and perhaps the season was best described by the way our breath hovered in the air a few seconds before evaporating into the darkness of the day. Everybody bundled up in last season's coats, with the colorful hope of a fine day hidden underneath. Streets were covered with the dampness of a midnight fog. All over the city, moving into the country and beyond, people waited for the sun to wake up. That in-between season, as we walked across fields, the barely thawed grass met the edges of our jeans. They greeted each other with a wet hello and goodbye, a thousand times over. But from the years we knew each other, this one comfort in the quiet of the morning kept our feet warm. We were going to meet the sky.
Nov. 1st, 2005 @ 04:16 pm
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| » 10.17.05 |
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Do you seem more like a brother or potential lover?
We stand on the edge of an earthquake.
Fall into the sultry magma and explore the newfound depths
or Cradle back into the earth, where nature found our race.
I can't decide if admiration is purely from the enjoyment you bring
or because you remind me of someone you shouldn't.
My constant childhood reminded me that
sometimes a remembrance is completely false and
psychological. A cry for a comfort.
We hear echos and whispers of voices we wish we could hear again.
We compare two entirely different things in hopes of similarities.
We've got justification.
We want the womb again.
The question I come back to again:
Are we becoming too close or holding back too far?
Or is this all in my head?
Oct. 17th, 2005 @ 07:40 pm
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| » Weatherman ou Astronomist |
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We didn't see eye to eye because our moons rose at different times.
The sun must have let you see this
before he came around to greet me.
Well, now that we see eye to eye, the moon is dying
winds are buying us up
and oblivion is not far off, in the shape of tsunamis and stagnant waters.
We have to find partners of equal lightdark clocks.
Oct. 2nd, 2005 @ 09:31 pm
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| » To CM, with many admirers in tow |
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He walks on the crosswalks, paying no attention to the cars slamming on their brakes.
His mind is on his notebook, in my imagination.
Thinking up the stories he lays down in notes and heaven.
Melodies track 1-48 give the ponderation:
Does he live for his music?
Or does the music live for him?
An author with a craft
as much as a scientist with no limits.
Tinkering with our thoughts,
adding glorious subliminal messages.
Is it too late to tell you that: we don't mind either, mister.
You'll have his babies.
They'll cry for him, so he can make a living.
Does the idea of immorality ever come up?
Or does the manic ambition push it all out of thought?
CM - maybe you are just a genius I should give pardon.
Closer to the business than I will ever be,
never given le droit divin to prod and prattle.
You give more reason to rather go blind than deaf.
What a choice.
You'll be my favorite storybook this year.
Sep. 26th, 2005 @ 10:12 pm
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| » Opa Ben |
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Maggie walked into her backyard to quietly sit on her tree swing. The day was warm, the air crisp and inviting. It whispered in her ear, "Breathe me in and take the day, she's yours." Mornings like this reminded Maggie of the time she'd spent with her Opa Ben. When she was young, her grandparents would drive their RV up to Oregon for a few weeks to visit family. Opa Ben would kick the miniature soccer ball around with her. They'd even had a little tyke soccer goal. Opa Ben had taught her how to swing very high while the vicious neighborhood dog would tear up their tulips. Opa would chase that dog all around the yard before the neighbors finally locked it up. Opa Ben helped Maggie learn her times tables by randomly shouting "7x7?" She had eventually memorized "49"- and she wouldn't forget for the rest of her life. Opa Ben made Maggie feel alive, even when he was slowly dying - unbeknownst to them all. While playing hide and seek, Opa would take a cigarette on the side of the house. Maggie pretended not to notice. That would have been what Opa Ben wanted.
It seemed that elderly people could show more love to their grandkids. Sometimes it was more than Maggie's parents ever could exhibit. Perhaps it was because they knew the meaning of love. Maybe love was more solid, more necessary to their survival. All Maggie knew was that the day was ready to be taken - and she would grasp a hold of it with all of the strength Opa Ben had secretly given her. That aging innocent ambition might just be enough to forgo the fact that she rarely ever thought of Opa Ben and all he may have done for her.
Aug. 1st, 2005 @ 09:37 am
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| » "i'd drift off to the house on the hill to run away from my busy thoughts" |
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( Read more... )
This is the painting I did for the first semester final... which I actually worked on during second semester when I TAed for Ms. Cain.
Jul. 20th, 2005 @ 09:42 pm
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