Lovely

Isn't he lovely,

soft at the temples

but rough jaw, lip, and chin.

Gentle hands that hold children

the same hands

that lift bricks

and pull ropes,

building buildings,

moving rubble,

sailing ships.

Hands as strong as the voice

that he quiets to listen

and to whisper small words

that feel bigger than

hands,

bodies, buildings,

and ships

Isn't he lovely
who once was a boy,
nursing and then crawling,
soon running and falling,
losing teeth,
making wishes
boosted up to candles.
He learns to use hands
and words that are gentle
with his kickball bruised sneakers
and his school box of pencils
that curious quick turn into pens
and his sneakers to slacks.
Then they cuts his boy hair,
and his face turns to man.

But he still has his bikes,
and he likes to act silly,
enjoys being held
like his mother once held him.
Eyes mirror the heart,
and when he smiles,
his eyes show the boy he once was
hidden inside.
It's not on his face or his glue-stickied fingers
but in the way that he says,
"One more kiss"
and then lingers -

And lovely describes him
because it captures it all
the softness he possesses
Although he is strong.
The strongest man is the one
who is more than his gender
who is lovely and grotesque,
vulnerable and full of power.
Whose arm can be under the arm
of his other
and who knows that he's lovely
because he isn't bothered
by gender.

Young

Just when you think you're getting somewhere in the way of maturity,

a creased and creased again forehead

that raised mounted eyebrows to accompany a laugh

or gasp at the pinnacle point of a movie,

to greet a passing friend,

a passing stranger,

reminds you that 19, no 18

when skin still resists its familiar folds

is young.

Just when you think you've learned enough to be considered an adult,

a set of five fingers, a warm and worn hand

that, pudgy, wrapped around a parent's fingers once,

that learned to comfort

as it nervously found a place on a shoulder 

where it squeezed,

warmed the skin of a friend,

the skin of a stranger,

reminds you that your 21, 19, no 18 

year old hands

are still young.

When the things that await you 

like hands that know where to sit on a shoulder

and eyebrows that know where to sit on a forehead

make the present seem like a glimpse of the someday future's past

just then

you are young.

Wonder on My Words

Where do words come from?
I wonder -
will they cease to come
one day?

Like a measured hollow vessel
shaped from clay
do words pour from the lip
until the flow strains to a drip
and drips to drops
until it stops
the words dried up -
I wonder.

Wonder on My Heart

Is doing ever done?
I wonder -
will I ever breathe the final breath
of accomplishment?

Like a marked and measured trail
through town
does doing wind and bend
until the trail comes to an end
and end to stop
legs rest from body's heavy top -

Or is doing like a heart
that beats and beats
and never stops
from before birth
to final breath,
the heart is never given rest.

Assigned to beat
caged in a chest
and never rest
unless in death -

Is not this constancy in our
best interest? -
I wonder

Chikamatsu Mon'zaemon

"Some playwrights, thinking that sadness is essential to a jōruri, often put in words like 'How sad it is!' or the lines are chanted tearfully, as in the Bunyabushi style, but that is not how I write plays. The sadness in all my plays is based entirely on reason. Since the audience will be moved when the logic of the dramatization is convincing, the more restrained the words and the chanting are, the more moving the play will be. Thus, when one says of a moment of pathos 'How sad it is!' the connotations are lost, and in the end, the feeling conveyed is weak. It is essential that the moment be filled with pathos in and of itself, without having to say 'How sad it is!' For example, when you praise a landscape such as Matsushima by saying 'Oh what a beautiful scene!' you have said all you can about it in a few words but to no avail. If you wish to praise a scene, pointing out all its features objectively will reveal its intrinsic appeal naturally, without having to say 'it is a beautiful scene.' This applies to everything of this sort."

-Chikamatsu Mon'zaemon-

Virginia Morning

Good morning -
sweet birds I love-
hear me your sun rising song.
Morning's breath fill your lungs,
your chest cause to swell 
as you turn morning air
into song

Good morning,
pink rose in the sun,
my eyes your bright body attract.
Morning's fragrance you make
that my nostril's inflame
with the scent of your
sun-baked perfume


Good morning -
sun, giving light
what reunion is this
after absence in night.
Welcome, your embrace
earth's arms open wide
to the light that you give
and that gives morning
life.

A Picture of Thursday Afternoon in My Room

I read a book by Anne Lamott this year titled Bird by Bird; it was her account of what it means and what it takes to be a writer. Today during my Transitions class, a one credit course required for all first year students, we were given an overview of the library resources. While introducing the writing support center, Vi Dutcher, the director of EMU’s writing program, paraphrased a part of Anne Lamott's book. I remembered the passage. It was one of my favorite parts of the book, partly because it gave me so much hope about writing and partly because Anne and I have a similar sense of humor. The direct quote is:

            "I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much. We do not think that she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can

 even stand her. (Although when I mentioned this to my priest friend Tom, he said that you can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.)"

I hurried back to my dorm room after class to find that quote. After chuckling and enjoying the creative wit of a woman I don't know, I remembered something else that Anne said in her book. When you sit down to write, it can feel overwhelming. You have a million ideas or no ideas at all; there's nowhere to start and no end in sight, and you’re paralyzed by the fear that you won’t write anything good or worse, you’ll write something absolutely terrible. Anne's advice was to try capturing moments, small snapshots of life at a time. Make a frame with your fingers, hold it out in front of you, describe what you see within the boundaries of that frame, and then grow from there. 

I've been meaning to write something insightful, funny, or witty to publish in The Tribune for a couple of months now, but I couldn’t find the courage or the will power to sit myself down and write until Vi Dutcher pulled Anne Lamott back out of obscurity where I’d been hiding her. I remembered the élan that I had written with in the weeks after I had finished her book, and I realized that sitting around, waiting for inspiration or confidence leads to more waiting and no writing. So I took myself by the shoulders, looked straight into my right eyeball (because if you think about it, you can only ever make eye contact with one eye at a time.), and I told myself that I could do it again. I could make something worth reading.

So I’m starting with snapshots, easing myself back into writing, and taking the time to look, listen, and learn about my new world here at college. I’ve always been very intentional about documenting my life, starting with my pink kitten covered diary from elementary school where I wrote detailed accounts of all the best playground drama in pink sparkly jell pen. These written memories are my most treasured possessions. I routinely pull out my past journals and find stories about people I had forgotten or moments of insight that seem beyond my age. Journaling allows me to save pieces of my past selves and revisit them whenever I please.

Today’s snapshot comes from my dorm room where I am currently working. I’m sitting at my desk; it is wooden, pine I think, stained a golden honey color and decorated with dents, scrapes, and chips from previous semesters. I have a tape dispenser, a stapler, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer sitting to the right of my keyboard. A Band-Aid tin full of pens, markers, pencils, and one pair of purple scissors is standing behind them. To the left of my computers is a desk lamp painted a tropical shade of blue, and fixed to the base is a medium sized pile of Post-it notes pile. The squares change color as the pile gets higher, from blue to purple to pink to orange to yellow. A pocket sized notepad; a sketch book, not much bigger and lonely for use; and a brand new journal that I bought on sale at Borders, are stacked beside the lamp. Binders and folders that I have yet to find a use for are propped up against the shelf that rises over the far end of the desk, holding a few picture frames and the necessaries for tea. A black speaker with the brand name, CREATIVE functions as a makeshift bookend for the binders as well as a paperweight for a sheet of forty-two cent stamps that I purchased at the campus post office. 


I’m not particularly preoccupied with material possessions, and I believe that it is character that defines a person, not the things that they own. But I do think that the contents of a person’s pockets, the arrangement of their room, or the things they keep on their desk say a lot about them. So as I wonder about who I am and who I want to be, I look at the objects that I’ve placed on my desk. I try to listen to what they might be saying, but all I hear is Brittney singing along to Carrie Underwood across the hall and someone sneezing in the lounge, the breeze making the loose and lightweight objects in my room twitch as it comes in my window and the door to the staircase opening and closing. I look up at my shelf to find not an answer itself, but a way to the answer I’m searching for, a mug with the words, “call your mother” in block letters across the front. 

Pumpkin Pancake Haiku

A pumpkin pancake

On my plate of ceramic

I eat it quickly

[untitled]

Copper brown brass circles tan green grey laces
that tie at my ankles
that are propped on the table
outside of the  Game Room
that's still locked
and unlighted
I'm slouched on a couch
waiting for an appointment

Goodbye Pinch

The night's last touch
a motion that says:
"I will take part of you
to wherever I am
going without you."

The reflex to grab
to hold in two fingers
intangible feelings,
affection that lingers

Wordless goodbye
as you turn to go
small touch in the night
company for the road
where I go
without you

Things Remembered and Unfinished Thoughts

Remember the "I'm not listening game"? I used it a lot in elementary school. It's a game for two. The first player plugs their ears so that they can't hear, and then sings, or shouts in a sing-songy sort of way, "I'm not listening!" The second player attempts to tell the first a piece of information that the he/she would rather not hear. For example, Tommy's mom wants him to clean his room. Tommy doesn't want to clean his room, so he decides to play the "I'm not listening game" with his mom. In certain circumstances, player one will succeed in blocking out the unwanted information, but it's a bit of a gamble. For example, if Tommy's mother gets tired of the game, like player two almost always does, then she may decide to give him a time-out. She may even warn Tommy that if he doesn't stop singing, he will have to go in time-out, but since Timmy's ears are plugged, he will not hear this warning. In this scenario, player one loses, and player two takes the victory.

Remember jell pens? When sparkly pink words locked in top secret diaries were the only ones that mattered, like adding glitter or color made your middle school thoughts any more important. I liked holding my collection of jell pens in my hand and admiring all the colors together. Blue jell for when i was sad or sleepy or when the weather was rainy. Red for the summer, for when I painted my toenails with mom's Avon polish and framed my newly decorated feet in a crisp clean pair of Old Navy flops. Pink was the basic color for everyday writing because as a middle school girl, most days are pink, scandalous and exciting. There were jell pens that smelled too, scented pens. Or multi-colored jellies. The color might change from orange to purple mid-word. I always liked the way tie-dye jell pens looked, but writing with them was too ambiguous. I wanted to write LOVE in all caps with red jell pen not pink, and I couldn't sit around scribbling waiting for red to come out of my tie-dye pen. There was too much to say to waste that kind of time.

Traveling

The road was so long and smooth, so subtle in each curve and turn, that it felt more like floating than driving, like somehow being empty and full of purpose at the same time, like all we had to do was wait, float through space, and eventually we would accomplish something: eventually we'd be somewhere.

On a Thursday

I had eggs and bacon for breakfast this morning, and I colored another dinosaur in the coloring book on the kitchen table before watching Loony Tunes. After that it was 3 o'clock. It rained all afternoon, and that's about all that happened. It was a damp evening, cool, thick, and breezy from the rain that had fallen earlier. There was still thunder in the air, coming from all directions, ricocheting off the mountains, and filling the valley with the sound of grumbling: it wasn't here or there, but everywhere all at once. I had the idea, looking out the window at the mist and the rumbling, that I belonged somewhere else, on a grey suspension bridge, half-way between one peak and another with grey blue water passing below my dangling feet, bare feet, pale over the dark current.

A Home is Not a Heart

Think about a house, a person's home. You wouldn't say that a person is their home. Their home may certainly say something about them: the way they decorate, the level of order and overall cleanliness, the smell, the sounds that fill it. But a person is not their home. In the same way that a person is not their home, is not a house, a person is not their body either. A body is a home for the soul, and like a house is says something about the person living inside. The way they wear their hair, the colors they decorate themself with, their smell, the way they sound, the words they use. But your body is not who you are anymore than your house is.

Wednesday morning Meditations

Good morning Wednesday. Tomorrow will be my last full day here and then I get to go home! I've always thought about vacations and trips in this way, organizing a countdown of days into words that make home seem decievingly closer than it is. I'm having fun; I usually do on vacations, but for some reason, in the back of my mind, I'm counting down the days, even the hours within those days (It's 11am! Only one more hour until the day is half over), until I leave for home. I think I've even done this at home, counted down the hours until tomorrow. I don't know what I'm always waiting for. I wish I would stop it, enjoy where I am for a goddamn minute, but then I see a clock and I can't help but do the math. This morning, I woke up early (and I mean early in the summer sense of the word), 8am. I didn't want to get up, so instead I laid in bed and tossed in and out of sleep, dreaming about Jason and Sarah and wild animals escaped from tall barbed wire fences in an industrial kind of zoo, gypsies and genies and Jenna was there. Dominik passed me in a middle eastern market, and finally Nathan's voice rang out, disturbing whatever connections my brain had formed between all these images, events, and people, asking if I wanted pancakes. It was 10am. Only 2 more hours and then the day was half over! I did a small fist pump and stumbled upstairs to eat my pancakes.

The people I'm staying with like to watch TV. As a group, we don't have a whole lot in common besides the fact that we're all living together, so I can see where the television would seem like a quick way to relieve any social tension or awkwardness. I'm just not a TV person. What's the benefit of sitting in front of a screen, watching re-runs and movies (with vulgar humor, I might add) and commercials for hours on end? Not that TV can't be informative. I think it certainly can be, and I've been thoroughly inspired by movies and TV specials already. There's just so much you're missing inside with the TV on. Not to mention that the content of some of these shows and movies is as uninformative, uninspiring, and unintelligent as I've seen: Step Brothers with Will Ferrel, I don't know if I've ever hated a movie so much.

This morning, the group is watching the movie Miracle which they've all seen before. Why watch it again? Not that I haven't watched movies twice, three times over, but in this beautiful place, with limited time, while the sun is shining. Why now? I decided to use everyone else's pre-occupation with the TV to re-charge, have a little time to myself. I brough my book onto the porch and got into the first 20 pages of Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbar Kingsolver. I feel earthy just holding the thing, a green paperback book that looks like it was born of the earth rather than picked off a shelf and printed at a press. I want to be earthy. To some degree I guess I am, but there's so much I don't know about nature; it makes me angry that as humans we are so far removed from it. We came from nature. We are part of nature, and yet we shut ourselves in houses and buildings, and we close our windows and we shut our blinds and look down on nature as if it's below us, as if we personally outsmarted it, when in reality, most of us wouldn't last a day without modern conveniences, alone with mother nature. You think you'd survive? Better do a little research on what you're facing. It's brutal out there. Don't take my word for it; there are reality TV shows about this kind of thing.
Don't take what I'm saying the wrong way. I don't want to go back to the jungle. I understand and appreciate the luxury of a warm comfortable home. When you don't have to focus all of your energy on staying alive, there are a lot of amazing things that happen. I doubt that I would be writing this now if humans lived with animals as equals in the wild. People wouldn't sit around and discuss the meaning of life or the possibilites of death; they'd be too busy looking for their next meal, like the squirrel I've been watching from the porch here. I don't know what squirrels eat. I know they hoard nuts, but on a day-to-day basis, I'm not sure. This one climbs up a tree, skuttles around the top brances, taking dramatic pauses every so often to look around; for what, I'm not sure. Then he's down, spiraling around the trunk at a 90 degree angle to the ground. A bush rustles; the leaves move, and he's up another tree, skittering scratching, climbing, pausing, returning to the ground. I've been playing this game where I try to guess which tree he'll climb next the way you try to guess which hole that wicked little beaver they call a mole will pop up out of in your wack-a-mole dreams, except I'm not attempting to wack him with a rubber hammer.


I bet they have wack-a-squirrel shows on TV.

Prescription for an Unwanted Longing

Banish it:
"No Vacancy" signs and locks on the doors
Guards at the entrances,
 blocking out more

               longings.

Indulge it:

With rich fatty foods

and deep crimson wines,

warmth that touches the stomach-less pit

of the soul of the 

              longing.

Explore it:

Dig through the mud

to the root of the thing

just to see where it comes from,

and then see what it bring,

what it can produce.

Take a taste of the fruit made from

             longing.

Destroy it:

Cut the trunk down

to a fat wooden nub,

and then dig with a shovel

and every root snub

from its home in the soil,

oh - but it's not dead enough,

so you bring out the matches 

and burn the thing up!

Burn all the leaves!

Let the flames scorch the ground!

Burn the whole city!

Set fire to town!

the town -

built out of boards made from

            longing.

- gone

is it gone?

gone like the 

           longing -

to try to do something

for a longing that lasts 

that will not be banished

that puts up a fight -

that cannot be indulged

that warms to no wine, 

that cannot be explored 

or picked from a vine

that will not be destroyed

that's too rooted to weed -

oh

but if minds were like soil and longings

like seeds

Needing Sleep

I'm tired of poetry.

I'm tired of April

and tired from not getting enough sleep

I'm tired of nagging reminders from my stomach

because my to do list is growing longer 

faster than it's growing shorter

and tired from trying not to be tired.

I'm in need of sleep

or rest

at least.

I'm tired of April

I'm tired of poetry.

Divine Breeze

Where did you come from, 

warm breeze like wave?

You crashed on the shore of

April rainy days.

and swept through my soul,

splashed over my skin,

played with my hair,

drawing me in.

Wash over me warm

Wash over me strong.

Come tussle my shirt sleeves.

Come push me along

You carried debris,

the sounds of nearby,

an engine, a puppy,

a toddler’s cry,

and stranded it there

where it didn't belong

just before bringing more,

with the next wave of song.

Touch me soft:

Touch me lightly.

Pull me in with the tide

'till I'm lost out at sea

‘till I’m lost in the sigh

of the wind

as it whips through the willows

and pine

Where did you come from

warm breeze

breeze divine?

One Day Vacation

I didn't forget to post yesterday.

I promise, that isn't what happened:

I woke myself early,

downed some black coffee, 

and sleepily

walked out to the car

where the family was waiting

with cookies, and Snapple, and 

"let's get there as fast as we can"s 

We drove down through Maryland

and West VA too

until 11:40 something, when we saw

EMU

Then the rest of the day was warm breeze

and kissed cheeks,

playing games with the Eshlemans,

eating a feast,

and then eating again,

climbing bunk beds,

dying eggs,

watching Friends,

and goodbyes

at the end of the day.

I promised myself that my eyes wouldn't close

as we set out to drive through the darkness

toward home,

but just three songs in to our stormy night travels

my eyes changed their mind

and somehow,

here I am

at 10 in the morning 

with no post yesterday,

and my hair in a ball

and too much work for one day.

You could say that I lost,

and I guess that that's true,

but I think that days off 

are important too.

The Piece and his Piecestress

A very small piece of the world, today,

was brought back to where it belongs,

What for great flying birds

that take pieces away,

can too bring them back,

bring them back and much more.

As pieces grow old, they grow out and grow up

like a gathering snowball effect.

When a piece and a piece come together

and see

something new that they didn't before,

then they each take a bit of the piece that they met

and stick it to the piece that is them.

When a piece meets a place,

then too it can take 

a bit of acquaintance with him.

The process continues

as long as life goes

and pieces grow out and grow up -

into piles of pieces from people 

and places,

and that's how uniqueness explodes.

So today when that one piece 

reunites with his other

there will be more pieces stuck to him than -

the day that he left

or the day that they met

and the cycle, start over again.

 

Niche

Let's say I was stuck in a hole,
a hole that was deep,
six feet,
so my fingers could just barely reach
And let's say that no one's around,
because even if people were near
I doubt, being me,
that I'd ask them for help
because there have been holes
much more deep
than six feet.

A couple of options, I'd have at that point.
I could dig some dirt steps
and walk out.
I could yell at the top of my lungs
'cause I'm mad
or cry at the pit of the hole
'cause I'm sad.

I could learn to eat worms, mud, and small vegetation
and live in the dark of the earth.
Turn into a mole
with no eyes and webbed toes
and a snout that frightens off strangers.

Here in the hole
there are frail fallen leaves
suspended in web of a spider that weaves
There's my hair and my toes
(yes, I'm quite fond of those
despite their new wardrobe of moss)
There's a view of the sky,
blue and orange, black and white
changing along with the day.

Oh it may look pathetic
to see me sub-surface,
when everyone knows that the best creatures fly,
but this six foot deep hole
feels like home to a mole
who enjoys life, just watching the sky.

Passing Fields

The yellow flowers are in bloom

In a field I don't own

but would like to

I've heard that land is expensive

and if that is true

then I'll probably just have an acre or two

I think about blankets and bare feet

on grass, 

about smelling the yellow

and packed lunch in hands

The roll of the green ocean

sprinkled with yellow

makes me feel hungry

and dreamy and mellow. 

Feel my Song

When you can barely confess,
when you lose your breath,
the drummer's still hammering the beat,
and your listener can hear it
your listener can feel it:
that's when words become real.

The Appreciation of Bricks

The left side of the house is a family of bricks
tucked into a blanket of ivy.
Some are darker than their brothers
and a handful are shy, hiding from me as I count them.

The white and tan colored cat waves at me
with its tail, in a leisurely gesture
a twitch so smooth and so slow that for a moment,
it feels like time's been suspended.

As I watch the cat and the minutes stretch out,
It feels like swimming in a puddle of time
like the puddle that's reflecting bricks and ivy
beside me.

I like to look at these bricks, at the wall
after it's rained, and the sky is gray
because the green of the ivy seems brighter
and the red-orange of the rain covered bricks is deeper.

On certain days when it rains, days like today
I don't want to stand here alone.
I'd like it if someone else appreciated the bricks
or appreciated the fact that I appreciate the bricks in an ivy blanket

Even the cat's run away.

Clarity

Clarity is when you close the gate
and flip the sign to the side that says,
"Visitors not welcome today"
and you shut the blinds
because you're done looking out
and your done letting people look in

Clarity is when you make friends with the corner
the one in the west of the house
and you look at the wall
and you beg for an answer
while you try to ignore
the sound of the mouse
that scuttles behind the plaster walls
and in between nail hammered beams
as you're looking for silence
and peace
and a mind
full of clarity.

Clarity is when cabin fever sets in
and you have to get back to the world
where the sun warms your skin
and there's dirt to dig in
where real things exist
like the grass and the sky
and your neighbors sweet chatter
and warm summer pie
Where there's more than a couch
and a cabinet and stairs
and a rattling fridge (that's now empty)
because really
how long can one last in a corner?

There's more than just food
and a place you can sit.
There are things that you feel
and you know.

It's that pivotal moment when you open the door
and your face rediscovers the sun
and the haze is all gone, as well as the fog
replaced by a sharp clear design
when you realize that warm just feels better
sometimes
and you abandon the light of inside
when you look at your yard
and the gate and the sign
with eyes that were so long deprived
of the picture you feel
and the things that are real
like the sun
and its warmth
and its light

All in a Day

Today I played the violin

I wiped the counter

Broke a ten

I ate a fruit 

I boiled water

Washed and dried

And drove

And plotted

Wrote and read

Climbed out of bed

out of sheets that felt like butter

only better 

warmer

softer

Left the sheets turned inside out

for jeans and slippers

pins and pouch

blackened goop 

and powdered rouge

and music that was out of tune

For conversations

papers

pens-

I wiped the counter

Broke a ten

Today I played the violin

Plastic for Lunch

A fork set at the table
plastic handle
Poised to poke
By a plate that's full of empty
on a table
by the stairs
There's room for six more legs
here
but I'm short on tableware
I thought to ask the sky to lunch
but couldn't find a chair
I'm awful lonesome for a meal
or even bread
with pears

But today, again,
I'll sit me down
to plastic
by the stairs.

11:40 genius

Brains and fingers

clash against keys

It's 11:41

Sharpies and post-its

fingers and keys

brains

It's 11:42

Pizza sauce looks like

brains

when it's cold

It's 11:43

The orange juice is gone

I lost my car keys

so I used the spare set

it's still 11:43

It's 11:45 

and the fish are swimming 

in the dark

The TV has been sleeping

since 

(It's 11:46)

an hour and 44 minutes

ago

Brains and fingers and keys

It's 11:47

I the restless winding road

I the restless winding road
a friend to many men
who visit here or bargain there
or have no place to go
I pave the path to loved ones
or pave the path depart
through fields of grass
and walls of stone
or water, quick and smart.
Outwitted air and gravity
no barrier can block
my lengthy arms
my sturdy side
my far extending touch.
Oh traveler, your praise for me
echoes through my bones.
You thank me for the chance to see
to meet to greet to go.
You claim me as connection
to all your other parts,
but do you know
I were the same
that scattered you to start?

Beam Me Up

There is nothing to write today.

The pot is empty
The pumpkin is carved
The leaves have fallen off the trees
The peach is dry
The air is sterile
The peanut shell is peanut-less
The line is long
My patience is gone.

Why does everything have to rhyme?

I don't want to be like a wave:
I want to be the moon.
I don't want to need to be needed
but I do
I don't want to be so predictable:
I want to surprise.
I'm so tired of discommunication
It's hurting my eyes.

And why does everything have to rhyme?


  

poor excuse for poetry

Some days I don't feel like I have anything to write

Some meals I have no desire to eat

But I write none the less,

and on occasion I find

that I didn't even know 

I was hungry.

Pretzels Before Dinner

The dog is on my right
a bag of pretzels is next to me on the floor
a drink of milk numbs my grip,
as the afternoon condenses on the glass
we share pretzels before dinner

Skinny legs is soft asleep in the corner
uninterested in the Bennets,
in the blue eyed wonder, Mr. Darcy.
She left them mid-climax
for the song of shut eyes, small movements
and sweet stillness.

There's sunlight on  the stone floors
and on the walls that were painted white.
The breeze through the door and the windows smells like a mostly silent afternoon
and the making of fresh grass clippings.
My earth smattered shoes are still tied, next to my feet

I can feel the sleep like I taste the salt
like I smell the breeze
and the smell of gasoline that trails on my fingers
here in our bright square of warm
with the breeze and the sleep
and the pretzels

he asks for more with his eyes

otherwise, it is mostly silent

melting

popsicles haven't been what they used to be,
sweet and sticky:
I can lick the sicle
while the pop melts
and my tongue finds the stick.
and I know they're still sticky

but popsicles haven't been what they used to be

letters

origami heart
folding paper heart
stamped
and
sealed

forty-four cents
of a flattened
paper heart
folded
and
sealed

hollow paper heart
unfolded origami
eyes
and
words

origami heart
folding paper heart
stamped
and
torn

I Found a Poem in the Sunday Post

April is national poetry month, and I've decided, thanks to one of my readers, to challenge myself to post a poem every day for the rest of the month. Today I have two poems because that's how resolutions and challenges go; they start out running on a tank full of enthusiasm, and by the end, they're running on pure endurance. I just hope I get to May before I get to Empty.

Snob in the Morning

Still
And I'll look at you now
But I'm still -removed
Quiet
And my eyes could be marbles
My arms lock me into my chest
Still
It's 9 in the morning
Too early to move my stiff neck
Quiet
But my nose says a lot
From it's perch above my stone chin
Still
And I'll look at you now
But I'm still,
Removed

Original Sun

Sunlight.
Same as the light of the morning
that carried my heart and my eyes
from sleep
Sunlight.
The sun is the same as it was
when the sand burned the soles of
my feet
Sunlight.
How it changes my mood-
changes the feel of
a room
Sunlight.
Oh but I can't have enough
of that succulent, savory
fruit

Lifeboat

I captained a ship that tides had washed
A pale and feeble gray
I made my men to wash the deck
Every single day

And so my ship, though pale and old
Was always known as clean
We worked so hard, my men and me
We'd never even seen

The vastness of the ocean
Or the stones of foreign shores
The lifeboat was un-needed
And never used, its oars

Match

Here’s the problem:

We probably won’t

ever match.

Even if you’re green

and I’m red, and we go together

and we look nice together

and I enjoy looking at you and you at me

and we play together beautifully,

you’ll never be red and

I’ll never be green and

that’s just the way it’s going to be.  

Coffee Dreams

And they're all singing songs that mean nothing to me
And a man leaps about in my head.
His blazer's b'dazzled with braided gold rope
And his hair tosses 'bout gingerly.
For the music he hears, loud as bumble bee tears
I mean bees, I mean beers,
I mean BEARS!
And now big bouncing balls, roll into the hall
That was painted by hand in the year
That the godfather, grandfather, great father, (god)
Birthed culture and all things supreme,
But the gold paint and carved wood look suddenly dull
With bears rolling big bouncy balls
And shouting out
"Cheers! To long happy years"
As they drink from their frothy brown mugs.

Things I Love That Are Not Mine

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

January 27, The Birth of A Friend(ship)

18 is divisible by 3. It is also divisible by 6, and 9 and 2, and if you take 2 away from the sum of 9 and 6 you get 13. 13 is the number of years that I’ve known a girl named Heather. Heather was a tiny blonde with bangs cut at a perfect 90 degree angle to her ears. She wore dresses. I wore jeans that had to have the grass stains washed out of them repeatedly. Heather packed her lunch; I bought. We were definitely opposites. Even the way we approached playtime was different. Heather wanted to create elaborate romances between her Barbie and my Ken doll. I wanted to make them fly around the house.

We met in Mrs. Ditzlers’s afternoon kindergarten. On one of the first days of school, Heather needed someone to play with and my mom, standing nearby as “Room Helper” volunteered me. I’m told, though I can’t remember, that after being introduced we took hands and walked away to find something to play with. That must have been a glorious moment for Heather in our friendship. I’m not a big fan of physical contact. I have plenty of theories about why that is, but they’re only theories. Heather, on the other hand, loves to hug, to hang, to cuddle, to rub, stroke, pinch, grab, hold, talk about a hands on learner. I let her invade my personal space for a couple of years before drawing the line. How many friends do you know of that make rules about hugs?

When I think about my friendship with Heather, one of the first things I remember is sleeping over at her house. I loved sleepovers at the Shertzers. The night would start with chocolate. We’d make sundaes or mint chocolate milkshakes, or, on special occasions, we’d have Pelman’s triple chocolate cake washed down with tall glasses of milk. I remember that I liked the glasses at her house. They were actually glass, and they were tall like the glasses my parents drank out of. At my house, the kids drank out of plastic cups that had attachable sippy lids, and we kept them in a drawer by the fridge, not a cupboard next to the sink.

After snack, I’d borrow one of Heather’s bathing suits and we’d go sit in the hot tub until we turned to prunes. There was a specific procedure for getting in the hot tub. We’d get towels from the bathroom and go down to the basement, leave our towels at the door to the patio, run out into the cold, take the cover off the hot tub, and then wipe off our feet before entering the warm water. Once we were in, we’d talk about boys and gossip about the other girls in our grade, talk about God, and disagree about God. We’d admire our legs and confide that this year we really were going to buy bikinis.

There was always a special sleepover at the end of the school year where we would write in each other’s yearbooks recounting our embarrassing moments, remembering our inside jokes, and finally confessing our appreciation for each other. I stopped buying yearbooks when I entered the high school, when the price jumped a good fifty bucks. So for the four years that we’ve missed, I think it’s time again to recount embarrassing moments, remember inside jokes, and confess appreciation.

Heather, do you remember the picture that I put on the back of that poster I made you for your 17^th birthday? If there weren’t a photo of it, it really wouldn’t have been an embarrassing moment, rather normal for us actually, but that wasn’t the case. Remember sophomore year in the fall, screaming and crying and half laughing outside the bathrooms near the cafeteria? That should have been embarrassing, but we were so worked up we were completely oblivious to anyone that may have seen or heard us. Remember the night there was a tornado warning and we had to run to the basement only half way out of our dress up clothes? I was embarrassed, sitting on a chair in your basement in my underwear; you should have been embarrassed too, but not for the same reason, because of the fit you were making about the possible tornado. Remember prom, and how our dates were chucking mints at each other and catching them in their mouths and Mr. Pritcherd had to come over and tell them to knock it off? Why weren’t you embarrassed? Remember in AP art when I wore a dress with shorts underneath and I mooned you and Teddy? You were actually embarrassed that time.

Inside jokes, well… you know what has to come first, “You just gotta do it till it won’t do it no more.” Then there’s our classic, strawberry banana or strawberry kiwi. Big butts that keep us warm in the winter. Full moons, and bicycles, although, that could be an embarrassing moment. It seems like there should be a lot more. There probably are, but I’m kind of anxious to move on to the next part of this yearbook entry.

Heather, you’ve known me through all of my different phases, the Aeropostale phase, the tomboy phase, the athlete phase, the religious phase, the depressed and doesn’t want to have fun phase, the short hair phase, the jell pen phase, the Barbies and pumpkin muffins stage. You knew who I was and when I was trying to be someone I wasn’t and as fickle as I was, and still am, you stuck around. You called me out when I needed it and didn’t want it, when I needed it and wanted it, when I didn’t need it and didn’t want it. You took me shopping when I felt bad about my clothes. You taught me how to make chocolate peanut butter eggs, how to escape a flood, and change a tire. You may have made fun of my cooking, but you still ate it. You are a good friend Heather Shertzer, and I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade the time we’ve spent together for anything. You have been such a big part of my life, from childhood all the way to adulthood now.

The other thing about the numbers from the beginning is that if you add 18 to half it’s value, you get 27, and that’s today’s date, the birth date of Heather Noel Shertzer, loud laugher, chocolate lover, fashion goo-roo, natural blonde, and friend. Happy birthday Heath, and welcome to adulthood. 

Marching and Metatarsals

Mr. Landis is the quiz bowl coach. He knows everything. Today he read off a question that happened to be a biology question, not exactly a rarity in quiz bowl, but this question was. It was a once in a lifetime biology quiz bowl practice question, a question I understood. I didn't get to respond though because Gage buzzed before I could believe that I actually knew the answer. I can't remember what the question was anymore. I actually don't remember what the answer was either. What I do remember is that one of the possible responses was "metatarsals".

Now, let's assume you aren't a quiz bowler and you aren't a science nerd either (congratulations, you have successfully evaded one of the most prominent high school cults alive today). Maybe you are so far removed from biological rhetoric that "metatarsals" is an entirely new word to you, or maybe you just had your anatomy and physiology final, and you still can't remember what metatarsals are. (If that's the case, I hope you failed.) It doesn't really matter why you don't know it; you just don't. And that's okay because I do, and I'll be defining it for you shortly. Metatarsals are the bones in one’s foot that connect to the phalanges, phalanges, another word from my biology vocabulary, meaning toes in this instance. Metatarsals are only found in the foot, but today, science was wrong because I found metatarsals in a quiz bowl question. 

How long it had been since metatarsals had crossed my mind, too long for such a delicious word to be gone. I vowed to never let it escape me again. There was something march-y about it, very rhythmic. After quiz bowl was over and I started my small sojourn to the other end of the building for gym, I found myself thinking "met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals" to the rhythm of my step. 

It was 7 AM and I already had a word to march to for the day; that taken care of, the "Being Flustered and Disoriented While Trying to Settle into Daily Routine" portion of my morning was largely eliminated from my day. I stalked through the fluorescent lights and stagnant smells of high school with purpose, first mouthing the words and then finally singing, "Met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals." There's probably medication for that kind of behavior, but as strange as it may be to sing a word as I walk, keeping a beat and therefore keeping order in the midst of the disgusting disorder that is high school, I'm a happy kid. I don't go to counseling. I don't need to. I've found my cure and today it was metatarsals.

Since marching can only truly be accomplished by creatures with feet and metatarsals are located in the foot, feet were at the front of my mind. I've always liked my feet. I'm a Good Foot pure-blood. Both of my parents have nice feet, none of that extra-long middle toe business. Our toes descend perfectly in height from the big toe down to the pinky. 

I have other qualifications for good feet besides the height of each toe, like size. It's important that the feet in question not be too big, but it is equally important that they not be too small. Good feet also have to have smooth skin that's never dry, but never clammy. Good feet have toes that turn olive-brown in the summer while they're running through the backyard. Good feet slip quietly in and out of shoes without disturbing nearby noses. Good feet stay on their side of the bed at night. Good feet look good with purple toenail polish and toe rings, and good feet never wear sandals in the winter, unless those sandals are accompanied by socks.

I started thinking of all the feet I'd ever seen, splotchy red and white feet, long and skinny flipper feet, circle toes like tree frogs' feet, red and hot and sweaty feet, pasty wan and freezing feet, stuff gets lost between my toes feet,  let's curl up and cuddle feet, hotels that stink in Spain feet. They were disgusting, all of them. "Take them away!" I ordered from the throne where I sat as the Queen of Good Feet, but as they filed out the door, those feet managed to kick over my throne, sending me soaring through the air. My own feet broke the fall, and I was balanced again in no time. "See! That's what we're here for," they chided in huffy breaths, "Now get to class." 

Ah yes, that's what I was doing. I looked up from my clogs in enough time to see the student I had just bumped into, the one whose feet had toppled my throne, looking back at me from over his shoulder. Metatarsals marched me onward to gym class were I sat down and listened, yet again, for the omission of the quiz bowl team's latest victory on the morning announcements. I might have been upset walking back to the locker room that for all the early mornings with Mr. Landis, we weren't even considered a sports team, but it's hard to be angry and sing "Met-a-tar-sals, met-a-tar-sals," at the same time.  

Life is Like Trees

Life is like

Trees cuz it burns to the

Ground if the smallest of sparks and

Dry weather compound and ignite to make flames

That can eat life alive and send columns of smoke upwards

Into the sky. And though flames tear ‘em down, and the

Sight isn’t pretty, trees to ash on the ground, a new

Life is ready, to grow from the soil that

Harbors the seeds

Flames may

Be destructive

But there

Will always

Be trees

The Death of Mice at the Hands of Men

I caught the mouse

Whose tiny claws

Scratched daily

My apartment walls

Strapped to the wood

By bar so tight

His fragile body,

Dead to fight

How harmless now

That mouse did seem

Soft fur and tiny paws

I wondered why

I’d ever sought

To kill the mouse

At all

How I Got Caught

Sprint across the carpet. Careful through the kitchen. Up and down the hallways. Stairs: Bu-bu-bu-bu-bu-bu-BUH! Perfect landing. Running again. Closer, closer. Reach out a hand…Thud. We fall to the ground. Laughing. No, crying. “Mom!” Then, bowed head. Whispered apologies. Booboos and kisses. All better. If only words could mend the way kisses used to. Now it’s not hearing, “Mom!” that means I’ve been caught; it’s conjunctions like “so…” and the sentence, “I wanted to talk…” always left open, like an invitation to yell “STOP!” It’s the point where things change, though I hoped they would not.

A Typical Day in 100 Words

MEH! Click. Rustle. Flip. Lights, bright. Car. School. “Let’s discuss… meeting’s adjourned.” “Did you get the homework?” “Let me show you.” Run, kick, breathe, change. Ding! Paint, pencil, graphite, pastel, paper. Silence. Ding. Brush, brush, rush, rush. Squeezing past. Safe at last. Sit down here, write until lunch. Noise so loud it’s like silence. Safe again, ponder a poem. Ding. Right left right left. Calculus jokes. Find the volume of the solid created when the area bounded by the curve… 8.532? Try again. Listen. LISTEN! Integrate, calculate. Ding. Rush brush. Heave hoe. Slam! Safe inside the car. *sigh* home. 

Guest Player

I slammed the car door on my leg today. It ripped the tights I was wearing and the skin underneath the tights. A small bubble of blood peaked out at me from the inside of my leg, red and angry as if to say, "What are you doing letting the cold in?" I apologized to the red blood cells I had disturbed and bowed my head in appreciation to the white as they brandished their swords to fight the army of infection that was marching in through the small breech in my skin. We were all a little peeved at the early morning disturbance, but we smoothed our ruffled feathers and set to work repairing the broken skin. About an hour later, I looked down to see how things at the construction sight were going. The Platelets had arrived; a hard scab was forming. Those guys were so dependable. What a team. I decided a raise was in order, steak, potatoes, spinach, broccoli. Heck, maybe I'd just eat a couple of nails for dinner.

I pulled a pair of knee-highs out of my purse. They were grey and blue. I was wearing brown and white. I put them on, covering the hardened scab that would substitute for my skin for the next week or two, and then I finished off the "Nothing I Own Matches" look with a pair of converse shoes that belong in the trash. I spilled red paint on them once. The spill looked like someone else's angry blood cells, and even though I knew it wasn't, I still felt a little defensive toward their bright red belligerence. Head up, ignore the shoes.

I got back in the car to drive home, pumped some tunes, and sang at the top of my lungs like it was my heart that had been broken and not Sara Bareilles's. Back at home, I pulled in the garage and turned off the car halfway to the end of Gonna Get Over You. Feeling the need for some closure, I finished the end of Sara's song in my best opera voice, only sort of mocking her. I put away the stuff that had been in my car and found myself in front of a mirror. I turned my leg to face the reflection and admired the newly constructed scab from a distance, pretty beautiful. "How did we do that?" I asked the team. Nobody answered. They were safe inside my skin once again and couldn't hear me.

I sang a couple more songs but only half heartedly, dropping out and humming when I forgot the words. I thought about my chords. I had a pretty nice set. I put my hand to my throat and sang a couple notes. "How do you guys know how to make the right sound?" I asked, but all they said was "Oooooo, How'ma gonna get over you."

I always thought I was The Boss, that I ran the show, that the team was under my direction, but I hadn't called the Platelets when I shut my leg in the car door. I hadn't armed the white blood cells, and I didn't even know how a voice that I had previously believed to be mine could sing a high G. I would have stepped back from myself, but when I stepped, so did the team. "Woah," I said, and they all nodded. "So then... who?" but the scab was in place and they were safe inside my skin.

Red

Red hears jealous whispers as she steals away attention

From Black and Brown and Tan in their colorless detention

Red starts the battle cry and pours out waves of passion

She gives and gives and gives leaving stains of violent fashion

Red loves without condition, wildly and free

Less her lover be the dull and suffocating green

Paired with green she’s boring Brown that sits beneath the grass

Till she digs her way to freedom and she’s Red again at last

She’s so used to attention and aware of her own glow

That should Blue choose to ignore her, unimpressed by her show

She’d splatter everything she saw with blinding bravery

And though the world be watching, still feel neglected and unseen

She’d Red, she’s bold, she’s brilliant,

Everybody ought to know

She’s Red she’s bright she’s gorgeous

And it shows

It shows

It shows

Depends On What Kind of Leader You're Looking For

I could command the attention of a room and direct a group to a consensus. I could stand in front of my calculus class and convince the confused that the area under the curve of the function f(x) is the integral of…, but I’ve found that leadership is the hardest for me when dealing with relationships. It’s easy enough to stand in front of a crowd and tell them what’s what, but it takes a different kind courage and strength to forgive, to confess, and to confront. And to conjure up that kind of bravery is no small task. 

We are Friends

             I’ve had a lot of different friends through high school, changing from class to class and lunch period to lunch period, but there are two girls who have been constants, Heather and Rachel. Heather has been my friend since afternoon kindergarten when my mom volunteered me as a playmate during recess. We ended up sticking together through elementary school, mostly because Heather was good at telling me what to do, and I was good at doing what Heather said. Together we chased the boys around the soccer field at recess, dominating the play because of our early grow spurts and pointy elbows. We soloed to the song Silver Bells at our school’s winter concert with the Orff Ensemble, and spent the night at each other’s houses like best friends do. It wasn’t until middle school that I realized Heather was controlling. I’d never known any different. We had a hard time working it out, but by the time we entered high school we needed each other again, and so our friendship was reborn. We’ve come a long way since elementary school. I’ve learned to stand up for myself and make my own decisions, and Heather has learned that unlike playing Barbies, she can’t control every one in her life.

             While Heather and I were thrown together by circumstance, Rachel and I found each other. Rachel was always around. We grew up going to the same church, eating goldfish out of the same bowl for snack, and we were in the same class all the way through middle school and into high school. Rachel was invited to the same parties that I was. Her friends were friends with my friends, and my friends were friends with hers. Still for all our connections and similarities, we never really knew each other.

I can’t pinpoint a moment when my friendship with Rachel began. Somewhere between 9^th and 10^th grade we started saying hey to each other in the hallway and sitting beside each other in class. When I think back on it, I can’t remember any transition from being in the background of each other’s lives to being friends. It just happened, almost like it was meant to be. I had always admired Rachel for her confidence and quirkiness. She was never afraid of laughing too loud or wearing anomalous pieces of clothing. There was no one she couldn’t talk to. While most of my classmates, including myself, lived by the unspoken law that only certain friends from certain groups were allowed to converse with each other, Rachel made jokes with the Latinos, a group she most definitely did not belong to. She gave nicknames to the basketball jocks, who were above her on the social ladder, but rules never applied to Rachel.

It was my friendship with Heather, my friendship with Rachel, and Honors English III that brought all of us together. We met up for a class project on the American dream one weekend, and after that, we were a family, a sub-culture all our own within and without the walls of Conestoga Valley High School. Heather would honk at me in her purple van as I coaxed all of my belongs into the back of my Camery at the end of the school day, and I would join her in the second row of the parking lot as she blasted music from the Sienna’s speakers. Together we would dance and whistle to get Rachel’s attention.

After the dancing got old and the parking lot empty, we would laugh at how silly we were and then head back to my house for an after school snack. Our friendship came so easily. The dynamics of three flowed in a way I had only ever experience with my two sisters, and it was beautiful.

Acceptance

"I can assure you I'm not from 'round here,:
He said to the man as he blinked back a tear.
"That's a'ight sunny. Ya don't ha-fta be,"
Replied the good fellow as he smiled with glee.

"How welcoming," said he, the man not from There
"That you would accept me, that you would not care
'Bout the diff'rence between us or the tales of my past
Finally, I'm wanted, I'm welcome, at last!"

"What's that about diff'rences?" questioned The Man
"The people from Here, we're the same 'cross the land.
You'd be welcome to join us. We want ya ta stay
Just as long as ya promise you'll do what we say."

"What do you mean? I'm not sure I agree.
If we come to an issue and different sides see
Then I'd like to take my side and you can have yours
And we'd still love each other 'cause that's what love's for."

"Well that's not how it works here in this land, my friend.
We don't do love like that. We don't break we don't bend.
Everything's set in stone, and if you disagree
Then you just can't be part of the people called We."

This upset the man greatly for he'd traveled for days
Searching for a people who'd allow him to stay
He needed a family, needed a home
But he shook the mans hand and traveled along.

Smells of home
Smells of bliss
Smells of silent loneliness. 

Smells familiar
Smells forgotten
Smells that rise from loose earth trodden. 

Smell the past in present form. 
Smells like this are not the norm.

Eat them quietly and think 
About the things to which they link

Moments that were here before
The smells could bring you back for more.