Sestina (Original Draft)

World Works

Tottering about every which way, all around

Laughing eyes and stinging cheeks spread wide in a smile. 

Squeals of excitement.

Can’t be caught.

Little hands and feet make their way up playground.

Far off worlds are hidden in the fort, stow yourself away.

Childish things, stow them away,

New stability helps to get around.

There is no limit to the playground,

Now more a smirk than a smile.

Can’t be caught.

Challenging boundaries is cause for excitement

There is a roar of excitement,

For once there really is no limit to where you can go away.

Dreams can be caught.

Everyone is gathered around,

The crowd shares an encouraging smile,

The world lays open to your beck and call, your playground.

It’s time to get off the playground.

Nothing has ever created more excitement

You can’t help the cheeky smile

If only you could just whisk her away.

Good wishes are passed around.

Your dream has been caught.

Can’t be caught.

This is some kind of cruel makeshift playground.

There is nowhere the enemy is not around.

The rush of adrenaline is the only cause for excitement.

If only you could get away,

Maybe then there would be cause again for smiles.

Blank eyes and unfeeling smile.

You’ve been caught,

It’s time to go away.

Darkness is now your playground.

The last thing to be felt is excitement.

But maybe you’ll still stick around. 

Sonnet (Original Draft)

Changed Thoughts, New Normalcy

A whirlwind of crazy, then they’re gone.

My life has become irrevocably altered,

Preconceived notions, erased, redrawn.

You’re the wrecking ball that sauntered.

I never enjoy confrontation,

You relish in being the source.

But what’s love without opposition?

Who wants a smooth sailing course? 

The warm glimmer in your eye

Never falters, but stirs others to convert.  

Suns and moons stain unperturbed sky,

Raw exposure turns to comfort.

 Challenged and changed thoughts,

You were what I sought. 

Slam Poem (Original Draft)

God’s Fundamental Impact

Bad things happen to good people,

Structure of life is quite feeble.

Some unlucky twist of fate,

Darkness will seep in, filtrate,

And still I’m told,

Onto blind faith I should hold. 

Fantastic buildings topple down,

Entire cities are left to drown.

The child with the bloated belly,

Wastes away, body shell, empty.

Lovely mother of three,

Cursed with terminal disease.   

Man in war killed,

Life forever stilled.

Tragedy strikes every waking hour,

 In every imaginable way that’s sour.

And still I’m told,

Onto blind faith I should hold.

It’s said good people do not exist …

To God mankind is an annoying syst. 

Disasters are His almighty wrath,

Paving the way to a righteous path.   

But this leaves more pressing questions,

Why must He teach with such awful lessons?

Nighttime strikes the shining day,

It sucks the airy joy away.  

Good things happen to those who don’t deserve,

And unfeeling smile I must preserve.  

To some outrageous ideas I shall submit,

For the sake of my own spirit.

Because there will come a day suffering abates,

The day we stand on the brink of pearly gates.

People Watching Poem (Original Draft)

Petition for Rebellion

Little ants scuttling around, jobs to be done,

I remember a time I was that complying.

Not a single hair out of place, so orderly,

I can’t believe they can stand it.               

Listening without question,

I wonder at who taught them that.

Where is the spontaneity?

What gives you spots instead of stripes?

No one knows how to be their own person,

Each will grow up to be identical copies.

Rules are closing in, constricting breathing,

Expectations pasted on model walls.

An awful world, a boring future,

I petition for rebellion.

                                                                    

Found Poem

Heir to the Throne

Tender sweetness, coming down.                             
Dearly departed but not forgotten.

Poison results.                                               
And we cater to                                               
The twisted devil,                                       
Abused Power. 

Corporate arrogance,                                         
Take it with you.  

The Real Marriage Chest

This is a picture of the box that the "The Marriage Chest" got its inspiration from. It is featured in the 2nd floor medieval gallery in Rochester Memorial Art Gallery. From the description of it, the chest was indeed a marriage chest, from about 15th century Germany. In German it is known as a "Minnekastchen." Click here to learn more 

Ekphrastic Poem (Revised)

The Marriage Chest

Musty boards complain under pressure of weight,                                                

The bones, long ago sucked of their marrow, creak.                                             

Years had trudged by like months of hibernation;                                            

Now the attic awakes with begrudging groans.                                                      

The room inhales with sickly moans,                                                            

Wind tears through thin walls, in lingering wisps.                                         

Then room exhales with heavy ferocity,                                                      

Beastly, warm, belligerent, prey stalked inch by inch. 

A single window, shadowed with sooty dust,                                                     

Looks out to packed cobble roads and thatched roofs                                           Of an age past. Its roof slanted, the whole room                                          

Closing in like folded paper. Oppression oozes from cracks,                                     

An out of ground coffin. This grave not one, but many.                                   

Haven to objects obscure and forgotten.                                                            

In the heart of the beast lays its prized gem,                                                          

A chest, possessor of a single treasure itself.  

Drained of goodness, honey sucked. Cracking blackened wood,                       

Missing chunks of meat. Adorned with crude depictions of the fanciful,            

Winged creatures of imagination, breathing animals of truth.                  

Partners in unity, each with an unpolished face, curled horns,                                

Bent limbs, tucked tails. Beady griffin’s eyes, grumbles of                                        

The lions. Feast upon your fruit. Top sits upon bottom, crooked                      

Tooth, like a door popped from its hinge. Molting ashy feathers,                          

Iron lock sits squarely upon front, key stuck in, unturned.         

No possession was superior, there only was the marriage chest,                    

Innocence clouded bright eyes, ignorance muddied young mind.             

Undeserving of the gifts of gods, she was but a moth caught to flame.       

Fearsomely drawn to the enigma, with prying fingers denied access.                         It was beautiful she thought, yet how she longed to peek inside.                     

From man she received murderous grimaces, forbidden as fruit atop trees.              

One night she snuck from her husband’s sleeping form,                                       

And to the box she went, diamond key in hand.                                               

Thereafter Pandora’s box lay to rot away. The only Hope                                 

Rested within, burdened by the weight of the world.                     

Ekphrastic Poem (Original Draft)

The Marriage Chest

Musty floor boards complained under, 
the pressure of weight they had long not been accustomed to.  
Years had trudged by like months of hibernation;                               
now the attic awoke with begrudging groans.                                        
The room inhaled with sickly moans,                                                 
Wind tore through thin walls, lingering in wisps.                                
The room exhaled with heavy ferocity,                                                    
the beast, warm, belligerent stalked prey around corners. 

A single window, darkened with sooty dust,                                                       
looked out to packed cobble roads and thatched roofs                                           
of an age past. Its roof slanted, the whole room was set off                               
at sharp angles. Oppression oozed from cracks,                                              
creating an out of ground coffin. This grave was not one,                                       
but many. Haven to objects obscure and forgotten                                                 
In the heart of the beast laid its prized gem.                                                            
A chest, possessor of a single treasure itself.  

Hardly any goodness left, ready to implode. Chunks of blackening wood             
left cracks. All sides adorned with crude depictions of the fanciful.                     
Winged creatures of imagination, breathing animals of truth.                            
Griffins, baboons, lions, unicorns, rabbits, camels.                                           
Partners in unity, each with an unpolished face, curled horns,                                 
bent limbs, tucked tails. The top sat awkwardly upon                                    
the bottom like a door popped from its hinge. The iron lock                                   
Sat squarely upon the front, key stuck in, unturned.     

How beautiful the marriage chest was, the bride had thought.                    
Innocence clouded her face, ignorance muddied her mind.                                 
As the young are prone to do, she thought only of what she                                
could not have. She loved the piece to leave in her home.                                      
It was beautiful she thought, yet how she longed to peek inside.                           
One night she snuck from her husband’s sleeping form,                                         
and to the box she went, diamond key in hand.                                                    
And from that box escaped the entirety of malignant misery.    
                     
Now, Pandora’s box lay to rot away. The only Hope                                       
rested within, burdened by the weight of the world.                                  
Ready to implode.                                       

                                                                                   

                  

Epistolary Poem (REVISED DRAFT)

For Things to Come: What to Expect

“To my sisters”

My Dears,

There are gonna be those times,

That will make your palms damp with sweat.                                                                                    
Your insides may squirm, twisting into knots,                                                                              
Timid pup, overwhelmed by the mocking jungle.

They’ll judge you, make assumptions,                                                                                        
They’ll forget their own shortcomings.                                                                                          
They won’t understand you.

Nor will they take the time to know you,                                                                                          
Who has the time?  What is time?                                                                                              
People believe without a second guess.

Cold and calculating, unmovable,                                                                                      
Processing information those machines,                                                                                          
Feeling no humane empathy.

I know the unknown is frightening,                                                                                              
Don’t let seemingly scary things dissuade you.                                                                          
Go out there and take life for all it’s worth.

Wherever you make enemies                                                                                                    
There will always be friends,                                                                                                  
Waiting to be discovered in their wakes.

Not everyone will like you, but stay true,                                                                                      
And not everything will go your way,                                                                                            
Pick yourself up and dust off, be unphased.  

It can be brutal, that’s how you gain strength.                                                                                  
To gain experience takes perseverance,                                                                                        
Take trampled flowers, make them thrive.                   

                                                               

Don't give up,
Cause those fairy tales
Always end happily ever after.

                                                                          

With love,                                                                                                                              
Etcetera etcetera.

Epistolary Poem (Original Draft)

What to Expect

It will make your palms damp with sweat.                                                                                        
Your insides may squirm, twisting into impossible knots.                                                            
You’ll enter a timid pup, overwhelmed by the mocking jungle.

And they’ll judge you, make assumptions,                                                                                      
They will forget their own shortcomings.                                                                                      
They won’t understand you.

Nor will they take the time to know you,                                                                                        
Who has the time?                                                                                                                        
They believe without a second guess.

Cold and calculating.                                                                                                      
Processing information like a machine.                                                                                        
They feel no empathy.

My dear,                                                                                                                                        
I know the unknown is frightening,                                                                                                
Don’t let it dissuade you.

Wherever you make enemies                                                                                                            
There will always be friends,                                                                                                    
Waiting to be discovered in their wakes.

Live as best you can,                                                                                                                    
Not everyone will like you,                                                                                                        
Not everything will go your way.

It’s brutal as the truth often is.                                                                                                  
But every new experience takes perseverance.                                                                            
Take the trampled flowers, make them thrive.

After all, fairy tales always end with a happily ever after.

With love,

Etcetera etcetera. 

Extended Metaphor Poem (REVISED DRAFT)

  Nature’s Plague

 “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;       
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock                                
The meat it feeds on…”

It worms its way in, a parasite gnawing and prying the brain,         
Leaving holes where reason and security were housed.                  
Acid eats and burns away at the very core of sanctity,                      
Once the apple is bitten, pure flesh gives way to rot.

Everything is blurred, green eyes make vision hazy,                                         
It is impossible to see beyond the dense, low hanging fog.                           
Desperately mind clings to shore, viciously it is swept away,                         
Not a single soul is saved from the riot of a distorted sea.         

                                                                                        

Hefty accusations flow forth from a tainted source,                 
Unfounded half truths spill upon the floor like gasoline.                                   
Fuel to the fire of the sorely scorned heart,                                       
It pumps thick and angry blood with renewed conviction. 

                                                   

Reality has slipped out from under feet like a rug,                     
No longer on firm ground, monstrously transforming.                                                     
Sitting back on bristling haunches it grows,                                                           
Half blind and frothing from the mouth.                        

Extended Metaphor Poem (Original Draft)

  Jealousy

It worms its way in, like a parasite it gnaws and pries at your brain.
Leaving holes where reason and security were housed. They are burned away by acid.
It eats away at your very core. Once the apple is bitten,  
pure flesh gives way to rot.

Everything is blurred, green eyes make vision hazy.
It is impossible to see beyond the dense, low hanging fog.
Desperately you cling to the shore, and viciously you are swept away.
No saving anyone from the riotous sea of distortion.    

                                                                                                 

The parasite eats away, the waves thrash on,  
and the hole in your chest grows stronger,  
throbbing with power and conviction,    
as unjust as it may be.                      

                                                        

Sitting back on bristling haunches you grow,      
half blind and frothing from the mouth.      
Reality has slipped out like a rug from under your feet.    
You are no longer on firm ground, monstrous you become. 

Narrative Poem (REVISED DRAFT)

Exceptions

The holidays are always faced with pent up anticipation, 

Excited giggles escape children, they scamper about, lose hounds. 

Men are rowdy; toasts are made in whirlwind fashion,

Women are frantic about preparations perfectly proceeding.

Some families are rambunctious, a clan of joyful beasts.

Bawdy laughter reverberates off their bursting walls, 

Jokes and stories are exchanged, never faltering, and 

Everyone is vying for the spot light within the feisty pack. 

And here we meet a dimmer flame with equal warmth.  

Their den is not in need of extensive gaudy decorations, 

The home is clothed in nature’s fine robe of simplicity. 

Soft, dark tones make a familiar cocoon, comfortable. 

The festivities are abuzz and fervent, in quite a subtle way.

Fire but glows in the heavy, enduring embers of generations past, 

Particular light shines through the smiling eyes, glimmers of sparks.

Licks of flame flicker above the foundation, to embrace kinship.

They don’t need to be like other families, it’s all said in  

The way they lean into each other and in their steady smiles.

.  

Narrative Poem (Original Draft)

                                                                   Exceptions

The holidays are always faced with pent up anticipation,

Excited giggles escape the children, they scamper about making trouble.

The men are rowdy; toasts are made this way and that,

And the women are frantic trying to make sure their preparations proceed perfectly.

Some families are rambunctious,

With bawdy laughter echoing off the walls.

Jokes and stories are exchanged, and

Everyone is vying for the spot light.

This family though, they are different.

Their house is abuzz and fervent,

More subtle though than most.

They are close knit and that particular light

Shines through in their eyes.  

They don’t need many gaudy decorations,

The home is dressed up simply.

The way they like it, how it always is.

Hugs and pleasantries are exchanged at the front door,

Done in their soft manner.

Everyone takes time to catch up,

And pictures are taken shortly after dinner.

They don’t need to be like other families.

They way they lean into each other, their smiles,

They say it all. 

Reflective Paper

            I have been wanting to take the Creative Writing course offered at Kearney since sophomore year. That was really the first year I started to write my own stories. They were not much really. Nothing impressive, note worthy or emotionally moving, they were trifle little scribbles of notes or characters and my own contemplations jotted down on scrap paper. But the day Téa Obreht, author of The Tiger’s Wife, came in to talk with us? That was the day I was inspired to take my writing to the next level. I wanted to develop my own sense of stylistic writing. And by taking the Creative Writing course was how I was going to accomplish that. That was also the day I resolved to someday become an author, like Téa. She was so eloquent in her descriptions and sage in her views and conclusions. She became a published and award recognized author before she even hit 30. The bottom line is that I hoped and still hope to become a person like that, someone who can move the world with their words. The kind of person that other students will someday look up to for their own inspiration.

            Since that time, I started practicing my writing whenever I felt the need to express myself somehow, in some way. Finding time to write freely was and still is difficult though. After all, the essays and projects for classes always have to be my first priority. As a consequence I really think my creative mojo has suffered major constrictions. This class has been something of a life saver in that aspect. I really can just do my own thing. Write about what I want when I want.

            Now, even though I was always pushing to get this class into my schedule, I was also kind of wary about it. And that’s because I knew there was going to be poetry. That’s right: Poetry. My nemesis. My archrival. My pitfall.

Poetry was the one branch of artistic writing that I was never able to produce a satisfactory product in. It just never clicked with me all of the rules, the figurative language, the devices, the execution; none of it made sense. I was really dreading the poetry unit of this class. Literally dreading it. I was not quite ready to be embarrassed by my lack of a poetic voice. It was one thing to have to write the blasted things on the back of tests, no one was going to see it, and I would get a good grade as long as I followed the rules. It was another thing to have to share them with my own peers.

The rules were what really got me. I mean what kind of impact will words have when they have been suffocated and constricted? I didn’t enjoy the feeling I got from that. I felt that the stringing of my words together to form a poem would be the death of my unestablished thoughts. My ultimate rationale behind it all was along the lines of this: What great oak tree would be able to take root and grow within the confines of a small pot?

This course turned my opinion around 100%. Poetry opens up words to a whole new world of meaning and ways of expression. And now I’m actually sad to see our poetry unit come to a close. From the day we turned in our “Where I’m From” poems to the day we recited our slam poems, I have really come to love and appreciate the art that is poetry. It’s not just some torture device utilized by English teachers to make students drag their feet on the way to class.

Writing these poems within the last two months has honestly been one of the most emotionally liberating things I have ever done for myself. I used to have too much trouble getting my ideas out exactly right on paper, but I have learned to not over think anything. One of my personal favorites to write was probably the easiest to come to me. It was the extended metaphor poem. The feeling just felt so raw that I had no trouble really capturing its essence once I let go and let myself write.

I have learned that if something I’m writing about really means that much to me it will come to me. It will be an incessant flow from my brain, through my body and will spill out onto the page. That is something that I’ve learned from Creative Writing so far, and I especially saw the truth of it embodied by Ray. He was so fired up about the issues around him that he never seemed to be at a loss for words. In between the cussing was articulate intelligence.

I think that I have grown tremendously since the beginning of September. My writing is starting to mature and come into its own. I know I do not have a completely established voice or style yet, that is something that is to be worked on, and I am looking forward to working on it.

This unit has taught me so much about voicing my own opinions and I am very grateful for that. I have made so much progress and there is no going back. I definitely do not think I’m the greatest poet to ever live, but at least I’m a poet. That is more than I ever thought I would be.

           

Nature Poem (Revised)

  The Willow Tree 

The grumble of passing by motors,

Flashes of light from mirrors,

Honk from a far off Honda.

Hustle, bustle.

No time for you.

There are glimpses of its true beauty,

The weeping willow, healthy, vibrant.

Reaching arms, mossy leaves whispering,

Whimsical.

Standing straight, radiating strength,

Enchanting.

This is not the place for a willow tree,

Sprouting from the sandy soil.

Sad beginnings.

Branches weeping, bark fading.


Whispering woes upon scant grass. 

The weight of the world, too much.

Secrets are not for just one to hold.

Burdens break backs,

The willow bears it

With all the grace it can muster.

You don’t belong here,to be overlooked.

This is not nature, just a ludicrous excuse for it.

Erasure Poem

Well this is my first attempt at an erasure poem. It is thus far untitled....well actually I'm not even sure if they need titles. Hmm. 

Nature Poem (Original Draft)

  The Willow Tree 

The grumble of passing by motors,

Flashes of light from their mirrors,

Honk from a far off Honda.

Hustle, bustle.

No time for you.

There are glimpses of its true beauty,

The weeping willow, healthy, vibrant.

Long reaching arms, mossy leaves whispering against the ground,

Whimsical.

Standing straight, radiating strength,

Enchanting.

This is not the place for a willow tree,

Sprouting from the sandy soil.

Sad beginnings.

Branches weeping, bark fading.

At what point did the weight of the world become too much?

There is a secret that it’s holding.

Burdens break backs,

The willow bears it

With all the grace it can muster.

Trunk arching. 

You don’t belong here, to be overlooked.

This is not nature, just a ludicrous excuse for it.

Where I'm From Poem (Revised)

Where I’m From

                                                       

 I am from those fights over the last pop-tart,

 From the scent of warm vanilla clinging to our clothes.

 I am from the breezy beach and snow topped hill.

 Pleasant, jumbled it felt like sunshine.

I am from prize winning star gazer lilies,
From the sprouting tulips the morning of May Crowning, 

The wilting pink rose I cut for my mother one chilly October. 
I am from the pricker bush, a rose among thorns. 

I’m from the early hung holiday decorations and honest blue eyes,

The crowded family car trips, the ongoing stream of soccer games,
The dimples I don't have but get to look at everyday, 

I’m from the united front and the chaos behind the scenes.

From becoming the big sister, again, again, again, and again. 

I’m from guardian angels, strong faith in the life after life. 

I’m from scrapped knees and stubborn determination,

To letting the raspberries stain my fingers right off the bush.

From the camp ground that became stomping ground,

Where cousins became playmates, though now they're silent strangers.

From the empty house near that snow topped hill that become full again

The day my daddy came home from our breezy beach. 

Hiding in the cupboard behind the broken door,

Overflowing the Rubber Maid containers, 
Smile upon smile, in one big mess 

Lay these stories of memories past.

The faces, the places; the pictures.

I am from those half forgotten remembrances.

I am still their “Kar-girl”, 
But I'm more than that shy little thing with blunt bangs.