Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Shade (Press)

I remember the day you killed me.
As my soul drifted into the sky, I saw you
walking away innocently, and stashing
your knife in your pocket.

Nobody has bothered to bury my body yet,
but that's alright - I'm the only one
who can see it there, rotting
in the October sun, among the soccer players
and my old friends chatting after lunch.

Observing is quite easy now; people leave me alone
because I'm just a ghost.

I guess I could bother you, but you're fine.
You wouldn't even care about a faded memory
like me.
Besides, how could I torment
someone like you?
Even as you dulled those eyes
that you once falsely called beautiful,
and punctured that heart
that has always throbbed for you,
I knew you meant no harm -
you were blind.

Every now and then, as I float by you in the wind,
I think you might see me
with your fiery green eyes,
but they soon dart away
to that other blonde girl you like,
the one talking to your friend.

You'll see it someday, I'm sure.
Maybe you'll be playing the piano,
or speaking French with her,
or singing in choir without me.
You'll speak, only to hear
the rustle of leaves outside the window.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

In My Room (press)

Silly parents
what is the point of cleaning my room?
It'll just get dirty again.
Is that my green shirt?
I've been looking for it forever
it's that one I wore to the mall that one time
so long ago
when we sat on the benches and cried about our love lives
or lack there of.
And that? Could it be?
It's definetly that pillow.
Remember? The one I brought to your house the time we
accidentaly lit the napkin on fire.
Come here! It still smells like smoke.
What's that? Oh it's that pen.
The one I wrote those poems in
the ones that creeped you out because they were about
blood and death and stuff. But they didn't mean anything.
Oh look! It's my pumps.
The ivory ones. The ones I wore to that play where we
were going to get dates afterwards at the mall but
we were too chicken to ask those guys we met to the movies.
And is that my teddy bear?
The one we took to my basement where we cried forever
because the movie was so sad.
And is that mine? Ah yes this thank-you card!
I had almost forgot.
It's the one he wrote me after his party. When I thought he was
going to ask me out but that never happened. But whatever.
Oh look! It's my purse!
You know! The one I used at the dance that we were
definetly going to have dates to that time.
Well almost clean.
But wait is that
my red jacket?
What's the memory to that?
I had almost forgot.
But maybe that was on purpose
because it's coming back to me
and I don't really want to remember.
It's that jacket we fought over
because the red dripping from our arms
was the same red as the jacket
and it was the only way to hide it then.
Well it's kind of cold
and I think I need to wear it now.

Wow this one was a hard one to write! Everything but the last thing that happened was something that happened to me or one of my friends, which is what made it hard. Actually, I walked around my room because it's kind of messy, and gathered ideas for this! Well it's kind of a whole different style of poetry for me, because it's written as if the speaker is talking to someone who is right there. The real challenge was the ending. Well anyway enough of me rambling, I really just wanted to say to please please tell me what you think because it would really mean tons to me! Thanks bunches to those of you to do!

A Metaphor (press)

pools of red
are surrounding my mind
and there you are
diving in them
didn't you take swimming lessons in the third grade?
it shows
your dives are beautiful
don't pull me into the pool
I never took swimming lessons
I can't dive
you need help?
look at me on the sidelines
I'll cheer you on until my brown eyes
close for the last time
but I can't dive with you
not into those pools
the water's too deep
I don't know how
and I don't want to try.
But if you start to drown
I'll be right there
I can't dive but I can jump
and I'll swim as far as I can
and I'll rescue you.
Black and blue may have painted
parts of your body
but at least you'll be there
and you will recover over time
because I will always be there.
But what about me?
I never asked you to help me
stunt in cheer
even when I was nervous
I wouldn't do that
you don't know how.
But when the flyer falls on me
when I slip on a round-off and fall
will you be there?
Will you pull me off the mat?
off the court? off the field?
and help me?
Because I think
the flyer fell
and my round-off landed wrong
because I can feel myself falling
and hitting the ground.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Tus Ojos/Your Eyes

This is a riddle poem that was originally written in Spanish and was inspired by Octavio Paz.

mares verdes
me llenan
con lágrimas del alma
lágrimas brillantes,
como piedras que reflejan
el sol en el cielo
ancho y azul y lleno
de los sueños mios.
El agua caliente
de eses nubes
nunca parará
hasta que
yo duerma
en esa manta
calma y suave
de tu pensamiento,
tu conversación
que simplemente
me permite existir.

green oceans
fill me
with the soul's tears
brilliant tears,
like stones that reflect
the sun in the
wide and blue sky
that's full
of my dreams.
The hot rain
of those clouds
will never cease
I sleep
on that
calm and soft blanket
of your thoughts,
your conversation
that simply
lets me exist.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

She (press)

Inside her mind
she dances
she loves life
she is perfect
she is loved
this she is the she she's always wanted to be
but this she is only a mirage
she cannot dance
for dancing comes from joy of the heart, spirit, mind, or soul
she cannot love life
for life has not loved her
she isn't perfect
for she has too many regrets
she isn't loved
for she has no other to share her feelings with

in reality
she is solitary
hurt, lost, and cold
she wants that other part of her
the she she's always wanted
she just wants a piece
to taste
to feel it's embrace on her
how come there are so many
yet none at all
for her

she'll scream
and cry of anger
she will feel the wrench of the fist of fate around her waist
and succumb to it's grasp
she'll bawl and wail
and end up lying on the floor
exhausted from her mind's protests of the world
she'll think
her eyes puffy from the tears swelling them
the bottom of her fists red from beating the walls and the floors
her knees sore from eventually dropping them to the floor
and she'll conclude
that she is unrealistic
she'll aim low to never be dissapointed
and she'll just want to be herself

she'll realize that the world's not far
that you can't change anything much on account of yourself
and she'll feel both the pain of sad and lonliness in her gut
and she'll walk away
just fine
as if

it never happened

Friday, December 02, 2005

Call for proofreading

Dearest Poets,

Please spell check and proofread your poems before you post them. (Use the ABC icon on the posting toolbar.)

When writing poetry, EVERY choice you make is critical, whether punctuation, spelling, formatting or word choice. Consequently, typos or spelling errors in a poem are very jarring and often confusing.

Take the time to do this little step in order to make sure that the poem you post is exactly the way you want it. Your poems deserve the highest standard of excellence, no?

Many thanks.