Gone (Press)

it sweeps me away
on high, heaving swells,
and I'm nothing
but icy limbs

A Night

I:
i look out into the open night
and see the moon gazing back at me
it's a full moon tonight
full of potential
for the creation of my greatest desire
for the realization of my deepest and most unsettling fear
that's why i sit here at the window sill
dark figures, dark sillohuetes, dark waves mix to form a tranquil spectacle
occasional cars cut through the darkness with their bright lights

i wait

II:
And as the minutes dwindle by
a sick feeling twists and writhes its way into your stomach
as you slowly begin to realize
your hope is dead
those idle minutes
spent peering out at the night
wasted
you thought it would happen
but you were wrong
and you knew you'd be wrong
that's why this particularl monster
sinisterly winding up through your body is so disturbing

nobody called.

I Remember [parts 1 and 2] (Press)

I have already posted the first I Remember poem up here but I thought that I would include it when I posted the second one so that you could see the similarities//differences. Enjoy!

I Remember [part 1]
I remember...
smiles in the hallway,
eyes locking, then
tearing away.
"Secret" notes
passed through
twenty people,
ten second
conversations at
lunch, blushing
nervous, sweaty
conversations.
I remember
middle school
drama, tears
and sighs.
I remember.

I remember...
joking, laughing
blowing off tests,
singing
during passing period
fighting, crying
screaming
during passing period.
Hateful glares
and friendly hugs.
I remember.


I Remember [part 2]
I remember...
playful hugs and angry stares,
the silly language of high-school courtship,
the cold silence of a break up,
broken pencils, lost textbooks
and missing assignments,
half-empty classrooms and
all day field trips.
I remember.

I remember...
hour-long exams, mile-long runs
lunch table giggles and
heartwrenching sobs,
the nights spent staring at the cieling
early morning texts,
unfinished homework, extra credit projects,
too-long pep assemblies
lunchtime anthem rehearsals.
I remember.

I remember...
final exams, ice cream labs,
passing notes with half of Chem class
teachers' lectures, Valentines Day blues,
jealous looks
and cheesy pickup lines,
fancy dresses, loud music, 3-inch heels
flag football, locker room gossip.
I remember.

The Scientist (Bless/Press)

She seems to pervade into all my thoughts

I can see her
Standing, peering over my mind
Ready to make her next drop
Of perfectly mixed intelligence
Onto my easily permeable mind

The soft watery sound of the drop
Clear and translucent
Causes a pleased, warm smile to come to her lips

The white environment
Clear blue sky
Seem to radiate
With a soft glow
That so becomingly
Accents the soothing skin of the beholder

I lie there
Looking up at her,
Restrained
By both my curiousity
And her evident power

Her mind
(so superior
as the scientist she is)
Avidly watches the effects take place
With a fervour only matched by love

The delicate strands of my mind
Work constantly to deal with the new
And confusing intelligence
So professionally supplied
And adequately confounding

I drown.

Another Opnin' Another Show (Press)

People are running to and fro.
The sharp sounds of drilling echoes through the room.
Costumes are flying everywhere.
Boxes are being rifled through,
people begin screaming for things that aren't there.
A loud slam is emitted when gravity pries a couch from the hands of two.
Actors shout, battling over the noise.
The director waves her hands, desperate to get everyone's attention.
The sour notes of the unprepared band float through the auditorium bringing hands fast to unprotected ears.
The light flicker on and off, demands are yelled across the stage and frustrated responses yelled back.
A bewildered girl stands over tables piled with props, a notebook with scribbles clutched in her hands.
A cry of warning is sounded as a bucket filled to the brim with orange paint crashes to the floor and people with paint brushes find that they've been painted on themselves.
The stage manager runs frantically, trying to find actors who are supposed to be onstage.
People with cameras snap pictures of the ongoing havoc, smiling as they imagine the pictures in the yearbook.
Cues are whispered loudly to actors who haven't exactly learned their lines.
And a slightly out of tune piano plays notes over and over trying to engrave them in a troubled singer's mind.

But in the midst of this pandemonium, I smile.
Because it's just another opnin' of another show.

Caution: Tiffany's Room (Press)

The click-clack of a keyboard,
The rustling of goldfish bags,
The twang of a fake guitar,
The words spoken on a new cellphone,
The music from the latest ipod,
The excitement of a challenging video game,
The swish of textbook pages being turned,
The chattering of an animated TV show,
The laughter of cousins playing,
The barking of a family pet,
And the silence that keeps me guessing.
Caution, this is Tiffany's room.

Expression (Press)

I try, I try so hard for complete individuality,
like total independence will cure me of everything -
it seems radical, extreme, like it might work
if I only follow it for a little while longer,
but truly, my ills are only worsened by
the absence of others, for without them,
I soak up all the sorrow and it stays there,
invading my spirit perpetually;
we must purge from time to time,
expel our misery and suffering
through our words or our tears,
and lay the burden down for others to comtemplate,
because without friendship we wilt,
and without love we can never grow.

Bless, Press or Address?

Note to all new members of the blog:

Please remember to indicate what kind of feedback you are seeking with either Bless, Press or Address in parentheses next to your poem's title. Otherwise, we aren't sure what kind of comments to offer.

Thanks.

End Up Coming True (Press)

Open up your eyes and look around
Not everything you see is real
Not everything you tell yourself will come true
Not everything that happens makes you feel
The way you think you should
And sometimes things don't end up right
I would tell you if I could
Whats going to happen

If you don't take a chance

And if you can't see the light
Don't be afraid
To take a risk and jump
Things you think impossible just might
End up coming true

The way it once was

You have no idea what you mean to me
You have no idea how much
How much I look up to you
And out of everything you have done,
It is my heart that you have touched

I can't explain how happy I am
When I get to see your smiling face
Or when I get to talk to you
And we can chat about anything
What ever may be the case

I can't stand not being with you
As much as I once was
I can't stand missing you
And missing the way it once was

Forever I will be there
And in my heart you will stay
You have been there through the smiles, And the tears
And that is why I love you
I will every single day

Teen Poetry Cafe at the Lafayette Library

La Maestra and die Lehrerin will offer extra credit to student poets who attend the next poetry slam at the Lafayette Library. (Teens only, no adults admitted.) Click here for more information.

New Frost Poem Discovered

Click on this link to go to the NPR website and read about a newly discovered poem written in 1918 by American poet Robert Frost.

No Title (Bless)

Small, errant puffs of wind rustle the leaves softly
and cause the blue plastic-covered chains of the swings to creak.
The short, stubby green stems of grass, and weeds, growing between
the cracks in the pavement are faded and worn,
like the pieces of wood used to create the twists and turns
of the rickety old swingset.
There's someone sitting, far away, across the acres of waving prairie grasses,
on the scorching metal bench, but I can't see their face.
It's quiet here, you could say, no laughing, screaming,
crying
though every once in awhile short blasts of music
sound from passing cars.
I'm not really here to play or write or anything.
Just to sit and stare out at the clouds, the trees
and imagine I'm somewhere else
somewhere magical, somewhere crazy.

First Club Anniversary!

Greetings!

We are approaching the first anniversary of the poetry club, and as you will notice, our name has changed to reflect this year's weekly schedule. We are now The Thursday Afternoon Poetry Club, but our purpose remains the same as it always was. We come together in person and on the blogosphere to read, write and share original poetry.

Our club membership has expanded from the original twelve female members to a roster of thirty-five students from all four high school classes, equally represented by both sexes. I'm also delighted to see that although some of the original members are no longer enrolled in the club due to scheduling conflicts, they remain virtual members by continuing to post their poetry on the blog.

As of this morning, we've made over 130 posts and had over 2,300 hits on our blog over the last year. The visitors come from all over the world; click on the Sitemeter icon below the Blogger icon on the right to see for yourself who has been reading our work.

New members:
I'm excited to read what you will write this year, and to continue to share feedback that will help us all grow as writers and readers of contemporary poetry. If you haven't turned in your blogging permission forms, do so soon so that I can send you the email invitation to begin posting.

Everyone:
Here's a prompt to play with. See what you get out of it, then post and/or bring your results to the next club meeting.

Yesterday was the first day of autumn and the leaves are beginning to pull out their winter clothes. Write a poem about how you are transforming in some way.

Happy writing!

Murmurs (Press)

I'm sick
of shifting my eyes
to the door as it opens,
freezing with ice
that tingles my skin
under all of this
heavy, loud air,
and stares
that clear the scene
for only me.
And life
just moves in circles
over my head,
a vulture
waiting.
I can't
get up, my eyes open
and close, and the weight
of my body holds me,
I fall back, and lay here,
in silence, blind.

Something About a Midnight Run (Press)

I can feel the rough asphalt under my feet,
knees aching from every jarring step,
as I run barefoot down the street.
Skin tears just as I run through a large puddle,
left on the sidewalk by someones late-night sprinklers,
and the footprints trailing behind me
alternate between the muddy grayish-brown
of the wet pavement, already starting to fade,
and a deep, bloody red.
My arms tremble in the cold midnight air as
hundreds of goosebumps spread across my uncovered skin.
Still I feel compelled to run by the same unknown
force that led me to begin this insane action,
barefoot, with only my shorts and tank top.
The heavy darkness surrounding me breaks only
every few houses or so when the muted light of the tall,
old-fashioned latern-like streetlights spills softly over me.
I run distractedly, almost unknowingly, only to
collapse into the large patch of grass behind
the park, four blocks away from my house.
Only now do I notice the pain of my
grit-covered, blood-stained foot and my sore knees.
I realize I'm panting, out of breath,
and I stretch out, trying to slow my runaway heart.
I close my eyes against the overpowering dark,
and ultimately fall asleep, curled up,
holding my legs close to keep from freezing
in the increasingly frigid air.
The purplepinkgoldorange light of the rising sun
caresses my skin and I slowly wake to the
warmth of the morning.
I manage to pull myself upright, and limp the
ten or twelve steps to the shelter of the
covered cement picnic area,
brushing early morning dew from my shivering arms.
Considering the lengthy walk back to my house,
I sit carefully on a plastic and wood bench,
and turn around to see your car pull up near me.
I sit, silently, as you get out and walk right to me,
as if you knew exactly where I was,
and why.
You pick me up gently and set me into the
blanket-covered front seat, and I lean my head
against the smudged glass of the window
as you drive slowly towards my house.

Esperar/To Wait (Press)

esperar significa todo,
con años pasados,
imágenes como pinturas
en el aire,
cosas imaginadas,
que flotan como fantasmas
enfrente de mis ojos
en la oscuridad de la noche,
en la confusión de no saber nada,
y sentarme aquí en el silencio
de esperar.

to wait means everything,
with years past,
images like paintings
in the air,
imagined things,
that float like ghosts
in front of my eyes
in the dark of night,
in the confusion of knowing nothing,
and sitting here in the silence
of waiting.

Summer Clouds (Press)

I'm shivering slightly in the chilling breeze
blowing loose pages, tree limbs thick with leaves, my hair.
There's a song playing out there amidst those houses,
I can hear the faint notes of the chorus,
overrun with birds' song, the sweet chirping
blending almost impossibly with the drifting notes.
The grass was mowed and the sharp, prickly smell
of the newly shorn stems tickles my nose.
in the distance, a couple of boys race bikes
across the uneven dirt paths,
but I can't see them,
just as I can't see the swings rocking in the wind
or any of the other newly-installed plyground equipment
crouching two feet in front of me as I lay sprawled
in the lush green grass.
I can see, however, the same scene that has occupied
my mind all day, playing and repeating until I'm fairly
stuck in it's grasp.
You, walking slowly down the sidewalk, surrounded by friends,
tiliting your head to hear some quick, yet witty remark
and tossing it back as you laugh.
I can't see your face, you're walking away from me,
each step taking you farther until you're no longer
there, just an empty pane of glass,
empty of all but my head resting against
the cool, hard surface and
the dull, gray chains of the swing blowing in the breeze.

New Poet Laureate

Click on this New York Times article to read about Donald Hall, the new poet laureate of the United States.

Thunder (Press)

The sky this evening suffers in its strife;
it seems that broken nails scratch the rim
of that abandoned case that once held life,
as nature's shaking force pervades each limb.
Strange emptiness falls o'er the dark terrain
and as it thinks of death it hears no sound
but loses all perception in the rain,
which waits until it's welcome to fall down.
All ties are severed as the heavens break
and pour their torment onto Earth's hard stones
as mortal beings see their great mistakes
and passions rise, awakened, in lost tones.
The past glows faintly on the path ahead,
but, turning back, we leave it, soaked and dead.

Portrait: Sun Rising Over the Park, in Summer Press

With your hand pressing against
the small of my back lightly,
I walk slowly, painfully through
the dripping rain.
It's not painful because of you,
your arm, shoulder, against me,
supports my crumbling wall, this flood,
of emotions, helping me keep it all
from tumbling down.
There's so much, threatening, frightening.
I'm lost,
with no way back to me.
You have no idea, no idea,
of why I'm walking quietly, feet dragging,
tears mixing with the almost sweet taste of raindrops
running down my face,
yet you pull me in closer,
hugging your arms around me,
as if to guard, protect me, from
...myself...?
You wipe away tears and now-ruined makeup,
leading me to a lone pair of swings
blending into the misty dark gray scenery.
We sway back and forth,
the gentle movement, and your hand in mine,
helps dry my tears and lays down the
first few squiggly, uncertain lines onto the
map leading me back.
Back to smiling silliness,
back to unrushed days,
and back to my sense
of purpose, of direction.
As my tears dry up, so does the rain,
and the swift movement of the clouds
reveals acres of thick creamy dark midnight black silk,
spotted with pearls, shining bright as stars.
I finally begin to talk, spill, vent,
after you jump from your swing and pull me
from mine to lay in the damp, prickly grass.
You listen silently, yet I know you listen
through your fingertips lightly caressing my arm
and the brush of your lips on my wet, curling hair.
I finish talking, and you raise yourself up,
supported by an elbow lodged in the cool earth,
and begin to speak.
Now it's my turn to listen,
and for the first time
the paint, the finish, is peeled back
and I can see who you really are,
the side you hide so deeply, deliberately,
underneath so much.
You understand me almost completely,
and that shocks me.
I feel you know me better,
more accurately, truly,
than any one of my friends,
who pride themselves on how
"well" they know and understand me.
I feel the cool breeze brush against my
bare arms and shiver involuntarily.
You curl up, closer, blocking out
the cold, the hurt, the pain,
and slowly I slip into sleep,
light as the breeze that chilled me so,
and we both rest, underneath the
gazing eye of the stars and the
invisible, yet inevitably present, moon.
I awake just as the sun slips above the
edge of the earth, the golden-pink rays
touching on my skin, your face,
the intricate, silvery chains of the swings
and we both stand, slowly, reverently,
your arm 'round my waist, hand resting on
my hip and amble back towards our
homes, lives, days,
leaving the fond, mysterious wisps of
memory to follow us closely,
throughout the months, seconds, ages
tying us to that night, and to each other,
with a knot of love and understanding.
The hope of the future guides me,
my map, back into
just exactly who I am.

Homesickness (Press)

The sound of the leaves reminds me of the ocean.
I miss it.
The faint taste of salt lingers on my fingertips,
left over from the ice cream we made in Chemistry.
Between these and the cool breeze blowing across the page,
I am homesick.
Not for my house, sitting quietly on my car-lined street,
though that is my "home",
but for the hot sandy beach and the
sound of my friends goofing off among the waves,
which is also a kind of home for me.
The heat here is similar to that which I sat through there,
lost in reflection on the warm, wooden bench,
but the sky there is bluer, the clouds whiter,
or at least, to me, that's what it seems like
though that may be just me, trying to find some reason,
explanation, for this feeling of homesickness
I can't otherwise explain.
The friends I have here are the same ones
that traveled with me there
and the sun, the sky, clouds, are also the same.
Or maybe it's just the ocean,
the soft comings and goings of the waves
as the tide moves farther away,
the birds overhead fighting for some food left behind
or just the knowledge that if I were to look up,
in any direction, anywhere, I would see my friends,
all sharing in the same feeling of awe, wonder, and fear
that I felt then.

Not Really My Thing (Press)

I'm alone.
You would think that being alone would be difficult,
in a house full of people.
(It's not)
There is one other person I know,
besides you and the person throwing the party.
(He's on the phone)
I stand, alone, in the kitchen.
You, oh. I dunno...
You're somewhere (I guess)
So I just stand, hugging my arms to myself
watching the timer blink slowly down from 30 minutes.
I listen to various cars pull up
and the hurried introductions.
(and I try not to listen as the group of girls
sprawled around the... living room?
talk of which drugs they brought,
how much, and when...)
My ex is outside smoking,
along with another girl whose face I know
(but name I can't recall...)
Somewhere, a cell phone rings,
and is picked up with a giggly hellll-ooh?
She mentions something about bringing alcohol
(something good...)
and I turn away to stare again at the timer,
counting down the final seconds
(3...2...1...)
I search the kitchen blindly before a pair of
arms in dark red silk gloves slips into
view on my right, grabs two floral-printed
hot pads sitting clearly (obviously...) on the
counter and opens up the oven, pulling out the
mottled pink cake.
"Looks like crap." the glove-wearer comments.
"Probably tastes like crap too." I reply.
We giggle, introduce ourselves and poke at the
supposed "birthday cake" with a butcher knife pulled from
the wooden block sitting crookedly on
the crumb-scattered counter.
Someone in that group of girls calls her name though,
and again I'm alone in the kitchen.
You run, or more like bound, down the stairs and
smile as you see me.
The "host" of this party, until now absent-
out somwhere in the front yard I guess-
walks over with even more people
(how many have I met already?)
and runs down the list of names
(I'll never remember them...)
He picks up his camera from the table
and motions for us to pose for a picture
(I try and fake a smile...)
"No! Let's get a 'happy couple' picture...
like... put your arm around her!"
You do, and the camera flashes on my smile.
(no longer fake...)

Your Name (Press)

I sit there, in between
thoughts, breathing
gently with the wind
in the hushed music
of this moment,
when a shadow,
a small grain of sand,
a fallen leaf
settles in my mind,
until a person,
a rock,
a growing tree
stands there and blocks the sun
and I am no longer in
that dreamy middle place
as I wake to
loud cars,
rain clouds,
and my cat sitting in the window.
The breeze whispers in my ear,
and simply sighs
your name.

Daydreams (Press)

I sit,
back leaning against
the smooth, warm tiles,
the sun glaring brightly,
forcing me to squint
as I gaze around the school yard.
I can see cars driving
lazily into the parking lot,
around the circle,
as if the heat of the day
forces them to creep along,
as though driving through syrup.
Not the thin, runny kind you get in
breakfast diners, but
the thick, mapley syrup your
parents always serve with pancakes on
Christmas and Easter,
the kind that practically glues them
together and stops all conversation.
Distant shouts carry over from
the soccer field as the
various members of the track and
soccer teams begin stretching...
One, Two, Three, Four...
Already moving sluggishly in the
sultry weather, barely even
fifteen minutes into practice.
I try and pick my friends out of the
tiny, almost indistinguishable figures
until I feel something brush against
my arm and I turn to see
you
slip next to me on the bench.
I freeze, and words trickle slowly
out of my head, landing
helter-skelter in the mud at the
base of the wall and leaving my mind
blank.
You smile, say "hey," ask how I'm doing
and I reply casually,
trying to mask my nervousness with
a smile, as I twirl strands of
my hair around my fingers restlessly
and cross and uncross my legs.
You notice, and on your face I
can see you making these as
nervous habits as a flash of confusion
precedes a look I take to signify understanding.
So you know now, then?
Know it's all because of my feelings for you?
Our conversatin continues, and
you reach out without thinking and touch
my arm, briefly, emphasizing a point,
hand resting lightly on my sleeve.
You pause, and in your eyes I can
see your feelings, thoughts
a mirror image of mine,
reflecting, as you lean in,
brush the hair from my face,
and kiss me.

A Locked Cabinet (Press)

It sits staring blankly back at me,
old, slightly wobbly, and larger than I remembered.
Somewhere, sometime, in years long gone,
it sat in the drawing room,
relaxin in the corner, soaking up the light
peeking through half-closed blinds.
Someone moved it.
Now it continues to stare at, or almost
through me, from its new vantage point
at the bottom of the sweeping, or rather
"need to be swept" stairs.
It's out of place.
The entryway furniture was picked purposefully,
to match the paint on the walls and the
bland, if "tasteful," runner inching up those stairs,
it's all light, tan, almost the color of sand.
Not the cabinet.
Dark, cherry wood and at least a hundred years
old, it sits quietly, almost menacingly,
half-covered in shadows and dust.
It's locked.
It always has been.
I remember when I was young,
I made a game out of trying to
figure out what a cabinet that
I thought of as... almost majestic in it's mystery,
could contain.
Now though, all the old guessing games stop,
for I have the key.

Cansada/Tired (Bless)

¿Por qué quieres matarme así?
con tu voz suave y tu música
mi alma está muriendo muy despacio,
y mis ojos oscuros y vacíos sólo miran
a la pelea aquí en mi cuerpo
el viento me asusta por la noche
en mis sueños, no puedo dormir,
no puedo comer, porque estoy tan enferma
por tí, me siento muerta ahora,
caminando por las calles sucias
que nunca terminan.
Antes de que tú llegaste
yo estaba llena, completa
pero pusiste un hueco negro
en mi existencia que tú sólo puedes reparar.
cada día, cada noche, cada vez que pienso en tí,
se hace más profundo y yo cambio más
no puedo ver mi cara por el espejo,
y no voy a regresar.

Why do you want to kill me like this?
with your soft voice and your music
my soul is dying slowly,
and my dark and empty eyes just watch
the fight here in my body
the wind frightens me at night
in my dreams, I cannot sleep,
I can't eat because I am so sick
for you, I feel dead now,
walking through the dirty streets
that never end.
Before you came, I was full and complete,
but you put a black hole
in my existence that only you can repair.
each day, each night, each time I think of you,
it becomes deeper and I change more
I cannot see my face in the mirror,
and I will not return.

Rejuvenated (Press)

And I lie there
under the gray sky
with a calm life that seems to quietly walk inside it.
And the silence,
the still presence,
allows me to hear things miles away.
The soft, moist grass provides a comfort
not found anywhere else.
I feel replenished
by the silence of the world
as though from this lifelessness
I am rejuvenated.

My eyes can rest in the tranquil gray lighting.
That beautiful unique smell
which comes only from the water in the sky,
fills and clears my nostrils.

And I lie there
relaxed
calm
alive
as soft drops of rain dance their way onto my body.

Heartbreaker (Press)

I know she's done this before
and what's been said of her sort of makes sense,
but it's not really her fault,
things don't quite match up to her agenda,

and she doesn't have the compassion or heartlessness
to go along with things,
and give a well-intentioned lie.

Untitled (Press)

I'm restless.
My feet ache to pace the newly-mowed grass
and I can no longer keep pushing this desire away.
I tuck my small, blue ipod into my front pocket,
arrange my journal, folder, and recently removed flip-flops
underneath my jacket, and tread softly over the grass,
bible in hand, following my feet as they lead me across the park.
I can see the other people there
sprawled out, all alone, sitting, standing...
and yet I ignore them as I cross quickly to
the cloudy water of the lake.
Perching carefully on a rock sitting half submerged in the water,
I dangle my fingers off the edge,
skin lightly trailing through the water.
For some reason, this action has soothed my restlessness,
and I am again able to open up, and explore Your love...
The music changes, song to song, and still I sit,
hands alternately stroking pages, and the murky cold water.
I talk to You as I sit.
Hesitantly at first, scared to open up and acknowledge
myself, my actions, my desires, my thoughts...
but soon discover a borderline-obsessive need to spill-
spill everything, spill thoughtsdesiresactionsself
I'm done and I feel a sense of... peace? acceptance?
as if all I'd told You was nothing new, and You'd already forgiven.
The rock has turned cold, and I jump up and run,
carelessly and without a destination stopping
when I reach my own grassy hill, and throwing
myself down into the grass and staring up at the newly forming clouds.
A need for sharing comes over me so sharply
I gasp slightly and my face is suddenly plunged into darkness
by Your shadow as You tower over me.
As though You can read the half-formed request in my mind-
request, or need, I haven't quite determined-
You lay next to me, on top of that hill,
under the scarcely clouded sky, and together we lay in silence,
a silence in which we share everything,
a silence I am loathe to end, but must break,
as the distant shapes of all the others stand up slowly,
ambling over to chat with one another as
they head back to the bus, back into the present,
and I must follow.

Time (Press)

Much more is needed

She says, as the efforts fall

D'clining, like whispers

Untitled (Press)

Your footsteps echo mine
as we walk slowly along the sand
and behind us trail two sets
of faint footprints
casually disappearing under the
waves' desperate fight to claim the beach.
The salty water caresses
our bare legs, still pale from the
long winter months, and we both
screech when the occasional over eager
wave splashes our clothes.
You stoop and pick up one of the many
sea-worn rocks and heave it into the tide,
as if with this one motion you rid yourself
of any and all of your worries and fears-
the ones that so frequently replace
you light, carefree laughter with a
silence louder than the oceans own song.
I stop to draw randomly in the sand,
intertwining names, drawings and dreams,
and you take this moment to wade deeper
into the icy, salty water, until it
darkens the bottom of your shorts and
you shiver at its cold, comforting embrace.
I come and stand beside you,
sharing in your quiet reflections.
Moved by the warm tears racing down
to cling to your cheeks, your chin,
I slip my hand slowly into yours,
sqeezing gently, and I turn around
to claim the warmth of the fire,
left to burn indifferently
inside a ring of rough-hewn stones,
and leave you standing there, alone.

Reverie (Address)

Address: Does this poem make any sense? Should it?

thousands of images
pass before my passive eyes
as my mind dreams them up
as only it can
because reality will
never present me with
such hopes as this
restless creature does -
my soul sleeps fitfully,
living in this second
existence, unparalleled,
jumbled, and shrinking
as I surface back to life
and the realization
that my thoughts
will lie dead and useless
but I cannot bury them.

Untitled (Press/Address)

Address: Title ideas? I had a title, but when I went through and rewrote this poem, the title no longer fit. Any suggestions?

Stubby green grass pokes up warily through the
weather-beaten pieces of my headstone.
These fragments lay mixed with the dry, brittle remnants of
one or two long stem roses, rustling carelessly in a cool breeze.
You lovingly left them in a crystal vase,
originally attached carefully to the side of the stone,
fastened there to reflect every last bit of light until the sun set,
now lying shattered on the ground, still reflecting
tiny shards of the ever-changing light.
These fractured shreds of stone and glass
lay testimony to the fury of that storm, a month or two ago,
and the impact of that 100 year old oak falling recklessly onto my tombstone,
seperating it along the tiny, yet deep cracks formed throughout the years.
They removed the tree weeks ago, but never really bothered
to tidy up the mess. It's your job, they said.
But you haven't come yet, and just as I begin to worry that,
maybe you'd finally forgotten me or were just too wrapped up
in your own pain and sorrow to visit me,
I hear soft footsteps crunching in the gravel
and you slowly come into view,
wearing your nice, although slightly scuffed, black dress shoes
and your one really comfortable old gray suit,
the same one you've worn on every visit, beginning with
the day I first came here.
You're walking deliberatly on that gravel, as if to
preserve the silence, invariably and inevitably present.
This time, you bring not one but
three dozen beautiful white roses, and stop
reverently at the two headstones next to mine,
saying silent prayers and paying your respect
to two of my closest friends, gone such
a short time, only two months, to my ten years,
the dirt on their graves still partially bare of grass.
Then you move on to mine, and begin to
pick up the broken glass, putting the pieces carefully into
an empty plastic grocery bag you pulled from your pocket.
Finally, you kneel in the grass, laying that final bunch of
roses down in front of you, mindful not to dislodge any petals.
I hear you whisper something softly, something about fixing this up,
before you close your eyes slowly, painfully, and
sink down until your head touches the largest fragment,
bearing my name in large badly worn letters,
and I feel your tears lightly strike the stone
and slide off into the growing grass as you mourn
your loss, still as great as that first day, that first time
you sat in front of me, not noticing that I was still there,
if only in spirit, and cried as you do now.

Branching Out

Check out these opportunities for teen writers at local area libraries. Click on the library link that's closest to your house and look for poetry clubs, writers' workshops and much more. Most of the events are free, and it's a great way to meet and share your work with other teen writers.

Mamie D. Eisenhower Library Teen Zone in Broomfield

Lafayette Public Library Teen Zone

Boulder Public Library Teen Zone

IMPORTANT REMINDER from La Maestra

NOTE TO ALL WHO COMMENT ON THIS BLOG:

Please remember that you may not use any identifying names in your comments. I have to delete any comments that use the names of any students, even if they are only first names. What's more, if you post a comment while logged in to a blogger account that uses your name as the display name, I have to delete those comments, too. In those cases, it's best to comment as "anonymous".

Please be mindful that the rules are all in the best interest of the school and the members of this blog community. Thanks for following them and making my job easier.

Welcome New Club Members!

I'm happy to welcome the newest members of the Wednesday Afternoon Poetry Club to the world of blogging poetry. As you will learn at today's meeting, blogging is a great way to share your work and read what others are writing, even in the middle of the night! Below is some introductory information from our very first post back in October. Once you've read through it, feel free to browse through the previous posts on the blog, and comment on the poets' requests for pressing, blessing or addressing their work. (Remember to always use your slam names when you comment or post.)

In order to post your poems, you need to get your parent/guardian's signature on the permission form, and return it to La Maestra in her classroom. You do not need to wait until the next Wednesday meeting to return the signed form. Once La Maestra receives your form, she will send you an invitation at your email address.

In your email invitation, you will see a link. Click on it, and it will take you to a window asking you to sign in to join the blog. Before you may sign in, you will need to click on the "Create an Account" button. You will choose a user name, a password, and a display name. Your display name will be seen every time you post a poem or comment on someone else's post. Your display name must protect your identity and all your personal information. It should not reveal anything about you. This is your chance to choose your slam poet name. Be creative. In addition to creating a slam name, you may also create a user profile that anyone reading the blog will see by clicking on your slam name. Again, for your own protection, you may not share any identifying information in your profile.

Once you create your account and sign in, you will be able to post your poetry on our blog.

Nocturne (Press)

I hope that you can find me in the stars
just like I always see you in the sun,
for then the universe will know what's ours
and we'll exist there - tranquil, quiet, one.
Perhaps someday I'll sparkle in your eyes
as brightly as you shine each day through mine,
and then we'll both be innocent and wise,
complete and with conviction, for all time.
But we walk not in heaven, here on Earth:
and I cannot fulfill this need in me,
and empty, maybe, I'll forever be,
falsely feeling outcast, without worth.
And every day, I'll tread on this ground, blind,
the thought of lost sight always on my mind.

Solitude (Press)

The wind rustling the limbs on the

bent, leafless trees

pushes the swing I sit on gently

as my feet trail lightly through

the loose, powdery snow.

It's a cold wind,

forcing me to unclamp my frozen hands from

the slightly rusted metal chains

and wrap them tightly around myself,

keeping the biting wind from sneaking

into my jacket through the broken zipper.

I hear flocks of geese calling overhead as they fly,

traveling northeast towards the snow-covered

grassy fields stuck haphazardly between

the housing developments spreading rapidly

like some contagious, yet fatal, disease.

The swing next to me rocks emptily

as the wind continues to blow-

driving tiny, pale flakes off of neighboring

rooftops and causing the old, worn out

wooden playground equipment to creak loudly,

drowning out the calls of the geese.

My fingers, red and numb from the

icy metal have begun to thaw inside

my pockets, occasionally braving the

wind to brush stray brown hairs

away from my face.

The wind begins to blow even more fiercely,

causing the swings to rattle sharply

as I jump off into the soft, white powder.

It crunches under my feet as I walk hurridly

home, trying to escape the increasingly frigid air.

The Bedroom Window (Press)

the earth begins to turn
silently
my stomach churns
slowly
a small crack spreads
through the dirt.

I feel sick and want to go to bed
I stare up at the white sky there above

the rock splits in two
my life bends quietly
with it
the broken pieces lie still
I lie still with them
for awhile.

I fall asleep and dream a blissful life
Awakening to find that all is gone

my chest feels
empty
and I feel fatigued again,
as if by some strange disease
for which there is
no cure.

The rain outside my window falls in splats
and turns all of that cracked dirt into mud

Love

A bunch of random notes
plunked out wildly on the keyboard.
I, IV, V
There's no set pattern,
no sheet music, no chords
no wrong notes.
The music races,
almost impossible to follow
but all you can do is
continue the melody,
as it rises and falls,
and enjoy the feeling of being
lost in the sounds.

Living Life on the Edge (Press)

The small shiny silver blades

carry us across the ice.

With each powerful stroke,

our blades carry us farther

from the surrounding wall

and closer to each other.

Days and memories pour

from us, laughing, sharing

as our legs push to

skim the ice faster.

Holidays, parties and huge

history exams are remembered

and then promptly forgotten

as other, deeper, less remembered

days and times trickle in:

the day I got up to speak in Spanish and

pronounced half the words wrong, the day

spent basking in the sun as we were serenaded

by the football and soccer games,

ongoing games where the score doesn't

mean much and the teams never

change, the day, years ago, we

crowded in the bathroom at

school amongst the smells of

costly perfumes and the sweat of

nervous girls preparing for their first dance.

These thoughts, memories really,

propel us around the rink

until at last we step off

of the rough, torn up ice and

back into present times once again.

Summer (Address)

Address: I feel like the ending of this poem is off-topic. Do you agree? Is it distracting? Should I change it, or leave it how it is?

A warm, balmy day.

School's out, and I wander

aimlessly

about the town.

A few cool breezes

pass me by as I

amble slowly with

no particular destination.

I smell spicy spaghetti sauce

mixed with

oily french fries and

hot green chili,

drifting in the wind.

Strangers pass me

and I gaze at their

faces with empty eyes.

I'm walking to nowhere

down the two-laned road,

not really noticing where I am.

I hear voices shouting,

Spanish, English, a mix of both.

Time passes slowly,

then faster, as the scents

change and I stop walking

as I look out across

the street at the stoplights

blinking yellow, green and red

as lines of cars, gleaming

in the sunlight

stop

and then start again.

The crosswalk light flashes

"WALK"

and I cross the street to my house,

run up the slightly crooked front steps and

shut the heavy wooden door against the

afternoon heat.