Wind (Press)

notes of an ephemeral tune
fall ceaselessly to the ground
in an inaudible melodious cascade
a lonely forgotten elegy
You enter
Your presence swells like waves
under the sonorous stream
of consciousness
and the chords dance a ballet
of melancholy affectation
in an Impressionist swirl
onto the infinite canvas
of memory

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.