Ubiquitous.

Written 7/4/2006.

Ubiquitous.

There is a rhythm in his step
A method to his madness
His face, furrowed in deepest thought
His hand moves to his forehead
Pushes his glasses higher on his nose
Runs his hand through his short hair
Taps his finger on the keyboard
Lost in concentration

There is no rhythm in her step
But surely there is a method to her madness?
Her face, never stuck on one expression
Worry lines already forming on her brow
She stares off into space
Chews on her lip
Tapping a pen on her head
Lost in transition

Depression consumes them both
Times are rough
Arguments frequent
Personalities clash
Dependency grows
Misunderstandings run rampant
Lack of trust
Distanced lovers

Confusion sets in, anxiety stands firm
Depression deepens
Medications fail her
Mental health fails her
Why does she feel alone in this?
Is this the end?
Should she commit now,
Or waste away for lack of trying?

Her phone calls become too frequent
Her anxiety causes arguments
She becomes self-conscious
Does she really cause all these problems?
Rapid weight loss
Self-doubting, self-loathing
Be there for her
Is she asking too much?

She's lost in this world
And she feels quite alone
She doesn't want your pity
She wants you to understand
She doesn't want to push you away
Don't think she's crazy
Because she might start to believe you
She worries too much

She wants to get better
She wants to believe that things are fine
It's hard for her
She doesn't know what to do
Or how to go about doing it
She's lost in this world
And right now
She's alone

Clang clang clang

Written 7/4/2006, the fourth anniversary of my first love's drowning. This poem speaks to my then-fiance.

Clang clang clang
Silence
He's fallen again
"He's dead, I'm sure
Should be in the paper tomorrow"
Silenced
Click

Tick tick tick tick
Hands move over a blank expression
Tired lives are weary
Flash

"Don't watch
It will be too hard"
"You don't know me"
Slammed shut
Mournful cries
Hushed whispers
Parted ways
Silence

Yearly greeting
Cannot respond
Dreadful
Years pass

Nightly somber
Lies
Avoidance
Silent cries

Hesitant visit
Feels like home
We are better
More to come

Relationships
Meant nothing
Fleeting memories
Months pass

Four years and
I don't cry
Four years
And I feel fine
Four years and
I've moved on

But you can't see
How I used to be
Silenced
Stifled
Liar
Betrayer
Hateful

Clang clang clang
Back at it again
I am alive
The hands of the clock tell me so

No extreme emotion
Just remembrance
Not mournful
Thinking

Tick tick tick tick
Hands move over a blank expression
Tired lives are weary
Flash

Cycle through

Written on 5/13/2006 when I lived in Richmond and attended VCU.

Cycle through

Personalities clash
life cycles
experiences merge
feelings confuse
past becomes present
and present becomes a dream
a nightmare.

Some things I can't understand
and some things you will
never understand.

Always turning,
churning.
The truth pulls near.

monochrome kaleidoscope

Written on 1/19/2002. I was sixteen years old. The spacing and formatting doesn't come through correctly in this blog. The formatted version can be found here: formatted version.

monochrome kaleidoscope

white all around me
white f a
l l i
n g
from
the
sky
and white if you die
pieces of white are all I see
darkness is new to me
black w a s h e s over my white world,
tainting it forever
the black and white mix together,
making grey

my grey and desolate land is wasted and lonely

my life is wasted away and grey
the sun rises in my grey land,
bringing a tinge of yellow to my world

the sun brings nothing to me

but faint light
it shines coldly upon me from above
dark blue clouds come from the west
heavy clouds
the r
a
i
n starts
drops of blue fall from an empty sky,
washing over the grey earth
the rain goes on and never ceases for years,
flooding my grey land,

never allowing me to see

how it truly is
then one day when the sun rose red
and all was cold

the rain ceased

the water drained away and the grey
earth was smooth and wet
days p a s s e d and I noticed that
green was coming from my gray land
the nights became long
and the moon now shown orange,
foretelling me of times to come
the days came again and the sun was white,
reminding me of the past
purple flowers hid their faces from the grey

all there is is grey
nothing seems to change

my gray and desolate land is wasted and lonely

my life is wasted away and grey

A Pandemic, I Declare!

Another erasure poem, this time from an article on the 2009 H1N1 epidemic. Written on 10/3/2009.

A Pandemic, I Declare!

Worldwide spread-
the illness,
the virus.

At the time
infection outbreaks
continued to spread,
causing illness-
novel illness
without treatment.

There will be
more deaths.
This pandemic
poses the potential
to cause significant deaths.

A virus that
spreads by
touching infected
people.

The first patient
was confirmed,
the second patient
was confirmed.

It was quickly
determined
the virus was
spreading.

By June 19, 2009
all 50 states
have reported infection.

A Government-declared,
aggressively implemented
pandemic.

By the People,
for the People.

frigidity-a distillation

An erasure poem created from Edgar Allan Poe's "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque." Written on 10/2/2009 and 10/3/2009. Erasure poetry is a form of found poetry created by erasing words from an existing text in prose or verse and framing the result on the page as a poem. The results can be allowed to stand in situ or they can be arranged into lines and/or stanzas. I just recently discovered this technique this semester in my creative writing class. It's really interesting! I don't currently have a title for this piece. Any suggestions would be great.


frigidity-a distillation
of people themselves
of ignorance, of speech
incomprehensible inhabitants
interwoven
inhabitants of earth, yet
much more metaphysical

guilty of the present
proper perusal of this
extraordinary extremity
taken off-so far forgot
as to doubt the arm
of his brother

and without having reached
death-the pardon, so horrible!
no so, however, a ridiculous hoax
well--what of that?

odd little ears
have been cut off close to his head
have been missing for days
they were dirty-very dirty

he would take his bible oath,
the drunken gentleman
returning with money in his
pockets and an astonishing
lack of extremities
have gone missing on each
trip beyond the sea

not a whit better

philosophical phenomena-
so entirely novel that
Europe is in an uproar
warm masses distributed
about the firmament
the clattering of tongues
removed in a spirit of sport

a shout resounded long, loudly
furiously through the city
he moved, burdened by the
huge bulk of his rucksack
a queer sight, this man
so oddly shaped--what could it be?

what could the
devilish, shadow-enveloped
presence portend?
mouth wrought in
an unspeakable form
maintaining hushed babbling
eye steady, still lower

dirty newspapers clutter alleyways
the insult of his misdeeds
reprehensible, upside-down
glaring from a front page

the victims, their noses
upon nearer inspection
a circle of instruments
but still worse, there
hung the parts of
many citizens of Rotterdam

murder agitated him, his intentions not so
the state of mind clear, reflecting
a philosophy reasonable enough
to collect souvenirs from his travels
and nothing more

Confessions of a Drat

While walking to my car from my creative writing class today I got the sudden idea that I should write a short story from the perspective of one of my rats, Drat. Written 11/20/09. This will be added onto at some point in the near future.

Confessions of a Drat

My cellmate lives up to his name-constantly climbing the walls and attempting to wrestle me into submission for my meager portion of food. But my age and experience often bests his youthful exuberance. Periodically I throw him down to the floor and stare him in the eyes silently while he futilely attempts to push me away.

We rarely see the sunlight, as our captor turns off the lights and plunges us into darkness several times a day-if the time that passes could be considered a "day." I know not the difference between the days, weeks, and months. The only light emanates from a small room behind a cracked door-always out of reach, never able to see the outside-the seasons changing, the tree branches swaying and creaking in the wind. It is the small things in life that we cannot appreciate until they are stolen from us.

We were bought on a black market, stolen from our brothers and brought together in this hell. But I came first, over a year more familiar with these bars and bare walls than he. A lowly visage of a shadowy figure surrounded by meat flanks on hooks often hovers in my dreams, transposed from the framed picture on the wall. One could only venture a guess as to what kind of animal (or animals) came to such a fate, to be immortalized in a photograph and enlarged for all to see, a sort of menacing warning not to go astray.

Cows? Pigs? They were too large to be chickens, or even rats for that matter. Human, perhaps? These are the questions that often occupied my mind as Rudie would pace the floors back and forth as if by doing so he may be able to walk the length of the earth and liberate himself from this place.

We were not given beds, blankets, or even clothes. We had to huddle together, one man and a boy-child, naked on the hard, rough floor, hoping for warmth. Any place else and I would be named a pedophile, made to go from door to door informing the families housed within of my sex offender status. But in this atmosphere of sudden harsh, blinding light and a darkness just as startling, nothing was too strange. There were no norms here, only the reminder of a past life that I could almost touch through the cell bars.

His teenage rambunctiousness seemed to take over him like a demon waiting in the recesses of his soul for the perfect moment to emerge. He would act so bizarre that I would often wonder if an exorcism would do him any good. Perhaps then I could sleep at night.

Midnight Waltz

The following poem was compiled through my new set of magnetic poetry! I added some words, but I used mostly only those available. Written on 11/13/09.

Midnight Waltz

yesterday the broken window cut through the brilliant evening sun-
translucent yellow rays danced across a warm breeze
dazzling every flower with its poetry
the shadow's rhythm on the wall-light lingered
interrupted by the piercing glass
the sun bled red as it floated along the edge
beams pierced straight through, seeping color slowly
the poison eternity almost hypnotic
the blaze of its death a splash of crimson across the sky

perhaps a dance with night can bring peace to this violence

Mothers

Written on 10/29/09 as a revision of a previous poem (which is posted at the bottom of this note). In accordance with my professor's suggestion that the narrator of the poem take charge of the story and make it her own rather than being a passive bystander, I chose to utilize a first person point of view. At first I wanted to write from the mother’s perspective, but I thought that may be too skewed in favor of feminist leanings. I thought that using a child’s voice and diction would be an interesting exercise, although I did not initially believe it would go anywhere productive because I do not have any younger brothers or sisters, I am rarely around children, and I haven’t been a child in a long time. Because of this, I was worried that I would not recall how children talk. This concern soon subsided when I thought of the sing-song rhythm of many children’s stories. I wanted to see if I could have such a rhythm in the final draft while also sticking to the original subject.

The image of “Gram” is a personification of the stifling gender stereotypes of the 1950s. “Gram” does not seem to approve of any modern socializing tendencies, especially in her own family. She wants tradition to carry on with each generation, but finds her ideals to be rejected by both generations. In consequence, the speaker feels rejected by her grandmother and only partially understands why. The result is a child that feels let down by her family but doesn’t know what she did wrong other than she likes to wear pants. The last four lines show a sort of poking fun at and detachment from the traditional role of womanhood because detachment is the only way a child can handle disappointment she doesn’t understand.

Mothers

Gram doesn’t like what Mommy does.
Pants aren’t for mommies, she says that ‘cuz
daddies wear pants and mommies wear skirts.
Mommies wear aprons and cook Daddy dinner.
Daddies wear suits and eat Mommy’s dinner.

Daddies have briefcases and wear silly ties.
Mommies have makeup to put on their eyes.
Daddies work in big, tall buildings and
mommies work with dust bunnies and dishes.
Mommy’s work is inside the kitchen.

Daddies play catch and give bear hugs.
Mommies give kisses and show Daddy love.
But MY mommy gives big bear hugs
and my daddy gives kisses and wrestles the dog
while Mommy’s outside playing catch in the yard.

Gram doesn’t like what Daddy does.
Kissing’s for mommies, she says that ‘cuz
working and fishing are what daddies do.
But MY daddy cooks dinner for Mommy and me
while Mommy tells me to say thank you and please.

Mommy puts pants on me all the time
and Gram says that it is a crime.
When she comes over I have to wear skirts,
sit with crossed legs and be a nice girl
and my hair is always in curls

Gram doesn’t like what I have become.
Her looks and her words make me so numb.
I don’t like skirts, she says it’s a crime.
I like pants ‘cuz there are trees to climb
and sit in the branches above the treeline

While Mommy plays catch and Daddy cooks,
I think of Gram’s wrinkly, funny looks.
She shakes her finger while I stick out my tongue.
She makes me feel bad for what I’ve become.
But this is who I am,
and it’s already done.


The following is the original draft of "Mothers," written on 9/11/09:

Mothers

Mothers are no longer
The woman in the kitchen
Barefoot and pregnant with
1950s style pin curl hair
That took hours to perfect

Only to be greeted with indifference
Their husbands, the fathers
Home from work expecting dinner on
The table, starchly pressed apron
Clean home, perfected, quiet, docile wife

Today the sexes are changing to
Seem to have reversed, fathers are
More motherly and mothers more fatherly
Stay at home dads and workaholic moms
Nothing is commonplace, kids are displaced

Often even fathers are not motherly
Parents working overtime, leaving children with
Babysitters-often just leaving childhood themselves
Only to fight for their motherly father's attention
Returning home, "But the Game is on!"

They mature through a sense of loneliness
Their only companions their own peers
What was once a Family now an empty Shell
A facade of white picket fences, manicured hedges,
And 2.5 estranged kids

Ars poetica

Written on 10/29/09 as a revision of a first draft. I will post the first draft (which is inherently different) than this one at the end of this note. I decided to further explore what I was initially touching on in the original draft: ars poetica. Ars poetica translates to "the art of poetry," so the following poem is a poem about writing poetry. The analytic dictionary form seemed perfect for the task, as the resulting poem would be a poem about poetry. I also wanted to expand on my professor's comment that there was “an urgency of language” and a “simultaneous pent-up nature of language” present in the first draft..

Ars poetica

Academic rhetoric would seem purposefully obfuscated with the endless tousling of an indefinite consciousness, always chasing hand-me-down emotions and underdeveloped busywork. A necrotic orthodoxy of neurotic opinions lies across every exploration. Rarely fumbling, yet drowning in untouched drafts. New world double-talk, a middle-of-the-road perception, upends little secrets at every stage. We attempt erratically through outright outpourings to sedate an explosion. Less familiar challenges yield myriad results. We salvage causes from savage exchanges that immortalize our impure science. Improvising inconsistently, every author stagnates near obliteration. Cut-out craft becomes fatal tedium and inept unions underhandedly extinguish our taxing stories, lacking elegance.


First draft, untitled, written on 9/18/09:

The words come out in sudden bursts
Like the flicker of the T.V.
Falling down quickly just headfirst
Sometimes they play a bit off-key
Perhaps that's to be expected from someone like me.

Unheard through thickened mental fogs
Waiting restlessly for their cue
Prisoners of dreary gulags
And be home in time for curfew
Where they may remain obfuscated from peer review