For this week, your poetry extravaganza revolves around Elizabeth Bishop's poem "Sestina." You have two things to do:
1) Write your own sestina.
2) Write a one page essay that reflects on your own process writing the poem AND addresses this question: how does this fixed form affect Bishop's poem?
Here is the format for a sestina:
1 6 3 5 4 2
2 1 6 3 5 4
3 5 4 2 1 6
4 2 1 6 3 5
5 4 2 1 6 3
6 3 5 4 2 1
After those six stanzas, you need a three-line stanza (a 'tercet') that includes all six words. Two per line, and the words should appear in the middle and the end of each line.
Not so hard, right? Feel free to post your sestinas for extra credit in response to this post. Remember the posting rules, though!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
40 comments:
Sestina
The vibrant pineapples love to hang
from my ears as they did from hers.
I wear them when there’s rain
or dreariness, in hope
that with the earrings her spirit
will follow.
I want nothing more than to follow
in her huge footsteps, and hang
her earrings in pride, hope that her spirit
will become mine. Everything of hers
should bring joyous reverie and hope.
Then I see the lonely earrings and it rains.
Oh how I loathe that rain.
That rain which manifests the void which follows
my loneliness. The void of happiness, blitheness and hope.
The cloud hits a wall and the rain eternally hangs,
unloading its misery like each drop’s a memory of her
suffering and pain. It washes away her spirit.
The only thing to fill that void is her spirit.
I need her warm, glowing energy to clear the rain
which so easily clouds my life. I need her.
In order to live, I need her. By following
in her steps, I think that I can hang
on to the pieces of her that are left. It’s my only hope.
She is an always has been my hope.
For my whole childhood her immortal spirit
could grab me by the hand and make me hang
on in every situation. Can rain
so easily wash that away? Can I really follow
a path in life without keeping all the inspiring things about her?
The pineapple earrings are her.
The flowers in the garden shine with her hope.
Where I go, she will always follow
because I am a part of her. From her spirit
I have become me, a girl who can endure the rain,
a girl, whom from her ears, pineapples proudly hang.
My Mom will always follow me, even in the darkest of rains,
She is the spirit of everything that I hope
to be. I can hang on, as long as I have pineapple earrings and her.
Glimpse
One emerald eye slowly peeks
open to winding roads, so
intrinsically reaching, branches
whose position seems too far
to climb. The bareness is cold
but inviting, assuring, “Come with me, forever.”
The space between now and forever
seems infinite, the insurmountable peak
of time. She’s left with a cold
insecurity of belittlement, a feeling so
bottomless she wanders into thought far
beyond the here and now of branches.
Light creeps in beneath the branches,
as pure as the genuine, “forever”
uttered by the bride with her far-
off gaze. Could anything pique
such a warmth as the creeping light, so
gentle, pristine? Yet it is with an unfriendly cold
that such limbs pierce the emerald eye, a cold
released through the sight of branches,
barren and forlorn, objects so
depressing they tease, their arms forever
snatching at the girl who peeks
through the curtains of time, needing to get far
away from threatening memories too far
embedded in a family of secrets, cold
secrets that suffocate, suppressing any pique
of hope. Their lives are twisted like branches,
interconnected. Her lips feel forever
frozen shut. She is immobile, tangled in a ball of so
much pressure, she must unwind herself, or so
the man insists. But is it too far
to sanity? Will she be a loose marble forever
shot into all directions? Must the cold
encapsulate her days and the branches
further confuse a puzzled mind? She’s tired of peeks,
but her emerald eye, though so weary of the relentless cold,
cannot deny a peek into that unknown far,
embracing the branches ‘till the eternal forever.
On the Perches of Seagulls and the Musings of Hired Noises
Seagulls perch quietly on the dishwasher,
watching as the joyful monkey
plays happily in the crashing waves.
They only start at a sudden sound
as a bellowing cloud of purple
smoke rises from the site of an explosion.
The origin is unknown, but the explosion
is thought to be caused by the dishwasher
jealous of the creature, purple,
playing in the ocean surf; a monkey.
Wanting to be more than a perch, a sound
is made to get the attention of the rolling waves
who do not care of the dishwashers plight. The waves
crash on the rocks, creating an explosion
of noise which matches the sound
of the one before it. Dashing the dreams of the dishwasher.
Oblivious to the raging battle, the monkey
plays on the sand, unknowingly avoiding being crushed on the purple
rocks. Bored with doing nothing, the purple
dives into the water, creating purple waves
which are happily joined by the playful monkey.
“Well I’ve never” said the explosion,
“been so ignored as when you, dishwasher
hired me.” And it left without a sound.
And with that, the only sound
on the beach was that of the purple
gulls returning to their perch on the dishwasher,
and that of the smug waves
who laughed as the affronted explosion
left the lonely dishwasher to watch the monkey.
“Kill the monkey”
the dishwasher heard in the sound
of the wind that echoed the explosion’s
departure. But the purple
monkey laughed as it splashed in the waves
and dared action upon the immobile dishwasher.
“Time to hear the sound of your fate” said the explosion
as the waves laughed and the monkey played.
“You, dishwasher, will never be purple.”
(Uh... This Sestina might not look good online... The columns seem to be condensing the writing... So you might not be able to see which words are repeated and how...)
A Sestina for the Holidays
Today is a December kind of morning.
The air is cold on my lungs as I breathe it in, even though there is no snow
on the ground. I just want to stand on the porch and look up at the trees-
red, purple, pink, and orange tinted as the sun’s light
streams through them. I close my eyes and the crispness sends me away from the present,
into a past that sparkles with the hope of the morning star.
In the crib the child is illuminated by the blinking of a nearby star
sitting on the mantle. She naively waits for morning,
unaware now of the concept of time, and that this particular night bears presents.
Beside her crib, Alvin and the Chipmunks sing falsetto “Let it Snow, Let it Snow”
as a radio shines “ON” and gives off a faint red light.
She pumps her legs swathed in footy pajamas, decorated with snowmen and pine trees.
Now the child is old enough to pick the branches off those trees,
and carry them to her creation bathed in the light of the moon and stars.
She works on the piece with her father until her mother turns on the porch light.
She has been determined to finish it, since she saw the clean white sheets outside her window that morning.
She takes the sticks and places them in the side of the ball she has so carefully rolled in the snow.
She falls back unbalanced and is carried into the house in the arms of her father, content in the present.
The child runs down the stairs with anticipation to see the perfect present;
a floppy puppy she would hold close to her until the day it is lost beneath a tree.
The child embraces the gift and takes the plush with her to watch the falling snow,
Together they would have many adventures: “Rover” and the star-
eyed child. She lives in a new house and it is a new December morning,
but this puppy would be a constant reminder of memories once filled with so much light.
The child has left her “big-girl-bed” for the challenge of sleeping with the gifts. The lights
above her blink in time to a honky-tonk version of Noel that presents
the holiday season. Too anxious to wait for the festive morning,
she sits making up games to play with the shining ornaments that hang on the tree.
Her parents try to make her sleep with a trip to Church to hear of the Nativity Star,
but her excitement can not be contained. It would be her first sleepless night in many years of snow.
The child chucks a missile at her friends, having patted together in her hands a ball of snow.
One rolls her eyes at the childish act, two join in, and one gives a light
yelp at having gotten snow down her neck. In the child’s right hand sits a camera, making a star
out of her friends as they walk towards vacation. Each is excited about the holiday and bears a present
to give to one another. They walk past the school, past the library, past the park of trees
until they reach the house-here they will celebrate with hot chocolate and mirth in lieu of the actual morning.
Now the child is old-the tree is up last minute and the lights dim quickly.
The presents are few and the snow fall is light; she has lost the endurance to wait for a man in a sled,
but occasionally the past still rushes back as the stars dim on a December kind of morning.
(The same thing that JCK said about her applies to mine! Hopefully you can understand it)
It’s a long journey to my favorite place on earth.
More than two hours in the car with my family
and annoying brother is exhausting. But the sea
is always there, waiting at the end for me
with open arms. A little island, called North Haven
holds memories and dreams that I will always love.
The big white ferry carries me and my loved
ones across the bay, to a point where the earth
and sea meet once again. This ferry is a haven
to relieve my excitement, until I am reunited with my family
and friends. The blue water and sky cover me
with the sights, sounds and smells of the sea.
Once the ferry docks and we get off the boat, the sea
still waits for me at every turn. The smell that I love
seeps into my clothes and soul. It won’t leave me
until the leaves begin to fall and mother earth
begins to show vibrant new colors. But for now, the family
of blue and green shades seem like the perfect Heaven
to me. Upon arrival at the small house on North Haven,
I trade my jeans for a swimsuit, ready for the sea.
Once in the cool, shimmering ocean, a happy family
of fish swim by me and make me smile. I love
the water. The salty, soothing, serene surroundings of Earth
make me forget about the outside world. I can be me.
My life is calm and peaceful on the island. Me
and the other summer people come to this safe haven
as an escape from the world. A special corner of the earth,
unknown to most. An unsuspecting sailor on a voyage across the sea
may stumble upon the island and find that before long he too loves
the island like I do. It is a place to be with family,
swim, sunbathe, relax and dream. A place where immediate families
combine to form one single community. A home for me,
away from the bustle of city life. It is a place I love
that will never be replaced. North Haven
is a home to dreams that the sea
evoke in me. It is my favorite place on earth.
The ride home from North Haven with my family
saddens me, but it also reinforces my love.
Mother Earth made a miracle, the sea.
I sit alone in this empty house,
reminiscing about the subtleties of life.
Like my house, vacant is my heart
and it cries out for attention.
I’m tired of trying to always please
everyone else, tearing me into pieces.
I’m left picking up those pieces
all by myself, scattered around the house.
“Hey you, yeah you, can you help me please?
Give me that fragment and take part in my life.
I am loyal and if you give me attention
you’ll remain forever in my heart.”
“This here? This belongs to your heart?
What happened to all these pieces?
Was this because I didn’t give you attention?”
“Well, yes, but this cluttered house
is something I can’t have in my life
anymore. Don’t step on that, please,
it hurts actually. I can’t seem to please
you anymore.” “Well, can I have your heart,
this fragment, anyways, and be in your life?”
“If you have that fragment, I’ll be missing pieces.”
“Well can I at least live in this house?
Spend time with you and give you attention?”
“I don’t need your deceitful attention
or your artificial words. No don’t, please.
See this here, this diminishing house?
It’s an archetype for my empty heart.
You, and you alone, created these pieces.
Don’t come back asking to take over my life,
not again.” “But what about the life
we had together?” “No. Pay close attention;
I don’t ever want to break into pieces
again. Not over you; trust me please.
Go. Take your pain. Leave my heart.
It’s all I have left, besides this empty house.
This broken house and this broken life,
Even this broken heart needs no attention.
Drop the pieces; I don’t need to say please.
He sits there glaring at me
As I try hard to type my paper.
No matter how many times
I try to push him away, he
Always comes back and sits there.
He ends up winning and I give up.
I walk to the stairs ready to go up
To my room. He’s there following me
And for some reason always stays there
Right beside my leg, like colored paper
Glued to a poster. Out of no where he
Always trips me on the stairs multiple times.
Even out of all the times
I was relaxing and wanted to curl up,
Watch TV, and be by myself, he
Jumps on the couch next to me.
He’s so close, not even a piece of paper
Could fit the gap that lies there.
Between us. I’m comfortable lying there,
And thinking about all of the times
He sleeps, yet somehow, his grey, paper
Thin body finds its way all the way up
Near my head and manages to make me
Extremely uncomfortable. As long as he
Is comfortable everything is okay. He
Does not care about anyone else there.
If he is not completely beside me,
Sitting right there at all times,
He feels lost and wants to gives up;
Like me as I try to write a long paper.
Even as I enjoy reading one of my paper-
Back books, for some strange reason he
Can’t find any other empty spot to jump up
To, only the most crowded one he finds there.
He walks in front of my book plenty of times
Before he sits down, just trying to annoy me.
In my paper writing experience he’s always there,
And he constantly needs to be sitting right up
Against me, Buddy, my favorite cat of all time.
As I walk down the road
I begin to think.
It is then that I realize
that I am not alone.
Oh snap! What will I do?
I can hear the footsteps.
As they get nearer, the footsteps
get continually louder on the road.
Now I start to run, not knowing what to do.
As I'm running I think
about the fact that I'm alone
and I begin to realize
that no one will hear my cries and realize
that those fast-paced footsteps
could be my end. And while I'm alone
On this dark, dreary road
my thoughts get denser as I think
about what I am about to do.
When I’ve made up my mind about what to do
I can visualize and realize
that what I am about to think
could possibly make those footsteps
stop and I’ll live and the road
will go on, and I’ll still be alone.
Suddenly I figure out that being alone
I can basically do
whatever I want. With the road
continually echoing those steps, I realize
that in the last minute those footsteps
have quickened. I finalize my plan and think
“Hey! I can do this, at least I think
I can.” I can feel how very alone
I am and I think about how the footsteps
will end momentarily when I of
the unthinkable and realize
that I can do anything on this road.
I wake with a jolt and think about that road,
And what I was about to do, and how alone I was.
Finally I realize that I only dreamt about the footsteps.
This is very cool! I love the variety of poetry that is evidenced by these sestinas. Thank you all for sharing so far. Apologies for the odd formatting of the page that messes with the lines - just one more reason that computers will never replace books!
The Photograph
A small, aged boat rests on the roof of a house,
Weathered boards gleaming against the azure sky.
Frayed ropes lie coiled and tangled by its side,
Worn down by the weary hands of a fisherman.
The paint is chipped from stern to bow,
With colors streaked across the face of time.
Waves of indigo ripple over the lingering time,
With a stark contrast to the white of the house.
Jutting into the deep blue sea is the boat’s bow.
In the distance there is a blending of ocean and sky.
There are only a few, brave fishermen
Out today hauling fish over the side.
Two small islands stand side by side,
One a volcano collapsed in ancient time,
Now a popular spot for locals and fishermen
Wanting to swim. The other island houses
Little towns and hills protruding into the sky.
Artemis protects these lands with his bow.
Fluttering into the sky is a girl’s bow.
Only a speck now and turned upside
Down. Values of sapphire slide down the sky
Unchanging like a blue moon over time.
In the sky all the Greek gods are housed,
A place that is prayed to by all the fishermen.
Beneath the sea lies Atlantis, believed by fishermen.
For a safe and sound voyage to Poseidon they bow,
In hopes of a safe return to their wives and houses,
And of a bountiful catch to haul over the side.
So much was lost including an everlasting time
And Atlantis’ one and only view up to the sky.
A volcano once erupted lofting ash into the sky,
An island formerly feared by all the fishermen,
Now a heap of ash and lava aged over time.
People lounge in the natural spas elbow to elbow.
The stench of sulfur radiates to every side.
Staring off to Santorini, you can see a house.
One, solitary fisherman stands next to his house
Looking up at the sky to his old boat’s bow
With no one by his side, he’s lost in space and time.
Gliding slowly, leisurely, over the dark,
serene surface of the inlet, the light
of the glowing moon rippled without a sound.
It was the perfect time. Nothing broke the silent
purity of the cove in the night;
nothing seemed as harsh as in the day.
He had been here before, in the day,
but unlike the enveloping dark
of the tranquil night,
the unforgiving, unsympathetic light
only took the calm, silent
cove and turned it into a harsh-sound-
ing, foul-looking ocean sound
with rampaging seagulls. Or perhaps the day
wasn’t quite as bad as he remembered; still, the silent
awe that the cove was due was, in its dark
perfection, much easier to give than in light.
This is why he liked the night.
How many gulls are awake at night?
If he could make it so he could not hear their sound,
so that he, in the failing light,
could be the only one to see the cove past day,
he enjoyed it. He liked being alone in the dark.
It gave him time to think his silent
thoughts. It gave him time to dream his silent
dreams. And it was perfect at night
because there’s nothing out there in the dark
that could break his train of sound-
less thought. That ridiculous day
was always distracting, with its light
and noises. So he thought his light-
hearted thoughts as he sat silent-
ly, watching the bay, not by day,
but only in the cover of night.
It was better that way, when the only sound
was that of the cove slipping farther into the dark.
So as the light began to bring an end to night,
he finished his silent thoughts and yielded to the sound
of the quite less dark and far more obstinate day.
She sits in the field free from a care,
picking her daisies she passes the time.
The day is quite right for a flower to grow,
as she sits in the sunshine and soaks up its warmth.
She wonders how long she’ll enjoy this escape,
before day turns to night and she’ll have to go home.
Her mother had built them a beautiful home,
of this she had taken such care.
Whether it was a majestic escape,
or a place to retreat, notched into time.
She built it with love and she filled it with warmth,
beneath that old roof she had watched their bond grow.
Into a women her daughter had grown,
and left their treasured home.
Behind sits a mother bereft of warmth
and so it goes without a care.
While slowly passes a mother’s time,
Memories her solitary escape.
Fades, even this one escape
as a ruthless illness grows.
An ageless bond is lost in time,
she hardly recognized her home.
Such conditions call for a daughters care,
holding captive a heart once filled with warmth.
Pink on her cheeks a shameful warmth,
a sorrow from which there’s no escape
Stale air, cold metals and medical care
surround them as days to weeks and months grow.
A prison becomes of this once sacred home,
as slowly creeps on the ruin of time.
Her mother is fading, she’s run out of time.
In her eyes no semblance of warmth.
One last time she lays rest in her home,
here she finds her final escape.
Now may her legacy slowly grow,
“Here lies a mother that did nothing, but care.”
Tears grow in a daughter’s eyes as she looks upon her mother’s new home.
Daisies placed by the grave with care, soaking up a new day’s warmth.
A spirit no longer trapped in time, day turns to night embrace your escape…
The rays of the sun shone down
From the icy blue heights of the sky.
The mother and son strolled on their way,
Coated with snowflakes falling softly.
It was cold outside, but they were warm,
Cheered by their laughter and love.
The little boy’s face revealed his love
For the snow that fell down.
He snuggled close to his mother to stay warm.
The sounds of the season rang through the sky.
Carols sounded and he hummed along softly,
As they continued along the way.
Drifting snow and cheery lights paved the way,
And the mother’s eyes sparkled with love
For the joys of the season and the softly
Humming boy. She glanced happily down
The street at the festivities. She looked at the sky
And excitement made her cheeks grow warm.
They looked at passers-by with warm
Smiles, exchanging kind wishes all the way.
“See how the snow sprinkles from the sky
And blankets the ground. I love
How a sled on the hill will just go racing down.”
The awed boy said softly.
The mother responded softly
As well, as they headed for their warm
Home, ambling excitedly down
The road. Skipping ahead, the boy led the way
Home to spend Christmas with the ones they love.
He saw the spirit of the season reflected in the sky.
Church bells pealed joyously through the sky
And Christmas songs blared softly
From the houses brimming with love.
Mother and child entered the warm
House, glowing still from the long cold way
They had walked. They sat down
To hot chocolate and warm cookies served with love.
They thought back on the way they had come and the Christmas star in the sky
As they settled down for bed and said goodnight softly.
The woman talking to the man, talking. All ignorant,
From no where comes the Crash.
Leaving bodies to jolt awake.
The matter at hand stripped of all delicacy
As lines and rows form, of 1-2-3 corpses.
No one bound and alone.
Everything and Everyone in a simple carrier alone.
Spiraling through the ignorant
clouds. This mass of ignorant corpses,
Of simple droplets borne of feeling. Only the conscious tears hear the Crash.
And as a new delicacy
sets in, 1-2-3 ignorant corpses awake.
But can not all awake?
This same talking man. One who would pray to be alone.
This neglected woman could only sit by and watch as tears of delicacy
Streamed poignantly down. Not ignorant.
Yet he was, and upon the crash
He could not help but search frantically through the corpses.
1-2-3 non-emerging corpses.
1-2-3 emerging corpses awake.
The stirring Crash,
Leaving everyone and everything bound but not alone
Witnessed, and played a part in the shifting of the tides, as a once ignorant
Man turned, pleading amidst the delicacies.
As the tears used to observe him, their delicacy
Was now manifested in his eyes, prying them open, drenching them with the sight, the corpse
The preceding dried tears having avoided the once present ignorance
Abandon the pews. Leaving only the man awake.
The abandoned pews leaving only the man alone.
As visions of the irrevocable past come slamming through his mind. Crash.
As abrupt and chilling as the initial Crash
The old old man drifts into an ethereal delicacy.
Finding himself no longer alone.
Having left some down there, and acquainting himself with an old corpse
The man and woman see that neither will awake
And find comfort in the security of a place void of ignorance.
As the 1-2-3 corpses snap upright and awake
The mounds of these ignorant will witness a crash
And as the matter passes, barren of delicacy man finds he is not alone.
oh. and also. I apologize for walking into your classroom in the middle of teaching. There were a few of us outside and no one wanted to go in so I decided to go in and ask. I apologize for interrupting.
Life, What is it?
It’s not always the best.
Life: is one endless battle
that is filled
with questions and little are answered
Many have gone answerless
through life. All the time they ponder it
as if there is a book filled
with answers, but the best
anyone will do is battle
with themselves to find out “what is life?”
Everyone has a different life
Each with different answers
and outcomes. The battle
is endless and many have died without answers to it.
some have missed the best
parts of their lives and those holes will not be filled
Life can also be filled
with excitement. Life
wouldn’t be bearable without this best
part of life. Excitement might not be the answer
to life but without it
life would constantly be an uphill battle.
Life is a war with countless, sometimes pointless battles
It is completely filled
with conflicts in it.
there is no clear view on what life
is. Just that we need to find the answers
for ourselves. This part is the best.
Life may not always be the best
but it is the only thing everyone has in common in this world of battles
maybe there are no answers
and that is why life is filled
with so many of these conflicts. Life…
what is it?
The battles that make up life
are filled with questions with out answers
and the best part is, life is still what we make it.
Sestina
dancing with the devil under the bad lighting
silhouetted by the blood stained mat
butterflies flutter in an hail of gun fire
bouncing gracefully with nervous energy
raising both arms when her name is called out
the women catch each others eyes and stare one another down
she had thrown up everything, not even a squirt of water would stay down
her many tattoos could not hide the fact that her skin had been neglected from sunlight
she spent every waking moment training she saw no reason to go out
and relax in the sun, she never ventured far from the mat
at her gym, the men could joke with envy about her inhuman energy
but noone would joke about her skill, conviction or fire
the bell sounds, she touches gloves with her opponent, fakes a right cross and fires
a bold a double leg take down
the crowd roars their approval, she feeds off their energy
as the audience feeds from hers, all eyes are on the two athletes under the neon lights
the butterflies are gone she is her world, on the mat.
she attempts a submission trying to force her opponent to tap out
we are less than a minute in to the round her opponent is fresh and able to muscle out
she decides to apply a choke, her opponents face turns the as red as coals of a bon fire
her opponent refuses to succumb and the competitors go to war on the mat
the bell sounds, the women go to their corners and sit down
at the beginning of the next round the two women touch gloves lightly
she is not fatigued unlike her opponent who puts on a facade of having energy
her conditioning is world class, she has the energy
to summit Mt. Everest, hike/run the Appalachian Trail, break out
of a maximum security prison and still be light
on her feet as she single handedly puts out a forest fire.
she pushes the pace of the fight as a primal buzz runs down
her spine, she dominates the action on the mat
she throws punches, elbows and kicks as the women stand toe to toe on the mat
at this point in the fight it is obvious her opponent is drained of energy
her opponent can no longer successfully defend her self...she goes down
it will not be necessary for the judges to score this fight, it has concluded in a knockout
the spectators jump to their feet as if they had sat in fire
the referees raises her arm in victory and she basks in the spotlight
the next day she gets down and dirty, back in her gym training and working out
hanging from the wall above the mat is her championship belt next to an energy
drink poster, this belt is what lit her fire, it looks marvelous, even in bad lighting
Chris Kokoll
dancing with the devil under the bad lighting
silhouetted by the blood stained mat
butterflies flutter in an hail of gun fire
bouncing gracefully with nervous energy
raising both arms when her name is called out
the women catch each others eyes and stare one another down
she had thrown up everything, not even a squirt of water would stay down
her many tattoos could not hide the fact that her skin had been neglected from sunlight
she spent every waking moment training she saw no reason to go out
and relax in the sun, she never ventured far from the mat
at her gym, the men could joke with envy about her inhuman energy
but noone would joke about her skill, conviction or fire
the bell sounds, she touches gloves with her opponent, fakes a right cross and fires
a bold a double leg take down
the crowd roars their approval, she feeds off their energy
as the audience feeds from hers, all eyes are on the two athletes under the neon lights
the butterflies are gone she is her world, on the mat.
she attempts a submission trying to force her opponent to tap out
we are less than a minute in to the round her opponent is fresh and able to muscle out
she decides to apply a choke, her opponents face turns the as red as coals of a bon fire
her opponent refuses to succumb and the competitors go to war on the mat
the bell sounds, the women go to their corners and sit down
at the beginning of the next round the two women touch gloves lightly
she is not fatigued unlike her opponent who puts on a facade of having energy
her conditioning is world class, she has the energy
to summit Mt. Everest, hike/run the Appalachian Trail, break out
of a maximum security prison and still be light
on her feet as she single handedly puts out a forest fire.
she pushes the pace of the fight as a primal buzz runs down
her spine, she dominates the action on the mat
she throws punches, elbows and kicks as the women stand toe to toe on the mat
at this point in the fight it is obvious her opponent is drained of energy
her opponent can no longer successfully defend her self...she goes down
it will not be necessary for the judges to score this fight, it has concluded in a knockout
the spectators jump to their feet as if they had sat in fire
the referees raises her arm in victory and she basks in the spotlight
the next day she gets down and dirty, back in her gym training and working out
hanging from the wall above the mat is her championship belt next to an energy
drink poster, this belt is what lit her fire, it looks marvelous, even in bad lighting
Sorry but my lines are too long to fit in the standards given, so some lines don't seem to follow the pattern.
Splish, Splash
BY: Spencer Seiferth
The touch of the water cools the skin.
As you submerge, you take a breath,
only hoping your equipment works.
Looking below you can see the colors,
the colors of the new world you’re about to explore.
This world is a different place, filled with danger and excitement.
The bubbles float past your face like a child filled with excitement,
touching and rubbing against your arms as though it is stroking your skin.
Body at rest, you sink to the bottom, ready to explore
the new world. Calming your heartbeat, making sure not to forget to breathe.
Looking up, the sunlight shows through with a rainbow of colors.
The sea tossing you side to side, into invisible walls, and you think how this all works.
The city below is similar to that of New York, everyone off to work
You take it all in, but you are too filled with excitement.
Each species a different color,
each having soft looking almost like new born skin.
How different they behave, how I wish water was my air to breathe.
Ready to explore.
Through your mind you find a calm setting to explore.
You pray in your mind and heart that you will get through the crushing pressure at work
with each foot of declination, it becomes harder to breathe..
But instead of overwhelming you, you examine the bubbles forming on your skin,
the objects infatuated with exuberant colors.
As you approach the bottom, the colors of the plants are similar to your own skin color.
You are now in a new world ready to explore.
The water slowly wrinkles your skin,
as though taking a bath for too long, you realize how it all works.
When you clear your ears, the pressure in your head release as if someone fired a gun in excitement.
The pressure upon your goggles releases as though exhaling a big breath.
You take a breath.
You’re amazed by the fulfilling colors,
So much that, as if it were your birthday, you become overtaken with excitement.
In front of you, looking earthly, there are canyons and cities to explore.
The air seems as if you are breathing in dust from work,
It dries your mouth to the point of depletion, stealing the moistness of your skin.
Coming to the surface, the colors of the sun dance across your face with excitement.
You reflect on what you explored, piercing through the skin of the water, you have resurfaced.
Taking a deep breath, you work back to the boat, ready tell exploration to all.
The crisp November air
always comes as a surprise.
We pack our bags for the long ride,
and be sure to use the bathroom
one last time. Our poor
parents, stuck listening to us in the back.
Already I can’t wait to get back.
The cold northern Maine air
seems to seep deep into my pours.
Memere always exclaims, “what a surprise!
seven hours, you must need to use the bathroom!”
Our young cousins are tired from the ride.
As the rest of the family rides
into town, we all look back
on years past. Uncle Brian’s bathroom
troubles famously contaminate the air,
but that comes as no surprise.
All of the adults pour
themselves a drink while the poor
children are stuck going along for the ride.
Turkey is what’s to eat, but that’s no surprise
After I’m done, I want to get back
to the game and put my feet in the air,
but that smell will not stop pouring from the bathroom.
After such a fest, the line to the bathroom
is long. Clouds roll in and it starts to pour.
Throughout the day you could feel it in the air.
The next morning we pile into cars and ride
into town for a nice breakfast. “Omelet surprise”
is what’s on the menu. The surprise
sent me running for the bathroom.
We packed our things and headed back
home. First we stopped to pour
a final cup of coffee for Mom. The ride
home seemed long, as December air
Surprisingly settled back in for another long winter.
Memere’s poor bathroom
air will have a long ride to recovery.
Playing as one and making memories
without knowing it. Winning games
and creating timeless bonds of friendship.
Establishing achievements that will remain
unforgotten. A moment in time we’ll share
forever and will always make us smile.
When the going gets rough and a smile
is the last thing on mind, the memories
in our hearts that we each share
will prevail. Our love for the game
and for each other will truly remain
throughout time through our friendships.
It’s these nonperishable friendships
that will brighten each day as we smile
and remember. Although we can not remain
as a team forever our everlasting memories
will. Each time we play the game
on another team, we’ll know they won’t share
the bonds that we so dearly share.
As time passes and life slips by, our friendships
will continue and be preserved through the game,
through each other and through each smile.
New moments won’t replace our memories
and they will forever remain.
Although it would be astounding to remain
as a team, and free the moments we all share
it is impossible and its our memories
that we will always have and our friendships
that have produced countless smiles
that keep us connected to each other and the game.
It’s our passion for the game
that brought us together and that will remain
our strongest connection. Our brightest smiles
and our finest moments we will always share
together. The depth of our friendships
may begin to fade, but forever will endure our memories.
No more games for us to share,
but our smiles will forever remain
through our friendships and memories.
Snowboarding
I wake up, see my board.
Ahead is a two hour ride.
I hope I can get to the mountain
I put on my jacket for the wind, after bundling up for the snow.
I head for the trails.
202 to 115 we follow the trails
I’m in the back waxing my board,
dressed warm for the snow,
anticipating the perfect ride
covered up from the wind,
only 75 miles from the mountain.
A powder covered mountain,
unridden trails.
Feel the icy wind,
control the speeding board.
The perfect ride.
Fresh tacks in the smooth snow.
Unridden snow
covers the empty mountain.
The first ride,
the wide open trails
belong to me and my board
effected by only you and the wind.
It become to much, the icy wind,
carrying the stinging snow.
I pack up my board.
I walk off the mountain,
taking one last look at the trails.
I’ve had my share of the perfect ride.
In my quest for the perfect ride,
I battled the wind,
conquered the trails,
and defeated the snow.
We owned the mountain,
me and my board.
Until the next ride, I rest my board.
The mountain rests it’s wind.
The trails rest their snow.
A-Bail said....
Snowboarding
I wake up, see my board.
Ahead is a two hour ride.
I hope I can get to the mountain
I put on my jacket for the wind, after bundling up for the snow.
I head for the trails.
202 to 115 we follow the trails
I’m in the back waxing my board,
dressed warm for the snow,
anticipating the perfect ride
covered up from the wind,
only 75 miles from the mountain.
A powder covered mountain,
unridden trails.
Feel the icy wind,
control the speeding board.
The perfect ride.
Fresh tacks in the smooth snow.
Unridden snow
covers the empty mountain.
The first ride,
the wide open trails
belong to me and my board
effected by only you and the wind.
It become to much, the icy wind,
carrying the stinging snow.
I pack up my board.
I walk off the mountain,
taking one last look at the trails.
I’ve had my share of the perfect ride.
In my quest for the perfect ride,
I battled the wind,
conquered the trails,
and defeated the snow.
We owned the mountain,
me and my board.
Until the next ride, I rest my board.
The mountain rests it’s wind.
The trails rest their snow.
The Cell Phone Company
Dedicated to Verizon Wireless
Received by mail today, The Cell Phone Bill,
And almost cried about the large sum of money
They demanded, but also about being tricked.
Cell phones are a severely overpriced scam.
But all Their lies are working,
And the customers help them cheat
By being ignorant of the cheat,
And always paying the monthly bill,
And believing that They “never stop working
For you.” Paying too much money
To everyday be tricked
By every imaginable scam.
The $152-a-month-only-buys-16-minutes-a-day scam
Gets customers to pay 35 cents extra per cheat.
Before doing out the math, it’s too easy to be tricked.
There’s becoming a need for a “Talking Person’s Bill
Of Rights” for protection against paying too much money,
Especially since half of the time, the phone isn’t even working!
Having a job There barely counts as working,
As every day is spent dreaming up a new scam,
And employees are paid with stolen money
From the costumers he cheats, because There the word “cheat”
Is synonymous with “deal.” And the salesperson named Bill
Is “just doing his job” when confronted about the people he has tricked.
Every customer is constantly being tricked
Into wasting his earnings from all his hard working
On the unbelievable Phone Bill
Including the must-pay-to-listen-to-voicemail scam.
More and more The Cell Phone Bill is becoming necessary money
To spend. It’s irritating to think that They cheat
To get more money, they cheat
Just for something to do, They’ve tricked
Me for the last time. This is a waste of money.
The lies are no longer working.
I’ve recognized ever scam,
And I’m done paying The Cell Phone Bill.
Tricked again into spending all my money
on US Cellular because they don’t cheat as much, working
hard to find every new spam before paying The New Cell Phone Bill
-E.B.
In my mind there is a place with snow.
Worries disappear as it begins to fall
and coat the ground with a white blanket.
All I can do is hope for something
that shows up only at moments when I stop
paying attention and suddenly there it is making me smile.
In the tough times I manage a smile,
sometimes form memories of snow
coming just in time to ski and not stop
until I am ready. Even though sometimes I fall
I know there will always be something
surrounding me in that cold like a blanket
keeping me warm and safe, the full potential of a blanket
memories of last winter cause me to smile,
a sad and somber one, sneaks on my face. Something
always reminds me of how I met him in the snow,
picking me up just as I was about to fall
into a tough place with the sad feeling that is had to stop.
I could spend time with him forever, non-stop,
watching movies wrapped up in a blanket
watching out the window to see the fall,
bring to our faces excited smiles,
of the glistening brilliant white flakes of snow,
knowing that here we have something
that is very special. Now I wonder why this something
had to leave with such a painful stop.
It began, so sweet and fun, in the snow,
throwing balls of it at each other and laying in its cold blanket,
tickling each other to provoke a smile,
watching the unique flakes fall
in our face. Sometimes we take for granted the fall
of the snow actually happening. It is something
I have grown to depend on. Brings a smile
about in the dreary autumn that seems like it will never stop.
My dream is to see on Christmas morning a blanket
covering the dead grass with clean, new snow.
This boring season, fall, will soon come to a stop.
My hope is for something from the past can again make me smile
as I lay in bed, wrapped in a blanket, just waiting for snow.
The cool blue pane
Rests atop its aqueous support.
An enormous icy lid, hiding
All that floats and moves below.
A stoic face for a dynamic world,
Hiding the secrets of the frigid deep.
Fish swim sluggishly through the deep,
Eyes glazed over like a milky glass pane.
Dim twinkling lights like an alien world,
Algae pumping oxygen, the natural life support.
Dull sounds and shaded light permeate below
The thick ice shield. A universe beneath, hiding.
Bright white crystals twinkle, hiding
The glacial blue waters, going deep
Down, further and darker, colder and quieter, below.
No reflective surface visible, the glassy pane
Slowly thins, its enormous area struggles to support
The burden of the upper world.
A young reckless boy of that world
Tears down the road, unable to see the hiding
Deathly cold waters beneath the ice, unable to support
The weight of his car, to hold it from the deep.
Breaking, cracking, water rushes through the pane,
Trading the water to bring the car below.
Bubbling, broiling waters engulfing, dragging below.
The boy struggles to maintain his place in this world.
But the wall has been broken, a hole in the pane.
A window is opened, the ice no longer hiding
The dark, muffled waters of the deep.
Cracks spread around, the ice will no longer support.
The boy strains and reaches, pining for support.
His lungs scream for air as he falls down below.
Further and further, into the deep,
Forced into a cold, unforgiving world.
The door locks in the shadows, hiding
Unsympathetic to his cold, burning pain.
Life gives way to the deep, released from his world.
The fiery ache of pain swallowed down below.
A new existence supports him, invisible to the living, hiding.
The Doorstep
On the doorstep she was left.
Her mother was too young,
didn’t have the means to care.
A child herself, abandoned and alone.
A future was on the doorstep, hope
could be found in that place.
Warmth, love, purpose is in that place.
All who are weary, with nothing left
to live for, seeking a glimmer of hope
regardless of age, old or young
the Savior, Redeemer is God alone
in His arms find rest, someone to care.
The girl grew and felt the care
of love around her, a place
she could call home. Never alone
her parents held her, the pain left
when God’s love came in. Though young
she felt the healing, reassurance of hope.
The great sacrifice she could only hope
to repay, the dedication and loving care.
The couple’s compassion saved the young
girl that day on the doorsteps of that place.
The church where her mother had left
her, yet to gain the gift of a life never alone.
Peace is not found in love alone,
if not for God’s grace there’d be no hope
at all. For in ourselves we would be left
to die. A sinner’s life without a true care
will lead to a joyless, painful place
but to seek Him there are none to young
God sent his only son while He was still young.
Sent to die on the tree, this task His alone
to bear. On Calvary they hung Him, a place
for all to see. But death He did conquer, hope
again restored when from the tomb He left
For His people He greatly did care
In this truth the young girl had found hope.
In this place she never felt alone.
With this care her fears had left.
Rachael Tordoff
Sestina
Outside it is cold but indoors it is warm.
Inside the snug house, the family
Watches the colorful swirling leaves
Fall to the ground. They give thanks
As their soon to be dinner, the turkey,
Rests in a plate while they watch a leaf parade.
Soon the hosts welcome a parade
Of guests into their safe and warm
Domain. Then they roast the turkey
And serve the hungry people. The family
And expectant diners sit and say thanks
For the table of bounty and nobody leaves
Until the napkins, which were folded into leaves,
Are unfurled and placed on laps as the parade
Of cuisine goes into bellies expanding with thanks.
The heat of the delicacies warms
The bodies and minds of whole family,
Yet someone felt different that day, the turkey.
Whey was it not joyful? The turkey
Had spent his last days kicking up leaves
Gobbling as the impatient family
Watched. Now he is leading the parade
Of dishes. His steamy nutrients make warm
All the eaters. The offer up thanks
Again, for the bird, and the guests thank
Those who harvested and roasted the turkey
For them. They leave with warm
Hearts and fade into the leaves
That dance in the sky. As the feasters parade
Departs, to their sanctuary, the family
Rejoicing that now only they, the family
Remain. The clan utters a prayer of thanks
For the good blessings that parade
Through their memories. They eat turkey
Sandwiches with souls light as leaves
In a shelter satiated and so very warm.
And so the small family sits warm
Remembering all that’s good and give thanks
For turkey leftovers and watch as the fall leaves.
yeah, uber insanity with the lines
my apologies
The Endless Sestina
what are you trying to do, my conscience asks
me. I’m trying to write a poem, I reply to it, distracted.
What sort of poem? he persists. What sort of poem?
A sestina, I mutter back. Look you’re beginning to frustrate.
me. He is silenced for a moment, offended, then he returns,
spite needling his voice. Well, he says, you’ll never write a sestina
with that sort of attitude. A sestina
takes greater concentration. I ask
How would you know? I just do, he returns
You want to know why you can’t write a good sestina? You’re distracted
and writing mindless fluff. Look, you’re frustrating
my stanza sequence here. Buzz off, and let me write this poem.
His voice pricks my thoughts, searing into the middle of my poem,
halting my fingers mid-click on the keyboard. This sestina,
he wheedles, has to be something with weight. I groan, jerking a hand through my frustrated
hair, deciding that the optimal plan is to ignore the pest and stop asking
him provocative questions. I concentrate on the infinite whiteness of the computer page, distracting
my thoughts from the snaking remarks of my conscience. But he returns
to the forefront of my mind again. A poem deserves a certain amount of return,
he instructs. It must have a certain gravity, discuss life or romance or inner turmoil. A poem
is more than a collection of words mashed together, distracting
and scrambled. It must have presence. Do you remember Maia’s sestina?
I slam my hand down on the wooden desk, bitter and frustrated
Of course I remember Maia’s sestina. It practically asked
for a Nobel prize. But tonight, I can’t ask
my mind for anything life changing. I’ve tried Rain and Love and Darkness but I return
again and again to The Beauty of Mediocrity, the perfect form unearthed after months of frustration,
out of the grappling of the mundane versus the exceptional. I write poems
to make the ordinary beautiful and noteworthy. The metamorphosis elevates every sestina
from a mere collection of beautiful stanzas to an actual poem. Vastly important words distract
from the core of the writing, the core which exudes the wrenchings of the poet who methodically distracts
the mundane into the beautiful. She wanders and gropes and sobs and asks
herself why she was driven to mold this clumsy, ordinary thing into a sestina.
She may abandon her mockingly simple work, but will inevitably return
to continue the struggle. As weeks creep by, she pens a scattering of words, possibly a stanza, but the poem
will live and writhe inside until what she has written is RIGHT, and she conquers her gnawing frustration.
And THAT is why I write through the frustration. THAT is why your yapping distracts,
because I feel the ordinary words of an extraordinary poem endlessly colliding within me. Don’t ask
why I write. I will always write. I pause, wait for his return, then swivel back and face my endless sestina.
The Wanderer
By Keith Doiron
On the edge of the meadow he peered into the night
sky. The boy remembered a passage in a book.
He recalled with his dog running
Along side him in the meadow. “Time
for dinner” his mother called, and to the doorstep the jumped.
His head, to the pillow, would soon drop
With a full stomach he dropped
to the bed. To dream wonderful dreams in the night.
He dreamt of jumping
over clouds and flying on magic books.
Lost in a void of time,
His imagination constantly running
Along side old wars running
the bicentennial cannon. As the ball flies the fortress drops
To a pile of rubble and he is the hero this time
A sudden stirring in the Night
Wakes the young hero. “Maybe I’ll read a book”
He ponders in bed, to his feet he quickly jumps.
And with that jump
He stubs his toes and goes running
Down the hallway. Forgetting about his book
altogether. Into his mothers arms he drops
And cries. The shrill of his voice pierces the night,
But he mother soothes and says he’ll be all right this time.
The clock on the wall says its time
to rest, but he is wide away and jumps
On the bed. In the smalls hours of the night
His heart is racing and mind running
Too hard to sleep. At long last he drops to his bed.
Exhausted he cracks the spine of his favorite book.
On his last birthday, in silvery paper the book
was wrapped. A gift from a happier time.
From his father across the seas who dropped
Into the war. Looking at the book he jumped
To his favorite part. A boy and is father running to the creek,
Fishing all day, then fall asleep beneath the stars and the cover of night
His eyes jumped from page to page but soon began to drop
Slowly closing once more time was running out
Atop the book he lay his head sound asleep, wrapped in the blanket of the night
A Sestina in the Past
Right now I am sitting in history.
For me it is a changeable subject.
At this point it’s a subject I love.
But earlier it was one that I hated,
Some days class lasts forever,
Other times it goes by so quickly.
I like it when the years don’t go by quickly.
Everything feels real, like its not even history.
But at that pace wars last forever,
And then I can’t wait to change the subject,
Because wars reveal such needless hate,
And I wonder if there was any room for love.
In history class, there is never time for love,
The class is so full that you move too quickly
To focus. And only because the results of hate
Are catastrophic does it go down in history.
That makes it a depressing subject,
But hindsight tells me hate wont’ prevail forever.
I believe that hate will exist forever,
But if it will exist forever, so then will love,
And that is a saving grace for this subject.
There is good and bad and you can move quickly
Or slowly through it. That’s the beauty of history
The present demands focus, in the past you can skip hate.
At a certain point in studying, you should pass over hate.
It’s bad for you to focus on it forever
Because if you did, your happiness would be history.
Instead, you should mix in some love,
And never pass over it too quickly,
That way, history becomes a bearable subject.
But really, history is much more than a subject,
It affects the people of the present. It can cause hate,
But it doesn’t have to. It can show how quickly
Things change, and how some seem to last forever.
Sometimes it can be the grounds for love,
Most times, history is the grounds for history.
It goes by quickly, but people prefer the present.
The subject on the past is the one that students hate.
But in the end, it is history that will remain forever.
by Bri H
The bright August sun shines,
As I scamper into the cool wood.
Jumping over a large fallen tree,
I set the birds into flight.
Coming to a halt at the flowing stream,
I sit down to dream.
As I sit down to dream,
The bright August sun shines
On the gurgling blue stream,
Running through the dense wood.
I watch the beautiful flight
Of the multicolored birds as I sit at my tree.
This specific hundred year old tree
Is where I come to dream.
I dream I take flight,
My silver wings glistening and my dark hair shines.
As I scan the dark wood,
High in the sky, I can see my stream.
It is just a little path, that stream,
And I can’t even see my tree
Anymore, as I rise high above the wood.
In my continuing dream,
The gorgeous sun shines
On my back while I am in flight.
This dream about me in flight
I always have when I come to my stream,
When the sun shines,
And I sit at the base of my tree,
And dream a dream
In my peaceful wood.
This peaceful dense wood
Gives me the strength to take flight
And to fulfill my dream
Of rising high above the stream.
So high I can’t even see my tree,
When that bright August sun shines.
As I end my flight and land back at my tree,
By the shimmering stream, it ends, that marvelous dream,
But emerging from the wood, I know it will continue again when that August sun shines.
Three Times in a Row
My last season of high school soccer
has just ended. I will never play
soccer for Gorham High School again.
We have made it all the way to three
straight State Championships, winning them all.
These accomplishments were because of my team.
In all 19 games this season, teams
were striving to beat our soccer
team. Every game we had to give it our all
in order to out hustle, out skill and out play
our opponents. For year number three
we were the top ranked team again.
Last year I was captain and this year again,
I was chosen to lead a great team.
Now there are two captains were before there were three.
Everyday we came out to practice our soccer
skills after school, so that when we play
in our games we were able to win them all.
When the first playoff game came, it was all
or nothing. We wanted to win states again.
We knew we had to come out to play
for each and every game. The first team
we played, South Portland, gave us a tough soccer
match, but we defeated them by scoring three.
In the Western Maine final, we didn’t score three,
but instead we had to play hard for all
ninety minutes. Scarborough has always had a strong soccer
team, but we beat them before and did it again.
That was the hardest game and the best team
we had played all season, but we came to play.
The State final was the game we had been waiting to play
all year long. This was State final number three
in the same number of years. Mt. Ararat was the team
that we had been waiting to play all
season long. For the third straight year we did it again.
Three State Championships to add to my memories of soccer.
For the past three years, we have won the soccer
State Championship. My team was successfully again
and again. They have played together, not just one, but all.
m.h. said...
In the middle of December 1988, she
became someone new and brought a new life
into the world. Being a mom
requires a lot of time and love.
little did she know her new daughter
would also be her new best friend.
In my younger years, you were my best friend,
playing with me and teaching me. You said she
is someone special, your first daughter.
You provided her with the best life
I could have ever dreamed of and loved
me more than anything. Mom,
You have been the best mom
I could have ever asked for and a friend
I know I can always count on. Your love
and support are what keep me going. I am proud to say, “She’s
my mother”. You have helped me understand what life
is truly about, and I am proud to be your daughter.
Our relationship is not just that I am the daughter
and you are the mother. You are my mom
but it is more than that. Our life
together has developed into a lifelong friend-
ship that is something I cannot take for granted. She
is someone I look up to and will love
forever. I appreciate your unconditional love
and encouragement. I know I sometimes am not the most pleasant daughter,
but I never mean any harm. You may say, “she
can be a pain”, and I may deserve that. But mom,
I am sorry. You know I would never do anything to hurt our friend-
ship. You are the light of my life.
I cannot thank you enough for the life
You have given me. Thank you for your love
it has given me strength. Thank you for being my friend
and always given your daughter
someone to talk to. Thank you for being the best mom
ever. I tell everyone, “She
is the best mom”. I love
you for the life you have provided you daughter
with. I will always say, “She is my mom and my best friend”.
Retail Therapy
I went to go shopping
and looked at the price,
but I didn’t have enough money.
So I went to another store
and looked at another tag
of a different brand.
It was the most expensive brand,
the kind which I like to go shopping.
The number was high that was on the tag.
It was a ridiculous price
so I had to leave the store
to go to an ATM for more money.
Once my wallet was replenished with money
I went to buy my beloved brand.
The line reached out of the store.
After all, it was a fine day for shopping
and apparently others didn’t mind the price
they paid for the name on the tag.
There is so much to be said about the name on the tag.
since status can be bought with money.
My mother seems to think it’s not worth the price
“Nothing should cost that much, not even this brand,”
but what can I say, my passion is shopping.
I’m just enticed when I see this store.
When I enter the mall, I go straight to my store
to see what treasure is attached to the tag.
Lost in the sea among shoppers shopping,
thousands of people spending precious money
just to be one with that special brand.
The last thing on their mind is the price.
I have no guilt about paying this price,
and I like to support my favorite store.
Others will envy me when they see this brand.
In the end, only I will see the tag
but everyone will know how I spent my money.
Only very few are able to do this kind of shopping.
The cashier eyes the brand and scans the tag.
After I pay the price, I leave the store
only to find myself out of money and done shopping.
Satire
by Jamie L
It bites, it burns, it turns
minds over, around, across.
With in hand a sharp, deft pen
the strike one makes is swift.
Structures crumble, the walls laid in
minds finally come to fall.
A carpenter’s message once did fall
upon the world as it turns.
Though rejected from the inn,
a home he found on a cross.
Yet many still move all too swift
to stab him at night with a pen.
Some remain for life in this pen,
while other seek the power and fall.
On the farm gained oh so swift-
ly, and yet even faster do the tides turn.
What was supposed to be spread across,
now must be saved by attack from with-in.
A supposed guide marches man to the In-
ferno, no bullets reach him, hurt only by pen.
He fights not, but hides behind a cross.
Still this cannot stop his fall
into the depths, tis now his turn,
sent by exposed sin, descends swiftly.
One book itself, under name Swift,
tears down social pomp in-
excess, each class of society in turn,
even children cooked as pigs in a pen.
And though he never saw Victoria fall,
his tale is read around and across.
Now once more a prince against the cross,
as a man for all seasons through swift
passing years, the errors of one Good Fall-
y reveals to the world the evil that lies in
the hearts of those who would keep man pen-
ned in. Unleashed was the mind, its turn.
A word travels swift, reaches across.
Upon the mind it falls, and burns, always, there in.
The history of the world turns by the pen.
(Sorry it wouldn't format)
One Team, One Heart
As the sun shines into my room, I wake with disbelief.
It is that time that I have been waiting for, game day.
The thought of the game being so close makes my heart race.
Without doubt, today will be the biggest day thus far in my life.
As I pack my things, Dad asks the impossible question, “How do you feel?”
When something so important is about to take place, what do I say?
At breakfast I open the paper to see what it says.
“The reporters pick Lawrence,” I mumble with disbelief.
It doesn’t matter though, we’re ready, I’m sure. I can feel
it. All year I have thought and worried about if this day
would come. Senior year, captain, going to States. I lead a full life.
With so many good things going on, it’s hard to keep up. Life seems as a big race.
As I get in my truck, and head towards the high school, I get a sick feeling
in the pit of my stomach. It is typical to game day. Never the less I race
to the school in case I get sick. It seems like I arrived to school as quick as Saturday
did. After I get my stuff, we board the bus, and I tell coach I have something to say.
“Gentleman today is a day like no other this season. It is a gut check. Dig down, believe
that we can do this. Bring a Gold Ball to Gorham, and don’t let ‘what ifs’ be part of your life.”
The motto “we believe” has been a big part of our season. There’s a hundred of “we believe”
signs across the town. Trying to relax coach, I ask him how he feels today.
I don’t get much of a response. He switches topic to Lawrence’s racy
crowd and what he expects from a captain in that environment. “There are some people in life
who don’t respect there surroundings.” I can here people talking about the same feeling
I had earlier in the back of the bus. A nervous sickness. Finally we arrive. I think of what I’ll say.
The captains take the field for the coin toss, and the official says, “This is a big day in a young mans life.
I expect a good clean game.” I rolled my eyes knowing that it’d be a brawl out there, its game day.
Game day in football means hold nothing back, not play nice. We win the toss, and race
to the sidelines for one last talk. “Men, it is an honor to take you this far, and I hope that we can live
the rest of our days with a ring on our fingers. I want that for you guys, I want that feeling.
We are a team. We are a family. We only have one heart, but that heart is strong. Let’s say
it.” With one hundred percent of trust in my teammates, I say it. I say it with the strong belief
and desire I know it’ll take. As my heart races, I say it with a feeling I’ve never had. A
feeling that if we lose, not a day in my life will go by that I wont say ‘what if.’ So with meaning I say it.
I started thinking about what to write.
I went online, and read
a bunch of poems about nothing.
They were unique; different
in their own way, but each one
still followed a set pattern. So,
I started to write a poem. So,
it didn’t work. I don’t know what is the right
way to start. One
thing after another distracts me, from my red
drink to my annoying cat. I think I need a different
idea. Poem one had nothing
to offer. It started with a childhood memory, but nothing
fit with the word playground. So,
I tried to write another about a different
place: New York City. I like to write
about my dance trips, but I read
an old essay I wrote once, and this one
was too much like that one.
I also looked around my house, for anything
that might spark my attention. Red
thread from when I used to sew,
and calligraphy pens from when I liked to write.
Of course there were different
things that could bring back memories; different
times in my life far from this one.
And as I write
this sestina, nothing.
makes me happier than when I used to sew,
when my favorite thing to do was read,
when I would come in from the cold, red
faced, totally indifferent
to the chilly temperatures. So,
I decided to write this essay on not one
memory, but many. I know nothing.
significant may come from what I write,
but that’s okay. One simple memory of mine triggerd a different one,
and nothing could have pleased me more. So as you
read what I have to write, I hope it brings to you a memory of something you once loved too.
-by Mariel Roy
Sandy Refuge
Sitting, cross-legged and shoeless, I gaze at the ocean.
Absentmindedly I dig small holes with my feet in the sand,
listening methodically to the waves lapping the shore.
I breathe in the salty air to calm my mind.
Pushing myself to my feet, I look off into the distance
and start towards the looming rocks at the end of the beach.
Peacefulness is long solitude walks on the beach
with the sun reflecting off the dazzling clear ocean.
Meandering through the sea grass I delight in the long distance
I have to walk; the more footsteps to leave imprints in the sand
and the more time I have to let thoughts mingle through my mind.
I think well when my eyes are focused on the jagged shore.
Maine beaches are known for their imperfect rocky shore-
lines. They aren’t your turquoise water, sandy white beaches.
They are the most calming though; there’s no doubt in my mind.
I guided myself towards the waters edge and let the ocean
waves tickle my toes, as I waded further my feet sank in the course sand.
The water is chilly in the spring, numbing my legs after a short distance.
The rocks were now more then shapes looming in the distance,
I hoisted my bag further onto my shoulder and headed into shore.
The monumental rocks were black and smooth, as if they were sanded.
I climbed onto them, feeling like king of the hill overlooking the beach.
Being high tide, water was trickling between the cracks from the ocean.
I complacently scanned the landscape; civilization was far from my mind.
A seagull landed on the rock beside me but I didn’t mind,
squinting my eyes, I traced my footsteps fading into the distance,
some of them were being erased by the tide of the ocean.
As I closed my eyes a small smile enveloped my face. I was sure
that my burdens were lifted from my therapeutic trip to the beach.
Rejuvenated, I stood on the rock and brushed off the sand.
I tiptoed from rock to rock, gliding across the sandy
surface. I pictured the scene I was creating in my mind,
thankfully there were no other witnesses at the beach.
Having leaped down onto the sand, I began the distance
back to my car. Simply the sound or smell of the ocean
always revives me and leads me safely back to shore.
As I walked lyrics ran through my mind, “the beach
gives a feeling,” as ocean waves caressed the shore.
My paradise of sandy refuge is worth the distance.
Headlights
The autumn sky casts darkness on the road.
The car moves along, appreciating the lack of other headlights.
The man has no destination in mind,
as he gathers his thoughts while trudging along.
It’s a time of peace for this particular man,
where the harshness of life takes a pause.
A sign in the road requires a similar pause
from his thoughts, as he accelerates on the curving road.
He ponders why the way of man
consists of such an abundance of clashing. And as his headlights
illuminate a vast and welcoming field along
the way, emotions begin to swirl in his mind.
It was undoubtedly exuberant in his mind,
as the furious storm inside of him came to a pause,
that it would’ve been divine if she could’ve come along
on this night. On this road.
He kept driving, seeing only as far as his headlights,
just like any other man.
On this particular night, the man
was alone with his car, surroundings, and mind.
He circuits through life like many do, constantly utilizing the headlights,
which shine light on a short distance. Yet again, he paused,
comparing life to this familiar road.
And comparing people to his vehicle that was moving along.
He knows he can’t see what the future may bring along,
and he knows this is the case with any man.
However, he has heard that life is a road,
ready to be driven. A conclusion is reached in his mind,
and as the car hums to a pause,
he thinks of how the road of life can only be seen with headlights.
One can only see as far as allowed by these headlights.
But that’s enough to keep progressing along.
“With or without her,” he paused,
“I am still the same man.”
He replayed the collision of cars in his mind,
swallowing hard as he remembers the loss of the woman he loved on this road.
Pausing gloomily, he determines that life is like driving at night, where you just…move along.
A man can only see as far as his headlights,
but bear in mind, he can make the whole trip that way. The whole way down the road.
Post a Comment