Here are some poems from Kristian Nammack!
The Ends of Having
We all start and end in dirt.
I reach into the world with new breathe.
My mighty palms outstretched.
A light purple arm drawn out in every direction.
The sun has gifted me new life.
As has dancing in the rain.
A mosaic of every experience I’ve ever had.
It’s a work of art.
Grubby knuckles and sweat off my brow.
Washing away in the wind.
Laying tranquilly now in the river floating steadily along.
I give and I give, yet receive nothing.
Floating along
Wrapped in sticks and seaweed.
My mind has reached peace.
I feel the breath in my lungs come in and out.
I can’t get enough.
As I Lie Here
As I lie here in the grassy field with my tortoise framed Ray-Bans blocking the reality of life.
The easy fall wind dancing through my hair tells me
Is nothing so perfect as this moment.
Pure awe as I stare into the abstract underwater abyss
This is the unknown
this is your life and it’s ending every second of every day which swiftly passes.
A black splurge of mystery.
This sweet beauty will not last.
Nothing ever does.
As I lie here in the frigid winter snow the harsh air tells me
Are you just cracked, chipped off?
Or shattered bits of glass?
Trying to keep my face together like a puzzle missing pieces.
Falling, piece by piece, sagging day by day.
I am the shattering the decrepit and decayed.
Useless rusty fragments of a former self.
I try desperately to cling on to whatever piece of spontaneous persona I have left.
As I lie here,
dreaming of the day I charge into that blazing sunset
and take on this intimidating world completely alone.
No longer locked in a wooden chest, no longer slipping on complex stairs to nowhere.
I know where I am and I’ve rightfully earned my place.
Plant my left foot down, then rear the right around.
One after another.
Step by step.
This long journey begins with one and my feet are bleeding.
Bittersweet tears shower down my rosy cheeks.
Well you did it, you got everything you wanted, now what.
As I lie here in my bed I tell myself.
It’s alway darkest before the dawn.
That melancholy feeling rips deep through my face this time.
Guilt holes shred to make caverns of open dialogue with my conscious.
Self-Reproach, self-condemnation, ashamed.
A contrite look and anxiety stricken yelp whenever there near.
The irredeemable deal you make with a mistake so bad.
A lottery lost, the gamble I made finally stopped paying off.
As I lie here in the sand looking through my tortoise framed Ray-Bans
at the Miami sky I am truly happy.
Sunny air on skin, ocean breeze blows away all sorrow.
Dry tears from a numb heart.
We all warm up eventually.
Everything burns.
There is woe and dejection.
Pleasure and Euphoria
The crash and burn and the ultimate up-liftment.
This life the next life and all those billions of memories in between.
Good and bad, black and white, this was my time all the same.
As I lie here awaiting heavy impact.
The only thoughts I have are for the exceptional memories I had on this planet.
With them, with myself, and most importantly with her.
I suppose one can only hope someone will miss me when I haven’t a trace left.
I can see for miles and miles and miles now.
Down the road to nowhere.
The road now whispers,
Where shall we go next?
A hand with five fingers made up of millions of connections.
This is it, and it’s ending slowly every day so make the most out of it.
For the time being I can see just a few inches in front of me.
However, I will always be surrounded by the thick fog.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Happy National Poetry Month!
Guess what readers? (few though you may be) April is national poetry month and according to my calendar, it's April! So how will you be celebrating? My recommendation would be to find a quiet part of the day, go outside and write something! I for one have been extremely busy and stressed lately and have found that nothing is more cathartic than enjoying nature and ravenous gulps of fresh air while putting a couple thoughts onto paper. The best thing about poetry is that you, yes you, are in complete control. If you like rules, there's poetry as strict as the boy's dress code at formal dinner, if you like free form, there's poetry as free as the girl's dress code at formal dinner, you can write poems that are as long as a conversation with Mr. Leff, or poems short enough to be tweeted, you can write flowery sentences or simple prose. It's like a choose your own adventure novel but with infinite possibilities!
Over the course of the month, I will be attempting to put together some additional ways to celebrate. Some things to keep on the radar are Poem In Your Pocket Day on April 26, a possible literary publication by the end of the month, a poetry centric lunch (though probably not in the library like last year) and anything else anyone can think of.
As always, you are welcome and in fact encouraged to post your work to this blog either by emailing it to me or responding as a comment. In fact, you don't even have to post poetry! Post art, post a college essay, post your thoughts on this post, post your biology lab report, post song lyrics translated into Hungarian, post whatever your heart desires and your pen/handy-dandy-Gould-provided-computer-dictates. It will be fun I promise!
Also, check out this hilarious link to a blog on the Huffington Post about schools of poetry based on "unlikely modern poets" including the likes of Lady Gaga, Mitt Romney and Fidel Castro. I found it rather amusing.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kathryn-petras/unlikely-modern-poets_b_1401217.html?ref=books
Happy National Poetry Month! And don't forget to POST POST POST!!!
Over the course of the month, I will be attempting to put together some additional ways to celebrate. Some things to keep on the radar are Poem In Your Pocket Day on April 26, a possible literary publication by the end of the month, a poetry centric lunch (though probably not in the library like last year) and anything else anyone can think of.
As always, you are welcome and in fact encouraged to post your work to this blog either by emailing it to me or responding as a comment. In fact, you don't even have to post poetry! Post art, post a college essay, post your thoughts on this post, post your biology lab report, post song lyrics translated into Hungarian, post whatever your heart desires and your pen/handy-dandy-Gould-provided-computer-dictates. It will be fun I promise!
Also, check out this hilarious link to a blog on the Huffington Post about schools of poetry based on "unlikely modern poets" including the likes of Lady Gaga, Mitt Romney and Fidel Castro. I found it rather amusing.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kathryn-petras/unlikely-modern-poets_b_1401217.html?ref=books
Happy National Poetry Month! And don't forget to POST POST POST!!!
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Creative Writers
With the end of the trimester yesterday, came a rush of poems and short stories being posted on the blog. Many of the people in Mr. Bean's Creative Writing class decided to put up one of their pieces from the class for display on this blog, sharing them with the world. Read them, learn from them, be inspired by them, and write! Just write whatever comes to mind, be it in the form of poetry or prose. Write, and rewrite, and rewrite again, until you have something you are truly proud of. Then, when you do, you can send it in an email to one of the admins of this blog, or you can post it in a comment on one of the pieces that you like the most. You can choose to remain anonymous, or you can share your name, it's all up to you. But anonymous or not, only when you share your work can you receive feedback and grow, or bring enjoyment and pleasure to the readers.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Bell Bouy by Henry Willets
Up and down
and up and down.
Swinging and swaying,
Ringing and dinging.
Away from it’s friends
communicating from with sound.
Communicating with flashing lights.
One day, one day
365 days a year.
In the dark and cold,
in the bright and hot.
Green and red,
blinking and bobbing.
Rocking and rolling.
Big and cold,
Rusty and dusty.
Covered in sea gulls.
A signal, a part of life
marking the way
for many to stay.
Up and down
and up and down.
Swinging and swaying,
Ringing and dinging.
One day, one day.
When the current shifts,
it may have a neighbor.
It may have a friend.
and up and down.
Swinging and swaying,
Ringing and dinging.
Away from it’s friends
communicating from with sound.
Communicating with flashing lights.
One day, one day
365 days a year.
In the dark and cold,
in the bright and hot.
Green and red,
blinking and bobbing.
Rocking and rolling.
Big and cold,
Rusty and dusty.
Covered in sea gulls.
A signal, a part of life
marking the way
for many to stay.
Up and down
and up and down.
Swinging and swaying,
Ringing and dinging.
One day, one day.
When the current shifts,
it may have a neighbor.
It may have a friend.
The Spark by Wyatt Costello
I don’t know how to start or where to even begin
Things have changed
This world is forever changing
and like this world, we are changing too
We drifted apart
Where is that spark that was between us
It went out.
This flame that kept us warm that kept us close
That drew me in and made me speak to you for the first time
Why? Why did it have to go out.
The cold gust of wind came
It took me with it, swirling my thoughts
Taking over my thoughts.
It had control over me. Or did it really?
The gust sparked a new flame
This flame was small, but it caught my gaze
It danced, drawing me closer
Seducing me, growing bigger and bigger
The flame knew it had me
It consumed me, and I consumed it
But as soon as it consumed me
It went out, and my body went cold
But my thoughts burned
I knew that the chance to rekindle our flame was gone
If only I hadn’t found a new,
Someone else to relight that spark.
but this flame was there and ours was out.
It was a moment of weakness,
and I just needed some warmth.
Things have changed
This world is forever changing
I am forever cold now
Forever searching for a spark
But none of them are as warm as the one we had.
That spark extinguished
We became cold
We drifted apart.
Things have changed
This world is forever changing
and like this world, we are changing too
We drifted apart
Where is that spark that was between us
It went out.
This flame that kept us warm that kept us close
That drew me in and made me speak to you for the first time
Why? Why did it have to go out.
The cold gust of wind came
It took me with it, swirling my thoughts
Taking over my thoughts.
It had control over me. Or did it really?
The gust sparked a new flame
This flame was small, but it caught my gaze
It danced, drawing me closer
Seducing me, growing bigger and bigger
The flame knew it had me
It consumed me, and I consumed it
But as soon as it consumed me
It went out, and my body went cold
But my thoughts burned
I knew that the chance to rekindle our flame was gone
If only I hadn’t found a new,
Someone else to relight that spark.
but this flame was there and ours was out.
It was a moment of weakness,
and I just needed some warmth.
Things have changed
This world is forever changing
I am forever cold now
Forever searching for a spark
But none of them are as warm as the one we had.
That spark extinguished
We became cold
We drifted apart.
Apartment 4 by Oluibukun Ekpebor
Momma used to tell me that a woman’s hair was her crown. The longer her hair, the prettier she was. Momma pretty was an understatement. I can remember my long Rapunzel strands gliding softly into my teardrops-- I was like a bird with all of its feathers plucked. As the clippers went through her hair, I thought of how beautiful I used to look but suddenly the reflection started to fade when her last curl fell down to the tiles.
The ceiling dropped its last chip of mustard yellow paint just as the street light blew out its remaining bulb. The pissy apartment hallways were still abandoned and safe from any hopes that the cops would shut this place down. We laid outside of the bedroom door with numb legs, black bruises, ripped panties and terrifying scars that showed the fight we may have put up. I only wondered what was she thinking? Most girls who came in the first day, cried, shouted, and left scars on the man’s face who was dragging them to a room. This unknown woman just sat in the corner staring at the boarded windows. “What’s ya name?” I asked the politest way I could, monotonous she turned her head and said, “Piper.”
The ceiling dropped its last chip of mustard yellow paint just as the street light blew out its remaining bulb. The pissy apartment hallways were still abandoned and safe from any hopes that the cops would shut this place down. We laid outside of the bedroom door with numb legs, black bruises, ripped panties and terrifying scars that showed the fight we may have put up. I only wondered what was she thinking? Most girls who came in the first day, cried, shouted, and left scars on the man’s face who was dragging them to a room. This unknown woman just sat in the corner staring at the boarded windows. “What’s ya name?” I asked the politest way I could, monotonous she turned her head and said, “Piper.”
Operation by Scott Cameron
6200 West 45th Street, fourth floor, apartment forty-two. Igor knocked firmly on the door, his right hand on his right hip, next to his revolver. A precaution.
The door opened. There stood Viktor Trubachev, who had taken the same precaution. He looked down at Igor’s suitcase. “You have it?”
“Da.”
Igor stepped into a barren apartment, decorated only by peeling wallpaper. He placed the suitcase a table and popped the lid. Igor scanned the layout of the room and was pleased, easily defenseble. Viktor checked the contents.
“An SVD?”
Igor only nodded
Together, they began the construction. Upper receiver, lower receiver, barrel, shoulder stock, flash suppressor, and lastly, the two-by-six scope.
Viktor opened a window, and, satisfied with its angle down West 45th, brought the table nearby. Igor sat down in a chair and lit his cigar.
Two hours later a man had stepped out of a limousine to the flashes of cameras and the microphones of reporters. He took his place at a podium. Four hundred meters away, a man named Igor Komarov focused his gaze through his scope.
But through the scope, there was no longer a target. There was a face, a name, and a personality. There stood a life which was now in Igor Komarov’s hands.
But it didn’t matter. Igor held his breath and braced for recoil.
The door opened. There stood Viktor Trubachev, who had taken the same precaution. He looked down at Igor’s suitcase. “You have it?”
“Da.”
Igor stepped into a barren apartment, decorated only by peeling wallpaper. He placed the suitcase a table and popped the lid. Igor scanned the layout of the room and was pleased, easily defenseble. Viktor checked the contents.
“An SVD?”
Igor only nodded
Together, they began the construction. Upper receiver, lower receiver, barrel, shoulder stock, flash suppressor, and lastly, the two-by-six scope.
Viktor opened a window, and, satisfied with its angle down West 45th, brought the table nearby. Igor sat down in a chair and lit his cigar.
Two hours later a man had stepped out of a limousine to the flashes of cameras and the microphones of reporters. He took his place at a podium. Four hundred meters away, a man named Igor Komarov focused his gaze through his scope.
But through the scope, there was no longer a target. There was a face, a name, and a personality. There stood a life which was now in Igor Komarov’s hands.
But it didn’t matter. Igor held his breath and braced for recoil.
Sugar by Olivia Phillips
When I was young I dreamt of sugar
And smiles
In a field of violently blooming roses
Near the river
Where we mocked damnation
And we closed our eyes to the sun
But still felt its warmth (it was a lovely warmth)
You didn’t say it but I knew you meant it,
And that was enough
To know something, to really be sure of it
For once in your life
To feel it everywhere, hot and cold at the same time,
That was all I wanted,
all I fucking wanted,
And you were there.
But I did not realize the impermanence
of all things, of how quickly
and drastically
you could wash me from your skin
Last night I dreamt of metal
This morning I took my coffee black
The river runs harsher and
In my dreams,
The field is a giant thorn
A crooked clock
Your eyes are cold Your hands are rough
Because then I won’t be disappointed
In reality
And I won’t feel the need
To dream of sugar,
Because we ran out
To mock damnation,
Because I fear it now
To have you by my side,
Because you won’t be.
And smiles
In a field of violently blooming roses
Near the river
Where we mocked damnation
And we closed our eyes to the sun
But still felt its warmth (it was a lovely warmth)
You didn’t say it but I knew you meant it,
And that was enough
To know something, to really be sure of it
For once in your life
To feel it everywhere, hot and cold at the same time,
That was all I wanted,
all I fucking wanted,
And you were there.
But I did not realize the impermanence
of all things, of how quickly
and drastically
you could wash me from your skin
Last night I dreamt of metal
This morning I took my coffee black
The river runs harsher and
In my dreams,
The field is a giant thorn
A crooked clock
Your eyes are cold Your hands are rough
Because then I won’t be disappointed
In reality
And I won’t feel the need
To dream of sugar,
Because we ran out
To mock damnation,
Because I fear it now
To have you by my side,
Because you won’t be.
Falling Horizontal by Rose Gill
Odelia was staring out the window, wanting nothing more than to get out of the car. It was all just so tedious; the car, the drive, life, everything.
“Shit, I hate getting stuck behind big trucks,” said Ria. Odelia glanced over at her scowling sister, before going back to looking out the window. Nothing particularly interesting. Maybe an accident would happen, spice up her life a bit. “What’s with those rods, anyways?”
Looking at the truck in front of them, Odelia couldn’t help but feel like something was going to happen. Big trucks always made her feel like that, no matter what they were carrying. They always looked about ready to tip over. As Odelia stared at the truck, she calmly noted to herself that a few of those rods looked about ready to slide off. Why was everything so precarious with big trucks?
“Ria, don’t you think you’re driving a little close to the truck?”
“Whatever Odelia. Maybe he’ll notice and speed up a bit.” There was just no helping it with Ria, Odelia supposed. She went back to watching the truck, in time to see two rods slide off the back, followed by several more. Ria swerved to avoid the flying rods, as one flew straight at their windshield. There was a brief moment of excitement and a racing heart, and then everything went black for Odelia.
The only things Odelia was aware of were the sharp sounds of sirens growing ever closer and of people screaming, hysterical over what they saw, the acrid smells of smoke and burning rubber, and the sight of legs covered in a beautiful ruby red, all blurry. She couldn’t seem to move her head, and look away from those ruby red legs. She closed her eyes, ready for whatever might happen next. With her eyes closed she got the sensation that she was falling away from everything, falling horizontally. She knew she wasn’t flying though, because there was a certain lack of any control. She was hurtling along, as if she were falling vertically, and the earth had just been tipped on its side.
When Odelia opened her eyes everything was clear. She could move her head, and see the people running towards her, crying and yelling. She looked down and saw the ruby red legs again, and she understood that they were her own. She looked at her chest and saw the rod that stuck there, surrounded by a growing, blooming, blood red rose. She smiled at the people running towards her, and she closed her eyes again. She knew she was dying, but she didn’t care. It was a relief in a way. She was finally released from living. She hadn’t really enjoyed it all that much anyways, it was just too much of a bother. She had tried to spend most of her time asleep to begin with. The way Odelia saw it, death was just another sleep, one you just didn’t wake up from until you were reborn. And who knew how long that might take.
“Ahh...It’s time to rest. Bye Ria...‘till next time, yeah?” Odelia couldn’t be sure she’d been heard, but she thought it didn’t really matter anyways, and she closed her eyes and went to sleep for who knows how long.
“Shit, I hate getting stuck behind big trucks,” said Ria. Odelia glanced over at her scowling sister, before going back to looking out the window. Nothing particularly interesting. Maybe an accident would happen, spice up her life a bit. “What’s with those rods, anyways?”
Looking at the truck in front of them, Odelia couldn’t help but feel like something was going to happen. Big trucks always made her feel like that, no matter what they were carrying. They always looked about ready to tip over. As Odelia stared at the truck, she calmly noted to herself that a few of those rods looked about ready to slide off. Why was everything so precarious with big trucks?
“Ria, don’t you think you’re driving a little close to the truck?”
“Whatever Odelia. Maybe he’ll notice and speed up a bit.” There was just no helping it with Ria, Odelia supposed. She went back to watching the truck, in time to see two rods slide off the back, followed by several more. Ria swerved to avoid the flying rods, as one flew straight at their windshield. There was a brief moment of excitement and a racing heart, and then everything went black for Odelia.
The only things Odelia was aware of were the sharp sounds of sirens growing ever closer and of people screaming, hysterical over what they saw, the acrid smells of smoke and burning rubber, and the sight of legs covered in a beautiful ruby red, all blurry. She couldn’t seem to move her head, and look away from those ruby red legs. She closed her eyes, ready for whatever might happen next. With her eyes closed she got the sensation that she was falling away from everything, falling horizontally. She knew she wasn’t flying though, because there was a certain lack of any control. She was hurtling along, as if she were falling vertically, and the earth had just been tipped on its side.
When Odelia opened her eyes everything was clear. She could move her head, and see the people running towards her, crying and yelling. She looked down and saw the ruby red legs again, and she understood that they were her own. She looked at her chest and saw the rod that stuck there, surrounded by a growing, blooming, blood red rose. She smiled at the people running towards her, and she closed her eyes again. She knew she was dying, but she didn’t care. It was a relief in a way. She was finally released from living. She hadn’t really enjoyed it all that much anyways, it was just too much of a bother. She had tried to spend most of her time asleep to begin with. The way Odelia saw it, death was just another sleep, one you just didn’t wake up from until you were reborn. And who knew how long that might take.
“Ahh...It’s time to rest. Bye Ria...‘till next time, yeah?” Odelia couldn’t be sure she’d been heard, but she thought it didn’t really matter anyways, and she closed her eyes and went to sleep for who knows how long.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Defective, Return to Sender by Zee Krstic
I wasn’t supposed to be home
but yet I was destined to be
it was set in stone
written in the stars
unable to be changed
I felt sick
or at least that’s what I told the school
But I was beyond sick
A white wall, spray painted
with illegible hopes and dreams
An overexposed photo
only containing the outlines of the subject.
I could still remember the feeling
of disgust, nausea, abhorrence
My mother taught
me not to talk to strangers
To look before crossing
The bunny ears on my shoes
The neat folds of my bed
But what did she teach me about you?
How was I to know
the glint of your eyes
black as night
How was I to know
the signs of danger
the hoax of friendship
of love.
I lost it to you
Eventually, more than just it
I was disappointed
Until my PMS didn’t kick in
It was the best feeling
knowing I was worth something larger than
just myself.
A vessel
carrying the most precious cargo
amongst a horrid tempest
I was ecstatic
The feeling was truly melodramatic
Until the doctor called.
They took some blood
when I went in for the ultrasound
violent red, I remember
He said I was sick
Sick? How could this
feeling be tainted
The report came in, and it was set
I was positive
one test
determined I was filthy
And Inside Death Sailed,
freely.
My skin itched,
it was on fire
contaminated, ruined
And when the pills ran out
When I drank my parent’s wine in the cold basement
My mind, my soul, my heart
was ready to depart.
Even though I was gone,
far away in a land where this didn’t happen
my hands did things
to end the pain, struggle;
an imperfect ending.
I thought of my mother
and of what she would do
what she would say
if she had the chance
I thought of my father
the man i never knew
would he cry?
would he ask why?
Like the most precious jewels,
it felt comfortable around my neck
and I felt my feet
take their final step
plunging into the deepest of unknowns
The memories flashed before my eyes
fading, slowly
like the feeling in my body
draining into worlds above
Capsized, water fills the lungs
Burning at first
It is cool, comforting
Fading into sublime darkness.
but yet I was destined to be
it was set in stone
written in the stars
unable to be changed
I felt sick
or at least that’s what I told the school
But I was beyond sick
A white wall, spray painted
with illegible hopes and dreams
An overexposed photo
only containing the outlines of the subject.
I could still remember the feeling
of disgust, nausea, abhorrence
My mother taught
me not to talk to strangers
To look before crossing
The bunny ears on my shoes
The neat folds of my bed
But what did she teach me about you?
How was I to know
the glint of your eyes
black as night
How was I to know
the signs of danger
the hoax of friendship
of love.
I lost it to you
Eventually, more than just it
I was disappointed
Until my PMS didn’t kick in
It was the best feeling
knowing I was worth something larger than
just myself.
A vessel
carrying the most precious cargo
amongst a horrid tempest
I was ecstatic
The feeling was truly melodramatic
Until the doctor called.
They took some blood
when I went in for the ultrasound
violent red, I remember
He said I was sick
Sick? How could this
feeling be tainted
The report came in, and it was set
I was positive
one test
determined I was filthy
And Inside Death Sailed,
freely.
My skin itched,
it was on fire
contaminated, ruined
And when the pills ran out
When I drank my parent’s wine in the cold basement
My mind, my soul, my heart
was ready to depart.
Even though I was gone,
far away in a land where this didn’t happen
my hands did things
to end the pain, struggle;
an imperfect ending.
I thought of my mother
and of what she would do
what she would say
if she had the chance
I thought of my father
the man i never knew
would he cry?
would he ask why?
Like the most precious jewels,
it felt comfortable around my neck
and I felt my feet
take their final step
plunging into the deepest of unknowns
The memories flashed before my eyes
fading, slowly
like the feeling in my body
draining into worlds above
Capsized, water fills the lungs
Burning at first
It is cool, comforting
Fading into sublime darkness.
The Ring by Eugene Shin
Skinny boy with a pair of old broken shoes gets in the ring.
There is a huge amount of pressure in the stadium.
The champion is taller than the boy.
He has a longer reach than the boy has.
The boy’s coach motivates and pumps him up.
But, he can’t focus on what the coach’s saying.
The champion doesn’t even look at the boy.
No one in the stadium yells his name.
The fight begins, but, no one expects the boy to win.
The champion doesn’t move but only throws the jab.
The boy gets punched for the whole first round.
He is exhausted but doesn’t give up yet.
The opponent looks fine and just jokes around.
Second round begins, and the champion gets more aggressive.
The champion tries to make a fancy move
and waits to make a brutal K.O.
The boy gets too many punches,
but it seems he’s waiting for something.
His stamina has almost reached its limit.
His front tooth wobbles.
He is just about to throw up because of blood stinginess on his mouse.
But the fire on his eye is more flaming than before.
The audiences are frantic with joy.
The audience in the stand couldn’t hold his excitement and throws the bottle to the ring.
The boy got punched too many times
and he finally dropped his guard down.
The champion makes the biggest right hook.
But the boy was not done yet.
He dodges to the left.
And gives a short but thick hook.
He Knocks the champion out
and then a sudden awkward silence.
The blood from boy’s eye rim soaks his old grimy shoes.
Counting to ten,
but still the silence.
The referee brings the boy’s fist to the air.
The spectators finally shout his name into the air.
There is a huge amount of pressure in the stadium.
The champion is taller than the boy.
He has a longer reach than the boy has.
The boy’s coach motivates and pumps him up.
But, he can’t focus on what the coach’s saying.
The champion doesn’t even look at the boy.
No one in the stadium yells his name.
The fight begins, but, no one expects the boy to win.
The champion doesn’t move but only throws the jab.
The boy gets punched for the whole first round.
He is exhausted but doesn’t give up yet.
The opponent looks fine and just jokes around.
Second round begins, and the champion gets more aggressive.
The champion tries to make a fancy move
and waits to make a brutal K.O.
The boy gets too many punches,
but it seems he’s waiting for something.
His stamina has almost reached its limit.
His front tooth wobbles.
He is just about to throw up because of blood stinginess on his mouse.
But the fire on his eye is more flaming than before.
The audiences are frantic with joy.
The audience in the stand couldn’t hold his excitement and throws the bottle to the ring.
The boy got punched too many times
and he finally dropped his guard down.
The champion makes the biggest right hook.
But the boy was not done yet.
He dodges to the left.
And gives a short but thick hook.
He Knocks the champion out
and then a sudden awkward silence.
The blood from boy’s eye rim soaks his old grimy shoes.
Counting to ten,
but still the silence.
The referee brings the boy’s fist to the air.
The spectators finally shout his name into the air.
I Shake by Damian Dryjas
I sit at the top of the course,
Doing all my stretches,
Adjusting my goggles,
My routine before a comp run
To calm me down
They call my bib number,
“Skier 199, you’re on deck to drop”
As soon as he says that,
The shaking initiates,
I don’t know what this shaking is,
is it excitement? Is it nerves?
Stay tuned and you will find out
I get my music going,
This isolates me from everything
This makes me focus
But still, I shake
I shake because I’m excited
I shake because I’m anxious to go
I shake because I’m nervous
But, I am excited
I go through my run multiple times in my head
“Bib 199, you’re next to drop”
The shaking stops,
My body knows its time to do what I came here to do
My coach gives me the pat on my back and the knuckle shake
“Have fun with it”
“Bib 199, on course”
My team mates cheer as I drop into the course
Doing all my stretches,
Adjusting my goggles,
My routine before a comp run
To calm me down
They call my bib number,
“Skier 199, you’re on deck to drop”
As soon as he says that,
The shaking initiates,
I don’t know what this shaking is,
is it excitement? Is it nerves?
Stay tuned and you will find out
I get my music going,
This isolates me from everything
This makes me focus
But still, I shake
I shake because I’m excited
I shake because I’m anxious to go
I shake because I’m nervous
But, I am excited
I go through my run multiple times in my head
“Bib 199, you’re next to drop”
The shaking stops,
My body knows its time to do what I came here to do
My coach gives me the pat on my back and the knuckle shake
“Have fun with it”
“Bib 199, on course”
My team mates cheer as I drop into the course
Stand Up For The Country by Dawson Tang
Chung Hsuan Tang is what people call me back home
Dawson Tang is the name at Gould
Call me D-Tang if you could.
I was born with a mind of democracy
people are given the freedom of rights and the joy of life.
My neighbor Porcelain loves to wear red
He is bigger than me, taller than me
He lives across the road from where I am.
In an old house, an old community that is undeveloped.
Tons of people living there, like the nest of ants.
Their minds are closed
they have not seen the world.
All they want is to expand more.
They get richer as time went on,
Porcelain remains his wide and height
Yet, people in the community is still cover with old minds.
The idea of communists is spread everywhere in the community.
No freedom of rights
Porcelain is the future lights.
He comes to me with his red cloth
“Would you like to move in with us”
I hesitated, yet I have a answer already.
No is what showed up in my mind.
He pushed me more
It felt like standing on a cliff
The only way is to fight back
Yes, I fight back
Not just for myself, but for my home
This is me, this is Dawson
I stand up strong and remain strong.
No one can take my home away
Not even the big neighbor across the road.
Dawson Tang is the name at Gould
Call me D-Tang if you could.
I was born with a mind of democracy
people are given the freedom of rights and the joy of life.
My neighbor Porcelain loves to wear red
He is bigger than me, taller than me
He lives across the road from where I am.
In an old house, an old community that is undeveloped.
Tons of people living there, like the nest of ants.
Their minds are closed
they have not seen the world.
All they want is to expand more.
They get richer as time went on,
Porcelain remains his wide and height
Yet, people in the community is still cover with old minds.
The idea of communists is spread everywhere in the community.
No freedom of rights
Porcelain is the future lights.
He comes to me with his red cloth
“Would you like to move in with us”
I hesitated, yet I have a answer already.
No is what showed up in my mind.
He pushed me more
It felt like standing on a cliff
The only way is to fight back
Yes, I fight back
Not just for myself, but for my home
This is me, this is Dawson
I stand up strong and remain strong.
No one can take my home away
Not even the big neighbor across the road.
As I Lie Here by Kristian Nammack
As I lie here in the field with my tortoise framed Ray-Bans blocking the reality of life.
The easy fall wind dancing through my hair tells me
Is nothing so perfect as this moment.
Pure awe as I stare into the underwater abyss
This is the unknown
this is your life and it’s ending every second of every day which swiftly passes.
A black splurge of mystery.
This sweet beauty will not last.
Nothing ever does.
As I lie here in the frigid winter snow the harsh air tells me
Are you just cracked, or shattered bits of glass?
Trying to keep my face together like a puzzle missing pieces.
Falling, piece by piece, sagging day by day.
I am the shattering the decrepit and decayed.
Useless rusty fragments of a former self.
I try desperately to cling on to whatever piece of spontaneous persona I have left.
As I lie here,
dreaming of the day I charge into that blazing sunset
and take on this world completely alone.
No longer locked in a wooden chest, no longer slipping on complex stairs to nowhere.
I know where I am and I’ve rightfully earned my place.
Plant my left foot down, then rear the right around.
One after another.
Step by step.
This long journey begins with one.
Bittersweet tears shower down my rosy cheeks.
Well you did it, you got everything you wanted, now what?
As I lie here in my bed I tell myself
It’s alway darkest before the dawn.
That melancholy feeling rips deep through my face this time.
Guilt holes shred to make caverns of open dialogue with my conscious.
Self-Reproach, self-condemnation, ashamed.
A contrite look and anxiety stricken yelp whenever there near.
The irredeemable deal you make with a mistake so bad.
A lottery lost, the gamble I made finally stopped paying off.
As I lie here in the sand looking through my tortoise framed Ray-Bans
at the Miami sky I am truly happy.
Sunny air on skin, ocean breeze blows away all sorrow.
Dry tears from a numb heart.
We all warm up eventually.
Everything burns.
There is woe and dejection.
Pleasure and Euphoria
The crash and burn and the ultimate up-liftment.
This life the next life and all those billions of memories in between.
As I lie here awaiting impact.
The only thoughts I have are for the exceptional memories I had on this planet.
With them, with myself, and most importantly with her.
I suppose one can only hope someone will miss me when I haven’t a trace left.
I can see for miles and miles and miles now.
Down the road to nowhere.
The road now whispers,
Where shall we go next?
A hand with five fingers made up of millions of connections.
This is it, and it’s ending slowly every day so make the most out of it.
For the time being I can see just a few inches in front of me.
However, I will always be surrounded by the thick fog.
The easy fall wind dancing through my hair tells me
Is nothing so perfect as this moment.
Pure awe as I stare into the underwater abyss
This is the unknown
this is your life and it’s ending every second of every day which swiftly passes.
A black splurge of mystery.
This sweet beauty will not last.
Nothing ever does.
As I lie here in the frigid winter snow the harsh air tells me
Are you just cracked, or shattered bits of glass?
Trying to keep my face together like a puzzle missing pieces.
Falling, piece by piece, sagging day by day.
I am the shattering the decrepit and decayed.
Useless rusty fragments of a former self.
I try desperately to cling on to whatever piece of spontaneous persona I have left.
As I lie here,
dreaming of the day I charge into that blazing sunset
and take on this world completely alone.
No longer locked in a wooden chest, no longer slipping on complex stairs to nowhere.
I know where I am and I’ve rightfully earned my place.
Plant my left foot down, then rear the right around.
One after another.
Step by step.
This long journey begins with one.
Bittersweet tears shower down my rosy cheeks.
Well you did it, you got everything you wanted, now what?
As I lie here in my bed I tell myself
It’s alway darkest before the dawn.
That melancholy feeling rips deep through my face this time.
Guilt holes shred to make caverns of open dialogue with my conscious.
Self-Reproach, self-condemnation, ashamed.
A contrite look and anxiety stricken yelp whenever there near.
The irredeemable deal you make with a mistake so bad.
A lottery lost, the gamble I made finally stopped paying off.
As I lie here in the sand looking through my tortoise framed Ray-Bans
at the Miami sky I am truly happy.
Sunny air on skin, ocean breeze blows away all sorrow.
Dry tears from a numb heart.
We all warm up eventually.
Everything burns.
There is woe and dejection.
Pleasure and Euphoria
The crash and burn and the ultimate up-liftment.
This life the next life and all those billions of memories in between.
As I lie here awaiting impact.
The only thoughts I have are for the exceptional memories I had on this planet.
With them, with myself, and most importantly with her.
I suppose one can only hope someone will miss me when I haven’t a trace left.
I can see for miles and miles and miles now.
Down the road to nowhere.
The road now whispers,
Where shall we go next?
A hand with five fingers made up of millions of connections.
This is it, and it’s ending slowly every day so make the most out of it.
For the time being I can see just a few inches in front of me.
However, I will always be surrounded by the thick fog.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
An excellent nature essay by Marguerite Wiser
The tangy smell of tomato plants drifts on the warm breeze. I bury my toes in cool dark earth as I watch honey bees move from one blossom to the next, humming to themselves as they work. It is here I find myself, a sliver of solitude in this small corner of the world so teeming with life. Thin green stems curve and stoop under the weight of their burden. As my nose fills with their earthy scents, I relax. Here, time is nothing more than light and dark, the movement of the sun, and the sway of the trees. My head clears, my thoughts become my own. My wilderness is here. Not in the garden’s seemingly endless rows or in the cloudless skies, or even in the earth itself, rather in me. I find myself more connected here than any other time or place before. I am as a part of this eternal motion as the ripe red fruits that sway in the warm air. This place is wild, free, and utterly connected to everything that is, ever was, and will ever be. It seems strange to me now, to think that everything was once as wild as this little corner of earth. When I think of it, wild the earth still remains buried beneath and lying dormant under a blanket of asphalt and buildings. I may be alone in the garden, but I carry with me the ideas, experiences, and memories of all that I have encountered. Inhaling the sweet scent of tomato plants allows me to forget the stench of smog. The dark soil on my toes allows me to forget the feel of hot asphalt. Listening to the buzz of the honey bees and the chirping of the birds allows me to forget the clamor of the cars. This moment in the garden allows me to forget moments before and endure moments afterwards, moments when the blue of the sky is insulted by the criss-cross of telephone wires and when the sway of the trees is replaced with the stillness of steel buildings. When I find myself surrounded by walls, I remember this moment in the garden, and a feeling of calm sweeps over me, just as the wind brushes the leaves of the tomato plants.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Sunday
The wonderful Tutu has wonderfully contributed this wonderful piece of writing for the blog! Respond with your own writing!
Sunday
Sunday 9:57 am, the sun was shining high and the birds were chirping, but I would rather hear sharp nails on the chalkboard or exaggerated crying, filthy diapered babies pulling my hair, because next to waking up Sunday mornings, the small brown feathered critters were my least favorite. Sunday morning, I would rather jump off a cliff.
10:03 am, gravity pulls me down to my knees as if I am to plead for forgiveness. So I sacrifice the brunette strands off my head and beg, “never again.” If I did not then I would probably be forced to green linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. I will have no choice but to lay there for awhile.
10:10 am, all natural organisms like water tasted like metallic shavings and rust formed into cleared pristine liquid. Ice cream took forever to reach the buds of my tongue without spilling or sticking to my inner thighs. Before I could even get the spoonful of vanilla to my lower lip, I was stumbling and bent over the toilet bowl again.
10:19 am, I am napping next to some blackish green fungus growing on the side of the toilet seat.
10:33 am, saliva trails down my cheek, my hair remains a lion’s mane and the red lipstick still stains my dress, but nothing bothers me as much as John’s number on my left hand. Smooth acid jazz vibes, lifts the spirits of the lounge including the black haired man with the ‘no ring,’ profile. As soon as I drop my eyes to the floor, he slowly swags through the crowd and makes his way towards me. Just to say, “Hi, I’m John.” What was I thinking? Gagging in my mouth, I would scrub the numbers with soap over and over again, for what seemed like hours, but the ink just would not erase. Permanent imprints from last night to leave me with more regrets.
From the sink, I finally notice the repugnant smell from my roommate’s bedroom. I could not help but think, “Thank God, Carol went home this weekend.” Trudging from the bathroom to Carol’s door, the stench becomes more distinct and so familiar to my body that my stomach churns and regurgitates the rest of the memories of last night-- it could not be any worst than the damage that has been done to Carol’s white panda sheets.
10:45 am, that one vein above my right temple, pulses all red bloody aggravation I am feeling towards this dreadful day. I make a 360 degree turn around my small abode, notice all the chores I am left with from Saturday nights to early Sunday mornings. Every Sunday equals hell. Sunday is my horrific reminder of Mondays, sitting in comparative politics, nodding yes to everything going on. Sunday is yet another holy day to evoke all my sins.
11:59 pm I feel disgusting.
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