My Writing: Dedicated to You {Free Verse Poem}

Happy Friday, everyone! I have a short poem for you that I wrote this past semester. It's not inspired by a real person, but I wrote it because I liked the idea of someone collecting memories for a loved one who has passed away. If you know someone who does this or if you do this yourself, then this poem is for you. 

Dedicated To You

Little bits and bobs

Added over time.

Movie stub.

Pressed flower.

Page from a book.

Newspaper clippings.

Key chains from around the world.

You’ll never get to see these things,

So I’ll bring them to this space

That’s dedicated to you.

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My Writing: Haiku Poems

I never thought much of haiku poems until this past semester. I thought they were kind of stupid actually. How much of a poem could three lines really be? But the art of the haiku is in the simplicity of it: the way the words sound, the observant imagery, and in the deliberately chosen words. After all, there's only so much space you're afforded. 

After writing these four haiku's for class I really started to appreciate them. I'm actually looking forward to writing more in my spare time. 

The zombie arose
He gulped down steaming coffee
And turned into man.

The cherry blossom
Blooms so temporarily
But ever returns.

An emerald scarf
Flutters in the breezy wind
She longs to soar too.

A heavy downpour
Forgotten red galoshes
Very soggy socks.

Have you written any haiku's?

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(Image via Britta Nickel)

My Writing: Celestial Sea {Poem}

Celestial Sea

explosive, the stars grow old and burst,

they race through space and collide headfirst.

bright constellations, like veins, appear

the cosmos are all connected, a sphere.

a nebula manifests like an alien world

in shapes so strange they expand and unfurled.

colors strikingly vivid paint the night sky;

shades of sapphire, honey, and moss appeal to the naked eye.

a stretch of infinite space starts to collapse

into a black hole that’ll consume anything in its grasp.

amidst this celestial sea, we stand alone

on a tiny little planet, a pebble, we call home.

the show felt like a spectacular state of delirium

and everyone was heartbroken to leave the planetarium.

What do you think?

Have a great weekend!

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My Writing: Stagnant {Blank Verse Poem}

After tomorrow, it's spring break! Unfortunately for me (but fortunately for my bank account), I'll be working most of the week. I'm sitting at the front desk and answering phones while the receptionist (who's also my mom) is on vacation, so really she's getting more of a vacation than I am.

Stagnant

You said a tiger cannot change its stripes,

but I am not who I was yesterday

and tomorrow I will not be the same

as who I am today. What is so wrong

about change? Why is it a dirty word?

Change leaves a bad taste in your mouth; to me

it tastes like candy. I don’t want to be

who I am today in twenty years’ time.

You are scared, but you forget I am too.

You forget that sometimes it is not change

it is growth. But still, still you are stagnant.

You can stay a mirror image of you,

but I will not remain identical.

I’ll become better every single day.

Happy Wednesday!

 

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My Writing: Everyday Magic {Sestina Poem}

I wrote this poem for class. Since it's about romance, I figured I would post it during Valentine's Day week. You can read my other two sestina poems here and here. I hope you like it!

Everyday Magic

The napkin beneath her glass was damp.

The rim was gold like warm honey

And there was a lipstick smudge in bright red.

Her reverie was broken by a waiter’s accident;

Glass shattering, gasps, his body falling like a stone.

That was when she knew there would be no night of magic

No smiles, no laughs, no walk outside, no magic.

She looked toward the door, her palms damp,

Her stomach feeling as heavy as a stone.

Least he could do was text: “Gonna be late, honey.”

But maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe there was an accident,

And now his blood painted the concrete red.

She shouldn’t kid herself. She wiped away her red

Lipstick on an ivory napkin, wishing she could magic

Herself away from the waiter’s sympathetic stares. Accident

Or not, she shouldn’t stay. The waiter’s shirt was damp.

He leaned over and asked, “You alright, honey?”

His eyes were dark gray, the color of stone.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Her voice was hard, like stone.

Embarrassed, she turned away, her cheeks red.

Across the room, a man with hair the color of honey

Sat alone, checking his watch. Clearly no magic

Had come to either of them tonight. She blinked away damp

Eyes; no “oh, it’s just an eyelash” accident.

No more waiting, no more lost time, no accident.

Uncertain and nervous, she forced herself to be strong, a stone,

As she got up and walked across the room, her palms damp.

Her black dress rustled, his skinny tie was dark red.

He looked up and she knew there was hope for magic.

“I saw you sitting alone.” “Please sit.” His voice was like honey.

She was relieved he didn’t call her honey.

Maybe waiting tonight hadn’t been an accident.

Maybe it had been luck or fate or magic.

Though it was a chance encounter and nothing was set in stone,

They smiled til it hurt and laughed til their cheeks turned red

And stayed til the rain stopped and the ground was just damp.

They walked on stone. The streetlamps glowed a honey

Color on this damp night. “Not everything is an accident,”

He said, smiling, cheeks red from the cold. “It’s magic.”

What do you think?

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My Writing: Writing in the Dark (Sestina Poem)

This is a poem I wrote last semester about the written word. In order to challenge myself (because I intentionally like making my life difficult), I chose to write a sestina poem, where the last word of each line is repeated in each stanza but in a different order. It's hard to explain, but once you look at the poem, you'll see what I mean. The hardest part of this type of poem is making the word fit at the end of the sentence in a believable way.

Writing in the Dark

 

It’s always at the beginning of the night

that his thoughts begin to run wild and words

come more easily, flowing from hand to pen.

He has tried to write in the morning but there is no silence.

There are too many demanding noises, too much bright light

and so it is in darkness that he always writes.

 

On his brand new computer, the man writes,

his fingers slipping on the yet unused keys in the dark of night.

The shadows are strong this evening, they are stealing the light,

or are they the demons of his past come to haunt his words?

He listens. For something. For anything. But there is only silence.

The man closes his computer and grabs a pen.

 

Beautifully constructed, trusty, bronze, perfect grip, his pen

has never failed him when he writes.

He likes the sound of pen on paper in the silence.

It seems as if hours have passed in the night,

and still he has not written a single word.

Looking at the clock, it is still several hours ‘til there is light.

His lined notepad glares blankly at him in the dull light.

How long has he been holding this pen?

How long has he been pretending that the words

have been coming to him? That he actually writes?

For months, he has been staring out the window at night,

but it is hard to pretend when alone and in silence.

 

It is hard to pretend when there is too much silence.

The man has never feared the light,

but now he fears he may run out of night.

His fingers firmly grip his barely-used pen,

hoping to squeeze out any inspiration to write.

All the man wants are beautiful words.

 

Unexpectedly there’s a spark and they come to him – the words.

The ones he has been waiting for all his life in silence.

The ink flows onto the paper, the sound is soothing. He writes

for once unconcerned about the upcoming daylight.

Nothing can stop the man and his pen.

He knows it will be the first time he writes beyond the night.

 

As the man writes his precious words,

he no longer fears the night, nor its companion, silence.

He sees himself in a new light: a writer; he is his pen.

 

Thanks for reading it! I hope you liked it!

 

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My Writing: The Written Word Poem

So I'm taking a class this semester that has forced me to branch out into poetry and non-fiction. Initially, I was a bit nervous because prose is my forte; it's what I'm used to. But I have to admit that I'm starting to like writing poetry. Non-fiction on the hand is not my style at all ("What do you mean I can't make shit up?").

 

I used to dislike poetry because I didn't understand it and I always thought it was too artsy. As in, "What does that phrase mean?" and "Why does that sentence stop right in the middle?" But I've come to like the experimental-ness of it and how it's such a great outlet for emotion and thought. I guess I can see why angsty teenagers like to use it as their medium! Ha!

 

I'm registering for classes next week and hopefully I'll be taking a class called Poetry for Craft in the spring. Never thought I'd be taking a poetry class, but here we are. I'll let you know if I start to hate it and want to gouge my eyes out with a pencil.

 

Anyway, the theme a few weeks ago was the written word. I hope you like it!

In aisles of dusty volumes she meandered,

Her fingers lingering on the old spines,

Looking for something to enchant her

So she could break it out of its confines.

These dog-eared pages were her family

And knew her better than the living

For they made her mind drift happily

To far-off places she was missing.

And there half hidden on the bookshelf,

She almost passed it by:

A book that reminded her of herself,

Curly lettering and blue as the sky.

Though time was swiftly running out

And soon the doors would close,

She took a seat without a doubt

And turned to the first page of prose.

The words seemed to glow in the dark

And the story awoke before her eyes,

But too soon it was time to embark

For staying any longer would be unwise.

To further unlock this marvelous creation

She ran with her library card in hand,

And smiled when she was given permission

To return to that printed land.

 

In case you're entirely confused, this poem is about a young girl in a library searching for the perfect book. What do you think?

  

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My Writing: Music Poem

I wrote this poem for class; the theme for that week's class was music, so I couldn't resist because I love music. I hope you enjoy my poem!

 

To read more of my work, you can read a few pieces here.

 

 

It comes in through an open window,

delicately,

mixed in with the breeze,

barely heard above a whisper.

 

It grows in bravery,

the soft sounds become more intense.

You move closer.

You close your eyes.

 

It is all around.

Speaks with no words,

describes with no mouth,

understands with no body.

 

It lingers in the room,

makes a place for itself in your heart.

Times passes – an eternity, a second,

you do not know how long, you do not care.

 

It is fleeting,

but deep down you already knew.

The air itself seems to lose its magic.

Silence never sounded so strong.

 

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Poem: The Tale of Alice's Illusional Escape

I don't write poetry (though I think I wrote some terrible ones in high school), but this is one of my favorites from a freshman undergrad class. It was actually published in the school's literary magazine, Italics Mine.

If you look at the last word from each line, you'll see that they're repeated in each stanza, except they're slightly switched each time.

In blue moonlight, Alice sips warm tea,

cup and saucer of pale yellow chinking gently.

An owl hoots in the black, nightly distance.

Hardly any noise is to be heard – all is silent.

Her rosy curtains move from the mellow breeze,

a glance out the window to see a white rabbit.

Oddly dressed in a burgundy jacket is the rabbit.

T’was such a fright, she nearly drops her green tea.

A gasp escapes her: noise caught by the milky breeze,

as she sets down the champagne porcelain, ever so gently.

Azure pinafore fabric brushes skin in the silence,

and Alice wonders how far the alabaster rabbit is in the distance.

Hasty footsteps, a white blur in the distance;

on olive grass, waiting, is the furry rabbit.

Golden and ticking, a glint in the eerie silence—

Should Alice have stayed inside with her tea?

A chalky glance back, but she advances gently,

the indigo sky listening with the breeze.

Mumbled, crimson words are stolen by the breeze

as jaded time laughs in the nearby distance.

One departs into the gray hole; two follows gently.

Alice, red heart beating in head, watches the rabbit.

Slow descent, past an odd array: teal umbrella, cup of tea.

“Tsk,” says the creature in the ebony silence. 

Smooth landing on chestnut earth; a supple silence,

but unseen is the cherry jacket in a place with no breeze.

Sapphire tears fall, a downpour of salt, unlike sweet tea.

A river emerges – honey-haired Alice is swept up in the distance

and carried to a large lemon house where she sees the rabbit.

Marked “Drink Me,” Alice’s fingers hold a sage bottle gently.

Unwelcome guest in an ivory party of unusual hosts – tread gently,

Alice thinks to herself in the bittersweet, cobalt silence

with emerald-topped hatter, snoring dormouse, and quizzical rabbit.

Obnoxiously riddled into ruby fury, she mutters into the breeze.

Tangerine laughter stopped short in the near distance—

The crowned, lips scarlet, arrives, though she had no invitation for tea.

Diamonds and spades swept up gently into the navy breeze.

Within the calm, lilac silence, eyes dreary, she looks into the distance.

Alice, thinking vaguely of a white rabbit, sips cold tea.

(Movie still via Gizmodo)

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
    And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
    A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
    'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
    With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
    And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
    On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
    Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
    On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

-John Keats, 1819

Such a beautiful poem.
If you would like to hear it, you can listen to Ben Wishaw from the film Bright Star.