Poetry Writer

Mama told me ta

Only play on the mountaintop

She said 

Please don't slip down.

But, I like the ice crystals 

That lay atop its surface.

Its like a bed, soft and engulfing

While laying in it, I even drift to sleep.

I was just playing 

On the Mountain's peek.

I just wanted

To slide away for a moment.

I did.

The freezing blanket swept me away

And in an avalanche of laughter

I let it carry me down

Buried, but never reaching the bottom.

Hiding in a white cave with no breathing space

I waited for Spring to melt away the ice

In the meantime I slept

And I dreamed of Mama's cold tears.

When all the snow melted away from me

A woke up and looked about

And found I was in 

The Garden of Eden.

A big voice told me I was home

He said

The mountain's gone

It's all uphill from here.

The breeze of an open school door

Creeps up my shirt and lays ice over by body.

Shivering, I put up my hood,

Melting ice off of my head.

The dean walks past

Eyes narrowed looking for violators

Of all his fairy-land rules

That are believed in like the fairies themselves

And enforced like so.

I fall into the stone wall,

Hood up, cold receding

Those with shirts up to their middle

Hats on, denim underwear

POP like the cleavage from their shirts

And he'll walk past them all

Fairies dancing away on sugar tip toes

But eating rotten apples.

Hoods, they are a violation, worthy of In School Suspension

He snarled, pointing

Singling out me.

Defenseless, I open my mouth

But it is all stuffed up with bobbing butts

That walk right by

And stomachs with blinking signs

to say

I was just a little cold after a while

Embarrassed, I rip it off

and cast my eyes down

Feeling more chilled than before.

Little lambs have dirty curls

In their faces.

Curls that have dusty words

And bitter cherry laughs

And brown whites.

Little lambs sit behind fences

And they watch the grass

At their dried noses

For grass is green and crisp

And, it grows, like they don’t,

Except for hair to long.

Little lambs keep gazes down

Because bigger animals can't be look

Into the accusing eye.

And little lambs have trouble dealing with

eye spite.

Little lambs linger in the background

As backgrounds are safe and sure

And they wait out their lifelong sentience

Wondering how their curls

Could have ever been made this dirty.

And

I reach a plateau.

14, in counting.

Pulling myself up, arm muscles bulging

I loom over the rest of this rocky cliff.

The summits have gradually become farther apart

The rocks rougher, the foot holes more randomly spaced.

And looking up, peering at the cliff face above,

It is evident the trend will continue, the next plateau farther than ever

And I realize that in a short hour, I'll be on the move again.

Sitting on the ledge I think about going back

Way way back, Plateau number 4

But I realize that to get back down,

One would need to fall, tumble, smash

Miles and miles down.

I want to prance in fruffy dress

Pad around in little shoes that no one can hear

I wanna climb with ease.

Hoisting myself up with a deep-hearted sigh, I rise

Stomach churning, nervous for the fateful climb into the obscured fog ahead

I shutter, thinking how long, but short, it will seem

And I take hold of a sharp rock

Letting my callused hand bleed alittle before

Struggling up.

Empty Forest

I stand, forlorn

My branches vacant

My leaves browned at the tips

Swaying limply in quiet breezes

My trunk firm, steady, never moving

Many a storm it has stayed rooted

Many a frost-bitten wind gust it has continued.

Looking at me, I am not much

A gray-barked tree

Making up a forest of just one soul

Linger a while, listen to the foretelling winds

You may hear Tempest coming,

Her winds wicked whips

Her rain ice-bullets

And I am just a lonely tree.

I don’t know if you pity me

Or if you sneer,

You can only see my dying limbs

Bobbing in the quiet before a hurricane

But my bark is just a tough skin

A callus all trees form

But inside sap waits to ooze out of the cracks

But, I am just a waiting tree

Bark sealed

Leaves wilting

Branches hanging

Sap drying up.

I am sorry if you need the recipe to be able to answer my question, I am trying to find it on the web so I don't have to retype it. If it is needed, that please say so in an answer, and I will tell you. Also, it is for gingerbread, but an actual loaf, not the cookie! Thank you!

It is excepted by most and fundamentally known by all that, as we age, our oh-so-delicate minds begin to slip. Whether it is our memory, our feelings, our functions or our abilities, we begin to fail. Have you ever thought about it? Day to day, is this depressing fact of the utmost importance to you and constantly pestering your forethoughts? And your elderly loved ones, do your thoughts snap to them when hearing such information? I will say, for most of my life, I would easily answer no to each and every one of these odd, but linked, questions. Why? I had never been affected by such traumatizing events. Never had I been torn between logic and love in a heart- torturing situation. Not until Nana came up from Florida to visit. Not until nighttime. Not until she accepted death by her own hand. No, not ever had I considered such a plague could reach my resolute Nana.

For all my life, Nana had taken up residence in Florida, the home of the elderly and retired. She fit the bill, and moved there with my uncle (which years later became my aunt and little cousin). In Florida, it’s sun-drenched and warm, which for wrinkly, cold, old people, sun is a nice friend to have all year round. As years increased, so did age. But Nana stayed strong, for she was a strong, fighting woman. She listened to her doctors and took all her pills. “Yes, Nana, you are an obedient patient,” age sneered. Age had yet to bite her.

Summer would come, as every did. Nana would come, as she always did. “Nana, oh Nana, you’re here!” I would screech as her suitcase, and then her frail and slender leg would peep into the room. And a short, crinkle- face lady would hobble in with a small little bag full of a pearl necklace, old-lady makeup and memories. So, I would hug her, but gingerly as I was afraid I would snap her toothpick of a body if I squeezed too hard. Nana, well she squeezed back just as cautiously because soft touches are Nana touches.

And then came summer like a train, impacting us with sudden and extreme force. They were whole summers full of sun-drunk laughs, little kid whispers, and CANONBALL bathes for a temporarily dry, guarding grandmother. Then of course, at the end of an exhausting day, Nana bundled up her warmth, love and care, and tucked it into the covers next to me with a good-night kiss. And before I could say the night in good-night, I was lulled to a deep sleep filled to the point of overflowing with sweet dreams of the next day.

This summer, though, this summer of which I speak, was not like those ones. Nana was different. She metamorphosed into a woman I had never even met. Her wrinkles, a testament to her timeless wisdom and age, had seeped into her brain, and poisoned it. It rotted her memory, which it distroyed. They call it Sundowner’s Syndrome, and I can see why. When the sun said good night, left me all alone and all of those bright days abandoned, Nana became a tormented and confused animal. And she fought, every night with daddy, about what was keeping her alive. She renounced the offer (even though it was more of a requirement) to take her vital pills.

Each night, the arguments amplified in heated screams and stupid logic that daddy defended, whilst Nana spat back empty and unguided reasoning. It was a drive, a force to be just as contrary as possible. But my poor Nana, so frustrated, battled back, only to gulp down her health at the end of fatiguing skirmishes every night. These little pity skirmishes were nothing compared to that of which was almost upon our family.

That morning, we felt it in the air. It was coming like clouds before a storm. The air was weighted knowledge of that night, that stormy night of which it was about to be. Yes, my family knew. It nauseated me to see my sweet little nana, so innocent and meek, chew a quarter of a quarter of a quarter of a bite of buttered English muffin, as it would all soon be so different.

“Good morning Nana,” I said, almost screamed, as she can no longer hear. But, the stubborn child she is whispers in her ear that she mustn’t were her hearing aids, hence forth she doesn’t.

“Good morning sweetheart,” she beams back, content with just simply being. It didn’t quite matter where she was or what she was eating, doing or not doing. She patted my hand as I sat down next to her. Her skin molded to the form of my hand as it was saggy and flopped about, which sent shivers down my back. All I could think was, oh Nana, what happened?

So we marched on through the day at gunpoint with fate at the control. Anticipation and paranoia were the two dominating feelings in the stiff air that drooped in the room Nana sat in. And she didn’t mean it. No, she was so innocent, almost too much so. It was painful, as there was no one I could point my finger at and blame, and so that homeless guilt chose residence in me. But it never patched up this open wound, as guilt is so incapable of doing. And so, in just a few hours, this gash began to bleed again.

Hands are like scrapbooks, they are a testament of time...and easy to tell who owns them.

Familiar Touches

Just one outstretched hand,

That same old bony thing,

That veined and blue little hand.

Afraid if I touch it, it may disintegrate,

Into little bits of float-way dust.

Scrapbooks, time capsules.

Your novel of a tale to tell,

The lines, the brown speckles and globs

That have been painted there,

Year by year,

Day by day

Kiss by kiss

Farewell by wave.

Your written book

Bird bones that dare to break the

Film of cellophane skin.

The grip so light

The strength so forgotten

The real Nana so crumbled with

The muscle.

The independent, stubborn woman,

Now forlorn in this sad shell.

Your hand, so humbly existing.

Your hands, what I always know.

That touch of love,

That silken feel,

That bursts at the fingertips.

Yearning

I am speaking of my brother, and he and I are the same age (if that has any value). He is a videogamealolic, and I would love to get him a video game, but each one costs alot more than I can spend on him (as each immediate family member will have $15 spent on them as this is all I can afford!). He also likes baseball... but I don't want to give him a pack of baseballs or something along those lines because it is unoriginal and has no WOW-factor. This is about all he is into, as he is only a 13 year old, uninterested in anything and hard to shop for boy. Any input would be great! Thanks!

-Oh, and any ideas for a 13 year old sister would be great too! We are both very close, so anything would be great with her, but anything that you believe would shock her and make her really happy would be wonderful advice! Thanks again!

I don't know if the meaning is too obvious or too vague, so please tell me.

Demanding Dials

Planes, they are so complicated, you know?

Beeping dials and buttons

Demanding lights and flashes.

Pilots, some just can't fly them.

Over the Atlantic, skys were cloudless

and that vast range of blue

opened like a chest of treasures in front of

me,and passengers

And then, it all went down.

The dials, the buttons

The passengers, the pilot.

Thrown like trash to the sea.

Pilot floats now, solitary on a her back

Exposed to anger ocean, concealing its black bottom

Passengers clung to debris

And now swim to shore as a herd of migrating butterflies.

Goodbye my wreckage of a plane

Goodbye happy passengers.

This is your Pilot speaking,

I suppose you won't fly with me any longer.

Things I cannot do

I cannot whistle

No matter how I try.

I want to be able to

tweet like a satisfied blue bird.

I want to sing that high pitched

little song.

Oh, I hear, I hear it often.

Such a happy little thing,

like helium that lifts above the air,

that I breath in to make me dizzy

in spinning smiles that I can only remember as swirls.

Yes, I want to.

They come left and right,

those who know.

Nonchalantly flying away,

they whistle eating the drug.

I copy, but can't be follow.

I want to whistle, long to.

I crave that sweet, light tune.

When I try though,

Only owls' howl drags through.

Please comment if you will? Any advice. This is just because I was in the mood, and I feel like I don't deserve to wonderful mother I have. I appreciate her too much, more than she knows. Maybe this expresses it? Anyway....

I am lifted, by Gentle Hands

Formally know as Mother

With all the internal might that she can muster

It all goes into one push upward.

I don't know that

It isn't just a lift.

It is a save.

She, she is now knee deep

In mucky water.

The mud is a sinkhole

Swallowing her whole.

So,

She lifts hard.

The extra weight is always

Pushing down,

But she push

Up. Me

Up.

Oh mama,

I wish, you had

Held your breath.

Oh mama,

I could have

Swam to shore.

It's about a friend. So, ya know, give some advice and what not if you would please.

Watching her

Flames licking her cheek

The room was getting hot

Scorching all around her

Demise murmuring in her ear

I beacon, begging for her

To follow me out

Into the cool autumn air

Nods her head

Takes a deep breath in

And exhales into the heat

I yell

I must not wait anymore

No response

I must depart

No response

I must live

No

Response

Watching her

Burn in a fire

She could not control

Would not leave

Leaving her

And I never took a moment

To turn my head on last time

I'm not kidding you, I have a lot of anger in me. I mean about a week ago my karate master said to me, "You are a very angry person aren't you?" I will admit I am, but I don't like keeping all this hate and anger bottled up, so.....

How do you let go of such a powerful emotion?

Simply put, I wrote this poem in the middle of class (I hate math sometimes) and would like to know of ways in which to improve it. Specifically, do you like the repeated lines/ words (I am not sure whether I do or not) and the last line in it. I wrote it because, well, I want to stop wallowing in my sorrow and move on with my life. It is getting old *wink wink*, and I'm just sick of being negative. On that note.....

Drowning in a river,

Tearing down the river bank.

White water and rapids

And freezing misery.

Drowning in a river,

Held down by force.

Sucking in this sorrowful water.

Letting it into my body,

Letting it chill my blood.

Drowning in a river,

Lungs stabbing at my ribcage

And while in agonizing pain

I grin a sick smile

Drowning in a river,

Held down by my own hand.

Clenched around my throat,

Letting go at only my command.

Of which, I will not give.

*She shrugs*, this just came out today. I guess it came from my past, well, I suppose that's it. Any advice would be excellent.

Restrained

Held tight on leash

We are by Master.

Guide, tugged and pulled.

Commanded, steered, told.

Talked to, yelled at, admonished

Walk this way, turn that, jump here, around the bend, back flip now and maybe even hop on one foot

NOW!

Master holds the rope.

But through it all

I am not alone.

Comrades at all sides.

Stumbling with, bowing also.

Through the cold are

Their warm bodies.

Familiar essences constantly present.

A shield from the world at forever

At my back

A feeling of recognition among my equals

When quick with wit.

But avoided and penalized when acting

Not as mirrored as they all are.

Of course, all tied together

Never alone…

Tired of such an existence

I find the choice quiet apparent.

As Master will not renounce control

And my pack acts as one, and takes me as

Just another, when I

Am not even a part.

And yet, for these companions I must be.

I find I may

Chew through this harness,

Run away into unknown freedom

Accompanied by loneliness, starvation and

Attack… but a neck not strained

Or, to gulp down my pride

And be as another.

They all nag

Master tugs

Independence beacons

Oh, decisions decisions.

Not the best of them all, but not my worst either. I feel the need to share, though. If you would be so kind as to give me some constructive criticism, or of coarse just comment, I would be immensely happy!

Though the black

He tried, he did

Straining

To reach the earth.

The light he had,

Never saw but a trace of light.

The storm,

Stifling his beams

Snuffing them out,

Letting not one pass.

Sun, he finally prevailed.

Rays breaking through the tempest.

Hitting a man strait in the eye,

Blinding him.

Discouraged, Sun retracted

All he had to offer.

And for all he could muster,

What use is there in trying again?

It is based on a personal experience, but I was wondering if anyone could relate or understand what it is that I am talking about. Thank you so much!

You

Are an interrogator

Finding all my crimes

That I did not

Commit

But telling me

To plea the fifth

Cause they are as bad

As the lies you spin

To convince me so

Also, what religion are you?

Feeling quite dark tonight. Care to take a look?

Trapped

In this cage.

Iron doors locked

Shackles strung me up

Spectators to laugh.

And what enjoyment

You sick twisted being,

Do you get from this?

My rage, endless energy empowering me

My tears, burning a hot trail down my face

My shrieks, stabbing away at your ears

My blood, pools of pure prejudice at your feet

My dignity, tucked in your back pocket.

What fun, it is

To poke at me.

Throw your rocks of

Names at me.

Stab me with sabers

Of lies.

Chain my dirty arms up

With links conjoined with malevolence

The utter joy

It brings.

Oh! how fun to hear me scream,

Why don't I do it again?

As you gather your crowd

Of sinners and the wicked,

I sweat and bleed and spit

The foul thoughts that corrupt my mind.

I wish you no more than dead

No more than lifeless at my

Disposal.

I wish you begging me for mercy right before I.....

.....I am no better.

How discussed a thought

To really ponder.

Though you have drove me

Quite insane

With all the debris

Thrown at my head.

The sick twisted irony,

That I should be incarcerated

In this prison.

When in the reality of it all

You are the tainted, ugly beasts.