ghost faced, rooms I paced,
hyper breath, close to death,
sweating, shaking, oh no,
what have I done? where should I go?
Only so much time, until
my soul is burnt in torturous hell
but I'm
forgiven
forever
though I am a sinner
Love has saved me
Explanation: As the poem turns in a positive direction, the lines are shorter. I also used alliteration with "forgiven" and "forever". The Poem has kind of an open end, the last line not really rhyming with anything. I guess this could possibly symbolize how we humans are all unsure of faith and where we will end up.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
3 activities involving End Stop, Enjambment, and Caesura
Activity A: Mr. Cheng's Poem
Is there a tune more happy than a daughter’s windchime laugh?
A silence more crushing than her rolling tear?
Is there a breeze more cooling than a son’s slumbered sigh?
A thought more awesome than the question that he asks?
And is there a truer joy when I am the clown?
Shame when I accuse and rage?
Peace when I pull up the sheet?
Pride when I strike the flint?
I made these kids and I make these kids.
And they make me.
Activity B:
Members of the Westboro Baptist Church of
Topeka, Kan. appeared with
signs bearing messages like
“America is Doomed” and “God Hates Fags.” The
intentional infliction of
emotional distress involving
the Catholic clergy are not
moral, But the verbal attacks that
severely wounded the father of
the fallen homosexual Marine cannot be
restricted even if it is upsetting or
arouses contempt?
Link to article: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/03/us/03scotus.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=rallying%20at%20homosexual%20funerals&st=cse
Activity C: Extended Freewrite, then poem
My mind wanders all over the silken moon, thinking of nothing of importance, yet of complete importance of in the eyes of my Lord? I hope so though the muffin baskets never came from the couple sitting on the loveseat in the lamp light as I lay in my imaginary hospital, a combined psych ward and surgery recovery unit to stitch my heart back together. Next tomorrow I will remain here, waiting until this magical spirit saves my soul, until I feel and I fly and adoration is mutual. When I feel love for this being whom I honestly do not know, but I've heard loves me and will save and protect me.
Silken moon and
spirits, my Lord, save
my heart, stitch my
soul, so that when I feel
imaginary, I fly through the
recovery
Is there a tune more happy than a daughter’s windchime laugh?
A silence more crushing than her rolling tear?
Is there a breeze more cooling than a son’s slumbered sigh?
A thought more awesome than the question that he asks?
And is there a truer joy when I am the clown?
Shame when I accuse and rage?
Peace when I pull up the sheet?
Pride when I strike the flint?
I made these kids and I make these kids.
And they make me.
Activity B:
Members of the Westboro Baptist Church of
Topeka, Kan. appeared with
signs bearing messages like
“America is Doomed” and “God Hates Fags.” The
intentional infliction of
emotional distress involving
the Catholic clergy are not
moral, But the verbal attacks that
severely wounded the father of
the fallen homosexual Marine cannot be
restricted even if it is upsetting or
arouses contempt?
Link to article: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/03/us/03scotus.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=rallying%20at%20homosexual%20funerals&st=cse
Activity C: Extended Freewrite, then poem
My mind wanders all over the silken moon, thinking of nothing of importance, yet of complete importance of in the eyes of my Lord? I hope so though the muffin baskets never came from the couple sitting on the loveseat in the lamp light as I lay in my imaginary hospital, a combined psych ward and surgery recovery unit to stitch my heart back together. Next tomorrow I will remain here, waiting until this magical spirit saves my soul, until I feel and I fly and adoration is mutual. When I feel love for this being whom I honestly do not know, but I've heard loves me and will save and protect me.
Silken moon and
spirits, my Lord, save
my heart, stitch my
soul, so that when I feel
imaginary, I fly through the
recovery
10 ways of looking at driving
I
The two girls drove over the rolling grassy hills and into
the tiny town with its friendly sweet people
away from their pasts
II
He raises his middle finger and flashes his brights at the
troubled old lady, driving slowly and carefully down
the highway
III
The man and the woman
sit in the dark, cold, cab
ashamed of what they have done
IV
She hurries
in her beat up minivan
not bothering to flip the turn signal on
careening left and right in a dizzying
freaky unreality
V
Rolling slowly
we follow the hearse
passengers, awkward and silent
the deep blackened clouds letting through
small beams of golden sunlight
and tears almost subside
VI
Those crazy kids
they race and speed
acceleration nation
they know the risks,
they've heard the warnings
and one is left alone
one is left, staring at
the blood stained shattered windshield
the eerily silent and motionless bodies
of those she loved the most
VII
Tired, stomach sick,
I turn into her driveway.
She gets in and closes the door lightly.
I force the clutch into reverse
and head towards high school
VIII
Heads throbbing,
Tired of arguing,
the road trip continues on.
IX
In the arcade room
the farthest corner
holds the racing simulation
children alone
sit and stare
at the dark screen,
imagining
X
The tiny girl
whose dream is
of a bright pink ride-on hummer
under the Christmas tree
Even though she's old enough to drive
a real car
The two girls drove over the rolling grassy hills and into
the tiny town with its friendly sweet people
away from their pasts
II
He raises his middle finger and flashes his brights at the
troubled old lady, driving slowly and carefully down
the highway
III
The man and the woman
sit in the dark, cold, cab
ashamed of what they have done
IV
She hurries
in her beat up minivan
not bothering to flip the turn signal on
careening left and right in a dizzying
freaky unreality
V
Rolling slowly
we follow the hearse
passengers, awkward and silent
the deep blackened clouds letting through
small beams of golden sunlight
and tears almost subside
VI
Those crazy kids
they race and speed
acceleration nation
they know the risks,
they've heard the warnings
and one is left alone
one is left, staring at
the blood stained shattered windshield
the eerily silent and motionless bodies
of those she loved the most
VII
Tired, stomach sick,
I turn into her driveway.
She gets in and closes the door lightly.
I force the clutch into reverse
and head towards high school
VIII
Heads throbbing,
Tired of arguing,
the road trip continues on.
IX
In the arcade room
the farthest corner
holds the racing simulation
children alone
sit and stare
at the dark screen,
imagining
X
The tiny girl
whose dream is
of a bright pink ride-on hummer
under the Christmas tree
Even though she's old enough to drive
a real car
Monday, October 10, 2011
Show, Don't Tell
She smiles
and looks up at the clouds,
the sunset,
orange and gold, pink and blue, reflecting off of clouds,
in the smooth cool white sand
she lays,
with the cool foamy, tickling water
swishing up over her feet and ankles
shells lay in her hands,
smooth and swirled,
unclenched, simply cuddling against her palms,
sleeping
protected
and looks up at the clouds,
the sunset,
orange and gold, pink and blue, reflecting off of clouds,
in the smooth cool white sand
she lays,
with the cool foamy, tickling water
swishing up over her feet and ankles
shells lay in her hands,
smooth and swirled,
unclenched, simply cuddling against her palms,
sleeping
protected
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Modernist-imagery inspired poem
With steps that lead up to glass doors, covered in cracks and scratches, you enter the solid brick hallway of Edina High School with its white ceilings and gray-flecked floors and walk into class, sit down in your assigned seat and listen, listen, listen.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Free Verse Elegy
Dear Sanity, your cold swift arms of steering reason are gone. Your reality and logic of the left hemisphere that for so little a time ticked like an atomic clock, right on. The clarity of your voice, you pulled me in the correct direction.
For now I don't distinguish what's here from what is not. Fight or Flight is non-stop and my spirit is not shown to me through the transparent glass, but through a fogged and dusty window that will not open on my will. I overthought and overthought until what is not my dream is now top priority. What is at the tip of my mind, seeping in with unstoppable gravity, is everything that is not. Every item that has no meaning, no purpose. I will not say what I speak of for you know so well. It is what you've fought off for years until the agonizing bearing wore you down, down, now to nothing but dust at the bottom of my skull.
The right side is trying its best to help. It is learning to take your place, as if I've had a hemispherectomy. It's alright. Don't feel bad. I may not be sitting at the top of my hierarchy of self actualization, but I'll find a shortcut. I always do.
For now I don't distinguish what's here from what is not. Fight or Flight is non-stop and my spirit is not shown to me through the transparent glass, but through a fogged and dusty window that will not open on my will. I overthought and overthought until what is not my dream is now top priority. What is at the tip of my mind, seeping in with unstoppable gravity, is everything that is not. Every item that has no meaning, no purpose. I will not say what I speak of for you know so well. It is what you've fought off for years until the agonizing bearing wore you down, down, now to nothing but dust at the bottom of my skull.
The right side is trying its best to help. It is learning to take your place, as if I've had a hemispherectomy. It's alright. Don't feel bad. I may not be sitting at the top of my hierarchy of self actualization, but I'll find a shortcut. I always do.
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