Molten lead
heavy and hot as hurt
swirls beneath my calm
facade
slowly filling each hole
til i am whole.
But not.
Harsh words
intended for no ear to hear
but mine
threaten to slide through
the walls
out the hairline cracks
that cannot be filled.
Spinning slowly
a world all alone on its axis
the only thing
visible
is a distant star
to far to be
any use.
The heat
leaches from the lead
drawn by the force of
the tears
streaming
down my face.
Writing won't work anymore.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Outside looking in
Hands clasped around my knees,
I watch.
The air,
cool and sweet as water,
still as a small pond
as the sky
slowly darkens to a
soft azul
and the streetlights flicker to life.
People pass, unhurried.
Here
in the twilight dark,
the pace is as slow
as sipping a
glass of sweet tea.
Birds call softly,
their sleepy cries fading
with the sun.
A family passes,
blissfully together.
"No trashcan!" warns the man as
the little boy sneaks close.
The chirp of a cricket, like
the quiet creak
of my grandmother's rocking chair,
begins.
Quits.
I sit,
still in my spreading
pool of soft illumination,
taking it all in.
Arthur
Betrayal
Hate
A dagger in the dark
And all is destruction.
But
A flash of gold
Molten
Hot
Long live the king!
Equals
Friends
Fight by my side
Hope from the ashes(Written after watching the season finale of S4 of BBC's Merlin. I can't wait for S5!!!)
TV
Disappointment,
not the most pleasant of emotions.
They were here
to spend time with us.
Quality family time,
so I thought.
So why
why
why
why
does family time consist of
sitting on the couch,
watching TV?
Or sitting in separate rooms
watching TV?
I'm not sure that counts.
None of them saw
anything wrong,
only me.
Sure, they spent the day together.
But I didn't.
They had fun
while I sat through class
after class
after class.
And then I went home
to have fun with them,
spend "quality family time"
with them,
and all they wanted was the damn TV.
Written two years ago. And this concludes the portion of my blog where I post old poetry in addition to new poetry (Refrain, The Power of Words, Fall, Dust, and Haiku for Spring are all relatively new; the rest are two years old or older). As of now, if you'd like to read any of my old poetry, go here: http://www.fictionpress.com/u/589779/saoirse09. Thanks for reading the poems I consider the most salvageable of the old junk. Now onto the new!
not the most pleasant of emotions.
They were here
to spend time with us.
Quality family time,
so I thought.
So why
why
why
why
does family time consist of
sitting on the couch,
watching TV?
Or sitting in separate rooms
watching TV?
I'm not sure that counts.
None of them saw
anything wrong,
only me.
Sure, they spent the day together.
But I didn't.
They had fun
while I sat through class
after class
after class.
And then I went home
to have fun with them,
spend "quality family time"
with them,
and all they wanted was the damn TV.
Written two years ago. And this concludes the portion of my blog where I post old poetry in addition to new poetry (Refrain, The Power of Words, Fall, Dust, and Haiku for Spring are all relatively new; the rest are two years old or older). As of now, if you'd like to read any of my old poetry, go here: http://www.fictionpress.com/u/589779/saoirse09. Thanks for reading the poems I consider the most salvageable of the old junk. Now onto the new!
River
A nuisance,
a burden, a bother,
a hassle,
that's really,
truly
all I am.
Always causing problems,
never fixing them.
Always the embarrassment,
never the pride.
I'm stuck with the outcome
when
all
I
really
want
is the expectation.
Disappointment and scorn,
a river between us.
(written two years ago)
a burden, a bother,
a hassle,
that's really,
truly
all I am.
Always causing problems,
never fixing them.
Always the embarrassment,
never the pride.
I'm stuck with the outcome
when
all
I
really
want
is the expectation.
Disappointment and scorn,
a river between us.
(written two years ago)
Ode to My Mom Cooking
I watch her cook,
My mother, my mom,
The conductor of the kitchen
As I perch on the (forbidden) counter,
A bird,
Chittering,
Chattering,
Chirping away,
Filling her in on my life.
The butter, as she
Slides
It into the pan,
Sizzles, hisses, snaps,
Then dances with
spins and twirls,
A ballerina on a stovetop stage.
"I need your height,"
She says.
So I slide down to her aid
Before resuming
My perch by
The sink
Where the warmth of her domain
Sinks deep into me
Like the scents
Of the spices she uses,
Garlic, oregano, and thyme.
Her laugh,
When I say something silly,
Common occurrence,
Is the bubble of boiling water.
My mom, at one with the kitchen.
She's been working her magic
All day, the
Mrs. Weasley of my muggle world.
I can tell
Because the butterscotch pie
Sitting so sweetly on the counter,
Already has airy castles
Of white meringue,
Floating on the brown butterscotch
Like her voice around the room.
The music of my mom
Cooking.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Homesick
Tears stream down my face, hot and wet.
Leaving,
it shouldn't be this hard.
Independent, growing up, maturing,
they're just words
and comfortless ones at that.
What can I do?
I can't go back,
I've had a taste of freedom.
But I can't go forward,
I yearn for what's behind.
Stuck,
lost,
confused,
helpless,
hopeless.
Yanked from the world I know,
Thrust into one I've never seen,
My life, pulled in different directions.
Where I should go.
Where I need to go.
Where I want to go.
Why do they have to be different?
Things have to change.
(a slightly updated version of a poem I wrote three years ago)
Leaving,
it shouldn't be this hard.
Independent, growing up, maturing,
they're just words
and comfortless ones at that.
What can I do?
I can't go back,
I've had a taste of freedom.
But I can't go forward,
I yearn for what's behind.
Stuck,
lost,
confused,
helpless,
hopeless.
Yanked from the world I know,
Thrust into one I've never seen,
My life, pulled in different directions.
Where I should go.
Where I need to go.
Where I want to go.
Why do they have to be different?
Things have to change.
(a slightly updated version of a poem I wrote three years ago)
Hazy Colors
So familiar,
these faces passing by,
yet mere hazy reflections,
fog obscuring remembered features.
Like a blurry portrait,
the colors running,
wet paint
stirred all round by careless fingers.
Or maybe it's just
the tears,
clouding my eyes,
streaming down my face,
bleeding the colors,
changing the features.
Friends long gone,
left far behind,
so close in memory
but a galaxy away.
(written two years ago)
these faces passing by,
yet mere hazy reflections,
fog obscuring remembered features.
Like a blurry portrait,
the colors running,
wet paint
stirred all round by careless fingers.
Or maybe it's just
the tears,
clouding my eyes,
streaming down my face,
bleeding the colors,
changing the features.
Friends long gone,
left far behind,
so close in memory
but a galaxy away.
(written two years ago)
Goodbye
He raised his hand and waved goodbye
As he ran out the door.
No one ever stopped to think
He might not be there anymore.
He was late for school, they went too fast,
The icy road was slick,
They took a curve, the car spun out,
The crash was oh so quick.
I never got to say goodbye,
He was so quickly gone,
The shock just blew my heart apart,
My life could not go on.
I spent the next months mourning him
And praying it wasn't true.
I tried to think of how he'd feel
And what he'd want me to do.
It took some time but I finally knew
What he would have to say:
"Friends don't really say 'goodbye,'
but 'we'll meet again someday.'"
(A note about this poem: I wrote it when I was quite a few years younger than I am now, probably when I was about 14 or 15. It's part of a mourning process I've been going through since I was 9, when one of my best friends died in a car accident. It's not an example of my current writing, but it's a poem I feel needs to be shared because there is too little literature, in my opinion, dealing with the death of a child as experienced by another child.)
As he ran out the door.
No one ever stopped to think
He might not be there anymore.
He was late for school, they went too fast,
The icy road was slick,
They took a curve, the car spun out,
The crash was oh so quick.
I never got to say goodbye,
He was so quickly gone,
The shock just blew my heart apart,
My life could not go on.
I spent the next months mourning him
And praying it wasn't true.
I tried to think of how he'd feel
And what he'd want me to do.
It took some time but I finally knew
What he would have to say:
"Friends don't really say 'goodbye,'
but 'we'll meet again someday.'"
(A note about this poem: I wrote it when I was quite a few years younger than I am now, probably when I was about 14 or 15. It's part of a mourning process I've been going through since I was 9, when one of my best friends died in a car accident. It's not an example of my current writing, but it's a poem I feel needs to be shared because there is too little literature, in my opinion, dealing with the death of a child as experienced by another child.)
Dust - three poems
Dust
Brown dust
beating
a prickly pear pattern
on bare skin.
Dry dust
blowing deep into
the core of breath,
killing slowly,
drowning from the
inside out.
The ashes within
united to the dust
without.
The bare brown earth
cries for rain.
***
Dust Summer
Dust,
blown on a wind as cold as the inside of a dry well.
Dust,
brown as the crumbling adobe walls of the houses lining the streets around them.
Dust,
dry as last year's weeds, summer-sun-baked in the front yard and stinging sharp on bare legs.
Dust,
sharp as the goat heads lying hidden in the dead grass, just waiting for a shoeless foot to step down
suddenly, painfully.
Dust
Brown dust
beating
a prickly pear pattern
on bare skin.
Dry dust
blowing deep into
the core of breath,
killing slowly,
drowning from the
inside out.
The ashes within
united to the dust
without.
The bare brown earth
cries for rain.
***
Dust Storm
The land rises,
rushing down the mountain,
eager to renew the connection
between dust and flesh.
It is a reminder of
water, so necessary
to anything hoping
to survive.
The land cries
for water, and the skin of my arms
responds, cracking and
flaking away in showers
of white dust
even as my lungs
draw in a prayer
for rain.
***
Dust,
blown on a wind as cold as the inside of a dry well.
Dust,
brown as the crumbling adobe walls of the houses lining the streets around them.
Dust,
dry as last year's weeds, summer-sun-baked in the front yard and stinging sharp on bare legs.
Dust,
sharp as the goat heads lying hidden in the dead grass, just waiting for a shoeless foot to step down
suddenly, painfully.
Dust
Fall
love isn't anything
like what the poets say.
and it definitely isn't
a disney film.
flying, floating, freewheeling?
more like falling
into nada,
nothing,
less than that.
it's like one of those
trust games.
you know,
the ones where you
cross your arms, close your eyes,
and hope strong arms
will catch you.
only none do.
and you're left
falling
down, down,
and farther down
into the black behind your brain
until
suddenly
you realize the only one
left to catch you is
You.
so you open your eyes
and you're alone
in the middle
of the sky.
like what the poets say.
and it definitely isn't
a disney film.
flying, floating, freewheeling?
more like falling
into nada,
nothing,
less than that.
it's like one of those
trust games.
you know,
the ones where you
cross your arms, close your eyes,
and hope strong arms
will catch you.
only none do.
and you're left
falling
down, down,
and farther down
into the black behind your brain
until
suddenly
you realize the only one
left to catch you is
You.
so you open your eyes
and you're alone
in the middle
of the sky.
The Power of Words
Words,
the look, the feel,
the taste of them,
the sound, the sight,
the sense of them.
Crackling,
popping,
siz-zle-ing,
in the air,
snapping into life,
blooming across the page,
flowers and
gardens and
mountains and
trees
all Words,
juicy sweet on
the tongue,
now bitterly cold,
now blazing hot,
the salty taste
of the sea
as fantastical creatures,
Word-filled creatures
fill it
all
up
to the sky then back
again,
making, molding,
twisting, shaping,
bending, breaking,
powerful beyond all imagination,
Words.
the look, the feel,
the taste of them,
the sound, the sight,
the sense of them.
Crackling,
popping,
siz-zle-ing,
in the air,
snapping into life,
blooming across the page,
flowers and
gardens and
mountains and
trees
all Words,
juicy sweet on
the tongue,
now bitterly cold,
now blazing hot,
the salty taste
of the sea
as fantastical creatures,
Word-filled creatures
fill it
all
up
to the sky then back
again,
making, molding,
twisting, shaping,
bending, breaking,
powerful beyond all imagination,
Words.
Refrain
3
such an
innocuous little number.
3 sides on a triangle,
strongest shape.
3 star hotel,
something most can afford.
3 strikes,
you're out.
So why
does such a
harmless little symbol
make me force back
burning tears til my
eyes ache?
Why must i hide
the hot splash of
salt water
when i can hold on
no
more?
3
3
3
Not good enough
Not good enough
Not good enough
constant
litany
of inadequacy.
i'm done.
so...
what does that say
about 2?
such an
innocuous little number.
3 sides on a triangle,
strongest shape.
3 star hotel,
something most can afford.
3 strikes,
you're out.
So why
does such a
harmless little symbol
make me force back
burning tears til my
eyes ache?
Why must i hide
the hot splash of
salt water
when i can hold on
no
more?
3
3
3
Not good enough
Not good enough
Not good enough
constant
litany
of inadequacy.
i'm done.
so...
what does that say
about 2?
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Nothin' much
Just wanted to say hi. This is my first blog. I really only created an account so I could comment non-anonymously on another blog. So, there probably won't be much on here. Unless I decide to put my poetry here, get it off the rather under-the-radar fictionpress.com and out into the wider world. Whatever. :) Have a good night/day/whatever-it-is-where-you-are.
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