i.LO.VErmont's blog

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls

from every corner of the world-

welcome to the Shadow Circus,

where fire is thrown and flames are twirled!

There is hidden danger in every act!

Once we begin, there’s no turning back!

Prepare to be glued to your seats,

entranced and awed by the abstract!

Ah, here now! Our opening trick!

This woman balances on a stick-

but when it’s gone, she’s floating still

while fire dances at her neck!

And look! The acrobats, up there!

Flying, soaring through the air!

But wait- look closer. Could it be?

Flames are dancing in their hair!

Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys,

put your hands together and make some noise!

Here, ma’am, is a rose for your child-

but hold her tight for this next surprise.

“The Fiery Giant!“ This man is rash!

He’s not drinking water- no! It’s gas!

He lights a match and eats that, too,

and- there! He is reduced to ash!

The Shadow March is starting now.

They, too, float on air- but how?

We need a lovely volunteer…

ma’am? Yes, you. Come take a bow.

Are there strings above their heads?

Or are they floating, as I said?

Are you sure? Check once more.

Not a wire! Not a thread!

Ladies and gents, you heard her say

they’re really floating here today!

Thank you ma’am, but one more thing. Read more »

Starry night- starry night-

fireflies and lover’s light

lit the pathway more than half;

they worried right and

happened wrong.

Nothing comes, nothing went-

the tenses mean what nothing meant.

If anything can turn to gold,

then discontent is

misconstrued.

Jumping rope, untied shoes-

childhood’s its own damn muse.

Pauly played his pick-up-sticks,

not asking who’s the

one in charge.

Starry nights- sunshine days-

I’d have it fifty other ways,

but no one’s asking, and I can’t

pretend to play the

stainless god.

Stolen time- relinquished time-

could anything be more sublime

than anyone who wonders what

a simple rhyme could

do to love?

Roses red- violets blue-

a rose by any other, too,

would smell as old as all the rest

no matter who the

gardener was.

Thus it goes- starry skies-

each star a beacon of the lies

we feed to our internal music-

so unwise,

we still believe.

And yet

we grieve.

The sound the key made in the lock

echoed through our plastic house,

shaking plastic cuckoo clocks

and startling the plastic mouse.

It bounced off plastic ceilings, floors,

and windows- out the plastic door.

It echoed many times, and more,

then finally, it stopped-

but everyone had heard the noise.

The plastic town had felt it roll,

and all the plastic girls and boys

had hurried home already, so

we didn't try to hide it then

from plastic mice or plastic men,

but no one plastic cried "Again!"

when finally, it stopped.

You'll never find a harder place

where heartbreak never comes to die,

'cause plastic's harder than they say.

They say it bends- it won't, so I

am leaving this old plastic town

where smiles mean as much as frowns.

Plastic hurts, but melt it down,

and finally, it stops.

Her hand was boring and beige-

but maybe she was boring and beige too-

and she worked in the weirdest ways,

which made me wonder what the wild do

when given a reason to rock and roll.

And though I wouldn’t take a poll,

I also wonder what makes a soul

become a me or become a you.

Her writing curled off the page,

looping and twirling and wasting space.

She wrote about living in a haze,

saving money in jars but wearing lace

and leather and satin and faux-fur coats,

wishing-sailing in wishing-boats,

dreaming of castles and knights and moats

and finishing last in a solo race.

Where’s the power in rage,

if peace and silence just don’t exist?

Emotions should be a maze,

with tricky corners and not-quite twists.

So wear a gown to the farewell ball.

Keep it in or tell it all.

If the tall were short and the short were tall,

we’d be a little confused and a whole lot pissed.

On the edge, there’s too much air,

too much to gain, not enough to lose.

The wind may be ruffling my hair,

the peepers below singing fair,

but then, all is fair in love, and who’s

to say what goes and what’s to bear?

On the edge, a tree has grown.

The wind touches its hair, too.

Just me and the bark, we two alone,

brown and brittle or white as bone,

neither saying much, because who

can break that silence but a stone?

On the edge, we breathe exact;

The tree breathes out what gives me life.

I think we make a silent pact-

or maybe it’s Mother Nature’s act-

but my mind conjures a sharpened knife

and I carve my name into the tree’s rough back.

So I am going to CCYWC on Friday, and I am assuming that someone on here has been there before. So I have  few questions.
First, I should just point out that I am one of those people who freaks out, gets insanely nervous, and packs everything including the kitchen sink for even the shortest of trips.

So what do I need to bring with me?
(In terms of formal clothing vs regular, laptop computer, notebooks, money, usw.)

And what should I expect from it? I have heard only raving reviews, but I am ridiculously nervous.

NOTE: Sorry for posting so much lately. We just started a huge poetry project in school, and, well... let's just say I've been in the mood for poetry.

She played her life in a smoky bar on a violin with one string-

two broken,

hanging off the side and tearing at the pearly knobs of her shoulders

while the violin sang-

the last she wore hanging loosely around her wrist,

tied tightly at the fraying ends.

The steel cord dug into her skin-

the bow,

curved at the middle and dull from use,

dangled from her little finger-

ripped wax she tucked behind her ear.

Not many women dared to wear such slim fabric

slung so carelessly over the hips and bust.

The red sequins enraptured mens' eyes,

drained the womens' of design,

until all were on her.

None seemed to see past the green that coated her eyelids,

the deep red on her lips,

the silver comb biting her scalp,

or the shadowed instrument under the scarred strings

to her nails- bitten down until her fingers bled.

None seemed to care that she only played one string,

that her dress was stained,

that she never sang while she played,

that the wrinkled cigarettes that hung from her lips never burned,

that she wore no shoes and on her feet you could see

the city’s dirt-

or that she only played the one song-

ever.

Every note was beauty,

every striking of bow to steel was pure pain-

her cry of help.

I knew a boy who laughed an angel’s whisper-

we sat in fields and talked and loved and knew

no other feeling than love’s bloated blister,

but love turned cold as grass and flowers grew.

He danced in summer-circles ‘round the mowing-

and clutched to his unhaired chest a drooping daisy,

bent like age and dry as brittle bone.

He laughed and danced a daffodil’s soliloquy-

All things come to an end, my mind was hissing

as we sat beneath a blooming swelter.

after we’d shared a kiss- though not for kissing-

I thought to keep this sentiment in shelter.

As my skin baked in the sun, both pain and pleasure,

I kicked out at a tulip, just for measure.

NOTE: This is something I came up with for my mother for this Mother's Day to (try to) make her smile. I'm sharing it here, hoping maybe it might make you guys smile too. :)

Don’t worry- this won’t be a poem

about your hair or your eyes or your smile.

No silly clichés will clog my words’ ways,

no trip to the waters of wiles.

This poem goes so much deeper-

deeper than the core of the earth.

But how to begin what began on a whim?

Of course! Begin with a birth!

More than eighteen short years before now,

a child who would turn out to be

a great one- so wise (you could tell by her eyes)-

was born unto earth. It was me!

Now, I know the whole world started dancing-

why wouldn’t they, once I was here-

but who could deliver such a beautiful sliver

of life? Only you, puppeteer!

It was you who taught me to gurgle,

and later, how to crawl and to talk.

Then I started running, and I became cunning

with you always watching- a hawk.

A happy mother’s day I wish to you!

Lord knows I turned out pretty good.

If I’d had any other woman for a mother,

I honestly don’t know what I’d do!

Usually, when I try write,

it’s to tell a certain narrative.

They’re usually written out in verse

and with any rhyme I care to give.

But sometimes I just want to write for crap.

I’m still stuck up in meter, but I try

to let myself relax. Breathe in. Breathe out.

It shouldn’t be this hard to let you know

what I’m feeling-

When, where, why.

It shouldn’t be

this difficult

to express my emotions, my feelings,

myself.

But maybe I’m more of a form-fitter,

a rule-follower, a

regular

person.

“There’s nothing extraordinary about me,” I say to myself as I slowly close the doors, sealing off the various corners of my brain that I’ve been exploring.

Well, comes my cold reply. I could have told you that.

I sneer. “This is what I’m talking about. Why do we always end up disagreeing with ourself?”

But that’s the way it seems to be at night-

that’s the way thoughts are- they change like seasons.

The rhythm might be off, the words not right,

and sometimes there is rhyme, if not a reason.

A drunkard, a priest, and a farmer

walked into an Irish bar-

"A beer!"

"A blessing!"

"A bushel of beets!"

because life is a joke is bizarre-

and when nothing was brought to their table

but ten knives in the shape of a star,

“A weapon!”

“A symbol!”

“A means to cut hay!”

because life is a joke is bizarre-

I was walking on the edge of the world

of language, meter, and rhyme

when I met an old man walking too,

as he had been for some time.

His wrinkled skin, pulled twice too tight

from aging twice too slowly,

just made him look that much more wise,

even- dare I?- holy.

I grabbed his arm as he went past

and roughly shook his hand.

I stared into his crinkled eyes.

"Teach me everything you can!"

He gently pried my fingers off

and straightened out his coat,

puffing on an old cigar,

his face shrouded in smoke.

"Poetry ain't easy, kid,

and life's her G-D- mother."

He looked at me with crinkled eyes,

unblinking, through the smother,

then winked at me, saluted once,

and slowly turned around,

leaving me in blank confusion,

staring at the ground.

"That's it?!" I cried into the void

into which he was disappearing.

His words hung in the smoky air,

an echo I keep hearing.

Just something quick and silly I wrote while applying aloe vera gel to a recent Florida sunburn.
 

Oh sweet, sweet Aloe Vera Gel,

which coolly graces my skin,

you are, to me, more wonderful

than a love sung twice again.

You come to me in my greatest need,

when both skin and cure doth fail me,

and when you leave, Oh! such relief!

as my old color returns (though palely).

The gratitude I hold for you

is more than I could tell thee…

especially since you’re inanimate;

merely a skin-relieving jelly!

The church on the corner of Totting Hill,
the one with the stained-glass history,
has legends of old and tales to spill
buried beneath an organ’s trill,
buried beneath a mystery.

A priest and a farmer lived inside,
inside the church’s holy keep;
the priest there with a sacred pride
to help the people whose faith was tried,
the farmer to watch the church’s sheep.

The priest, who spoke at every mass
of the crumbling church, the shattering rock,
reminded the people of stained-glass,
which protected the church like a soldier’s tasse,
more firmly than a cinder block.

But what the people will never know
is why the priest went out at night.
No one saw him come or go
except the farmer, whose head hung low
as he watched the sheep with all his might,

and the churchbell rang the hour, the hour,
the churchbell rang the hour,
and beneath His feet, a crumbling flower,
a rotten, dusty flower.

Let’s steal away to far-off places,

unknown ground, unfamiliar faces.

It would be nice to get away and see the sun in untouched lands.

It’s not so hard to disappear,

pretend that we were never here,

forget the people, places, things and walk until we find the end.

Then, you might just hold my hand

and look to where the colors blend.

You grab a boat, I’ll steal a paddle,

and though our empty pockets rattle,

we’ll need no currency but love where love lies ‘twixt the sea and shore.

Toss a penny, flip it double,

whisper to it faith or trouble,

cutting doubt in half and leaving choice to shoes and undarned socks. Read more »

Wouldn’t you know that a fish would sink

when swimming in an empty sink?

It’s the oddities that make us think.

And who would have thought that Mary-Lou,

given her name when she was two,

would learn how to play a broken kazoo?

She played on the street at the park in the town.

Money was made and smiles were found,

but Bad Things always come around.

With a tick and a tock of a shattering clock

and the ripping of a stocking sock,

she stubbed her toe on a graying rock.

She ran to her father, her footsteps stained red,

and he cried for every tear she shed

as he told her the things he’d never said.

“When you’re older, you’ll understand what it is to feel,

And you’ll know that the world is just a spinning wheel.

We slip through life on a banana peel

and your scars will fade but never heal."

                When they handed Donald the baby, it was wrapped tightly in a blue blanket with a tiny white hat with giraffes on it pulled down over both ears. The nurse handed him the baby and placed her hand on Donald’s shoulder, giving him a tight squeeze before she walked quietly out of the room, leaving Donald alone with his son.

                He ran a finger gently down the baby’s cheek, caressing the silky skin. It was warmer than he thought it would be. He slowly worked his hand up, touching the small nose, running his thumb over the velvety eyebrows, and smoothing the stark black eyelashes against the baby’s cheekbone. When a tear splashed onto the back of his hand, he realized he was crying.

                Donald walked slowly across the room and placed the baby in the hospital crib. He sat in the chair next to the window and looked out. It wasn’t much of a view. The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of wispy white clouds, and the dim light shone over a pile of rocks and sand in the gravel yard behind the hospital. Someone had painted a few flowers along the border of the window, but it did nothing to lighten the dreary day. Read more »

“Where’s your sister?”

“In the car.”

“Why?”

“She won’t come in.”

“Why?”

“She says you didn’t buy her the snickers bar.”

“Well of course I didn’t buy her the snickers bar. She’s not allowed to eat that kind of sugar.”

“She says she won’t talk to you until you buy her the snickers bar.”

“This is ridiculous. She’s not ready for this.” Read more »

(Prompt Number 1)

                I want to tell you about the time I was thrown out of a plane- no parachute, no safety net, not even a warning, just me and a seemingly endless drop through air with no bottom in sight. Read more »

I was on Facebook yesterday and saw a status that shocked and scared me.
 

"I don't want to hear anymore about 9/11," the person said. "It's been 10 years, move on!"

"I wish there was a way to fastforward thru that date!" she ranted.

And "We remember the day- maybe-& move on."

Is anyone else upset by this?

I was almost going to comment with my opinion opposing her, but I refused to feed the fire. I didn't want to create a bad relationship between myself and this person, so I held my keyboard back.

But I went to sleep that night bothered. Not only had she posted such an atrocity to their memories, but others had also commented with their thoughts on 9/11 and how it shouldn't be remembered! I couldn't believe it.

Needless to say, I had a troubled sleep.

Then, the next day...

"I'm sorry if I offended anyone," she posted. "It wasn't my intention."
 

Well, I was offended, I wanted to shout.

America was offended!

The thousand of men and women who died that day, either trying to escape their offices or trying to save others, are offended!

It may not have been her intention to offend, but that is most definitely what happened.

Now, I am not going to continue to write about this specific person for a few reasons:

1.) I was torn over whether or not to use her actual words in this post, and decided that it was the only way to get the correct message across. Read more »

Sometimes Whimsies of a wiry dimension are overlooked in lieu of

harmonically tangible Nothings.

A king can no more

Sleep in the Stables than can a

pauper

feast

on the Fatted calf,

but even the Gutters are thick with Recycled Forgottens, and the

Windows

Cry

Red.

The prodigal son was a remembered fool, Read more »

Writer's block has plagued me for a few weeks now, like an unwelcome neighbor or a rash, but I sat down tonight with my mind set on the idea to write something- anything!- just to prove to myself that I could push through it.

I sat down in my swivel-chair and poised my fingers over the keyboard. Nothing.

I grabbed a handful of grapes from my fridge and a half-glass of lukewarm coffee. Nothing.

I rubbed at my eyebrows and cheeks until they were red and sore. Nothing.

  Read more »

Yet another short entry for my online course. Thoughts?

                “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t do that in here.” Read more »

Whether or not

you’re totally bought

on the idea of being a line or a dot, Read more »

This is a story I just wrote in the past hour or so, and I am considering using it as one of my short stories for my online creative writing course. Please give me feedback for improvement!

  Read more »

"A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Read more »

This was also for my online creative writing class. My assignment was to write a short story. Feel free to give me criticism, it's what I need!

  Read more »

This was an assignment for an online creative writing class I'm taking. It could only be one-page in length. (Let me tell you, THAT is a challenge.)

 “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that one is not for sale.”
  Read more »