Zo-chan's blog

There is a man in the forest of leather and bone,

who runs like the wind on feet made of stone.

Over the river-woven meadows he flies,

surrounded by beauty and hidden from lies.

His hair is earth-colored, and his eyes such a green

that the trees declare it’s the deepest they’ve seen.

His mind is as innocent as the eyes of a doe—

an animal at heart, his humanity in tow.

He is sure he is one with his birthplace, his source,

unaware that his destiny will alter mid-course.

There is a land hidden from his world of lush greenery,

a curious place with something odd called ‘machinery.’

This inquisitive man, his feet all entangled

soon leaves his bed to seek rumors finagled

from birds chattering on through green lattices,

speaking of fire and unnatural apparatuses.

Thus he sails from his homeland, a baby, of sorts, Read more »

Someday I will build a boat, to drift

among those pinprick gleams. Sail nor wheel

will grace its blueprints, bobbing against the grain

of midnight worries; the quiet-time for dreams.

My boat will be of timeless sighs, molded

tight by whispers grasp—your breath imbued

inside it, deep. Your hands are fine; I pray

 for them to stay within my range to clasp.

I raised my boat from water quite too deep

to mention. Blackness rolling from the windows—

water mumbles, speaking ancient curses

beyond, I hope, my darling’s comprehension. 

Drifting is a solitary thing, full,

brimming

with eyes never met, hands never shaken.

I remember the mirrors—

the reflections shunning my graces

because I stepped

far

too

lightly

to draw enough attention.

I wore no ribbons and bows helter-skelter,

 just because,  

spicing up,

dicing apart, heels on hardwood floors,

spacing steps with dancer’s precision, but there were never any

dancer genes in the atmosphere. Read more »

It’s astounding, really,

how long forever is—seconds

tick by like death rattles, waiting

to come full circle at last.

Sunrise blinks by while hours drag on—

who knew time could be

so disjointed

when it wants to be.

Four hours is long,

but in hindsight

sixteen years never had potential to be

enough. Clocks are never kind that way.   

The grandfather clock is conspiring, I think,

against me—corner-bound, it hums

a self-satisfied tune while I yet again

bemoan the hour. 

Hey guys and gals, this is DeathNoteMathChick here. I'm pretty sure this post will go utterly unnoticed, but I thought I'd get it out there anyways.

In case you didn't notice (which you probably haven't), I've changed my username to what you see - Zo-chan. I'd finally gotten tired of the rather infantile DeathNoteMathChick one, so here I am, semi-reborn!

Cheers, 

Zo-chan 

I’d like to run away, to mountain trails parted

from earth and sky, and I’d climb,

climb so high,

I’d inhale the clouds and crystals would form in my lungs.

But, higher still—it’s not yet

the right

height

to jump

into the night,

to swallow it,

to darken my shade a tad.

Bouncing and barreling down the mountain side,

I’m waiting

to feel the cracks in me—

a chattering mouth lets people fly in

and I am now of moonlight-on-crystal and I’d like it

if I could run away

back

now, please:

I miss my books, dust in sunbeams.

Moonlight-on-crystal rattles the breath.

It’s cold:

take a sledgehammer to my lungs,

please.

A little scribble inspired by the style of the INCREDIBLE poet Donald Hall. His poems are sheer joy to read - if you can, check him out!

Hands sprung ahead as decreed—

gears of life’s seconds twist and whine of misuse.

Time is not a fixed thing

but we think it is and I look at the time sprung ahead and I’m so tired

of seconds and second-hands and I wish I had a third hand

to make playing the piano easier. But as with time, I had to learn

to do without. 

The bouquet of carnations was a little too red,

straining towards the light, trying a little too hard

to be roses;

they smelled as sweet, but the lie was there.

I remember you gave me roses

once.

I can’t remember why, but the intention was there,

I’m sure.

I never liked your flowers—

they lived a little too long,

smelled a little too much like lateness,

looked a little too beautiful

after a week of neglect—

something I couldn’t replicate.

Yet the chocolates you gave me were lovely.

I didn’t eat them;

perhaps I should have,

but I hate to get my blood sugar up,

lest you think I’m trying too hard. 

There’s a girl at a sink with some bottles and pans,

unaware that she holds someone’s heart in her hands.

This girl has her alchemist’s mind set on love—

crafting concoctions to snag a prince from above.

And there is a boy who has seen her through trials and errors,

who is dreamily sure that there’s nobody fairer.

Faithfully he tries all her powders and potions,

praying to be noted by his true love’s emotions.

His adoration burned wordlessly on through the years,

until he was buried in bottles, high up to his ears!

But waiting and waiting to interrupt her routine

was not nearly as painful as remaining unseen—

Thus, he jumped, landing light where he leapt,

standing so quietly in the room where she slept.

Whispering softly, in ears unsuspecting,

words he hoped would fast be connecting.

“I want you to look at me, woman to man,

and reflect on the things that I’ve done for your hand.

With your endless supply of tinctures and brews,

your heart wants to be able to view and be viewed.

But true love is before you, watching you try

to find a companion to hold when you die.

I have sat here and silenced the thoughts in my mind,

but it’s true that no longer can I see you be blind.

I want to marry my love with her bottles and pans,

walk into eternity; two names in the sand.

So I’m begging you, please! Drop your disguise!

abandon your bottles

and open your eyes!”

  Read more »

If I had the courage,

I’d tell you to lie.

To abandon the ship,

to let the circus fly by.

I’d tell you to run

to some faraway land,

carrying my bones,

to be laid to rest by your hand.

The others would stomp,

wail, rattle and knash,

while inside here we’d smile,

unafraid of their actions - so humanly brash.

If I had the courage,

I’d tell you to ‘git,’

to get a head start:

only you deserve to benefit.

I’d scream you a warning

to flee, if you cared,

while I stayed behind:

self contained, yet utterly scared.

We’d once laughed at life,

just the two of us, you and I;

choosing instead to go for eternity—

surely, that’s where all true alliances lie?

If I had the courage,

I’d curl up and die:

saying ‘I love you more’

as one final goodbye.

But you never did let me,

telling me I was wrong—

pushing the hair from my face

with a smile that seemed like it would always belong.

You mentioned just once

Of a truth come sunset;

well, my heart’s in your hands now—

I’ll not leave it behind – at least, not just yet. 

My second attempt at rhyming poetry!

I like how easy it was for me to sum up my entire existence in three stanzas...

I like the weight of paperback books,

Particularly those in alphabets foreign.

The smell of fresh ink and covers so shiny—

Unknown words, but syllables soarin’.

I like the way my hands mold to mugs,

With bases chipped and steam fast leavin’,

Curled on the couch with the snacks piled high,

Drinking tea, it seems, is as natural as breathin’.

I like how quaint words often seem on pages,

With row after row of young ideas playing:

How, spoken aloud to a group of fresh-minded,

The natural flow has to go without saying. 

There is a saying in the land across the water that the mouth that eats does not talk. It is mentioned time after time, year after year, before, during, and after each and war-created famine that plagues their country. It is repeated as a mantra sometimes; to children with overeager faces, to women in the dusty streets with heads hung low, breasts pushed high, to men begging on their knees at the doorstep of a stranger. It is repeated with a detached feeling of hope long lost—no one eats here, but there is still no talking. Not anymore.

                There is a rumor in the land on the border of sundown that abundance will be the end of their civilization. It is mentioned time after time, year after year, before, during, and after each person sickens from the unexpected costs of too much insurance against starvation. It is repeated as a mantra, sometimes; to children who know no other way to get comfort, to women in their bouncing-back binges, to men who reach for it just as often as they reach for their women. It is repeated and ignored—no one wants to stop searching for comfort. Not anymore. 

...which is an INCREDIBLE book. 

The day the eye of the world shall open falls upon that moment itself;

The second of life that your one and only heart cracks and breaks,

To be fused anew into an amulet worn about the neck that is twice as strong.

The desert sands will trickle through the destinies of thousands,

Grinding and reshaping, ultimately changing.

The jewels in Arabian market stalls will glimmer with the hopes of childhood dreams,

But none so brightly as the stars within the souls of those with a realized path.

The water-clocks will run dry with drought, but the people shall still dance,

For life is in the air, and death behind a curtain, always watching:

A universe that is eternally close and constantly out of reach.

The spring that holds the gears of commerce are old and rusted with tried-and-true methods;

Mud will crack under the sun, and so will your coins—what is currency truly worth, in the end?

But in the end, the night-dreams of children who were cursed with lives that do not allow them to day-dream will be our salvation;

I can dream, but satisfaction is not gained until the sun and moon-dreams meet on equal footing.

But can I not still dream?

If you've ever been in some kind of writing class, you've probably done that "where I'm from" template on the first day you tackled poetry - I know I did. But I was bored out of my mind with being confined to a template in the first place, so I wrote this instead of following what the instructions told me to do...

(incidentally, it's my first attempt at rhyming poetry, ever!)

I scraped my mind up off the bottom

of that snail-encrusted sea;

And my heart, dear heart, I’ll always remember—salvaged

From the core of that blooming plum tree.

My knees and nose I must confess,

Did cost me a pretty dime;

For those I bargained with the ageing seamstress,

Over tea flavored with two lemons and a lime.

My eyes I dredged from the middle

Of the cracked marble jar,

Stained by mud but ever-so-smooth;

A bargain; a mere ten pounds at the gypsy bazaar!

As for my hands, well, there, I’m afraid

I’ll have to withhold some information;

But I did promise a tale, I know, so

Climb upwards into mountains with substantial glacial striations,

Where I plucked my two-lips up;

Mulched mushrooms from a patch,

I watered and sang and weeded and danced,

But abandoned ideas of another prospective batch.

“I want to know where you came from,”

You said with eyes gleaming of liquid gold,

But I refused to tell you anything more

Than that my soul has been already sold. Read more »

If any of you are going to CCYWC this year, you might hear this one - I think, if I can squash it down under 1.5 minutes, I'll slam it. 

Now is the time I must implore you all to hush, for it is moontime now.

Take your seat at our banquet table –

Your spot is marked, for we have been waiting for you.

If you wish to take part in our remembrance tonight,

You may light a lantern that we’ve woven out of a collective web of our hopes and dreams.

If you so desire, you may add your own to the mix.

When the moon whispers that it is time,

Seven platters of grilled pine nuts will pass you by:

You may take what you can eat, but please, no more,

For it is moontime now.

After the center of our web-of-tales is spun, I must ask you all to stand:

The procession of wandering starlighters will venture by our gathering.

Pay them no heed, for they are as delicate and flighty as the membrane of the universe itself.

Instead, let your eyes settle upon our table’s centerpiece;

A cornucopia containing a mask for each one of you –

Dear guests, fear not the blindness I beseech you to take upon yourselves, for

While our host still shines in the sky, the light will not abandon you –

For it is moontime now.

Once the lies this world holds are hidden from you,

I shall direct your attention to the canopy of vines that keep our secrets safe inside this grotto. Read more »

As it says above - does anyone think I should finish this? It was just a random midnight scribble, but I could be motivated to get off my lazy couch and write a proper ending or two if anyone thought it was worth the effort...probably not. *laughs* 

  Read more »

 Meh, haven't posted anything in awhile, thought I'd remedy that...

See the dissonance in your heart!

Cried the soothsayer to the jester,

For once-upon-a-time there was such a thing as true love, but no more!

Carpe diem and journey across the oceans to the land the sun does not warm and listen,

Listen to the dissonance in your heart!

Listen to the conflict in your heart!

Cried the jester to the lady’s maid,

For years past there was such a thing as true peace, but no more!

Take up your poisoned dagger and plunge into the vat you call risk and accept,

Accept the conflict in your heart!

Accept the variance in your heart!

Cried the lady’s maid to the princess,

For on the eve of departure to the promised land I believed in God, but no more!

Take up your wits and stand on the cliff as the waves crash below and believe,

Believe in the variance in your heart!

Believe in the uniformity of the mind!

Cried the princess to the prince,

For on the night that the stars fell down, I thought I was one with the roses, but no more!

Find the blood that streams from the life of the Earth and sing,

Sing of the uniformity of the mind!

Sing of the complete cycle of all things!

Cried the prince to the ocean,

For the day that I lower my lids for the last time was a day I once feared, but no more! Read more »

This short story is based off of a poem that I wrote in Creative Writing (that I posted on here as well). It's a bit more fleshed out than the poem, and all-around creepier, if you ask me. Enjoy! 

~Zo-chan 

              As the changeling tended the fire, I became aware of just how wet the fallen leaves I was seated on were. I shifted a little, waiting for her to speak, wanting to move but nervous to do so, afraid that she’d fix me with the look that I had only encountered once and never wanted to again—a look of surprise with a twinge of shame underneath, like she was suddenly shocked to find herself in such ignorant and lowly company. She had first given me that look after she had first told me what she was, after I had slammed the door in her face and told her to clear off, or I’d call the cops. And yet, somehow, the second time she’d knocked, I’d opened the door. Read more »

She cuts parsley with a dull knife sometimes,

On purpose, of course, so she has to use force—SLAM

Goes that blade into the heart of the wooden cutting board that’s already stained with pale green and bright red blood.

It’s odd; she cuts and cuts, but there is no waiting vessel for the herbs.

You see that her teeth are as white as the bones of the rat in the corner;

And that she does not partake in the parsley.

She cuts sage with a silver serrated spoon sometimes;

One from her family’s best silverware set, of course, so she has to be rough—CRASH

Goes that bent-handled piece of childhood into the circulatory system of the leaves that are lying disemboweled over her fingers and face.

It’s bizarre; she bangs and bangs, but if anything she seems to be intent on destroying the tool instead.

You see that her fingers are as crooked as the four white scars down her face;

And that her actions do not cease once the spoon is ruined. 

She cuts rosemary with a child-sized ivory comb sometimes;

It belonged to her sister, so, of course, she has to take care of it—CRUNCH

Goes the rosemary as the comb is rocked like a child back and forth over the sprigs that are blown over the kitchen like loose eyelashes.

It’s strange; she sets her face in a fierce she-wolf stance, but holds the comb like a fragile newborn bird. Read more »

I met a man on the shores of Cape Cod, who said, with a mother-of-pearl smile,

That I was truly the cream of the crop.

He would build me a castle out of the richest chocolate, to suit my temperament,

And would leave a rose on my doorstep every morning, as I smelled that sweet.

When the tide came in, he left me, with a promise to be there on the dawn.

I waited for him, to stave off boredom’s clammy embrace,

By the window of the cottage with sea-glass in the walls.

He never did show, but instead sent his love through the mail,

A red envelope delivered by a laughing child with Dutch cover garlands in her hair.

There was no letter inside—instead, it contained sixteen rose petals,

And a palmful of sand so fine it felt like air.

I felt no joy as I gazed at his token—

Instead, I sat on the oak piano bench and plinked out a tune to amuse my restless fingers.

As I did so, through the rafters drifted a birdsong that mirrored my inexperience composition,

Lifting my fingers and coaxing them to, instead, drift

Like loose spiderwebs across a drafty wood floor,

Coming to rest upon those curtains Mother made for me,

The ones that she told me would hang in the house my future husband would build for me.

The tides came and went, as ordained by the moon that shone through my driftwood windows,

Pooling on the rag rug woven from my sister’s dresses—all of them, save the one I buried her in. Read more »

This started out as a fiction attempt in my Creative Writing class...I should have known it'd turn into poetry when my back was turned. Sneaky little devil. 

As the changeling child built the fire, I inquired as to why the shadows danced in disgust around my feet.
"Why," said she, "they dance to remind you that darkness is a philosophical thing."

She drew an ember from the flames and placed it upon my tongue,

soothing my immediate tears with sage balm that smelled of the sea.
"Hush now, " she hummed, hands as white as the stars,

"Light is always more painful than dark." Read more »

Finally, it's here! Ciel, here's proof I didn't forget!! I know you asked for horror, and I tried, I really did, but this is what came out. *shrugs* It's mildly Halloweenish, I suppose. Please excuse any spelling/grammar errors - I've read this through until my eyes bled, and therefore have probably missed half of em...

As the moon dripped stars into the atmosphere, the water witch sighed.

At this time of year, her body felt the pull of the sea, as it always did, but this year it was especially strong: the body she’d inhabited for the past millennia or so had begun to show the signs that she needed a new host. Her bones had been breaking with annoying ease—no matter how many reinforcements she drank to strengthen them, they’d crumble days later. On top of that, there was the matter of her hair coming out in great chunks, leaving a trail around her apartment. Read more »

Step into my world, said the writer to the sky.

Step off that boat your children dared to rock and paddle to my diamond beaches,

Bath in my silver-lining shores.

From there, tarry not, lest the ebbing tides of raw imagination sweep you out—

Instead, waltz down to my broccoli forests and sleep under coconut bushes;

I’ll make sure that you dream of the sun and everything beyond.

I will wake you come Cherry-Garcia sunrise with a Cheshire Cat smile and a mug of elderberry syrup to fend off the coming uncertainty, for

Beyond the woods lies the valley of entombed oppression—

I dare you to be freer than the birds.

I am sure you will flounder and gasp in the pure air filling your mind, but never fear:

If freedom scares you, step in my toadstool house where I will employ you as my muse.

But first, leap over the alligator’s jaws—you must be brave to share a plot with me.

Sit down in my parlor and admire my walnut tables and chairs, but please,

Use the banana leaf as a coaster to prevent your honeycomb lemonade from leaving a mark.

You might remark upon my spidersilk curtains, to which I would reply with a question,

Wondering if you’ve ever stood at the center of a glacier and let the downward plastic flow bend and shape you into a living autobiography—it was here that this happened!

My children come up to my now, begging not for a tale but for silence—Mommy dearest won’t shut up and all they’d like is to munch their buttermilk biscuits in peace, if you please. Read more »

The flickering florescent's buzz and shower us with conversation-sparking-material, but

You don't really care for half-baked chatter - who does? - but

I persisted and added heat and pressure to lithify your anxious nerves, but

You jammed your sneakers into the cracked linoleum and said no, I don’t love you, but

I put a gloved hand over your mouth and said no, no, you do, you just don't want to, but

You stepped back and tripped over a stray shoelace and told me to leave you alone, but

A door slammed behind you and you turned and fell from surprise, hands reaching out to break your fall, but

The ribbons of lavender silk I’d tied around your upper arms strung you up like a puppet, but

You fought them nobly, but

I wasn’t letting you get away so easily; I pulled you up by the hair and kissed you, but

You shoved my face away and ran, leaving me with the lights showering me with sparks to spark words, but

I don't need words if I can't say them aloud. 

“Zoe, come here!”

I wander into our TV-room that could very well be a closet with no doors. Wire bins of art supplies, board games I only place with myself, and the worn red binder with “math” written on it in Sharpie even though it holds play-dough recipes, swamp the walls and surround our 13.5-inch TV, which is on.  

That’s weird—mommy says that the TV can’t go on until after dinner, and only then if I ate my food and put my dish in the dishwasher.

Mommy is watching a movie—two buildings are burning, and blue banners stream across the screen with words on them that I can’t read and don’t want to. I don’t like this movie—I’d rather watch Madeline and the Bad Hat.

Mommy gets up and snags the phone, startling me. She stares at the buttons and asks me what Daddy’s cell phone number is. I don’t know and don’t care. Daddy will be home tonight from work, and he’ll bring Lea and I Nutter-Butters, like he always does. He’ll be home in a few hours—why does she want to call him?

Mommy dials a number and I hear it ringing—faintly, I hear Daddy’s voice on the speaker, saying hello mean-like, like when he's busy and you shouldn't pester him, Zoe; he's working. Mommy starts talking loudly—too loudly—and Daddy says something before she can finish. Mommy doesn’t take her eyes off of the TV, leaning on the big brown armchair with her free hand while she tells me to stay put for a sec, sweetie. 

In the movie, the buildings burn.

I was at the YWP Millenial Writers reading last weekend, and there I was, standing around awkwardly because I had no idea what to do (thankfully, this was remedied - thanks so much, Robin and Reuben!), and in walked the inspiration for my poem. Her character was so incredibly striking, she begged to have something written about her. So I did on the spot, stealing one of Geoff's pencils to create this hurriedly inspired piece. 

She said that she wondered if anyone saw poetry when they looked at her. I'd just like to say that I did.

  Read more »

The watermelon bleeds obsidian gems which you spit out onto the emerald grass,
As all the men you’ve loved since Tuesday slip through your fingers like margarine;
Fake, with a similar aftertaste.
Television fantasies keep your raft afloat,
While ice cream freezes your ability to swim.

Your delirium gave you a nightmare of war, peace and all that jazz,
He told you that he wouldn’t cry when you killed him, but in truth he was lying; Read more »

  Read more »

Wrote this in my incredible Creative Writing class...more scribbles yet to come. 

I wished for a girl with buttermilk braids,
A squiggle of sunshine and mother’s pearl cream.
She was nesting in my secret window-box,
Nursing a rag doll of sunset silk.
I dreamed I fed her cornspun moonshine;
Her teeth were ice cube straight when she laughed. Read more »

(A work in progress....) 

A memory-droplet enters the pool of subconsciousness:

Drip

A hallway light flickers and fizzles into nothing,

Drip

A step towards enlightenment, carefully pondered,

Drip

Those words whispered into uninterested ears,

Drip

The gray summer day that put ripples in the lake,

Drip

The time you dropped a shoe into my memory-pool.