Melissa Soule

Observing in Detail: An Artist's Beginnings

By Melissa Soule
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 9

Time creeps by, each tranquil moment
Carving a deep notch in passing life;
Like masterful hands divining a wooden face,
Unveiling an orange sky by pulling back the cloudy blue peel.

The water, timelessly aged upon the earth,

Remember

By Melissa Soule
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 9

This is a found poem, with the first two lines an excerpt from Joy Harjo's " Remember". Born May 9, 1951 in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Joy Harjo is an enrolled member of the Muscogee tribe . She is now working as an writer and instrumentalist, performing her own music and teaching at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque.

One Last Time

By Melissa Soule
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 9

Heartless, souless, icebound goliath,
Careening in blunted peaks towards an unhappily overcast sky,
Fierce, unforgiving winds whip the summit,
Tossing carefully plaited vermillion hair asunder.

A glowing golden sun slowly sets in a graceful arc,
Illuminating every sparkling crystal,

Lasting Evidence

By Melissa Soule
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 9

An abandoned home; a heinous crime.
Yet, neither decrepit nor unused,
Still caressed gently by the roiling waves, full of watery passions.

Swiftly tilting spirals dance,
Their patterns dizzy from turning in the sea,
Swinging about in raucous circles.

A hard, pointed pinnacle,

Inner Tempest

By Melissa Soule
Leland and Gray High School, Grade 9

It whirls within me,
A self-willed beast, devouring my entrails,
Yet I have no wish to stop the pain.
No. I am an indulging and incapable parent to a spoiled child, too fond of their sweets.
Instead of rebelling against this wild animal inside me, I urge it on.
I am the conductor of my own destruction.

Vicious, hard words pummel me,
Driving like lead rain.
Then, heavy, they melt into the skin, binding me in the think chains of doubt and indecision, trying to find truth somewhere along their chafing length.
They grind against my raw skin, and soon drops of blood fall to mix with the salted tears that made that sorrowful decent some time before.

A halt in space, in time.
A frozen icy world.
Planets, embedded so deeply within their blackened tracks of familiar cosmos,
Resist the mighty gravitational pull, and thus cease to be.

Decending down to spheric globe,
All life, and light, has stilled.
A stargazer's eyes, glazed with prolonged watchfulness,
Will see naught but a plain, umoving tapestry;unchanging.

If love is lost or love is won,
Should fate deal joy or sad,
I do not pine, my thoughts; love gone,
Is at least love that was had.

I do not dream in silky rose,
Not blinded by alluring hue.
My love is gnarled and fast as wood,
Too taut and strong for morning's dew.

From fervor fast and swift in kind,
Sweet melody does new love crow.
Through passion's swells, and worry's loft,

Without you, my heart is an empty cavern, bellowing in hunger and pain.
Without you, lead soars on soft wings, and graceful birds plummet to earth.
Without you, elegant prose falls flat, a beautiful tapestry of language; undone.
Without you, the world becomes a ghastly mask, deathly white with sun.
Without you, sweet dreams becomes nightmares, sending fearful tendrils into thought.

The Willow Weeps

By Melissa Soule
Leland and Gray High School, Grade 9

Sweeping, swaying skirts of pale celery brush the ground,
Like a soft sigh in the wind.
Small leaves flutter, silver winking eyes alive with movement.

Graceful arcs form in easy bent boughs,
Reaching like a child to touch their toes,
And gliding down to just kiss the ground.

April 23, 1912
Dear Journal,
It has been several weeks now since the tragedy of the Titanic, and recalling the events of that night, admittedly, still scares me considerably. But, I believe it is my duty to history and the telling of this grim tale has fallen to the survivors. It has fallen to us to somehow explain...well... “what happened?”

Alive, but trapped within a world of only darkness, depending upon remaining functioning senses to be aware of surroundings.

Is it really better, this way, do you think?

Good and Evil, so often depicted as light and dark within the stories and tales so many love,do not offer their comfort to me.

How could they?

History on My Palm
My fingertips race with the lifeblood of my soul, sustaining me body and mind.
They bespeak all the glories and hardships of my past,
Telling an imprinted story for one who cares to look.
Fine lines trip along their length, made of delicately raised skin,
Etched so tiny so as to seem smooth,
But mountainous in their worth of memories.

The Broken Promise
Hmmm... Perhaps if she scrunched in her nose more? No, no. That made her look like some crotchety old lady! Well, how about more of the frown...a little less...lower the eyelids a bit...THERE!
“Ye- Oh no.” In her excitement of success Avvy’s recently perfected look of total indifference had slipped into one of elation.

War
A gruesome, sickly scene to paint,
The artist’s brush; a bitter tongue.
The story’s told, the details faded,
But clear enough to scar forever the minds of those unscathed.

A freakish tale of monstrous masks,
Cloying, choking smoke acrid metal tang within the air,
Together like the scent of bullets meant to find rest in brave hearts.

Boots crunch through clinging mud,