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May 03

Sketch

May 01

Feet out of the Clouds (SONG)

This is another song that I wrote, but with My Perpetual Wednesday helping with the background vocals. It's about as different from the last one as you can get, by the way.   
Apr 23

Very Far Away

Once Upon a Time, in a land very far away, lived a perfect world. In this world was a single country. There, everyone had a say, and everyone had a choice. In this perfect world, everyone accepted and loved each other. Everyone was family, and everyone agreed. Agreed on what, you might ask. Well, let's just say that there were no disputes on whether or not the country should launch a missile on other living people. For some absurd reason, they always agreed against it. In this country, everyone was fed, everyone was sheltered. Everyone had free healthcare, and education. There was no unfair government, because, again, everyone agreed. And in a small town in this country lived a girl. She had everything she needed. She had food, she had shelter, she had education. She was loved. However, she was intelligent, and saw through the curtains everyone else seemed to live behind. She saw the flaws. She saw the outcasts, the people who were cared for, but not loved.
Audio download:
New Recording (1).m4a
Apr 02
sophie.d's picture

Stories from Israel

I wrote this piece about my time in Israel to share a different story of a land I love. Often times, what people know about Israel is filtered through the news which, for the most part, only picks up the negatives. Through the time I have spent there I have discovered a rich and incredible country that embraces diversity, culture, and hope. While there is much that I believe can be improved upon, I am proud of my connection to Israel and wished to share that. This piece can also be viewed as a broader statement emphasizing that conflict does not define a country. It’s important to honor the traditions, people, and culture of all countries and listen to individual stories. Danger lies in generalization.
  
Big plane, big wings
And small seats
Jammed together like packing peanuts in a moving box
Sweaty thighs sticking
Long nights of flight map watching

“We have entered Israeli airspace, please remain seated”
Apr 02

Fairytales

They called her rose, briar rose,
but when she bloomed, they cowered.
She raised her voice, her petals to the sun
and stained much more than her lips scarlet.
So they put her to sleep.

They called her sunshine,
and swathed her in golden curls
but when she shone, their eyes blistered
and when she burned, they couldn't see through the smoke.
So they locked her in a tower.

They called her beauty,
captivated by her outward projection of grace
Her beauty was what blinded them
to the nebula of a mind inside her.
So they shunned her for her uniqueness.

They called her sugar,
skin as rich and deep as chocolate
got through life working twice as hard as any of them
and succeed through flavors of triumph and tears of salt.
So they told her she’d never make it.      

They called her glass,
Mar 17

Dear Stephen Hawking

Dear Mr. Hawking,
I'm sorry I didn't do this on Wednesday.
You died on Wednesday.
Albert Einsteins birthday,
to be precise.

When the news told us
that you were dead I 
stared at the screen in shock.

How can you not be 
on the earth anymore when 
in the span of my short life,
you always have been.

You were a famous scientist,
teaching us that the laws of physics
were beyond what we really imagined,
that black holes really weren't that 
"black" 

You thought that there 
were multiple worlds beyond
what we could see.

You were a hero,
because even though you were diagnosed
with ALS and confined to 
a wheelchair,
you did not let these things stop you.

You were a miracle,
because you survived ALS
decades longer than the doctors
told you that you would.

You were a miracle,
Mar 13
poem 2 comments challenge: Sure

Home


One thing I know for sure
is that I'll always have a home.
Always.

Never will I find her farther
than one step outside the door,
crossing only a threshold, but entering
a different world.

A world who understands everyone
regardless of what they look like,
how they think,
or who they are.

And she's happy to give me space 
if I want,
and happy to give me friends,
"Just look around," she says.

She's happy that I am home, 
so long as I listen to her, too.
She has stories to tell--
my home--
for she is older than time.

But she is not home
to me, alone,
that I know for sure. 

Because she is home
of the Oak, deep rooted, wise
awaiting every sunrise and set, vigilant.
Home of the Deer,
majestic, as it lopes gracefully up wooded hills;
home, too, to the Wind,
reaching all things,
Mar 07

Valentine's Day, 2018

Firegirl recorded her piece which is attached here and was aired on Vermont Public Radio on March 14. 

When you told your mom you loved her
before you caught the bus this morning,
you meant it in the way a teenager means it
when they kiss their mother on the cheek,
cereal on their breath,
backpack on their shoulder,
head in a million places.
You meant it in the way that assumes
you will see her that evening after track practice,
in the way that assumes
you will seal the day with another I love you
before you turn out the light. 

When you told your mom you loved her
at 2:21pm on February 14th, 2018, 
with saliva choking in your throat,
you meant it in the way you could never mean anything else in your life.
You meant it as an apology
and a cry for help
and a plea for her to hold you like she did when you were little,
and the monsters in your dreams were stuck in your head. 
Mom, the monsters are real this time,
I swear it.
They're real and they're just around the corner.
They're real and their teeth are bullets that bite the backs
of friends who did not have time to tell their mothers they loved them.
They're real and I'm so
so scared.

Mar 06
poem 1 comment challenge: General
Javan's picture

We will fight

They think of our skin as  the bad image
They judge us from the start but will never see see the finish 
We in the race that can’t be finished 
We in the place where only gods the witness
We never did anything wrong but we the ones begging for forgiveness 
We just ask for y’all to stop killing us 
When will I be able to walk down the street without  a cop pulling up 
I’m walking with my head down 
Might never lift it up
We will fight forever 
No we never giving up

 
Mar 04
Maisie N's picture

Piano Man

He told about the news stories
But in a different sort of way,
Making unspeakable tragedies
A little easier to say.

Children dying in their schools
People fighting in the streets
And we hear about it every day
But never ask what's behind the scenes.

Schools ravaged by bullets
He played along and sang
And his honey voice could be heard
From miles and miles away.

One man's trash is another man's treasure
One man's treasure is another man's pain
One man's pain is another man's pleasure
And so it goes on that way.

He wore his treasures on his left wrist
Bracelets tied from found stones and strings
His right hand he used to create his music
Unburdened by heavy, stone rings.

He said his left hand was for decoration
For protecting and for holding.
His right hand was for callouses
For playing, writing, working.

Audio download:
rec_pianoman_0.mp3
Mar 01
Kiran's picture

Chocolate Cake

      The dark, decorated exterior of the ganache-glazed chocolate cake tempted me as I imagined the rich taste I would experience with my first bite. I imagined the enthusiasm of my taste buds as they encountered the ornamental maraschino cherries sprinkled amongst the dollops of buttercream frosting. It sat there mocking me in the slightly dented plastic cover enclosed with a seal reading the word ‘Hannaford.’ I contemplated my first bites, barely registering the muted, faraway voices of the meeting happening around me. I was so fixated with the silver utensils and plastic plates begging for me to take them that my fingers danced underneath the smooth wooden table as I prayed my stomach wouldn’t betray me. I nodded empathetically as I attempted to focus on the conversation as the members around the table droned on. Just nod, I thought to myself, knowing that if I could make it through the next few minutes I could indulge in devouring that creamy chocolate cake.
Audio download:
Chocolate Cake.m4a
Feb 24
poem 2 comments challenge: Love

Charging My Heart

Something is clogging up
the writing part of my brain,

the part with twists and grooves
like my willowy, grainy cursive,

with my experiences carved in,
and emotions painted like a mural.

The blue magnetic electricity which whizzes between letters,
down through my veins,
and into my key-clicking hands,

dropping words of air and water,
earth and fire, onto the screen.

This lightning is weakened,
building slowly for weeks,

to release one small poem.

For the electricity now takes a different path,
through the arteries,
to the heart.

I know it's there when you look at me,
and I have to bite my lips to keep from smiling.

Or when you say hello,
and I have to sweep over the surface of your eyes,
to avoid getting lost.

I've only used your name once,
almost yelled it,
almost running.

To me,
Feb 21

February 21, 2018

PRESS RELEASE:  On February 21, 2018 at approximately 1130 hours, administration at BFA St Albans were notified of an anonymous threat made at the school via a note.  The threat was related to shooting that was to occur this afternoon so the school immediately went into ‘secure the building’ mode.  Officers responded and along with BFA staff, the decision was made to send students home early.  There was no active danger located at the school and officers were on scene as students left for the day.  The school was cleared by SAPD officers. Officers stood by at both St Albans City and Town Elementary Schools as a precaution.  
St Albans Police are investigating the source of the threat that was made and officers will continue to be at the schools as the investigation carries out.
-St. Albans Police Department


I remember in 2010,
The Vancouver Winter Olympics aired.
My 4th grade class was a beehive,
Buzzing in excitement and working
Jan 26

Special Markers

The plate wasn’t always blank.
Before the dishwasher soap scrubbed it too clean
I had drawn on it:
A ladybug, red and black,
Colors that squeaked
As markers touched white porcelain—
Special markers, she said.
We each made a plate that day,
One, two, three, lined up to dry,
The extras still stacked in their box,
White as the snow that had kept them there.

We ate pizza on our plates,
Then ran off to play:
The first time I saw Silly String,
Blanketing the walls
In foamy pastel,
Shrieking as it touched my skin;
The first friend who had a phone,
Tapping out pop songs
In a room full of pillows—
One, two, three, lined up on her bed.

She told us the markers would never come off.

~~~~
Audio download:
Special Markers.m4a
Jan 22

schizo

I wish I had known you
before the darkness crept in,
before the voices whispered,
before the demons lurked in every corner.

Kind, compassionate, caring,
all manner of “C” sounds to describe you then.
They describe you now still,
only changed,
only not.

It first manifested,
ceaseless, complex, cacophonic.
Your diary read, “I can’t take this,”
and you hit your mother with a wrench,
or so you thought.

Meal time was spent on the porch,
alone.
Inside the house, siblings laughed.
Inside your head, something laughed too.

Aunty took one look and said it,
a cruel, careless word,
the word of a trained nurse:
“Schizophrenia.”

Dad was scared to death.
You were 3 years older than he.
What if he caught the loony gene too?
Oh God, what if they all did?

A trip to Ohio was supposed to set you straight.
Audio download:
schizo 3.mp3
Jan 09

That Kind Of Writing


i want
to write.
no, not like that,
silly--
not the little
dizzy
scribbles
that pass for
a grade.
the first
winter snow
out the window
kind of writing.
the sniff
of green
kind of writing.
the spray of
the waterfall
over the cliffs
kind of writing.
when you
speak words
those people
will
listen to,
not
just hear.
the kind
of writing
that leaves
a sprig
of imagination
to grow.
the kind that
bubbles up inside
you
and you're brimming
too full to the top
and it seeps out your skin
and your hands
and it gushes out of your fingers.
i want to
write
the future
and the present
and the past
and what matters.
i want to write
the colors of the rainbow
and the birds in a V on the
autumn wind
and the crackling
of a fire in the woods
Jan 09
poem 1 comment challenge: Slam

Teachers Say, Students Say

Teachers say you're perfect.
They say don't listen to hate; but how do you not listen to hate when it surrounds you?

Students say the hate.
They say "Fag" "Dyke" "Tranny" when you're just trying to survive another day.
Students listen to other students, so if you're not popular, bid your self-esteem goodbye.

Teachers say that they'll support you.
They support you and smile when you get a good grade.
Sometimes, they feel like family.

Students say that they'll support you.
The support is half lived. 
Sometimes, they feel like that aunt who hates you for no reason.

Teachers say what matters.

Students say what's painful.

 
Jan 05

Art :)

Sorry for the quality, I'm not too good at media/technology stuff. These are just little projects I've done over the years in watercolor, acrylic paint, ink, and oil paint. Hope you enjoy!