Jul 21

Tiny Writes Group Poem (Blue Hill)

Group Poem by Treblemaker, GreyBean, Stargirl, Yellow Sweater, The Lone Cat, El, infinitelyinfinite3, Geri K, amaryllis, Wag it off

In replacement of blue candy there's a sunrise on the hill.
my fingers drip with golden honey,
sugar plums cloud my melancholy thoughts...
On my lips,
Words of sugar and cinnamon blossom
as I sit cross-legged
in the raucous silence of the moment.

yet while the quiet sings to me,
I despise its saccharine temper
it seems to bellow with cruel lemon drops
Though its voice is soft as down feathers
and my hands, unable to close my ears, are stuck to the grass
by viscid syrup as bitter as lies.

I bend, I break, I fall
And prepare to start anew.

like vegetables from compost.
like the burning and bleeding of the dawn into a fresh sky.
like a freshly picked lemon just cut in half,
Jul 18

Big Hair Beauty

Jun 22


She was always wrapped in cinnamon.
Her aroma was a mixture of brown and gold oak
stacked together like firewood,
as was her house on the side of the mountain
made from a similar material, 
perhaps christened with it. 
Her hair rained cinnamon dust
and her hands were smeared with dough.
The house always smelled of cinnamon too.
We'd smell it four houses over on our walk there. 
She'd take out a laughably small pot,
add three cinnamon sticks,
and let it boil.
That's how we were always greeted.
Instead of spraying perfume around the house, or Febreze,
she'd boil cinnamon sticks.
Our breath carried the earthy sweetness of the cinnamon, too,
as we'd help her make cinnamon buns.
We'd secretly lick the sugar,
licking our fingers before squashing them
into the small white china bowl
and then sticking our fingers,
now crystalized with cinnamon sugar,
onto our tongues.
Jun 19

In the Name Of the Idiot, the Betrayer, And All Lying Bigots. Amen.

I've crossed into the spirit world
I've found that it looks strange.
Everything that I was told
Its really not the same.
Where is the trumpet fanfare?
The golden bridge to cross?
The hovel I had slid down
I practically got lost.
I've crossed into the spirit land
But clouds aren't by my feet,
Why do I walk through ashes
To a steady drumming beat?
Where are the lyres strumming tunes
And spirits decked in gold?
The figures here are gray and bent
Their melting screaming souls.
And the honeydew? The grand reward?
The pots of gold and jewels?
Where art thou twelve disciples?
For here I be with fools!
Angered by just punishments 
They cry on molten rock,
This spirit world is strange I say,
... its smoke and red, and hot. 
Where are the crowns of olive leaves
To thank me for my work?
You gave me, ah alas, a rose
Its thrones my finger poke. 
Jun 16

That Tiny Wooden Cabin

Waving my goodbye out the windows of the 
Gray Coach bus for the last time 
Was so hard. 
It was hard to admit I was 
Really going to miss that place 
Something about the fact that’s it’s so final
Made it thrice as difficult. 
The idea that I’d never experience 
That 250 acres of woods farms and mountains 
With the same class
Struck a minorly major chord. 
Last lunch, 
Last dinner, 
Last breakfast. 
Last time seeing that adorable dog
Who finally, let me pet him. 
Last time experiencing 
That Glen Brook thrill 
Of jumping into waterfalls 
And hiking up tick infested woods
And poking at the fire pit. 
It was silly to cry over the fact 
That’s it’s over. 
Crying would do nothing to bring more 
Trips into being. 
But crying was all I had left. 
It was the only way to express my gratitude 
And appreciation 
And attachment 
Jun 05

The neighbors got a karaoke machine

My neighbors got a karaoke machine.
It spews bright orange and blue patterns around their fences,
our fences.
And there's a disco ball
whose glitter is filtering through their windows,
our windows.
I wouldn't mind so much
if the karaoke machine was quiet,
so perhaps the next town over couldn't hear it.
And I wouldn't mind so much
if the neon lights stayed inside their yard,
and perhaps if their voices were more
in key,
any key, really.
It'd be nice if Aunt Marcy hit a note for once
because she's hitting notes I've never heard of before.
Their tone sounds more like robot cat baboons
that were dunked in water and then given a megaphone.
The machine itself is so unassuming,
a plain white square,
a little larger than a boot box.
So can someone tell me HOW that tiny techno box
produces the agonies that are a Friday Night Karaoke Party?
Jun 01

Where, is the Ball?

Here! Over here!
I've discovered it all.
Rejoice and be gladd for I've found the ball.
The orenge and blue one
With the green on the stem.
Oh never mind,
Thats a mad mother hen.

I got it! Don;t worry!
I've taken to heart
For this search of the ball while we're out at the park.
Its all roundish, and redish
And hard as a sheet,
Oh, look at that, its an over ripe peach.

You fools! I've got it.
I promise you this.
For this object is pink, almost fleshy and thick.
Its next to your leg,
Oh my friends you are blind!
Oh its your hand, on your lap. Never mind. 

I've got it you absolute - words I can't say-
Cause theres parents around and kids at play,
But here is the ball,
By your foot its located!
No wonder we shan't seen it roll...its deflated.

May 10


I jumped and cried and jumped some more,
My tears now sat there on the floor.
We hugged, for once, we hugged so long –
The seven of us. Last day gone.

I sniffled and laughed and sniffled some more,
Their voices filling rooms and doors.
We clapped, again, we whooped with glee.
Last day gone, leave happily.

It hit, and hurt, and hit again,
12 years, where'd they go? and when?
Our fruits, accomplished and complete,
Others cried, there's happy feet.

We squeezed and blinked and squeezed again,
A human touch, a human hand,
some eyes reflecting like a pool,
Our last official day of school. 
May 10


Today this kid wrote a sincere thank you letter to me.
He wanted to thank me for being his friend.
For talking to him,
During our 7th period jazz band class.

He said he's never been so scared in his life
As when he came to the first rehearsal,
And a few rehearsals after that.
His thick black curly hair, thin shoulders and worried eyes. 
He proceeded to tell me how he was simply grateful
I started talking to him,
I was grateful he answered me.
He did this wide eyes stare that was slightly off putting
Like he was suprised a ghost just entered a room.
I joked about it to him,
teasingly asking him if he was, in fact, ok
On account of he looked scared,
I'd then mimic the face.
This became our little game.
We'd pass by in the hallway,
separate friend groups
different classes,
unrelated agendas
And he'd make this face at me, through his mask
May 09

Electric Violin

A little round stump sat somberly in a corner of the large wood shop.
It had holes from a fungus and dust from the floor
It was rounded, so if looking from the top it was a lopsided C shape.
It was chopped down four hours away 
And took a road trip until it got to its little destination,
Hoping someone would see its unnatural beauty.
Coupled with a spalted maple
And new strings for the soul.
the little round stump dawned a new electric role.