powered by your voice
Jul 22

oh dear

oh dear
here i go again
writing silly words about you
i promised myself i wouldn't
not ever again
never never never
but when i caught a glimpse of your profile
the lovely symmetry of your face
i found it difficult not to stare
you looked at me but not really
just a skimming sort of glance
one you could give out to anyone
possibly or possibly not
and see
here i go again
wondering what you think of
and what you don't
oh dear indeed


 
Jul 22

Sunset

It was a hue
​somewhere between
​pink and orange,
bright, but not
​with the unnaturalness
​of neon, more like
lit from within.

Him and I
​sat in the soft clover
​while the two
of them sat
on the wooden swing
​as the four of
us watched the
colors evolve
on the clouds.

​#sos17
 
Jul 22

Good

In my freshman English class
​we were asked a question:
Are people as a whole Good?

​The class was split in half,
some citing acts of selfishness
and cruelty to proclaim
that people are not innately good.

​The rest spoke of acts of
​pure kindness and heroism
​to prove that people are good.

​I was with the people who
believed people are good.
​I stated that everyone
​thinks they're good,
even Hitler thought he was in
the right, that he was good,
that everyone tries to be good.

​My teacher cut me off
​because I was making it too
​complicated by bringing up
​that everyone has a different
​view of what is good and right.

​Ever since then I haven't
been able to stop thinking
about how different people's
​perceptions of good are.
There are some general perceptions
of what things are right and good
​and what things are wrong and bad,
but nothing is set in stone,
its always changing,
​there were acts performed in history
that would be condemned today,
but then were thought of as good.
​Good is constantly evolving.

Everyone thinks they are
​in the right, that they are good,
​everyone tries to be good,
but who decides what is actually good?

#sos17
Jul 21
Silver Writing's picture

The Peering View

Navy shutters, orange grass, ocean blue skies, camouflage green trees, rose dress. 

The navy shutters block the howling wind and the scorching sun but also the beautiful trees. 

1960's, a time of innovation and simplicity 

But grass why must you die when the trees still thrive? 

The clouds gently glide through the sky like syrup on pancakes 

The windows are the view to the world but do so without a change in location 

I hear the howling wind whisper in my ear as if it were upset

The day just began, early morning the birds fly south 

The woman opens the shutters then the creak noise echoes 

Navy shutters, orange grass, ocean blue skies, camouflage green trees, rose dress. 
Jul 21
jbird18's picture

Blue Window Lady

I was not able to find the creator of this image. I recieved the image from an organizer at the NEYWC.


This is an Ekphrastic poem written with one line from each of the 10 members of Team Pancake. Team Pancake was a writer's group at the 2017 NEYWC. I was lucky enough to be a part of Team Pancake.
Team Pancake: Katrina, Clay, Jasmine, Emilia, Sage,  Jeremiah, Em, Karina, & myself.

Blue Window Lady

Everything is upright except for a woman bent at the back peering out the window.

If she closes her eyes, shuts her ears, maybe she could taste the wind. Maybe she could forget the plates, clothes, and man.

In her peach pink dress, she hears silence knocking.

Why wear your hair up? Give yourself a break.

It's maybe 4 PM but you can tell the hour's passing slowly, dripping through as the midday does.

Violent gusts of wind bully the branches, warping and twisting them in all directions.

The scent of freshly applied paint and stale air threatens to choke her.

But grass, why have you died when the trees still thrive? The clouds glide through the sky like syrup on pancakes.

The smell of lilacs wafts through the window, but the shutters will be closed soon.

Everything is upright except for a woman bent at the back peering out the window.
Jul 21
jbird18's picture

Ekphrastic Poem 5/18/17

I was not able to find the creator of this image. I recieved the image from an organizer at the NEYWC.

NEYWC 2017-- Ekphrastic Poem with Team Pancake

Shade next to sunlight and edges of siding, grass, and pines.

Peaking just around the window frame, the lamp and its shade match the fiery field.

It is the afternoon, just before the sun sinks below the hills.

He wonders why her eyes stare so eagerly towards the sun.

Violent gusts of wind bully the branches, warping and twisting them in all directions.

Claire. Her name is Claire.

Claire can feel the warmth of the sun radiating off the rusted grass, and reflecting onto the wall behind her.

And, just before, she had run to the window.

Her pulse strengthening with every repetition, Claire felt more alive in the sun.

Shade next to sunlight and edges of siding, grass, and pines.
Jul 21
in poem 0 Comments challenge: Milk
jbird18's picture

Cats

The milk spilled and the barn cats came running. Not just the usual two or three who turn up at milking time for a squirt from the udder, but all forty seven of them. You know how cats walk silently and are so talented at sneaking up on things? Well, it turns out that forty seven cats racing all at once towards a single pail of spilt milk sound just the same silent way. And so, when the milk spilled and the barn cats came running, no one heard them.

The pail was full right up to the brim and a fly buzzing by had paused to soak up the sun on the shiny rim. Somehow, that little black fly had landed and placed its weight just right to tip over the pail of foamy, warm, fresh-from-the-cow milk.


to be continued
#sos17
Jul 21

This Fine Moment

A slim, old electric guitar
In my hands
The strap resting
On my shoulder.
The people, below us,
Waiting
Watching
Wondering
What this moment
Will bring to them.
Though the stage
Is only three feet above the ground
I feel as if I am in the clouds
Put on a pedestal
So they can all see Us:
Three kids.

One drummer
Confidant
That we can do it
Smiling at her band mates
With pure happiness
In her eyes
Like she sees something great
Coming to us.    

One rhythm guitarist
Aged only nine years
He gives a nod
In my direction
As we step up to the microphones,
Putting on a cool disguise
Over his youth.

Me
Dark eyeliner around my eyes
Probably smudged 
The job of lead guitarist
Mine.
A wave of nerves washes over me
Like a tsunami    
Though I have done this before.  

The title of leader
Does not rest with anyone
As we begin to play
As one being.
Like a flash
Our eighteen minutes onstage
Is over...
But the next swoop of nerves
Comes when the
Winning band is announced
When we think to ourselves,
What are the chances?

The moment
In which we hear our
Band name announced
Feels like a dream
We did it.
Three kids.

It is just a semi-local contest
Jul 21
Fiona Ella's picture

something really unbelievably saccharine and sappy

when i was really little
maybe seven? 
i was convinced that there were fairies on the island we went camping. 
my parents called it "magic"
and that was the only kind of magic
i knew about. 
i'd build little houses
in the hollows of tree roots
beds out of leaves
stones as plates 
sticks and grass woven for entryways
for the fairies to leave in. 
i left notes with them, 
in a childish scrawl. 
and year after year, 
the fairies wrote back. 
they made extravagant promises, 
told of fairy balls 
and inviting me to their kingdom
and all those things you're supposed to tell a seven-year-old
who believes in fairies. 
when i grew up
and realized that fairies didn't exist
i probably should have had a moment of betrayal
of 
why did these people lie to me?
but i didn't. 
for a while i was ashamed of having written them
for having made those island staff
"deal with me" 
then, recently, i realized. 
these strangers, 
teenagers mostly? 
working on an island just to earn money
and the odd older person 
who'd been here forever
found those hopeful letters
written by a seven-year-old
on a rock on the beach
in a marker from father's bag
and returned them. 
lies, 
yes, 
lies to a stranger. 
but it was the beautiful kind of lie. 
Jul 21

Deep and Dark Thoughts Until the Sun Saved Me

The night holds secrets,
For itself,
And for others.
It lurks down our spines,
And tries to grasp everything out of us,
And plant terrible things there instead.
And then,
It lets go,
Of everything it held,
Of everything it was close to hiding in us,
When the sun comes up,
And it captures the night.
Don't get me wrong,
The night puts up a decent fight,
But the sun wants to save us more,
Than the night wants to harm us.

#sos17
 
Jul 21

We, the Rain Drops.

I woke up this morning to a thought
A thought of us...
As humans. 
A thought of me, mostly. 
We look up at this sky everyday. 
We walk along this Earth's crust everyday,
And we feel that it is ours. 
That this Earth we claim everyday,
Belongs to us. 
That our own lives, 
Staged on this Earth,
Are important. 
And, while they may hold intensity within our own souls,
They are not the focus of the Earth. 
They are not the focus of your neighbor. 
They are not even the focus of your best friend. 
We live our lives convinced that other people are living their lives looking thru the microscope of our own. 
And that is a sad way to live, I think. 
Once you realize the reality, 
Things become clearer. 
I am just a raindrop in an ocean. 
I am a blade of grass in a wide open field. 
And I am here to impact things. 
I believe I am here to make people think.  
This reality has brought me a clarity like no other...
Which do you believe you are?
A raindrop,
or the whole ocean?

I, Mia Galvin, am a proud rain drop. 
 
Jul 21

Alone

A long time ago I think I would have been a pioneer
pushing further and further west towards a place
where no one had been before.

I am captivated by the concept of no one,
by the idea that when I find this place I will see true wilderness
because there will be no footsteps to precede me.

Even now I long for places so wild and innocent
where no other person has seen those trees
and no other footprints have been left in the mud.

It is in that spirit that I love places without names
trailless and nearly forgotten, empty green blobs on the map
these are the places I feel free.

Most of all I love it when there is not a telephone wire in sight
and not even a whisper of cell phone service
no paved roads, or tired gas stations.

I long to be alone.

#sos17
Jul 21
Ink Scribe's picture

Version Of Yourself

I guess I'd always known That you weren't Who you said You were. I think it was A version of yourself That you Needed to be, A version of yourself That became so Perfect that You decided to hide Who you used to be. And that, I think, Was the saddest part. To everyone you insisted That you were you, When privately everyone Knew you were only Wearing a mask That you had molded Onto your face. Your life was controlled By that need to keep up The illusion, to prove To everyone that your new Image was perfect. But I think you knew It would only last So long. Everyday that passed, I saw you break. Everyday that passed, I saw you struggle To pretend. Or maybe it wasn't What I thought it was. Maybe, to you, You were already That version of yourself. You were just breaking, But you had no Idea why. Or maybe you did know, But had buried that thought So deep that you Would never hear it again. And I tried, As much as I could, To help you But you pushed me away And said you were fine. I could hear the Lie in your voice, Even then. But still I tried To be there for you, But you kept drifting Away from me, Farther into that Version of yourself That you needed to be. And then I saw you Give up. Your eyes became Vacant, empty, And your voice hollow. But still you kept up The illusion, even if You were too broken inside. And I tried. I reached for you, But you were gone, Only a phantom In living flesh, Wandering aimlessly
Jul 20

Locked Away

stop trying to tug at my ankles
poking pinky fingers through small holes
to small to fit your thumb
locked away in relative agreeance
not fought
yet not sought
its like waking up is another excuse
to sleep
every eyelash falling into place
making it possible for me to forget.

problems are flies
not swatable
but tolerable
until the land just out of reach
and all I get is pokes
from your pinky.

red rings decorate my wrists
the way bug bites infest my arms
naturally assumed to be caused by a hair band
or something of that sort
my refusal to engage leaves me looking forward
beyond window panes into greenery
much to alive for me
boxed tightly from everything
except for that which I choose too accept.

an unhealthy habit
that opens doors
faster than opportunity
its not addiction 
but it might as well be
confined in one space
and Im the only one 
with the key.

rotting away 
each day
not even begging 
to be set free
alone within my bones
no screen attached to a phone
just a body
that know body
knows.
 
Jul 20

the sun spoke

the sun spoke to me today
(she poked her head out from behind 
a cluster of storm clouds and 
wispered softly) telling me
the secrets of the world
though, i must admit, i got lost
in her words ( they poured down
too fast for me to catch them all)