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Jun 06

Again & Again

May 27

social ladder

She clings
helpless
to her rung, 
never looking at
those below her,
always gazing up
to where they all want to be;
the rungs that hold
the rich
perfect
thin things.
The popular ones.

Her rung is crowded
with all her "friends" clinging to it
to her.

All they want is to move
up.
They tell themselves they will
be happy there,
at the top.
If they looked, they could see that isn't true.

And she spends 
all her energy
trying to climb,
but as soon as she takes a hand off
to reach the next rung,
the whole
ladder 
shakes
and she puts it back on.

don't climb, they whisper to her, you won't make it, you could fall.
But you can't stay here, 
they whisper to her, you'll never be happy, you can only be happy at the top.
you 
need to be at the top.

And she tries;
May 12
eulusivepurplepanda's picture

A Letter for Me Ten Years From Now


​What is it like to live by yourself (At least I assume you do)?
​Is it like the freedom you craved when you were fourteen? 
​Did you ever find that perfect escape? Were you finally able to runaway for good? 
Where do you live? 
​When you were fourteen, you wanted to move away to Europe (Preferably The Netherlands or the UK) 
You wanted to live in one of those hipstery towns with coffee shops and fancy apartment buildings. 
When you were fourteen, you wanted to travel the world. 
​If you're reading this, I assume you're twenty-four. 
​You probably haven't gotten that far, but have you see more than Canada? 
If you have, is it as beautiful as we thought it would be? 

​Do you still write? 
​When you were fourteen, you wanted to write for a living. 
I knew that would be some time before that could happen. 
​Have been writing out more drafts? 
​Which brings this question, what do you do for a living? 
May 11

Plight of a Speaker, Writer, Typer

There are three routes
from my brain to get words from myself to someone else.
I can use my voice,
write my thoughts by hand,
or type with the tapping of fingers.

Recalling every last word from my brain
from over the past sixteen,
nearly seventeen,
years has grown to be a nuisance.
There are words buzzing about like worker bees,
droning and drifting as if waiting for the next command,
waiting for the queen bee's beck and call.
They bump into one another,
muttering hushed apologies before they hurry along.
From there, the lucky few tear down through my being
and grab me by the throat.
At times, they jostle me awake
and I cannot help but whisper them to myself,
a feeble attempt to catalog and to remember.
More often than not, they die on my tongue,
dammed up by vocal cords
and faltering folds because I lack the coordination
May 08
Nicole Jasmin's picture

Not a Teenager, Nor a Child

I want to be the person I want to be,
silly and happy like a child,
but at the same time, 
I want to act grown up.

Some teens that I'm around just seem to be a little.. grown up for me?
I wonder if other people feel that way.
I don't want to be identified as "Nicole the Child"..
I don't want to be identified as "Nicole the Teen."
All I just want to be called is Nicole, 
Or Tater, the nickname my parents call me. 

What? 
Should I be with the serious and hard-working seniors,
Or rather with the young, crazy second graders?
I am a seventh grader,
I want to fall in between.
Don't say that I'm growing up fast, mom and dad,
Don't call me immature.
I don't want to hear that.
It's not easy to be considered a "kid" at 13 years of age,
It's also not hard to mistake me for a teen. 
I'm just startng puberty,
Not ending it.
May 03

Sketch

May 01

New Song I Wrote!

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. I still don't have a name for it, so suggestions would be cool.    
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 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 ornamented 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, far away 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 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