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Dec 12

A day in the Life of a drop.

Our story begins in the bare forests of Vermont, with me. One water molecule among hundreds of others, formed together as a snowflake that is lighter than a feather. It is a wind forsaken day, and the leaf I sit upon doesn’t stir, though it is dipped low to the ground with the weight of many others like myself. Snow covers the landscape in a never ending blanket. And then slowly, as if in a dream, we watch as white turns to green, bringing with it the melty warmth of spring. The nearby river swells with runoff, and as I drop to the ground, now unfrozen and swift, I feel certain I will be joining it soon. But wait! In front of me.. Something white.. I’m stuck to its sides and become slowly absorbed. Roots. As I travel through the plant, other collected molecules beside me are turned into nutrients, but I find my way to the pores at the top of the leaf, and begin transpiring to the sky above.
Audio download:
Rose-Story-Drop.wav
Dec 11

A moment of quiet in the locker room

One shoe off
then the other.

Quiet besides the
rhythmic replacement of clothing
fabric against my skin.
The lights don’t buzz
the sink doesn’t drip
for once
my day is quiet as
nights on Inis Mor
I the only one awake
after
Good Will Hunting was over
and we in our corner room were tucked in.
Me, climbing out of bed
socked feet padding
to the window
and the breeze was
like
Cape Cod
like
my grandmother
my childhood
cookies from boxed mix
and books from eight cousins.

I existed in many places suddenly
in the picture frame on my mantle
in the surf at the bay
in that quiet little room
in my sister’s heart
in the empty locker room after class
in my memories
as I unmade 
and then
made
myself again
taking off one version to
be another. 

One shoe
then the other.
Dec 07
Dubz's picture

light finder

I traveled
deep into the earth
foraging my way
to the devils hearth
slipping
on the gravely stones 
taking in the faded bones
in that hellish place I saw 
an unholy,
toothless, 
demons maw 
and as I looked
down that yellowish throat

I found the light inside myself
 
Dec 06
lana.W's picture

That Wall

Do you ever feel 
like life is written for you?
You ever feel like your thoughts aren’t your own.
You ever feel like some sixteen-year-old theatre geek
is sitting in front of a computer,
writing about how you feel.
You ever wanna just… 

reach out.

Push on that wall over there.
No, not that wall!
This one.
You know, 
the one marked, “Do not push.”
What would happen?

Hey you, I asked you a question.
Yeah, you.
What would I see?

A god?
A writer?
A cartoonist?
A director holding his camera?

There’s got to be more than this.
 
Nov 27
poem 0 comments challenge: Fourth

This Is Not A Story

Hello reader! This is not a story.
 
There are no heroes with powers, or evil witches in towers.
So you can leave. Go. Shoo.
There is nothing here for you.

No damsels telling tales of woe, or knights riding, ladies in tow.
There are no frogs to become princes, or a huge crab that pinces.
No matter how hard ou wish, there will be no magical dish.

The dragons aren't here, no funky boats out on the pier.
You are still here?
Still around?
My, your stubborness does astound.

But there is nothing waiting for you, no secret treasure, not even a shoe.
I am tired, go away.
I wish to rest for the day.

What's that you say?
Do not delay!
For you have got a story to tell.
 
Nov 24

Peace

The snow swirls around me
Covering up my footprints,
Leaving me stranded in the colorless blizzard.
The cold bites at my bare skin
Turning it to a rosy red.
Trying to take me over,
But my heart stays beating like drums
To a wild rhythm,
The wind whistles like flutes
A mini orchestra sings in my ears.
Keeping me walking
Keeping me alive.
My journey continues
My fight persists
My destination?
Peace,
For all of the world to take in.
 
Nov 22
Maisie N's picture

The Pianist

Play me something new and sweet
I need a bit more than deep, blue nothing
A cleansing, colorful melody
That smells and tastes of cherry wine
To ease the pain in my dancing feet
To buy myself a bit more time
Play me something more than a memory
I am tired of the sounds of black and white.

My mind does not work the way it is supposed to
You tell me that's okay. Artists' minds never do.
So why is that when you play, all I see is blue?
All I feel is pain and all I smell is vermouth?
Synesthesia, so they say, because I could not tell you
The difference between a harmony and a hue
Nor the taste of wine and feel of a corkscrew
Nor why, when when you're away, I so miss you. 

So let me take you where no one will hear
As I tell you everything with my eyes
I am no musician, so I will just have to show
What exactly is on my mind
How strange the courage to speak the truth
Nov 16
Sydney's picture

A Blackberry Pie

Nov 10
Layjmo's picture

I'm Sorry, But...


I'm Sorry, But...

I’m sorry, but...
What are we teaching the kids these days?
Are we teaching them to go along with whatever the most dominant person says?
Don’t have opinions, just move on, avoid distress.

I’m sorry, but…
That’s not going to work for me.
Why is it considered bad when someone states they have a side?
When they want to do or be one thing over another?
Saying “I don’t care,” “whatever,” “it doesn’t matter to me...”
Makes you a better person, the desired person, more so than the one who actually knows what they want?

I’m sorry, but …
That just doesn’t seem right to me.
Why is it good not to have a preference?
I’m always told that I care too much.
I always try not to care.

I’m sorry, but...
Remind me again why I don’t want to care?
Why is that wrong, and bad, and strange, and different?
Nov 06

All Fall Down

If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police:
she leaves behind cups and mugs
stained with her lip-prints
(they're like fingerprints,
but instead of DNA you find
swirly moons
made of glossy
brown, matte pink, creamy red,
and they circle the rims
as if marking their territory as hers,
all hers.

If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police:
she leaves behind petals
from roses, daisies and
dandelions,
their dewy hearts forming
a trail of beauty,
and even though some people
see them as weeds,
she always knew that
they were worth so much more,
and from her love
came a trail of their
broken bodies.

If I ever went missing,
my parents could tell the police:
she collects words like stamps,
trying to find one of every
shape, size, color, place, feeling,
and will only be happy
once she has them all
Nov 02
poem 0 comments challenge: Cooking
asdaudelin's picture

Guacamole

(Editor's Note: This piece will be featured on VPR next week.)

I chopped onions yesterday and I didn’t cry.

two avocados, a smidge of tomato, ½ a garlic clove, a few drops of lemon juice, lots of salt, a dash of pepper, our secret ingredient we always forgot the name to, and ¼ of this onion.

two avocados and a smidge of tomato.
you’ll find yourself crying wondering why this happened to you, because this happens in movies, this doesn’t happen to you.

½ a garlic clove and a few drops of lemon juice. 
you’ll find yourself crying because all you can think about is how it’s been six months without her but everyone around you is happy and the day still continues on.

lots of salt and a dash of pepper.
Nov 02
asdaudelin's picture

Guacamole-sound

I chopped onions yesterday and I didn’t cry.

two avocados, a smidge of tomato, ½ a garlic clove, a few drops of lemon juice, lots of salt, a dash of pepper, our secret ingredient we always forgot the name to, and ¼ of this onion.

two avocados and a smidge of tomato.
you’ll find yourself crying wondering why this happened to you, because this happens in movies, this doesn’t happen to you.

½ a garlic clove and a few drops of lemon juice. 
you’ll find yourself crying because all you can think about is how it’s been six months without her but everyone around you is happy and the day still continues on.

lots of salt and a dash of pepper.
you’ll cry when her favorite song comes on and all you can do is scream the lyrics that you used to sing with her.

our secret ingredient we always forgot the name to.
you’ll cry at old pictures of you two because it felt like any other moment when it was taken.
Oct 26

20/20 Vision / The Sun Will Die

The year I turn eighteen,
our atmosphere will release
the last particle of helium
Into space.

I was born in the
2nd
Year of the
2nd
Millenium,
On the 20th

and the 2nd atomic element
will leave our planet in 2020,
2 years from now.

If the universe is made up of math,
all algebra
glimmering with geometry,
tinted in trig
and cradled in calculus,
Then tell me,

Is 18 an equation where if
1 is singularity
and 8 is upright infinity,
then 18= adulthood?

But of course no mathematician will answer me
till I solve for that constant,
find the double of fear,
the square root of censure
round to significance -

To 18
to having
rights a
Vote a
Voice....
To be a Person.

A person
That  forgets anyone with less than
2 digits painted under their eyes,
Oct 12
m.fredella's picture

Changes


A woman hurries down the street, her pale hands pulling a coat tighter against the cold. Her long auburn hair tumbles down her back in loose waves. The brisk air bites at her nose and cheeks, turning them a rosy pink. The red scarf she wears around her neck pops against her paling skin and dark coat. Her tan, freckled skin and blond hair from Summer is gone, along with the glowing, golden brown hair from Spring. The tips of her hair are already fading into a muddy brown color, for winter is coming. Her breath puffs out through crimson lips, wafting like a cloud of smoke in the cold air. Her shoes click-clack loudly on the cracked pavement, drawing the attention of others. She walks with purpose, shoulders squared and head high. She pops in a sea of people, all in different stages of transformation. Red, orange, yellow and brown hues surround her on all sides. A rush of warm bodies, pumping hearts, and hurried strides.
Oct 07

the steps of making tea


i have never found myself in poetry,
but i think i may have found myself in your arms
as we sit in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle;
your soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite
as you silently boil the water. 

you have careful fingers as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs. i remember the
gentle pressure of those fingers twisted in my hair. 

curled green leaves lay with small jasmine flowers,
Sep 20

If I Could Fold the World

Once I folded an origami rose,
Layers of curled petals spiralling,
Gently leaning back in the sun,
Wrapping in close to itself.

Imagine if I could stretch my arms and reach,
miles and miles
grasping
the North Pole with one hand,
the South Pole with the other.
Folding the northern tip of Canada down to the equator.

People would dance, arms curled around each other,
The world would gently lean back towards the sun,
The world would wrap people in close to itself.
If only I knew how.

The instructions are not folded away in a drawer,
Hidden among layers of paper.
Leaning back into my imagination’s sunfire,
I must find my own way,
Wrapping my hands close around the idea,
that will let me fold the world.
Sep 18

Sunset at Puget Sound

Sep 09

dancing with the sun

6:37 PM.
early september.

follow me,
called the sun.

and so we did.

up and over the hill,
bike wheels on dirt road
cool breeze in loose hair
the world on fire.

an open field
tinted by the filter of late summer. 

we run and spin and smile and talk and sing and laugh and live.

the world is broken.
it's battered and bloody and bruised
damanged and disfigured and distressed.

but it's also this,
whole and joyful and jubilant. 

we're alive.

and so
we dance with the sun. 

8:24 PM
early september.

it will get better,
whispers the sun.

we forget we ever doubted otherwise. 
Sep 04

Women Stand Up

At camp we play a game,
Called Women Stand Up.
We stand up for what we’ve accomplished,
We stand up when we’ve been hurt,
And we stand up for our truth.

Women stand up.
All of the intelligent engineers,
Painters, and singers.
The brilliant architects, chemists,
Mechanics and dancers.
Stand up,
Not just because you are a women,
But because you’ve accomplished something amazing,
You have been you.

To the non-believers,
Don’t be surprised at what we can do.
For the world tries to seperate women and education,
Just as much as they try to seperate art and science.
Unfortunately for them,
We can’t be classified as “art people” or “science people”,
We can't be stopped by your inability to innovate,
We aren’t just “people”.

The headlines won’t read: “First women to do…”,
They will simply state: “First to do…”.
Because when we succeed,
Aug 21

Cadillac Mountain Sunrise

Taken atop Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park. 
Hundreds of people had come to watch the sunrise, more than I had ever seen. They came to watch something that happens every day, literally! The sun rises every single day of the year and we don't come outside to watch it. Something about being on a mountain makes people want to wake up early to go watch the single most reliable event in the world. I pondered this for a while, questioning why I too did this.