Feb 01
essay challenge: Lifeline

Lifeline: A YWP Project of Prose and Trees

To really feel a forest canopy we must use different senses, and often the most useful one is the sense of imagination. -Joan Maloof

Nov 21

A New Hand

It is a long road from brink to brink--
An episode a night, a softly steaming cup to drink steadily from
It is no surprise that once the first apple falls--
far and fast enough to fly--that once the grass is littered with fruit, gaily dancing men and women
procure these blushing children and brand them anew

There is a great loss in those who bore it first, once deals are done and taken from your
hands, borne again in a new grasp, that of an open palm,
keeping you at arm's length instead of tightened clasp

These fingers are loosely curled now, once you reach the end--
there is nothing to be ashamed of, here, nothing waiting for the bending, 
the breaking
Nothing to mend--


Nov 21

A Shame Under The Divine

It is a shame to see--a heart trapped in place by divinity
A shame to continue, to honor the life, to burn the wick, revive the light
A belief is surely, now, conviction, and bred to consume, a fabric within
its brightened plume
Of molted whim and cornered heart, a Goddess cannot spin the Earth, 
bu to her whim, she is given the power--to press and pull on every hour
This is to be a final rhyme--a telling, sweetened by the time, the ruination of a mind,
comes from the floor, not only the sky
Oct 27

The sparrow

Upon my windowsill, this window by the door--a bright sparrow sat, his eyes trained onthe floor 

Beside him, then, the curtains billowed from their perch, joining his eyes by the sill, peering over 
the edge and filling out, the sweetness of air in their girth

This sparrow, now, he stays and sighs and sways,spins his wings through molten gold and their rays 
Oct 27

I catch the lark

I catch the lark within the day
It curves my neck toward the sky
I slip my fingers 'round its neck, 
a looming figure, these of angered while
I shall be reciting these without respite, a turning of will
An age or two has burnt the sky, 
little figures meant to set aflame
This bird, she watches patiently, but catchers, all, claim the same

Oct 11

The corners of the sky were white

The corners of the sky were white—the center of them blue 
I curled my fingers ‘round the edges and bled frost inside them, too 

I watched the sun disappear behind great walls of fog— 
The day belonged to the chill, it seemed, the new morning 
I found the elegance of the lost evening disarming, an unparalleled deity expunged—

I suppose now we know—
We cannot trust new judgments—
We must not be content to end the old—

These changes, not but the growth of flesh and blood, but those that juxtapose—
Of dirt and bark and brine
To connect the world and every wonder—
To feel the coiling cold—
To feel it’s fall, the crests in its rise
Oct 10


I am, as they say, a romantic. I visualize such things in my head constantly, flowers and slow dances and nights spent beneath the glow of one hundred million stars. I play out scenarios in my mind — and have been doing this continuously since I was young, dragging out a particular story for days on end, creating backstories and betrayals and personality traits. I get attached to these characters I create, though I have never written them down — nor written about them — in my life. These beings, who live and breathe inside my skull, a pounding of my imagination set aflame by my willingness to allow it to flourish, are my greatest creation. Pen and paper are thought and muscle tissue, the edges of words scraped against my brain matter.
Oct 03

The Will of the Wind, Part 4

There were many things that Jax had managed to carry herself through--coming back from the dead chief among them--but she had not found a reason to prepare herself for the surprise of seeing a man on the battlefield--on the contrary, her entire body froze up in astonishment, and her eyes widened in their sockets, so large it felt as if they were pushing against her skull.

Not just any man, either. A human man, on the side of the Ocassus. 

The man in the middle of her vision slid his helmet off of his head and threw it to the side, watching Jax with skepticism in his eyes, hand clenching at the sword at his hip. For a moment, both warriors watched each other, eyes connected, armor open, thoughts seemingly exposed, until the booming crash of a large explosion lit up the night with flames and fire. 

Oct 02

The setting sun paints the sky a velvet pink--

The setting sun paints the sky a velvet pink--
delicate, so close my palms sweat with their 
phantom warmth

Warmth, for the clouds are red, 
and these days are short

Warmth, for these eyes have seen countless 
days of bitter cold

Of bitter hearts, of bitter minds

A sip of viscid anger, too
Oct 02

Little pebbles will tumble down little hills–

Little pebbles will tumble down little hills–
days will pass while these beings are made,
grown between silt and sand

Made continuous, foreign, and jagged, 
smoothed by time and love, compassion
A being made of rock, of sorts, 
A being made to certain fashion

We may not absorb even a quantum of such change–
we may never see it, and for that, I worry–
For new souls, I'm sure, the days will change, the lights
will turn, a color of uncertain hue 

We may never understand–
Never experience
                  And will we ever feel 
But for your ignorance, I am grateful to
I cannot guess what knowledge would do

Sep 21

Rejection is Better Than Silence

I'm not even going to pretend--I know it's difficult, not knowing me, barely aware that there could be a face behind the words you've read online, the pain and ecstasy and everything in-between. I suppose I've written in first-person so often, it's numbed you all to the fact that I'm not writing about someone else--it's me. God, of course, it is. I can't be anyone else--I could never write or laugh or smile or cry or scream like someone else. I could never, ever be someone else, even if I cut myself open and pried my flesh apart, picked my brain from my skull and switched it out, scratched and tore at my face until it wasn't mine, couldn't be mine. Bled through my flesh, rebirthed from the blood on my skin--someone new, someone better, someone who got everyone and everything she liked. So, today, right now, whoever comes across this gets to see exactly what I write--and know who it is on the other side. 
Sep 09


Today, in my Biology class, we started a unit on the base criteria that defines things as 'alive'. We were instructed, first, to make our own lists, with the assistance of our partners, and then we were to inspect the objects she had for us, and to define them the way we saw fit, what with our initial reactions and then with how it fit the criteria we had previously written. It was, in part, deathly boring, and I don't wish to go anywhere near another bush bean for a while, thanks. However, I learned enough. Really! I'm not so blase as all that. It was educational, but that doesn't mean it was interesting. However, even if the experience wasn't so scintillating, the course-material was mildly interesting. Interesting enough that I sat and thought about it for a while after.
Sep 08

This sensation

This sensation sticks in my chest--eager
I let it control my body 
with its cold coils, I let it drown my 
lips in the burning liquid of its release 

I watch the world float along behind me, 
reaching with branches like desperate, clawing 
bludgeoned for disrespect
Sep 08

Free Speech, Free Will, Freedom

I was asked once how I felt about speeches. If I enjoyed doing them, for one thing, and if I liked writing them, for another. I replied, simply, with, "Do I like to write them, or am I good at writing them?" That is the question. For a while afterward, she sat down and began to ponder this notion, blinking heavenward and lost in deep thought. At that moment, I swallowed hard, clenched my fingers together, and watched her. And, somewhere in-between the minutes of watching her, I forgot about our conversation altogether. I forgot about her altogether. And I began to think about more than just 'speeches' and 'likes' and 'dislikes'. I began to think about myself, and the things that I enjoy. I began to think about everything. 

No. I don't like doing speeches. They're absolutely terrifying. Especially if they're garnered toward one person, or if that one person is the only one in the room. Makes the whole thing too damn personable, really. 
Sep 07

Loss--Mine, Yours, And All Those Before

Recently, my freshman class began its annual "student council/student politicians" elections. I ran for president, my friend ran for secretary, another ran for Freshman Representative, and another went for Vice. I mean, I suppose I could count him as a friend. I guess he's more like an acquaintance, but that's beside the point. The point is, I lost. Apparently, since I couldn't go to school because of the COVID outbreak pertaining to the staff is making its way around, I lost badly. Or maybe not so badly, since the conversation I had with one of my friends went roughly like this. 

Me: Was it close?

Her: no

Me: Wow. Well, good for her.