Rotten

Something is rotten in high school.

The students are candid and raw

Like a slab of rank meat

That has been sitting on the counter for a few days.

The meat is unavoidable.

Something about talking is rotten.

They talk and don’t consider.

Or they consider too much.

They don’t consider that other people talk.

It isn’t just them.

No one keeps secrets.

Caring is rotten.

They talk about things that are useless.

They care about things that don’t matter.

They pry and they tell and they spread.

They don’t

Want to be out of the loop.

Being out of the loop is rotten.

They care because they want to be a part of something.

They want to be involved.

They don’t want to be alone.

They don’t

Want to be out of the loop.

Something in the teenage brain is rotten.

That gushy pink slimy material that should be housing questions

On why the sky is blue and

What happened in history during the 1930s in Senegal is instead

Housing questions on why that girl was crying

In the hall today

Between third and fourth period.

The societal brain is rotten.

It has been poisoned.

It has decayed.

Growing up is rotten.

It is just a stage of growing up,

It is our society growing from infants

To men and women.

It is our society growing down.

Is our history rotten?

Were

Teenagers decades ago acting the same way?

It could be a generational thing.

This is a part of evolution, or better yet,

The beginning of the apocalypse.

An apocalypse would be rotten.

The girls become savage

Like in “Mean Girls” at the fountain.

The whole globe breaks out into a fight.

Knives thrown,

Guns shot,

Girls and boys wrestle and punch.

In fifty years I hope our high school won’t be rotten.

My dad reminisces on the good ol’ days.

High school has changed.

The girls were still gossiping and doing hair

And make up back then.

The guys were still flirting

And trying to be men.

Something is high school must be rotten

In our day and age,

In our society,

In our teenagers.

It can’t be cleaned up.

I am from by Mo Clements

I am from a falls girls team were the passion to win drives us.

I am from that feeling you get when you step on to that field before a big game.

I am from tough practices, over eating team dinners, and the victory of winning.

I am from one team one dream.

I am from two best friends who are my sisters.

I am from a friday night football game.

I am from a driven sister, a hardworking brother and a open minded younger sister.

I am from a good women loved by a real good man.

I am from a strong religious strong moral’d family.

I am from a sinful brother who's younger sister looks up to.

I am from walking on the edge.

I am from a girl who has grown and learned from her mistakes.

I am from a girl who tries to make everyone happy by taking on way to much.

I am from alway's taking in that person with a broken wing.

I am from over coming the impossible.

I am from achieving my goals.

I am from knowing what I want.

I am from a rusted out maroon pick up.

I am from blasting country music with the windows rolled down on a hot summer day.

I am from sunday afternoons fishing with my grandfather.

I am from the most important thing is family.

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart is veins.

Underneath my jacket is my favorite t-shirt

Underneath my t-shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart is a warm hearted person.

Underneath my car is rusted out parts.

Underneath the rusted out parts is my old engine

Underneath my engine is something that still runs after a hard 15 years on the road.

Underneath my gloves are my hands

Underneath my hands is rough skin.

Underneath my rough skin is a hard working man.

-Anthony Griffin

Something is Rotten in the Life of that Child.

Something is rotten in the life of that child.
Not that you could see it,
hidden beneath her long and baggy clothes,
Yet if you go looking you could not miss the signs.
The finely raised lines that move up her wrists like rungs on a ladder.
Getting a step closer to the pain that is building inside of her
Or the burn marks from the fatal end of a cigarette.
Each representing a new level of hell,
much worse then Dante could ever describe.
Something is rotten in that child’s life.
Not that you want to see it,
behind the close doors, or the late nights.
Yet, clearly something is wrong.
those fine lines and burn marks came from someone.
If you continue searching you will find a man or woman
disguised as a parent, but far from it.
with a cigarette in one hand, a bottle in the other
and never without snide remark -
that hurts worse then the cigarette ever will.
There is something rotten in this child’s life.
Not that you will be able to believe it.
One day she will grow up.
she will become an adolescent and realize
this is not right. not normal. I am done with this.
Still trying to win the love but just wanting to get away.
Love is so far removed from this equation now.
When that next swing is swung towards the face
That will be the last straw.
There is something rotten in that child’s life.
Not that you could miss it.
Today the courts are involved.
She is getting out. Emergency Emancipation.
This child’s future is bright.
No one will take that away every again.
That rotten stench of a wanna be parent -
finally is starting to subside.

Memories of My Past

I am 12
I no longer cling tight to my mother’s side
yet, I am still timid and shy
entering middle school, this is the biggest step
no longer a tom-boy
but not quite a girlie-girl
too old to play with toys
too young to wear the lipstick that glides across my mother’s lips
now at 18, I want to relive those familiar days
I still long for a sweeping good-night kiss from my father
and the security of clinging tight to my mother’s side
I want to stop in my tracks and reverse,
to spend all my $2.50 at can-depot
catch fireflies on a warm summer night
to lace up my Air Jordan’s
and run out of the locker room, basketball in hand
just one more time
but relishing on my past will do no good
these days will soon blend together
it’s time for a new chapter

Underneath

Underneath my mask is the face of the little girl I used to be
The little girl who never judged nor harmed
The little girl who danced around the tree on Christmas eve with glow in her eyes
The little girl who could brighten your day with the touch of her hand

Underneath my tear drop is a hidden key
So hidden, not even the receiver knows the answer
So hidden, confusion becomes an issue
So hidden, the world can not understand

Underneath this shy girl is someone waiting
Waiting, for the right moment to shine
Waiting, for someone to understand
Waiting, for things to change

Underneath this mask hides
The girl who dances in the mirror when no one is watching
The girl who sings in the shower thinking no one can hear
The girl who loves life and wants life to love back

The Arranged Marriage

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

Be careful, frightened one, with whom you share,

Emotions are the hardest things to hide,

Because you know he's cheated and he's lied.

And when you settle to lay it all bare,

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

And he'll be drifting to you. In the tide

His grisly arms will catch you in their snare.

Emotions are the hardest things to hide.

And you will someday be a haunted bride,

So saddle up and fall into his care.

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

It's not easy though I know you've tried

To split your mind and from your feeling tear.

Emotions are the hardest things to hide,

Your feelings may be hard to set aside.

And though you want to kick your legs and swear

There's no one here in whom you can confide.

Emotions are the hardest things to hide.

Thin Air

I

Don't let me alone. Don't

let me alone in the shadow of the rain.

Don't give me a token;

an umbrella to envelope this damp body. I need

the human form to shield away

the fog.

II

It's time, again, for the bomb to fall. It's time again

for this plane, this little fly in the great ethereal blue

to drop it's charge.

Clocks stop.

Castles, skyscrapers, compounds

crystallize and sink, like dust,

into the ground.

Across the river stands a sentinel,

silent, still, watching

as the airborne assassin eats the city whole.

III

In Japan, after the acid rain has fallen

after the flowers have withered into brown decay

There remains a small box

mummified in the ruins. It contains

a book, perhaps a diary

a dress, folded four times

perhaps belonging to a geisha

and a figurine of a child in a baby swing,

with chipped jade eyes.

Perhaps this enigma belonged

to a girl wrapped in the residue of catharsis.

I am

I am 18 years old

& I am making my future,

while relishing in my past.

One step closer to the end, and one step closer to

a whole new beginning.

I am 18 years old

& yet I want to be 10 again, to be a carefree child

with not a single worry in the world,

knowing that the future was a whole world away.

I am 18 years old

& there is something due everyday,

a paper

a scholarship

an essay

a decision.

I am 18 years old

& I feel like that indecisive 15 year old,

but this time my decision is not about

waffles or pancakes.

I am 18 years old

& all I want is to spend each day with my father,

knowing that these are the last times

I will be able to come home after class and have him ask how it went.

I am 18 years old

& I am realizing that the person I am going to miss the most is my dog,

who may not be there to greet me the next time I come home.

I am 18 years old

& I cannot even fathom my life outside of my small town.

I am 18 years old

& all I want to do is sleep in MY bed one last time.

Lovely to Meet You

I will always love someone,
and that someone
will probably love another,
and the one after that
will love some other,
and the one after that.
Well, that’s up to them,
Just as it’s up to me.
To keep on loving
until I find that someone
who will love me back.
For he, or she, or whatever they may be,
Was loving all along.
Just to find me.

Equality

I am not of your expectations.
I am me. Not just anyone, Not everyone.
Just me.
The things I like, and the friends I love are just like the things you like and the friends you love,
with a few variations in between.
But, that’s what I am, and that’s what is this country, and this world.
We are all just variations of the same thing.
A spectrum of the human being.
Religion says we are all born from Adam and Eve,
Science says we are born from the same microscopic atoms left by stardust.
I like to believe it’s both.
So don’t go on your high horse thinking you’re alpha among this wolf pack,
because,
I’m right up there with you buddy, right up there among the other 6 billion people, who are all the same but not.

Sunset On A Kingdom

I wish we could play again.
Just like we used to,
on the rusty old swing set behind your house.
I’ll push. And you pull.

Like Mona Lisa, your smile is ambiguous.

But then, every thing about you seems like a Renaissance painting.
The soft strokes of tea-stained hair and porcelain skin.
No blemishes. No mistakes.
Just perfect.

You are perfect.

Remember when we skipped rocks across that lake we found?
No one was around,
so we danced along the shore, threw sand and dirt up into the air, and yelled at the vibrant sun,
claiming this land as our own.
And when our lungs couldn’t bear any more strain,
we collapsed and laid next to one another.

You whispered to me,

“I wish the sun would stay forever,
that way the night would never come.”

But,
God has gone with the sun, and has taken what is dear with him,
what was dear to you.

The purity of perfection is gone.

So
I’ll be the puller.
And you?
You are the pusher.

Cobwebs in the Corners

When I was little
Evil lived next door
as a stranger
with good intentions

His house was made
of rickety planks
sagging together
all painted a dull shade
of sadness

One day he invited me in
and I stared
at the broken promises pickling in jars
and the lost hopes cobwebbing the corners
and the faded dreams
scuttling beneath the floorboards

But mostly I stared at his gnarled hands
which he told me were once
as beautiful and pale
as my own
but they had rippled and twisted
with each failed attempt
at doing the right thing

And then he asked me
if I’d like to stay with him forever
and twirl in his dances
of sinful delight
where I’d taste a freedom
that the good never know
but though I knew his words to be true
I ran out the door and tried not to look back because
I remembered
his tortured hands

just enough to get by

this poem consist of nine words.

it still counts.

Replacement

Everyone looked at me,
“You are just like him.”
Cherry pie, lights on at the dinner table.
They clung to the common similarities.
Desperate, hoping for one thing that could bring him
Back.

But it didn’t, I wasn’t him.
He was gone.
So I stayed strong, hoping that would be
Enough
For my family to move on.
But they didn’t.

Tears continued to fall,
Depression lingered in the corners
For years, never fully
Escaped.

I tried to be what everyone needed.
To banish the sadness and stop
The cycle of salty water rolling
Down their faces.
They cried. Yet I couldn’t.
And no one noticed.


I am 17

& the whole wide world is open for me. College, gap year, military or work. There are too many choices to pick form. Mom , Dad, Aunts and Uncles, Teachers and Friends are telling me, make the choice. Make the choice of what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to be. And all I want to say back is

I am 17

& I want to be sneaking out of the house to my boyfriends, having a party when my parents are away. But I don’t.

That is the key here.

I don’t because I have their trust and I don’t want to loose it. I don’t because I listen to what they have to say and I respect when they tell me no. I don’t because they raised me right. But still Mom , Dad, Aunts and Uncles, Teachers and Friends are telling me, make the choice. Make the choice of what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to be. And all I want to say back is

I am 17

& I don’t want to be at home filling out applications. I want to be driving too fast, spending too much money and being with friends. But I don’t.

That is the key here.

I don’t because I know that my future matters. I don’t because I know that college is expensive and I know my family doesn’t have a lot of money to pay for it. I don’t because they raised me right. But still Mom , Dad, Aunts and Uncles, Teachers and Friends are telling me, make the choice. Make the choice of what you want to be, who you want to be and where you want to be. And all I want to say back is

I am 17

& I know my life matters, I know that I need to fill this out and sign that. But if you want me to be successful and live my life, they let me be me. Let me sneak out of the house, let me throw a party and get caught, let me drive to fast, get a ticket, spend all my money on one thing and then learn the value of work and let me be with my friends. All I have left with them is this one summer. But I don’t.

That is the key here.

I tell them,

I am 17

& I am going to kick college’s ass. I am going to spend late nights in the library studying and writing papers. I am going to attend all my classes. I am going to become a vet, have a family and make a lot of money. But as for right now, I am going to sneak out of the house to see my boyfriend, throw a party when your away, drive to fast just cause I can, spend all my money on expensive coffee and hang out with my friends, just for one last summer. Then I’ll make the choices. What I’m going to be, Who I’m going to be, Where I’m going to be.

High School Career

My high school basketball career has come and gone
My last game in my maroon and white
Players sitting, heads bowed
Sweaty jerseys covering eyes
Anguish in our hearts
Yet no one wants to show it
Silence in the locker room
Then Coach walked in
We picked up our heads and caught his eyes
He stood for a moment his gaze pouring over each of us
He had emotion in his eyes, when he spoke emotion in his voice
He spoke of our season, of the Gorham tradition
A tradition and brotherhood of which we were all now a part of
He didn’t dwell on our dismal record nor our lack of accomplishments
Rather he spoke of our effort, our work ethic our pride
Tears in his eyes cracking of his voice
He was proud of us, no other team did he wish he could coach
Those words meant the most to us as a team.

I Don't Know

A poem for English is due today,
Yet nothing has come to mind I must say.
Soccer, baseball, skiing are all a thought,
So is the time I made the winning shot.
But when it comes down to it I don’t know,
I might as well write one badly, so-so.
Here it goes my effort exuded,
All nouns, adjectives I know included.
Pets, sports, hobbies, no idea where to start,
Maybe instead of thoughts I’ll try my heart.
Hmm feelings, maybe I’ll give them a go.
Pain, sadness, happiness from head to toe.
I think, but nothing comes, oh darn what next?
Damn! Herlihy says it must be complex.
Well there goes my thoughts along with the bell,
Out the door I go knowing I’ll hear hell.

Shelby

You sit there weeping begging for me to come back to you.
Waiting for me to kiss you as you tie your shoes.
Ready for me to attack with kisses upon kisses.
You act as though I’m not with you, as though I have left you for good.
I can see the pain on your face with me gone.
I am with you every hour of every day.


You think back to times we shared.
Going on walks in the neighborhood when we were both young.
Laying in bed together falling asleep.
Playing in the snow with you throwing snow balls at me.
Me tackling you into the snow with all the force I have.


I follow you through the day always by your side.
I watched you as you became victorious in something you love.
I watched as you lead a group of young kids to something very rare.
I watched you as you spent nights wishing for me to come back.
I stand beside you now as you write this poem.

Late Night Talks

I am from a father whose only income was picking potatoes, from a mother who took care of 7 other siblings.
I am from dirt roads, back woods, PBR, and Jason Aldean.
I am from a society where Sunday is just like any other day.
I am from trips to the County, cribbage, and family friends that are as good as any.
I am from a household where the person you thought you resented most, has taught you the most about life.
I am from a 19 person sisterhood, win together- loose together.
I am from a team that was expected to win that semi-final game. And Didn’t.
I am from a childhood where visiting the same town when you’re younger means life, laughter, and love. But going back as you get older only means death.
I am from bonfires, Chadbourne Ridge, Middle Rd. and a great group of friends.
I am from Gorham PD, Buxton PD, Groville, and the mini mart.
I am from a father who opened his own fishing tackle, archery, and hunting shop called ‘Barnes Outfitters.’
I am also from a father who gave up his two stores in Freeport and Portland, to be with his oldest daughter.
I am from long nights scooping ice cream with my Beal’s girls.
I am from an Uncle, 4 Grandparents, and many more, who were buried in the Presque Isle Cemetery.
I am from mud on my jeans, long nights, trees being chopped down, and loud trucks.
I am from a daycare where I thought the kids were my brothers and sisters, and our provider was our mom.
I am from a little girl, standing over her Grandparents casket's, at the age of Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
I am from a desire, a dream, and a vision in 2009.
I am from a Polaris 550 fan cooled super sport snowmobile; it gets me there.
I am from teachers that have taught me the world, and some that have taught me the classroom.

Thanks Kevin Rudolf!

I am 3 and I am speeding down the road in my bright pink Barbie jeep, the warm sun kissing my shoulders, my mother chasing me as I drive away, feeling the 3 mile per hour wind in my hair.
I am 4 and I have a baby brother that I am supposed to love but the only feeling that I have for him is jealousy, jealousy of the attention and the love that was once mine.
I am 6 and I am what they call a late bloomer. I am finally ready to take the plunge and remove my training wheels, no matter how many times I scuff my knees on the tar. 
I am 8 and I have transferred schools 3 times, making and losing friends as I go, hoping that one day I will be able to enjoy the feeling of stability like the other kids.
I am 10 and I have a slip and slide in my back yard. I glide across the hot blue plastic in my pink polk-a-dot bathing suit, crashing into the refreshing puddle that greets me at the end.
I am 13 and I have finally grown the nerve to stand up to my Father. I have finally decided that enough is enough, and I will not allow him to bully my brother and I as we sit in fearsome silence.
I am 16 and for the first time I have realized that my actions affect others more than they affect me. Reality has officially given me a slap in the face and has told me that it is time to grow up.
I am 17 and I am finally at the place that I need to be and God has graced me with a life that has prepared me for the future that I must handle alone.
I am 17 and my maturity tramples that of my Mother.
I am a child forced to abandon the days of jumping on the trampoline in the summer sunshine for a boring job.
I am 17 and even though there are things that I wish I could still do, I know that the decisions I make will be worth it in the end.
I am 17 and I have made my motto for life, “Go big, or go home!”
I am 17 and I’ve made it.

the key to understanding this poem is in the title.

This entire poem is a metaphor

for an idea that you simply are not deep enough to comprehend.

because there must be some reason for me to say

that “the tree had embraced me with smooth, cool gray branches”

instead of saying “I was in the tree that was cold and gray.”

the tree means something, doesn’t it?

I mean maybe I’m dealing with the loss of a beloved pet,

or maybe my mother never really loved me,

or maybe I had just acheived something great.

I must have been experiencing a lot of pain or happiness when I wrote this.

any analysis of this poem should consist of at least 450 words.

all misspellings and grammatical errors are intentional artistic choices made by the poet.

so you should probably say something about that in the analysis.

A boy with a hatchet, a tree and an arm

A boy with a hatchet, a tree and an arm

tied taut to his alibis, for he meant her no harm,

for he knew she would soon, let her branches grow free

but for the time he might rest his eyes in the sea.

With a rust covered anchor and an ax at his side,

his boat would hold steady, through the oncoming tide

as the tree would grow taller and the foxes would dance

the boy thought it folly and scoffed at the chance.

But the boy would grow lonely, and the tree would also rot

Clink! Clink! went his anchor, and away float his yacht.

But now the tree missed the boy she'd once loved,

away, floats his body, away floats her love.

Go Fish

The pouring rain that ran down my face

provided a cover for the tears

I was at an unfamiliar place

to visit someone who I had once known so well.

Deep gashes scarred his wrist

as well as my mind.

I was light headed as he got closer

we hugged, I held on tight.

Go fish had never been so disturbing

I wanted to scream

why would you do this?

But I couldn't.

Instead I held all of the emotion

In the lump in my throat

that burned as I attempted to hold back the tears.

I choked on my words

and when a tear escaped

I quickly wiped it, so no one saw.

I wanted him to come home

to erase everything that had happened

But it wouldn't ever be that easy.

It was not something a 12 year old would forget.

The memories of the past years felt like a lie

chasing him through the tall feathery grass

in the warm summers sun

was a thought impossible to grasp.

How did he end up here

such a carefree boy that once

I had looked up to and wanted to be just like.

I had been wrong, I did not want to be like him.

I was let down

unable to fully understand

why this would happen to someone

who was so loved and talented.

Come Fall

Your blue eyes twirled with sea foam

Bore into mine as we lay

Each of us knowing

As the other sputters to say.

Though words cannot allege

The purity of what is felt

As we lay beneath this blanket

Holding not a shed of doubt

And someday this will change

When the leaves turn to gold

We'll be left with only memories

I'll have your t-shirt left to hold

But for now all's okay

As long as we don't remove the mask

And don't let slip the words

We're both terrified to ask

Performance

My mother needed a new heart but

believed it could wait.

After all, it was my first dance recital

and I dreamed of my own spotlight.

Dressed up in shiny sequins, I imagined I would sashay

across the stage, shining grin

wave wildly to my mom in the front row

who would feel too proud to be sick.

My mother sent out the invitations as if it were

our wedding, asked for RSVPs by mail.

My grandmother came that day,

the one who later brought me to her house

fed me Wheaties and asked me to finish every speck

so I would stay big and strong even if

my mother did not.

In the end, my mother failed.

wrote the wrong time down by two hours so when we arrived,

my spotlight had already been

turned out. We have the photos,

my mother and I

stand with mascara rivers running through our

frozen smiles. We were experts in make-believe

almost convinced of our own

happy ending.

Differences

Whenever I try to focus
my mind whirls with a collection of colors and words and music
but when I try to think,
nothing happens.

I guess I've never been one for following directions
I've never been one to work well on command
because when I try to think,
nothing happens.

Nothing.
Like everything in front of me doesn't exist
Like nothing in front of me hasn't really been there
Like the world has twisted up into a tight, tangled ball
of unkempt shoelaces and forgotten hopes.
And so I do,
Nothing.

A Poem on Poems

I was told to put up a poem,

Our souls, she said, we should show 'em,

“To Science!” I said,

And into my head,

Popped thoughts of xylem and phloem.

Yet, a poem 'bout science is boring,

And this poem-thing I am deploring,

So my poem will

Explain how I feel,

And use lim'rick, to keep you from snoring.

I did try to write it last week,

But at TV I did take a peek,

And my poem did not

Get written a lot,

I'll admit, my chances seemed bleak.

Then I did try to write it last night,

But The Simpsons sure put up a fight,

And all that I did

Though my mother forbid,

Was sit around (to my delight).

Though I surely do prefer this fate,

To the thought of making this great,

So bear with me here,

As I won't adhere,

To the style that makes me irate.

She told me to show off my soul.

I think I accomplished that goal.

For my soul is full of

All of the above.

Though this wasn't too bad, on the whole.

My Best Friend

My goodnight kisser when I'm tucked under the covers,

my story-teller when I need help falling asleep,

my cheerleader when I'm trying my hardest,

and my motivator when I'm not.

My shoulder to lean on when tears drip down my rosy cheeks,

my lover when I'm empty, feeling like no one is there,

my buddy to laugh with when I want to share a joke,

and my inspiration to be strong.

You're the one that always raised me to be an independent and polite little girl,

you're the hand I reach for to pull me up when I can't lift off the ground,

you're the voice that scolds my mistakes and

and the voice that encourages my goals.

I love you for the long drives you make to my sporting events,

I love you for when you have to put up with my stubbornness,

I love you for the dinner you make me every night,

and I love you for giving me life.

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin,

And the two red lines my cat engraved on my hand

And the bruise that blossomed from my abrupt encounter with a protruding wall,

And the inky black smudge that my pen left behind,

And the long slender scar that curls around my right arm,

A fading reminder of multiple bicycle collisions into the mailbox,

Which now slumps, permanently, to one side

Marking the entrance of the house where we

No longer live.

My battered skin conceals my heart and

My unblemished memories.

By Sara Martin

A Fall to Remember

Sprinting as fast as my 2 year old legs can carry me.

Running and running without a care.

My mother is behind me, telling me to slow down.

She tries to hold me back, but I slip away.

Because I'm 2 years old and running,

And nothing can stop me now.

Around the corner I turn,

Face to face with the stairs.

Without a look back I charge down.

Missing the first step,

Missing the second.

Screaming as I fall.

Tumbling, tumbling,

All the way down.

Wood strikes my face.

My knees are hit next.

My face bounces once again.

Then my back takes its turn.

Head over heels I tumble,

Unable to see the ground.

Falling and falling,

All the way down.

The granite floor comes up quickly.

My mother is speechless with fear.

Slowly I crawl to my feet.

Looking around I laugh.

Somehow I arise unscathed.

Once more I'm 2 years old and running,

And nothing can stop me now.

Oh, the Insanity

If insanity

=

repetition of the

same

action

with the

expectation of

different results

I must be

crazier than most.

Waking up

every day

at

5

freaking

30

(or later if I'm unlucky)

expecting not to be tired

expecting to wake up

whistling and happy

like those cartoons-

the fact that that doesn't happen

must prove my insanity.

Going to school

expecting to do well

expecting to be acknowledged by my classmates

must be complete insanity

because

none of that transpires.

Running to work

expecting people to be friendly and tolerant

expecting to be energetic and to perform my tasks

completely and expertly

follows the definition of being unhinged.

But I feel quite normal

not crazy at all.

Maybe,

just maybe,

I'm not the crazy one.

Maybe it's everyone else who's

lost it.

Maybe

because I'm happy sometimes

there isn't anything bad about being

a little nuts.

Toy Soldier

Out of the sea and the sand

Crawled what was left of a man.

Arms and legs all were intact,

But weighed down by the burden he bore on his back,

He crawled amongst tufts of high grass

While the breeze pierced his flesh like sharp glass.

But he knew if he stopped he would die,

For such was his fate if he did not even try.

He was merely a pawn in a game,

Played by generals or gods without names.

The boy had no mind of his own

And into the world he crawled all alone.

Left behind bloody fields of gore,

Left behind remnants of war.

He was drawn from the fighting by love,

Drawn by a figure who called from above.

“Put down your gun and your pack,

Worry not of the coming attack.”

A goddess, beautiful and bright,

Revealed to him a path that led out of sight.

The smoke and the din were too much,

So the boy dropped the weapon he clutched,

And on his hands and his knees,

He crawled from the ocean of men to the trees.

But the boy had been deceived,

For a final dead end he perceived.

The goddess had led him astray,

He'd been led down a road and by love was betrayed.

The remnants of this beaten boy

Were only but parts of a toy.

The broken toy soldier became

Part of the earth from whence he came.

Beneath the Outside Apperance

Underneath my shirt is my skin,
underneath my skin is my heart,
underneath my heart are all those little memories no one else cares to see.
Those seemingly infinitesimal details,
boring to others, but priceless to me.

Laughing until my sides were sore and tears dripped from my eyes,
I don't even remember why,
some of the funniest moments can arise out of utter randomness.
Standing in a parking lot, or curled up in a sleeping bag
Speaking in our own little humorous language,
nobody else would understand the logic, or lack there of
but all those days, nights, and countless hours spent together
We understand the craziness, the silences, the hilarious laughter.

Reflections of the young scandalous joy friday nights brought,
nothing exceptional occurred,
other than the fact that bedtimes were disregarded!
Those late summer nights after dinner,
when we all heard the ice cream truck crawling down the road.
All we needed was a glance to mom and dad and a slight nod,
and we were bounding out the door.

Watching practiced hands glide across the key board,
where a simply knowledge of pizza preference illuminated a smile,
like it was the most meaningful gesture in the world.
Countless stories were told,
and I became fully aware of where I got that quality from!
Seeing a Christmas Tree Shop bag grasped in a hand,
completely aware that we are about to get some random gift we will never use,
but it means the world to her,
so we smile and claim we love it.

Underneath my shirt is my skin,
underneath my skin is my heart,
and underneath my heart are the people, the experiences, the memories
all the things I will never let go,
all the things my heart could not bear to lose.

Mourning

The larking daylight swings on pitched eaves.

My eyes are like honey bees.

Eastern oil smeared canvas.

Sailing up the golden

boughs. A beginning.

The living daylight. The,

Living, daylight.

Coursing, pulsing, vital, daylight.

Touched by melodious supple honey,

I am alive.

Yet beneath me there is no light.

Beneath me there is no rise.

I stand on a tomb.

A bivouac of decay.

Lifeless forms sheltering

the colony queen;

the mother.

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin,

Underneath that is my heart.

Underneath my heart is the way you told me that this would pass by too, someday,

But for now it is just the way it is.

Underneath that is the way you look at me, when you know just what I would really like to say,

Because you know how I actually feel is different from what I say.

Underneath that is how I've never fooled you with even a white lie,

Because you've known me for too long not to see straight through.

Underneath that is the way you've never turned my tears away,

Even when they become too much for you to deal with.

Underneath that is your constant forgetfulness,

But also the way you always check in at the end of the day.

Underneath that is how I fail, every time, to remain angry and withhold my forgiveness from you,

Because you have been my constant all these years and I couldn't bear to give that up.

Finished

The lights gleam down,

Creating a presence that is incomparable.

The grass is freshly cut,

Simply for the next 48 minutes.

The crowd screams, chants, and groans,

Each moment of the game.

The opposite factions collide with equal ferocity,

Leaving each other in pain,

masked by adrenaline.

Yet,

Once the grass stops being kicked up from dirty spikes,

Once the red-faced screams from coach end,

Once the swearing under breath ceases,

Once the bruises and broken bones heal,

The lights are dimmed,

The grass is left untamed,

The crowd is silenced.

The game I lived for is finished.

Off

Underneath my heart is the sun, peeking through expectant windows into my closed eyes,

And like that I am off.

Off out of my bed, sprinting barefoot like a dog just out of a cage,

Off to the kitchen, where a breakfast of crispy frosted flakes is consumed within seconds,

Off through the dewy lawn followed by the panting, elderly hound, grass sticking in between my toes,

Off sprinting down the 124 stairs, finding the speed just before a fall would be inevitable,

Off to the beach, the sand greeting my toes like a long lost friend, clutching a neon bucket and a desire to unearth any crustacean that makes itself visible to me.

Off before my brothers, trailing behind with shouts of “wait up!”

Off to the rocks, not minding the smell of low tide,

Off like a shot, to the first rock I see, swiping aside the damp seaweed in search of my first prize.

Off goes the covering of my first capture as his claws spring up in a defense mechanism that I could surely break.

Off through the air, then the sand, then the shell, my hand grasps the feisty young crab, the first of the year.

Where Were You?

Where were you when,

I was only a toddler,

my mother was still a child,

and I was now my grandmother's youngest?

Where were you when,

I was seven years old,

and all of my friends went to the father daughter dance,

and I watched?

Where were you,

when my mother was married,

to a man that would rather use his fists

than his words?

Where were you,

when, we had to turn to the police,

because you were not there to help us,

to protect us?

Where were you,

when my mother went through a divorce,

and I was left without a father,

again?

Where were you,

when she remarried to an addict,

who would rather care about his addiction,

then us?

Where were you,

when threatening phone calls,

would wake us in the night,

and we had to change the locks?

Where were you when he sued us,

because he felt entitled,

and we lost,

everything?

Where were you,

when I was 12 years old and,

my baby sisters were screaming in their cribs,

but no one was there except me?

Where were you,

during divorce number two,

and I was left to explain what happened

to the world?

Where were you,

as I stood in the bathroom mirror,

practicing a fake smile,

so no one would know?

Where were you when,

I knelt by my bed,

hands clasped, whispering prayers,

so no one would hear but you?

Where were you,

Because I was right here,

forever loyal and forever forgiving,

but where were you God?

How It Will Always Be

Who would use a storage bin cover

as an actual storage bin cover

when it'd be much better used as a diving board off the coach?

Why would the neighbors give us weird looks

for tying each other to a chair in any sort of rope we could find

to see how long it would take to get out?

Anything and everything that we imagined suddenly became a vital task.

We complimented each other perfectly;

He drew, I colored.

He slayed dragons in his video game, I cheered him on.

He was the fearless superhero, I was his handy sidekick,

keeping his Magic cards in order as he battled a friend.

Mornings we'd have our breakfast together,

wrapped up in our warm blankets with only our faces poking out.

After school we'd stay out working on our snow forts until we ran out of light

then return in the warm house for some Cocoa Crunchies and our favorite T.V. show.

This is how it was.

Now every so often he'll drive down from school,

give a quick “hey” and then return to his computer to talk to people

who he'd much rather be with.

The short conversations we have turn into arguments,

and the silence is again instilled.

The way it used to be between us seems to be from a different life.

This is how it seems.

But when my dog died, who was there for me to cry on? My brother.

When I was playing in a state senior all star volleyball match, something that meant so much to me, who had driven hours to be there in the stands? My brother.

One of his rare phone calls home to humor our mother

turning into an hour and a half conversation with me.

Having him come up behind me out of the blue after not talking for hours and picking me up, carrying me through the house, and throwing me on the couch, then just walking away.

Though it seems at times we are complete strangers,

the random little things he does reminds me how it truly is, how though some things have changed,

he's still the brother who used to sacrifice his body to protect me from flying snowballs in a battle against our neighbors.

Missed

Well his duties have lightened,

and his presence diminished

No more favors, no more late night rides

No more cheering & yelling at my big games

A constant reminder that he's not present

when his number flashes across the phone

No more goodnight kisses & no more family dinners

Although not present, he's still dependable

The kisses are replaced with phone calls

and the hugs replaced with emails

He asks how my week is, soccer, school and mom

I ramble on about everything he has missed

A late night call, a monthly visit, a long email

Make it harder no to acknowledge his absence

He asks me if I miss him and lump grows in my throat

I conjure up “YES” and quickly change the subject

Pictures and memories make it even harder to not miss

but his responsibilities are across the ocean

His love has never faded,

but his presence surely has.

Underneath My Heart Are My Memories

Underneath my shirt is my skin,

Underneath my skin is my heart,

Underneath my heart are memories only I know,

The engulfing stillness under water,

Broken at the surface by the sun's warming radiance,

And shrill screams from excited cousins splashing in the pool,

Shrill screams from the stands for the winning goal,

The chilly night air sliced by the steaming hot cocoa,

A comforting embrace to chase away the shivers,

An embrace by the boy lifting me on stage,

Scarfs and heavy down coats, save the seats in the audience,

This ballet is the true magic of my Christmas,

Like magic, lifeless winter melts as a rich green returns,

April showers bring May flowers and a new found happiness,

Loving happy, lazy days, while sleeping on the back deck.

Underneath my heart is concern,

Already missing, reminiscing, the moments I know,

Underneath my heart is love,

Adoration for the trivial instants that passed without thought,

Underneath my heart is hope,

Things won't change, they can only get better.

Underneath my heart is knowing,

Life goes on, I can't stop time from flowing.

Campfire

I can remember standing on the rocky gravel,

over the popping,

crackling fire.

The smoke rising,

blue and think,

drifting up from the leaping flames,

filling our eyes and nostrils.

My sister and I put on our goggles

from our 7 am swim classes at the lake,

so the smoke wouldn't sting our eyes as we stood over dancing flames.

The fire was hot against our gangly little legs,

all scabbed over,

from scratching bug bites,

and climbing trees.

My dad had let me help chop the kindling,

I was seven,

He said Lindsey was too young to use the axe,

but he let me.

He had just gotten up to camp tonight,

I had been up all week.

We were going on the boat in the morning,

but tonight we were just going to sit around the fire until we began to nod off...

I can draw exit signs in the dark

I can draw exits signs

In the dark.

I can’t draw them while I’m in the dark, what I mean to say is that

I can draw exit signs that are in the dark.

I’m also pretty good at drawing the dark.

But nobody gets it when I draw exit signs in the dark,

They just laugh at my art and say

“Those are just red block letters

Against a black background.”

My 4th grade art teacher asked if

Maybe I’d like to draw my exit sign

Not in the dark.

Hey lady, I’m trying to make something timeless.

Don’t you get it?

I can’t draw exit signs not in the dark because

I can’t really draw anything not in the dark

And nobody wants to look at or think about some 4th grader’s

Ugly exit sign not in the dark

Because when was the last time anybody gave a crap

About an exit sign not in the dark?

Why do you need the sign if its not in the dark?

Just look for the exit.

And besides its not about the exit or really even the dark

It’s about only seeing that.

So if I draw something else, it’s not about only seeing that, is it?

That winter, my mom drove me into the city

With all the brown building and the shiny stuff covered in grime

And took me to the back door at city hall,

Yelled at me to “go now or hold it” and then started

Helping me get into a ridiculous Victorian era costume

So I could go in front of 1,900 people

And do what I practiced doing earlier that year

And perform.

I had to show people my art.

As I walked out and turned towards those 1,900 people,

It felt better to know that I had expertly painted

Big bold strokes of dark on top of 1,900 faces.

Seeing as how it came out so well,

I kept drawing the dark over everything else I could think of.

The only thing I left were some red block letters

Showing me the way out if I needed it, which I didn’t.

I felt great in the dark with my exit sign,

And I can draw an exit sign in the dark for you

But you probably won’t get it unless you’ve been

Drawn to that exit into darkness.