Lines written in late spring, after you played me my favorite song on the guitar.

When you smile at me,
oh, I can’t bear it. I have to smile back
even if I am trying to play it cool.

Maybe it is cliché to talk about your smile.
or the fact that I can’t seem to pay attention
to anyone else
if you’re around.

But maybe the reason so many of these
thoughts I keep thinking are cliché
is not just because my thoughts
are trite and overused,
(however trite and overused they may be).

Maybe my thoughts are cliché
because there have been so many people
all around this world
who have felt this way about someone.
and there are only so many ways to describe that
butterflies in your stomach
walking on air
can’t seem to talk without
randomly having to say your name
feeling.

I just wish you didn’t have a girlfriend.

Revision: The View from Five Foot, Eleven Inches Tall

The tree in the front yard of my childhood home
doesn’t look as big as it used to.

In fact, I would be able to touch the big branch
I used to only dream of reaching
and I wouldn’t even have to stand on my tiptoes.

The world that seemed so full of wonder
doesn’t look as big as it used to, either.

As my I have grown, so has my
understanding that life doesn’t turn out
the way that you imagined it as a child.

But standing under this tree
in my old yard
under the same sun I stood under
so many years ago
I don’t feel that I’ve changed much at all.
I can feel the excitement of looking
up into the glorious blue sky
and knowing that if I reached the top
of the tree, I could
touch God’s fingertips with mine.

Trees keep you grounded.
They help you remain who you were.

Revision: The Best Kind of Laziness

The grass around my body is smooth and soft

it tickles the bare skin that touches it

my fingers and toes and elbows and ankles

feel the organic realness of this grass

I look up at the brilliant blue sky

there is one fluffy cloud

white, buoyant and happy

not lonely in its solitude

I resolve to watch this cloud

relentlessly, until I can't see it anymore

but relentlessly is a harsh word

to describe watching a cloud pass overhead

the way I watch it is more contentedly

and full of dreaming

and less like a watch dog or a prison guard

and more like the slow lapping of waves

on a quiet shore

or the soft whisper of the wind

through the screen of a porch

Revision: 4400 Deer View Road, Downstairs, On the Right

It wasn't exactly supposed to be a bedroom

It was probably intended to be more like

a small toyroom

a storage room

or a sitting room.

That's not to say I was mistreated.

although I never understood why

my twin sister

demanding her own room

meant me moving

down the hall

into the smaller room.

But after a while, I was glad I got the room

because it was my own.

It had one big picture window

that looked out onto the yard.

Of course, the window did start at ground level

so the only thing I saw was the dirt underneath

the deck.

It had just enough room to squeeze in

one trundle bed

one bureau

and one nightstand.

It went through a lot of themes.

Jungle first

complete with a potted palm tree

and neon green, high-gloss walls.

Then dragons

I am not sure why that ever happened

it was a boy's bedspread

black dragons with Asian script.

After that was Hawaiian

bright blues and greens

with hibiscus flowers.

During all of these stages,

the walls were covered in

band posters, movie posters

my favorite poems.

What made 14-year-old me me.

And then we moved.

Ars Poetica

The first thing you need to know about

planting a tree is that

it takes time.

Keep that in mind, or you will

quickly lose heart

and abandon the seed.

Secondly, do not rush

and forget to take care deciding

what kind of tree you want.

Think about the trees of your childhood

trees that bent in the harsh winds of storms

trees that budded and bloomed in spring

trees that held you in their arms.

After carefully thinking about those trees,

choose the tree you want.

The third thing to remember is that

you need to pay particular

attention to where you

plant your tree.

If you plant it too close to your house

there will be no room

and you will have to cut it down

just when it starts to grow.

If you plant it too far away

you will not be able to tend it

or watch it grow

or sit in its branches.

Another thing to remember is

that you should prune your tree.

Without pruning, your tree may die

and others will not be able to enjoy it,

and you will regret neglecting your tree.

Above all, remember that

planting

tending

and

growing

your tree

is something that only you can do.

No one else has the same exact

touch as you have.

4400 Deer View Road, Downstairs, To the Right

It wasn't exactly supposed to be a bedroom

I mean, it was probably intended to be more like

a small toyroom

a storage room

or a sitting room.

That's not to say I was mistreated

although I never understood why my twin sister

demanding her own room

meant me moving

down the hall

into the smaller room.

But after a while, I was glad I got the room

It had one big picture window

that looked out onto the yard.

Of course, the window did start at ground level

so the only thing I saw was the dirt underneath

the deck.

It had just enough room to squeeze in

one trundle bed

one bureau

and one nightstand.

It went through a lot of themes

jungle first

complete with a potted palm tree

and neon green, high-gloss walls.

Then dragons

I am not sure why that ever happened

it was a boy's bedspread

black dragons with Asian script.

After that was Hawaiian

bright blues and greens

with hibiscus flowers.

And then we moved

I miss that room.

I spent most of my formative years there

Well, junior high anyway.

why i hate darkness and times to stop and be still (shadow poem)

lying awake at night

looking up at what I

know to be a ceiling

even though I can't see it

I hear you breathing next to me

and I hate you

because the love you have for me

the love I can feel and hear and taste

the love I don't have to assume exists

well, that love wouldn't be alive

if she still was

The Best Kind of Laziness (Witnessing Poem)

The grass around my body is smooth and soft

it tickles the bare skin that touches it

my fingers and toes and elbows and ankles

feel the organic realness of this grass

better than any man-made carpet

this is God's carpet

I look up at God's ceiling

there is one fluffy cloud

white, buoyant and happy

not lonely in its aloneness

I resolve to watch this cloud

relentlessly, until I can't see it anymore

but relentlessly is a harsh word

to describe watching a cloud pass overhead

the way I watch it is more contentedly

and full of dreaming

and less like a watch dog or a prison guard

and more like the slow lapping of waves

on a quiet shore

or the soft whisper of the wind

through the screen of a porch

Harjo Poem

All roads lead to obscurity.

The collection of items on my desk is
random interesting depressing

Nyquil, Dayquil, two old cups of tea
glasses
earrings
pennies
And on the shelves are rows and rows of books
Rand
Hemingway
Salinger
And the top shelf is even more eclectic
Two potted cacti
ten boxes of tea
A cup of paintbrushes
And all this makes me ask is
what’s
the
point?

Brenda Jones Response Poem

The Disconnect

I will paint them all in those colors

the dismal, unfamiliar ones

but I will paint myself

in the familiar, beloved shades

I will paint myself likable and red

healthy, happy, and dancing

but the other women will be gray

and olive, and even cold and naked

but I will be clothed and beautiful

despite their wrinkled and despairing faces

I will stand set apart from my women

cisneros poem #1

(a tiny bit of)Life

The Perks of Being A Wallflower
is carefully perched
open on my desk
with the spine in the air
and half the book
leaning on either side
like a very small
teepee

Karen O is singing about
worried shoes
and my shoeless foot
is tapping
to the beat of her
sad sounding song

My old and worn
shoes are sitting
on the floor
open wide
expectant and welcoming
like two mouths
happy and in the middle
of a laugh
not looking the least bit
worried

The window is open
revealing sunshine
and letting the spring breeze
blow through
like the first glimpse of
hope after a long period
of despair
or at least snow and ice

Right now, I know exactly what
Charlie meant when he said
“I feel infinite”
like no matter what
this moment is here
and it is small
and it is simple
but it is happy

Slam Poem.

piece of cake

sharing a dorm room with your twin sister isn’t
the piece of cake that everyone assumes it would be.

living with someone I’ve lived with my entire life
and who has lived with me her entire life
gives us certain liberties that
most friends don’t take with each other

most friends or random roommates
are too scared to say how they really feel
or complain about unwashed dishes and dirty laundry

not us.
most people end up biting their tongue,
and not yelling about stupid things like
toothpaste caps left off and light switches left on.
again, not us.
many people silently dislike their
roommate’s habits
be they unbearably messy or freakishly clean.

there is nothing silent about our dislike.

most people don’t bring up their
roommate’s hypocrisy on the subject
of their demands of the lights being off when they sleep
even though they don’t always turn off the light if they’re not
the one sleeping.
oh, we bring it up.
the average person doesn’t deliberately
think of ways to annoy their roommate
because they know their pet peeves so well.

well, we do.

however, most normal, unrelated people
suffer a sort of awkward, drawn out stony silence
when a fight does erupt.
we don’t.
many people end up internalizing their deepest
and darkest dislikes about their roommate’s habits
until one day, they explode.

we internalize nothing.

most people tread carefully around their roommate’s feelings
but also tread carefully around deserved apologies.
where others tiptoe, we stomp.
we aren’t afraid to fight, yell, and huff out the door.
but we also aren’t afraid to sheepishly walk back in
four and a half minutes later.

we really aren’t.
fights may last a few minutes
or maybe even an excruciatingly long day.
but most people’s fights don’t end in laughter and genuine forgiveness.

ours do.

Billy Collins poem #2

Inspired by "My Number" on page 15.

Inevitabilites

things that are guaranteed to happen
to every person in the world
are rarely things that most people
like to sit and stew over.

things that will come and get you
in the end (and i mean the end)
aren't things most normal people
bring up at parties.

and by things i guess
i should just say the thing.
yes, that's better.
the thing that is guaranteed to happen.

why is it such an avoided topic?
after all, it is the one
and only thing everyone in the world
has in common.

i supposed it is because
it is sad, and it is
the basis of a lot of arguments
like what happens after it.

but still. how would it be if
at parties, instead of asking
about the kids or about school
people said things like this:

"how are you feeling about
death lately? scared? ready?"
what if people were frank and
honest with each other?

i think it would make for yes,
some awkwardness, a few
more somber parties than most
people would like to have.

but i also think it would be
interesting to hear. it would
be interesting to see what
everyone thinks about this

one sure thing in life.
this one inevitability.
before it is too late
and we never know what they thought.

or how they felt about it.

collins poem #1

Hate To Break It To You, But…

does it ever do any good to
sugar-coat things for children?
does it ever do any good to
hide the truth from them?

i don’t know.

but sometimes I wonder if
maybe we were honest with
them right from the get-go,

there wouldn’t be so many
messed up kids
with shattered dreams
and broken hearts.

maybe if we told them that
they can’t do anything they set their mind to
they can’t change the world
they can’t all become doctors and lawyers

they wouldn’t grow up to be so bitter.
and hate the ones who told them
they could do what they wanted.

because that’s life, isn’t it?
realizing you can’t do everything you want to
and some of your dreams will never
come true.

(Inspired by The History Teacher, page 38.)

Sestina for a Newly Single Expectant Mother

She looks out the window into the world

that she now feels she has no place

in. He is gone, her heart

is in a million pieces on the floor.

When her mother calls, she will tell a lie

and say he merely went on a business trip.

She will have to think of a good reason for a trip

so close to the time for their baby to come into the world,

and she does not like to lie

to her mother. He's put her in an awkward place

with no signs of his existence except muddy footprints on the floor

and bloody handprints on her heart.

She puts her hand on her belly to feel her baby's heart

and is careful not to trip

on the stair he always said he'd fix- the floor

is no place for a pregnant woman whose world

has just been shaken out of place

by a man always ready with a lie.

She groans as she tries to lie

down in a comfortable position, trying to get to the heart

of the matter as she furrows a little place

into her bed; the business trip

seems real as she feels his empty space in her world

and sees his slippers on the floor.

If life is a room and happiness is the ceiling, this is the floor

she thinks to herself, avoiding the thought of the lie

she tries not to remember. It is the three-word lie the world

tells to get every young girl's heart

ready and vulnerable to trip

into a trap of bitterness in happiness's place.

There is a stone in the place

of my heart, she whispers to the floor.

Pretty soon we'll take a trip

to the doctor, and I will tell him a lie.

I will say my husband did not break my heart

and all is right with the world.

You will soon have a place in the world

she tells her baby's beating heart and the floor.

And I will lie and say he's just on a trip.

poem due thursday, february 18

I will admit nothing about the waters around me.

I.

1. March 1970. New country. New state. New city. New house. New life.
2. My grandmother had moved from England, her home.
3. The unfamiliar sights and sounds of Huntington Beach surrounded her.
4. She had two daughters.
5. Would they remember England as their home?
6. Or would the crowded beaches and shopping malls of this state be home to them?
7. This change had been necessary, but not necessarily easy.
8. No one likes to lose their home.

II.

1. August 2009. College. Real life. Are you excited? Yes! (no).
2. A room where a house used to be. A campus where a town used to be.
3. At first, nervous, but hopeful. Mostly.
4. Later, the discomfort sets in. The unfamiliar is not exciting anymore.
5. The unknown magnifies loneliness to an alarming degree.
6. How is college going for you? It’s good. (why am I lying?)
7. Slowly, the acceptance. And then, reluctantly, happiness peeks through the clouds.
8. Change isn’t easy. But it is real.

erotic poem, due tuesday, february 16

a cellist and jonathan rhys meyers.

i imagine that
this position of
your arms completely
wrapped around me
our bodies as close as
they can be
would be the most
secure
comforting
amazing
position to be lying in
to wake up to

i imagine that it would give me that
chest-constricting
hard-to-breathe
so-happy-it's-crazy
feeling
that i would love to share
with you
with your arms
wrapped around me

(i don't do erotic. so this is as erotic as it's gonna get.)

inspired by failing in the presence of ants by gary soto

being grown up isn't half as fun as growing up

sometimes
when I think back to the summers
of my childhood
to barefoot basketball on an asphalt driveway
making our feet black and earning
a scolding and a wet washcloth from my mother
to ticks found in between toes and in our hair
after too much time spent
in the bog and among the willows that guarded
the edge of our endless backyard
to the cicada’s loud call
to softball and croquet and simply sitting in the
overgrown summer grass
to the far-off melody of an ice cream truck
to going to bed sunburned, bruised, and exhausted
only after waiting for the twinkling of fireflies
and the sparkling of stars to embellish
the beautiful, warm nights
all that I can do is
sigh
and know that the most magical part of my life
is over

family poem

what a funny pair they are
my mother and father
my dad was born in harvey, illinois
he grew up on the south side of chicago
moved to new york
then california
illinois again somewhere in there

his dad was a drunk; a lush; a good-for-nothing
alcoholic
who wasted his God-given artistic talent
on drinks.
he wasted his money on
beer
paying off things he never should have bought:
a camper, a motorcyle, waterskis
paying off countless car accidents
that happened while under the influence
it's a miracle he never killed anyone
that's what my dad always says

my grandma didn't go to college
but she worked hard
she made the best of an unfortunate marriage
an unfortunate marriage that produced
five children. one of which was
extremely badly behaved;
my father.

my mother, on the other hand.
born in england.
england; God save the queen.
moved to huntington beach, right near the beach
when she was a kid.
her mom a beautiful, proper englishwoman.
her dad a removed, cold man from
new zealand of all places.

my mother had two brothers
one half-sister
her younger brother david died
when he was 23
when i was just 1 or 2.
my mom's mother also worked hard
in a marriage to a man named Steele
and he was just as cold, unfeeling, and unbendable as steel
it's a fitting name.

the only few things my parents have in common:
intelligence
the ability work incredibly hard
selflessness
an absent father

they met playing
trivial pursuit
my father the college grad
three of the kids in his family
made it to college
which is quite remarkable, really

he, fresh out of college
an engineer
my mom also fresh out of college
a teacher

she thought he was funny
he thought she was nice.
and pretty.

their differences:
he loves bruce springsteen
she loves billy joel and classical
he loves the White Sox, the Jets, the Lakers
she hates all sports
he loves math.
she loves english.

on and on.
point being.
opposites really do attract.
and i'm glad they do.

Rick Bass response

I went to see Rick Bass tonight from 7-8. I wasn't really looking forward to it; I had been out of town all weekend and he was the only one left by the time I got back. I haven't heard of him before and I was just dreading it, to be honest.
However, he read two short stories to us, and I thought they were really good. He read one that was about a couple who hit an owl while driving, then stop at a diner where the man eats 24 eggs and other various breakfast-type foods... and they notice the owl they hit is stuck in the canoe on top of their car. I liked the easy way Rick read the stories... he has a very interesting accent. He was born in Texas and also lived in Missouri, but he didn't have an extremely thick Southern accent. It was a more a slight, eloquent drawl, and I found this accent was highly effective... and it definitely fit with the stories he read. I liked the first story the best, I think, because it was very interesting, had some funny parts, and the end was sudden and a little disorienting. I had been silently watching the chair in front of me, enthralled with the story; and then it was over, and I felt a little lost. But in a good way.. in a way that made me think over the story again.
Then he read his second story, which was about his family, especially his brother who is more focused on material things than Rick sees himself to be. They would vacation at a beach resort in Texas, maybe? I didn't catch that part. Anyway, then there would sometimes be a "jubilee" where the mixing of salt and fresh water would cause the resort goers to be able to wade into the waves and reap fish after fish after fish into pillowcases and have a huge feast on the beach.
This story was definitely more political- Rick is a conservationist and it was pointing out the gluttony people had for the fish.. they took many more than they needed simply because they could. I didn't like the political tones to the story, but I still liked the way it was written and the way he read it.

I found the hour passed quickly and Rick Bass was an interesting writer as well as adept speaker.

How 'Bout Them Apples

This poem was inspired by "Siblings" by Patricia Smith. Not for any reason other than it talks about lots of siblings, and it reminded me of the part in Good Will Hunting when Matt Damon tells Minnie Driver that he has 12 brothers. So I wrote a poem from Minnie's perspective. Random, but whatever.

i'm sitting, watching him in defeat
he's standing,
slowly putting on his mask
i didn't mean to cause this
there are questions i can't ask
his childhood, his scars, his brothers
his feelings are not even an option
these parts of him are closed off
hidden
by the mask
sometimes i get close
it's like looking through the lens of a camera
and the image is fuzzy
and just as i'm about to focus it
the cap clicks on
the mask slips on
he doesn't come around too often
he makes me
sweat it out
wondering if i did something
wrong
but when we're together
we're happy
i hate that he thinks i'm like the others
there must have been others
right?
why else would he always insist on wearing
that ridiculous mask?
the mask that says he doesn't care
he's untouchable
sometimes i try to rip it off
out of frustration
but the harder i pull
the more stuck it be comes
i hope that one day
he'll trust me enough
he'll see that i am waiting
for the time
he finally lets me
in.
but
i
can't
wait
forever.

inspired by "m'dear thinks on luther b" by patricia smith.

February 10, 2009

no.
what I thought when I read
that little screen with three little words.three unbelieveable, unbearable words
three tiny words that meant so much.

no.
this time I said it out loud.making it more concrete; more true.no, no no.I denied it as I pulled into somenow unameable parking lot off someirrelevant road.
no.
I denied it as I called home. As it sank in.as I went to the wake; the funeral.no.
this did not happen.I denied it even up to when I stood in the line;
a line that resembled any other line;a ticket line, a line for food, a line to meet someone famous.
it wasn’t like those other lines after all.

no
resonated in my head the whole timein that line
no
screamed my heart as I neared the end.I stopped. looking down. and suddenly there was no denying it.
no.
the word now denies something else.
it denies the thoughts of that day.
of the life so far from fulfilled.
of the moments never to be had.of the loss of a friend.

I want to go back to the first
no.
the one that insisted
those three horrible, ugly words
were just a misunderstanding
and it would be cleared up soon
and life would go back to normal

(he died, leah)

two poems

Spinelessness as an excuse for not saying sorry

The birch tree peeled and crackled like old paint
the grass swayed ever so slightly in the deep breeze
the sun beat down like a hammer on a stubborn nail
I became a stubborn nail floating on a piece of rotting wood in a mossy swamp; alone
a lazy dragonfly buzzed past my hazy eyes
I sat motionless, the sun still hammering away my very core
I wanted to push myself up
to run to your door
to let my apologies spill and scatter like marbles at your feet
but nothing would change, in the end.
I would probably just trip and slide on the marbles
my own apologies rolling under my feet.
my view shifted to blue sky as I fell back
I spread out my arms in the tender grass, so tender and soft
that I hated it for not being rocky and uncomfortable on my spine
I felt the earth beneath me opening, but did not move to escape the oncoming darkness
It swallowed me with clumping mounds and roots and worms
it spat me out at your door but I did not
let myself spill my marble apologies at your feet
I did not.

regret feels just like a sunburn sometimes.

The view from five foot, eleven inches tall

Walking outside, I notice how much closer
I am to the big branch I used to climb when I was young
how much easier it would be for me to grab that birch branch
to pull myself up, and to sit on my perch, looking down at the world
I am taller, but I am not changed. I have not progressed.
when I look at this peeling birch tree, I still feel like a
wild-eyed nine-year-old girl, filled with wonder and excitement
thinking this branch could make me feel the sky
run my fingers through the clouds; touch God’s fingertips with mine

I look around at the yard that used to look as big
as the world
I am taller, but I am the same
this tree shows me that though my body has grown
my wonder and excitement at this big, wide world
is the same
and will be the same
trees are the kinds of things that keep you grounded;
help you remain who you were

one of my favorite poems.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

and experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens,

(touching skillfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands