Resting in an orchard, filled with green
sat a young baby apple tree, waving in the wind.
Its fruit stood tall, hanging on by their tiny stems.
But some stumbled to the ground, lost in the weeds
of the orchard, forgotten. Their lush flavors
would never be tasted, never matter.
As the tree grew, its fruits did too
reaching high toward the tip of the sky.
The young pickers, the ones out in the orchard
to just grab their bundles and leave,
wiped out the low hanging fruit, forcing
them to tumble in their buckets.
The slightly older pickers, the one who knew
the patterns of the orchard, went more carefully
through the trees, taking the middle fruit
more carefully than the young pickers, but still
swift and efficient, taking only a bit less than
the buckets would hold.
But the highest sitting fruit proved the most difficult.
Only the most experienced, oldest pickets
would climb to the top of the ladder, taking each apple
delicately, as if it were their sole child.
These pickers would bring in the least, however
the orchard owner loved them.
For each apple was luscious and red and special
to not be made into a pie or mashed into a cider,
but eaten so slowly, each ounce of flavor loved.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Beauty and the Beast- by Christa
It's a tale as old as time,
Kaitlyn and her Beast,
and though she is Beauty,
he could be too,
if you count all the beautiful things
he brings to her life
like her laughter
and her love
and the voids he fills
in her heart.
Kaitlyn and her Beast,
and though she is Beauty,
he could be too,
if you count all the beautiful things
he brings to her life
like her laughter
and her love
and the voids he fills
in her heart.
Tunnel of Mazes
Searching blind, hand running along the side
of the cold, wet moss-covered wall that bent and twisted
Overhead only darkness, dripping drops of tar.
Every turn, a new obstacle, a boulder, a fire
licking across the path. Frightened, swerving
from side to side, heart beat rising.
Only dark as the maze grew on.
Slowly, a glimmer. Maybe a light?
But alas, it is not. It is only a tiny orb
of hope that drifts away as quickly as it came.
Terror builds in every vein of blood surging
through skin and cells. But what is that?
The maze opens as the darkness begins to clear,
is this the end of me? Am I dead? But no, a friendly light,
the ray of sense that I needed, my way out.
And there you stood, the sun beaming out from your pockets,
a gentle breeze drifting your hair into your eyes,
a hand reached out to take my own that has been blood torn
and pricked by the thorns of the walls of the maze,
as we step into safety.
of the cold, wet moss-covered wall that bent and twisted
Overhead only darkness, dripping drops of tar.
Every turn, a new obstacle, a boulder, a fire
licking across the path. Frightened, swerving
from side to side, heart beat rising.
Only dark as the maze grew on.
Slowly, a glimmer. Maybe a light?
But alas, it is not. It is only a tiny orb
of hope that drifts away as quickly as it came.
Terror builds in every vein of blood surging
through skin and cells. But what is that?
The maze opens as the darkness begins to clear,
is this the end of me? Am I dead? But no, a friendly light,
the ray of sense that I needed, my way out.
And there you stood, the sun beaming out from your pockets,
a gentle breeze drifting your hair into your eyes,
a hand reached out to take my own that has been blood torn
and pricked by the thorns of the walls of the maze,
as we step into safety.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Gazing Moon- final poem
Up through black mountains, mist-hidden,
Crouched in a graven cave, eyes blink in the darkness-
a pack of wolves.
Thick white-grey fur blends together.
A round harvest moon, orange-tinged,
assembles with the stars.
Furry chins nestled against the others' necks,
As the pups breathe silent puffs in the dam's fur.
Rich brown eyes hidden by lids, she snoozes;
lighter hazel swirling with hints of green,
he guards his pack, his everythings,
as they dream silently in their slumbers.
As a pack mate howls one last time at the moon,
the sun pushes the dark clouds away
dragging along the oranges and reds and blues,
life and movement and hearts, beating as one.
Crouched in a graven cave, eyes blink in the darkness-
a pack of wolves.
Thick white-grey fur blends together.
A round harvest moon, orange-tinged,
assembles with the stars.
Furry chins nestled against the others' necks,
As the pups breathe silent puffs in the dam's fur.
Rich brown eyes hidden by lids, she snoozes;
lighter hazel swirling with hints of green,
he guards his pack, his everythings,
as they dream silently in their slumbers.
As a pack mate howls one last time at the moon,
the sun pushes the dark clouds away
dragging along the oranges and reds and blues,
life and movement and hearts, beating as one.
Blood Tap- revised
Cool smoldering coals
Flickering in the starlight, finding life-
heat rising, vivid orange rapidly growing
Higher, higher, out the cracked window frame.
When he touched, the fire grew.
It engulfed the walls, licked the floor,
blew out the wicked candles, took the words,
racing, racing, through the door.
Heart beat quicken, veins pump
the deep crimson lava
Gone is the cold, gone is the dark.
Flame here to stay.
Flickering in the starlight, finding life-
heat rising, vivid orange rapidly growing
Higher, higher, out the cracked window frame.
When he touched, the fire grew.
It engulfed the walls, licked the floor,
blew out the wicked candles, took the words,
racing, racing, through the door.
Heart beat quicken, veins pump
the deep crimson lava
Gone is the cold, gone is the dark.
Flame here to stay.
October 28, 2011: The Great Connecticut Storm
Dreary and cold, the windows ice
as you drive me home from the airport.
no lights on the road,
no green or red or even yellow.
Leaves whirl in the wind,
patches of white, frozen-over snow.
Left turn onto a familiar road.
You squeeze my hand tightly,
it's been a dreadful night.
A fallen orange cone, dismissed without a thought.
A tree, sparking power lines wrapped,
coiled in its trunk and leaves,
Blinds us as we approach.
You smash the brakes to a stop, swerving.
The electric clock on the dash stops flickering,
frozen like the snow outside.
You pull my hand to your lips, a kiss.
Slowly turning, we find another way.
as you drive me home from the airport.
no lights on the road,
no green or red or even yellow.
Leaves whirl in the wind,
patches of white, frozen-over snow.
Left turn onto a familiar road.
You squeeze my hand tightly,
it's been a dreadful night.
A fallen orange cone, dismissed without a thought.
A tree, sparking power lines wrapped,
coiled in its trunk and leaves,
Blinds us as we approach.
You smash the brakes to a stop, swerving.
The electric clock on the dash stops flickering,
frozen like the snow outside.
You pull my hand to your lips, a kiss.
Slowly turning, we find another way.
The Swing Set- newest revision
It was a chilly spring night and I had run off
in tears, shaking, shirt soaked.
It was you that followed, caught up to me
by the clinking metal of the swing set.
I sat, quietly, looking toward the stars.
You sat next to me in silence,
drifting your feet over playground wood chips,
slowly rocking back and forth.
You pocket knifed finger holes
in your sweatshirt sleeves
to keep from freezing your hands
as I told the story of my confusion.
It was you that wrapped me to your chest
draped your leather jacket over my shoulders,
picked me an early-blooming flower
and guided me safely back home.
in tears, shaking, shirt soaked.
It was you that followed, caught up to me
by the clinking metal of the swing set.
I sat, quietly, looking toward the stars.
You sat next to me in silence,
drifting your feet over playground wood chips,
slowly rocking back and forth.
You pocket knifed finger holes
in your sweatshirt sleeves
to keep from freezing your hands
as I told the story of my confusion.
It was you that wrapped me to your chest
draped your leather jacket over my shoulders,
picked me an early-blooming flower
and guided me safely back home.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Little Pink Room
The movers came, gruff men, to take things out of the dabbled pink room
from dolls to Barbies to little stuffed animals left without a home.
The white crinkled curtains once hung with cheer, now moth-eaten and rough.
The tiny white dresser filled with clothes, from the bright lavender of an Easter dress
to the deep maroon of a pair of leggings like my sister's blood after the car accident.
The ABC carpet, the only spot of any real color, stained with the tears
soaked up during the time Mom wouldn't let her have the newest Bratz.
Her big girl bed, snowy pale with swirls of silver, maybe slept in four times,
was carried away by the men and thrown into the back of the truck.
Mom couldn't see the room anymore, couldn't stand it left.
I didn't know what to think. That little pink room, those curtains, that dresser
used to be mine. I slept in the gold leafed crib, watching the mobile
full of Zoo animals and butterflies, dance above my head.
But she is with the angels now, high above the mobile, higher
than any of us could be. I wish I hadn't been driving.
More Hell Than Heaven
Now's not the time
for sleep. Now's not the time
to be strong. Now's the time
to lay awake, eyes open
afraid of the dark.
Closing eyes only submit
to the depth within, hurt crawling
to escape, fear dripping
terror from bone to bone.
Death in front of my very eyes.
Rape torn from a helpless body.
Sorrow and pain drizzling like rain
from the sky above. It's not the time
to dream of unicorns and rainbows.
Instead, it is the hot blood, drops of red
cascading over my shoulder and down my spine.
The Jabberwocky come to life.
It said Drink Me and I did what I was told,
but it wasn't Wonderland that I was brought.
More of a hell than a heaven, Satan spawn
crawling up the walls of the cavern. Trapped.
I will never escape, this maze of a mind
that brings me no hope and no faith
only fear of the darkness that sits and swallows
me whole within.
for sleep. Now's not the time
to be strong. Now's the time
to lay awake, eyes open
afraid of the dark.
Closing eyes only submit
to the depth within, hurt crawling
to escape, fear dripping
terror from bone to bone.
Death in front of my very eyes.
Rape torn from a helpless body.
Sorrow and pain drizzling like rain
from the sky above. It's not the time
to dream of unicorns and rainbows.
Instead, it is the hot blood, drops of red
cascading over my shoulder and down my spine.
The Jabberwocky come to life.
It said Drink Me and I did what I was told,
but it wasn't Wonderland that I was brought.
More of a hell than a heaven, Satan spawn
crawling up the walls of the cavern. Trapped.
I will never escape, this maze of a mind
that brings me no hope and no faith
only fear of the darkness that sits and swallows
me whole within.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Container of Memories
At the end of the day, war torn and worn,
all I want to do is devour myself in blankets,
hide out from the world.
Instead, I find me laying on my bedroom floor,
eyes trapped on the blue gray ceiling above
just breathing and taking in the day.
Everyday is a new battle, a new strategy
to get through. Tonight, I am brought back
to a childhood where my room was my prison.
Banished multiple times, left in solitude
to calm my body. At 6, I remember
sobbing against my tall white dresser.
At 8, I know the times when Oreo
would nuzzle her nose into the crack of my door,
stroll right in and let me hug her.
I was 11 when my Dad came in and woke me up
with news of my uncle's death. Merely 12
when I changed schools and left familiarity behind.
13 was when the bullying got the worst
and the floor became my best friend.
15 was the summer of my first boyfriend
and the accident that changed us all.
It took me awhile to find myself again,
16 to be exact. But that was taken away too soon
when Grandpa left us for heaven. I laid on that carpet,
the beige shag catching every bit of dirt,
letting my tears soak into the carpet.
I thought I left the tears and the toxic boyfriends
behind when I left for college at 18.
But I didn't right away.
It took me until 19 when I could finally
lay on the carpet, looking up on the dots
on the ceiling and be ok.
No more tears came. No more hardship.
At 20, I had finally found a place
that was a container of memories, not a prison.
all I want to do is devour myself in blankets,
hide out from the world.
Instead, I find me laying on my bedroom floor,
eyes trapped on the blue gray ceiling above
just breathing and taking in the day.
Everyday is a new battle, a new strategy
to get through. Tonight, I am brought back
to a childhood where my room was my prison.
Banished multiple times, left in solitude
to calm my body. At 6, I remember
sobbing against my tall white dresser.
At 8, I know the times when Oreo
would nuzzle her nose into the crack of my door,
stroll right in and let me hug her.
I was 11 when my Dad came in and woke me up
with news of my uncle's death. Merely 12
when I changed schools and left familiarity behind.
13 was when the bullying got the worst
and the floor became my best friend.
15 was the summer of my first boyfriend
and the accident that changed us all.
It took me awhile to find myself again,
16 to be exact. But that was taken away too soon
when Grandpa left us for heaven. I laid on that carpet,
the beige shag catching every bit of dirt,
letting my tears soak into the carpet.
I thought I left the tears and the toxic boyfriends
behind when I left for college at 18.
But I didn't right away.
It took me until 19 when I could finally
lay on the carpet, looking up on the dots
on the ceiling and be ok.
No more tears came. No more hardship.
At 20, I had finally found a place
that was a container of memories, not a prison.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
UPS= Unusually Poor Service?
I accidently shipping my space heater to Florida.
But I don't think UPS cares much.
This isn't the first time I've lost something.
They claim I can get a return by the 10th,
but I don't want the 10th,
I want overnight shipping.
How hard is it to tag the box
and send it on its merry way?
I don't care how much it costs.
I'll put the million dollars on a credit card,
make it some third world country's problem.
I demand my space heater.
You don't make an American girl mad
especially when it comes to a New Englander
without a space heater in the middle of January.
Do you want me to get frostbite?
Curl up in a thousand blankets
just to sleep at all?
I'll probably overheat,
burst a blood vessel while I sleep.
Damn you UPS.
It's time they stuck the little sticker
onto my space heater
and sent him back.
But I don't think UPS cares much.
This isn't the first time I've lost something.
They claim I can get a return by the 10th,
but I don't want the 10th,
I want overnight shipping.
How hard is it to tag the box
and send it on its merry way?
I don't care how much it costs.
I'll put the million dollars on a credit card,
make it some third world country's problem.
I demand my space heater.
You don't make an American girl mad
especially when it comes to a New Englander
without a space heater in the middle of January.
Do you want me to get frostbite?
Curl up in a thousand blankets
just to sleep at all?
I'll probably overheat,
burst a blood vessel while I sleep.
Damn you UPS.
It's time they stuck the little sticker
onto my space heater
and sent him back.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Nighttime Gloom
Laying still no dream king visiting
Tears streak down pale cheeks.
Juliet with her lost Romeo.
Elizabeth without her Darcy.
Frustration. Worry. Dark.
Lightning rips through sky.
The ground should have snow by now.
But it holds off, waits.
Its pearly white shine gone
From the eyes of the beggar.
It is too cold and too roomy
In this bed of blankets.
Nothing beats the lonely chill
Of a heart longing.
Too many days and too far away.
Sickness and plague run rabid.
Swine fly has caught up to the innocent.
The stars hide behind the clouds
Trembling in the safety of the moon.
A blink. Too short.
The minute hand in the electric clock
Has not changed. Too long.
It's dull glimmer of orange does not
Light up very far. It does not have the strength. It is weak without its battery,
It's heart. It can only blink, slowly.
Wait for the return.
Tears streak down pale cheeks.
Juliet with her lost Romeo.
Elizabeth without her Darcy.
Frustration. Worry. Dark.
Lightning rips through sky.
The ground should have snow by now.
But it holds off, waits.
Its pearly white shine gone
From the eyes of the beggar.
It is too cold and too roomy
In this bed of blankets.
Nothing beats the lonely chill
Of a heart longing.
Too many days and too far away.
Sickness and plague run rabid.
Swine fly has caught up to the innocent.
The stars hide behind the clouds
Trembling in the safety of the moon.
A blink. Too short.
The minute hand in the electric clock
Has not changed. Too long.
It's dull glimmer of orange does not
Light up very far. It does not have the strength. It is weak without its battery,
It's heart. It can only blink, slowly.
Wait for the return.
T shirt- Shontelle
Nothin feels right when Im not with you
Sick of this dress and these Jimmy Choos
Takin them off 'cause I feel a fool
Try'na dress up when Im missin you
Imma step out of this lingerie
Curl up in a ball with something Hanes
In bed I lay
With nothing but your T-shirt on
Sick of this dress and these Jimmy Choos
Takin them off 'cause I feel a fool
Try'na dress up when Im missin you
Imma step out of this lingerie
Curl up in a ball with something Hanes
In bed I lay
With nothing but your T-shirt on
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