post camp revisions

Thank you, dear Ingrid, for revising your poem and sending it my way.  It's gorgeous.

Burt
by Ingrid B.

Burt: 

Burt wasn’t the prettiest baby.  Even though she looked just like your typical Pillsbury doughboy babe.  Daddy was always making messes and Mama was always cleaning up after him. Next came her two younger brothers.  Neither of them cared for her much (for obvious reasons).  She never cried. Not when she was hurt, or scared, or just down right annoyed.  

At the age of seven, Mama passed away. She didn’t cry.  Daddy took to drinking after he came home from the fields. The two younger boys were well… boys.  So that left Burt to do all the work of a mother:  make meals, make clothes, clean up Daddy’s messes. But not a tear fell from her eyes as she scrubbed the floors and mended the holes in all of the clothing before her homework was finished.  

Now 18, Burt has grown into a beautiful young woman. She has found a husband who suits her very well. When it was time for her to move out of their little old farmhouse, she didn’t cry. This just meant that her future was going to get better from here.  

In her old age, Burt was gifted a massive white dog from her two sons and her daughters who visited her often. When Burt was 83, the dog passed away. A few days later, so did Burt. I remember my grandma telling me that the dog died first so that she could meet Great Grandma Burt in heaven. In honor of her strength, no one cried. No one mourned over her death. They celebrated the fact that she was in a better place now.  She was with her mother and now they both wouldn’t have to work too hard anymore.  

 

Poetry Camp, Day 3

It was full and fast, real and raw.  We found ourselves downtown again on day three.  The girls engaged in their place -- a downtown morning, the view down to the Clark Fork from the Higgins Bridge, the odd revelry of Out to Lunch in Caras Park.  The girls wanted to bring their journals home on their third and final day, though some of them gave me copies of some of their favorite pieces.  They also all promised to type up their poems and email them to me so that I can publish them here...(remember girls!!!)  It was lovely.  They are amazing.

Spent some time with William Carlos Willimas on day three.  Discussed his precision with language, how his simplicity was revolutionary at the time.  The girls wrote responses to, "This is Just to Say" and, "The Red Wheelbarrow."

This Is Just To Say

  by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.GmpfgTUN.dpuf

This Is Just To Say

  by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.Te37VYZG.dpuf

This Is Just To Say

  by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.GmpfgTUN.dpuf

This Is Just To Say

  by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15535#sthash.atJL39a6.dpuf

The Red Wheelbarrow

William Carlos Williams

---

so much depends
upon a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.

*********
So Much Depends
by Antigone

So much depends
on the little girl
with short choppy hair
and a gap in her smile,

and the way she dances
while nobody's watching.



This Small Tree
by Wren

So much depends
upon

this small
tree

scarred over the
years

beside this cool
river

This Here River
by Sophia

So much depends
upon

this here river

smooth
with ripples

beside the
music

that sings
with its soul

So Much Depends
by Eliana

So much depends
upon

the time I made you cry

and you screamed at me

but I still love you

This is Just to Say
by Eliana

I have snooped

and seen the
presents
in the closet

which I know
were for my birthday

I'm sorry,
but maybe you should
hide them better,
because the temptation
is just too strong

This is Just to Say
by Ellie J.

This is just to say
so sorry
I have eaten the cookies
they were beautifully delicious

I beg for mercy.

River
by Eliana

Shivering shards of oil.
All is dark until sunlight hits.
Then the glass explodes;
extravagant, golden threads.
Silver speckled sand.
The shining shells and melting waves.
Then, the crystals fling themselves
into darkness,
watch as they leak away.

Bridge
by Sophia

Broken books and burning bridges.
Do not let this memory fade.
Silently slide your ring of fortune,
let me show you the world of fame,
shed your tears and shed your shackles,
you are no prisoner where we go.
Let me show you the other life,
let me show you what you are missing.
Let me show you the city at night.

Golden City
by Sophia

Golden city, golden valley.
Guard this river of memories old.
Play your music, soft and saddening.
Call to me of times gone sold.
Wish upon this river mellow,
dead man's cloth not hinder where.
Wash away the sins of Eden.
Cleanse this valley, cleanse this gold. 

Poetry Camp, Day 2

The day greeted us with bright sunlight and green, rain-kissed hills. We gathered beneath the shade of a tree to read Mary Oliver's, "Morning Poem."  From there we journeyed down the gulley with notebooks in hand, daring to take notice, find "angel images" that flew our way, and create our own, "morning poems."

Morning Poem

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead ---

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging ---

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver

Morning Poem
by Ellie J.

Dead bushes reach their gnarled fingers
down to the ground to strangle the grass.
Tall bushes interlace to form caves
that beasts hide in,
crickets chirping,
birds tum-de-dumming and dum-dooing,
flying over the mesh of white, yellow,
purple, pink and green.
Hills so steep they're almost impossible to climb,
grass at the top silhouetted against
light and dark blue of the sky.
But try --
try to climb those hills,
try to see what's on the
other side.
It could be anything.

Three Green Pearls
by Ruby


Three green pearls in palm

so much life
here in these
small metallic spheres

these pearls show
that there's still
hope here

I see the rough
curves of my hand
and realize they
do no thave to worry
about age,
they just wait simply wait
to show more life in
the small, perfect flower
they'll become

they have a reason
to live and they
shall live for that reason

to show hope is their
reason to live
and that is what
the world needs

hope.

Extraoridinary
by Antigone

A field of stems
with slender stem tops,
all looking the same,
more perfect than not,
just standing there proudly,
all tan and all sleek,
just standing there
quiet and peaceful,
not loudly.

But along came a grass,
all crooked and green,
it twisted, it bended,
it runined the color scheme.
It looked out of place,
that one awkward plant
and many people passed by it,
thinking, "What's that?"

What they didn't notice,
in their scorn and distaste
as they walked by the plant
with unease and much haste,
is that on those small brances that had been hated for hours
sat something small,
something that turned out to be flowers.

There is still a field,
a field of stems
with slender stem tops,
all looking the same,
more perfect than not,
but standing thier proudly
al tall and all crooked
stands a beautiful flower,
speaking quite loudly.

And if you're small ears were listening,
you'd hear the flower say
in a voice strong and glistening
to stop trying to be normal
simply because
it robs you of the chance
to be extraordinary.

Morning Poem
by Sophia

A bird flies through the corners of my eyes
the sound of chirping reminds me
htat today I live
though tomorrow is unrecognizable
through the dark shadows
I left the internal peace behind
for yesterday was a different day
and the living memories still glow behind
closed eyelids,
though soon to fade
as yesterday becomes history.
The poisons of the city do not reach us,
but others do.Sheltered in this ravine of silence
birds fly by without danger in mind.
Along comes a lonely stranger,
saddened by no peace of mind.
Will his dreams soon come together?
That is for tomorrow to decide.
For now is the present and
present is action
and actions to take are
decisions to make
past, present, future
in living memory.

Morning Poem
by Eliana

Made of dirty lace.
Carefully woven into
asymetrical designs.
Made of dirty lace.
Intricate, wrinkled and messy,
made by children's hands.
Made of dirty lace.
Not first snow,
in fact,
one of the last.
Made of dirty lace.
Hard, cracked, mesh,
pale and delicate.

Morning Poem
by Isabella
 
The hills creating her gentle features.
The trees creating her long limbs.
Birds pecking at them
making her heavy and weak.
She knows it's not their fault,
they're just trying to live life
like any other
creature in this world.
Tired feet walking on her hard shell,
where deep down there is pain.
She aches and grows tired
of being what she is meant to be.
When she realizes,
the homes and the beauty she
creates makes people happy,
she continues her journey
of creating such things,
reminding herself every second
of everyday,
how important she is to others.

Before we continued up the hill, I read Lucille Clifton's "Homage to my Hips" to the group.  We then isolated various parts of our bodies as we hiked, like wild, poetic creatures, in an attempt at paying our own form of homage to the marvels of our bodies.

We then journeyed up to the site of the former peace sign to eat and look out on the city.  I read George Ella Lyon's, "Where I'm From" to the group.

Where I'm From

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
          from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
          and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
          with a cottonball lamb
          and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
          to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments--
snapped before I budded --
leaf-fall from the family tree. 

 Using the view of the bustling city on one side and the green open space on the other, some of us elected to create our own, "Where I'm From" works.

Where I'm From
by Isabella

I'm from southern accents.
I'm from Alisson Krauss and Johnny Cash.
I'm from country music,
ya'll sayin' state.
I'm from dirt and cowgirl boots.
I'm from the place where
everything is bigger.
I'm from the heat,
from be a Texican and
not a Texican't.
I'm from iced tea on a hot day,
strong opinions and personalities.
I'm from ribs and brisket.
I'm from mashed potatoes
drenched in gravy.

Where I'm From
by Sophia

I am from the mountains that I
snowboard on all winter
and the hills on which I sled down.
I am from the benches on which I sit,
write, and vault over.
I am from the shadows that time to me
and stick to me by
the laws of physics.
I am from the plastic bottle that gives
me fresh water and sustenance.
I am from sweetness that gives me energy
and always is perfect for my stomach.
I am from the mountains.

I Am From
by Eliana

I am from Harry Potter.
I am from lakes and sand that burns your feet.
I am from imagination.
I am from watching sunsets and sleeping outside.
I am from switching schools and making new friends.
I am from show-offs and scaredy cats.
I am from easter egg hunts in our living room and tea parties.
I am from the river we go to on hot summer days.
I am from best friends.

I also then shared Sarah Kay's, "Poppy" with the group.  This piece looks at a person over time and uses shared images to link the stanzas together.  Some of the girls elected to work on their own portrait poems, using Kay's idea of traveling through time to create a whole portrait.

Poppy
by Sarah Kay

Poppy is four years old. The only shelf in the cabinet she can reach is the one with the plastic Tupperware. She has started filling containers with water, snapping on lids, and placing them about the house. It is her new favorite game. One for Mama, one for Papa, one for Tessa, one for Ollie. Her hands can hold one at a time. Her dress is the color of marmalade, she chirps songs that have no words.

When Poppy is twenty-five, she will follow a love to France. In the summer time she will make jars of cold tea, place them in the sun to steep, forget them in the sunny corners of their house. He will love her for this. That, and the daisies in her hair; the way she reads in doorways, purring show tunes to the crinkle of the page.

When she is forty-seven, Poppy’s garden will be the talk of the street. Her French tulips will dip over the sidewalk, dragging leaves against the pavement. She will carry jugs of water—overflowing onto her arms, her overalls—back and forth from the house to the yard. This is her way now, since her son has worn holes through the garden hose with his trike. She does not mind. He rides circles around the jugs, while she sings and turns the soil.

Eighty. And Poppy carries cups of water to leave around the house. One to the desk for while she is writing, one to her bedside every night. The walk to the kitchen is long and her lavender nightgown is thin. Open the cabinet, find the cup. Turn on the tap, fill it up. Snap on the lid, off to bed. She hums to the radiator. Sometimes she forgets the words.

Sarah Kay is a poet who often forgets where she left her tea. www.kaysarahsera.com
Ian
by Antigone

The boy is named Ian.  He swings on the hammock, peeling the skin off of grapes with his teeth, and marveling at the slimy texture.  His new favorite hobby is acting.  He takes a drama class on Tuesday afternoons and, even though he's only five years old, he's fooled his mom more than once into thinking he'd only had one cookie instead of two.  His favorite place is on the hammock, because it's easy to imagine he is out at sea, rocking in a boat.  When he gets older, he wants to be a sailor.

Now Ian is ten.  His fluffy white-blond hair is sticking up the way he hates it, but right now, he doesn't care.  Excitedly, Ian pulls his best friend Nathan into the backyard and shows him the new puppy.  Nathan gapes and tells Ian that he wishes he had a puppy too.  The next day, Nathan comes over again, but the puppy is taking a nap.  He and Ian pass the time by playing with wooden swords in the backyard.  Ian is a good actor by now, and at one point, tricks Nathan into thinking he got hurt and, while Nathan's guard is down, Ian ends up winning.  Nathan sighs, but plays again until Ian's mother comes out with homemade grape smoothies.  As Ian sips his drink, he decides he now wants to be a knight in shining armor when he grows up.

At age 30, the little boy is not so little anymore.  He goes to work in the mornings, and teaches an acting class in the afternoons.  THe evenings he reserves for his little girl named Riley who has fluffy blond hair and loves grapes. She will sit on his lap after dinner and while he snuggle and tells her stories about Peter Pan, she will try to convince him that she's only had one cookie, not two.  It never works though and now Ian no longer thinks about growing up anymore.  

Ian is now sixty years old.  Each morning he gets up and waters the grape vines growing in his front yard.  Around noon, Riley and her new husband call, wondering if he has any names for the baby soon to be born.  He suggest Nathan.  At 4:00 Ian decides to take a break from writing the script he is working on that features a sailor, a father and a knight in shining armor.  He drives down to the community theatre to watch the children put on the show, "Peter Pan."  Before he goes, he stops at a coffee shop to buy a cookie, even though he's already had one with breakfast.

Sara
by Ellie J.

Sara is six. She spends her days playing games with handsome princes and dragons and fair maidens.  Other days she will chase butterflies, calling them fairies.  She hides things and then goes and finds the long lost treasure and comes back an honored hero.

When she turns twelve, all she wants for her birthday are books.  She loves to read.  She loves biographies, but most o fall, she loves fantasy with dragons, fairies, demons and unicorns with their pearly horns.  She tries to write stories and some are good but they don't seem complete.

At age fifty, she is writing fantasy books for kids.  She has twenty-seven of her books published, complete with illustrations.  She is single, but not alone.  Her books keep her company.  Not only the stories, but the books themselves.  The thought of books, the sight of books, the smell of books.

At age eighty-seven, Sara is small and wrinkly with blondish-white, fluffy hair.  She has stopped writing books but her passion for fantasy has not ceased.  She still reads every night and has a glass unicorn collection.  

Emily
by Eliana

Emily is five and goes by Emmie.  She wants to be a singer when she gets big.  She doesn't knwo her letters or numbers, and doesn't want to learn.  Emmie doesn't like her teacher so she refuses to talk to him.

Eight years later, Emmie wants to be called Emily.  She's tired of being told to be quiet.  Tired of wearing her brother's hand me downs. Tired of having to go to school five days a week.  She still doesn't want to learn.

Now Emily is twenty-seven.  She just finished school.  She was older than most of her peers, having had to repeat several grades.  Emily smiles because she knows she will never have to learn again.  

Emily is forty-six.  She has three children who she sings to every night.  She works at a coffee shop, and loves her job.  But sometimes she stops and wishes she could go back in time, go back because now she wants to learn.  

Day One

A sudden summer storm greeted us on this first morning of camp, 2013.  We did a brief ice-breaker in the Caras Park pavilion and then decided to head for shelter inside the Inner Harmony yoga studio.  The girls sat on bolsters and faced the mirror.  We had an intense, two-minute stare which grew into mirror reflection poems. 

Minute in the Mirror
by Antigone

The hair,
oh the hair.
It poofs, frizzes, fluffs,
all the while
you wish it would lie straight.
Just sitting here is hard.
I want to look at everyone else too,
to see if they are also finding leftover breakfast on their face.
And I'm bored now,
because I look in the mirror
everyday, it turns out,
and pretty much know what
my face consists of.
So I start making faces,
scrunching up my nose,
flattening out my lips;
and wiggling my eyebrows.
Then I'm trying to see
down my throat,
checking myself for cavities in my teeth,
and getting grossed out by the
worm thing in the back of your mouth.
Then I spend the rest of the time making
faces at Sophie and seeing if she notices.

Mirror Eyes
by Sophia

Those blue eyes call to us
the pools of a sky on a stormy day
come into my mind and see all my memories
uncontent with the stares of the critics
beautiful in one way
jailed in another
do those eyes tell a story
like so many mountains they have climbed?
Do they feel trapped in the cages
of other people's eyes?
Do they see the future or
live to please the cages?
Does the past and the present
make its mark on the many
tear traces down her cheeks?
Does a sense of betrayal fill her
or is it happiness?
Do people see the value
or just an oddball in red?
How does she see the world?
How do they see the world?
No one can tell for
no one really knows her.
Does she really know herself?
Do we really know ourselves?
What do they look like to themselves?
Can we see reality?
Is reality see-able?
Or is the mirror a matrix
that outlives
what we see?
Living memory.

Ellie's Minute in the Mirror
by Eliana

Puddle gems
Biten and bruised
Dry from chlorine
White protection from the sun
Change backgrounds
yanked into another backyard
Posed for a minute of reflection.

A Girl in the Mirror
by Ruby

Intense blue eyes
bark brown hair
magic from within
radiating out
a powerful mind
strength of the body
and strength of the mind
a young girl
with both a bear
somewhere inside
and a crow
a girl who's
her own
enemy.

Ellie's Minute in the Mirror
by Ellie J.

I look into the mirror
and see a girl staring back at me
her eyes were a blue green
near the roots her hair
was dark brown that
turned to blonde.
I take a step forward and notice
a little orange blended with the blonde.
She smiles a kind, knowing smile.
I think she is my twin.

The Travel through the Mirror
by Wren

I hear the music drifting softly
through the room.
I see a splinter of light
shining through the dirty white,
splattered windows.
I see myself as plain as day
with my silky brown hair
and my big, glowing blue eyes.
I hear the loud engines of cars
and feel the cold hard ground
beneath me.

Taking a Look in the Mirror
by Ingrid

A thundercloud heart
pierced through with lightning then
sewn back together
by soft warm hands.
Big people just wouldn't understand
new ideas and explorations
beat down on the minds like
big, fat raindrops.
Wide thighs and tired eyes
make the reader feel drowsy.
And in the dark,
millions of nerves feel
the soft bark,
mere goosebumps in
the icy night water.

The intensity of the mirror was followed by some playful rounds of Literattit, everyone's favorite free-association writing game. A few of my favorites are below:

Peaceful
by Ingrid

The glass lay shimmering around the girl
catching rays of light and reflecting,
refracting.  The bodies all sat still
in the church.
The last one to rise was a boy.
He took his shard and slowly but strongly
walked to the front of the chapel to
see the girls peaceful eyes.
With his soft hand, he closed the lids,
careful to not smear the makeup.  

Peaceful
by Wren

The peaceful children
sit on the edge of the cool, calming water
of the ocean.
Everything has gone dark
but the sun still shines
on the lonely waves.

Peaceful
by Ruby

Peaceful can be an illusion.
We get used to chaos so over time
it gets to be peaceful.
We decide it's peaceful
because of what we see.
We see mother earth as peaceful.
We do not see th pollution.
We look at a random person
and think they look peaceful.
We do not see
the pain everybody keeps
inside them.

 Peaceful
by Eliana

That time of night when the
whole world is still.
When you peek out your window
and little crystals balnket the earth.
Footprints etched into the snow
by careful feet.
The sky and ground look the same,
they blend together, melting.
But then you look under the
soft brightness coming from the streetlight
and see snow falling.
Snow is falling and
the world is turning.

Drifting
by Eliana

Step aboard the little dock.
Faded planks strapped together.
Sometimes when you lay there,
the sun sinking,
pressing on your back,
you drift.
Drift to the important things.
Things that really matter.
You roll them around in your head,
picking them apart piece by piece.
Then, when you stand up,
sometimes you can feel the worries
roll off you into the water.
They drift away.

Drifting
by Antigone

You think you know where
you belong,
found the friends you
want to keep,
know the adults
you want to trust.
Until the detail,
the tiny piece
left out of the picture,
makes you realize
it was all a mirage
like in the desert,
and sends you back out
into the world,
drifting again.  

Twilight
by Ruby

A blackness taking over
a blackness like a cloak
it's black for a period of time
then all the sould's that have passed
shine in the sky like
crystalline jewels  -
stones in the sky.  

Twilight
by Ellie J.

When the sun sinks into the ocean
and the stars come out
you can't tell if the ocean is the sky.
It looks like there are boats floating
on stars.


After the still and focus of the yoga studio, we were ready for the sensation overload that is Butterfly Herbs.  We wandered about, taking notes, noticing sensory details, colors, words.  We then shoved into a little wooden booth to write it all down.  The girls even recopied their work to leave behind with the friendly fellow behind the counter.  Needless to say, he was highly impressed.

Butterfly Herbs
by Antigone

Reminds me of a scene you
could watch in a movie,
where a group of travelers
woudl walk into a cozy store that
smells like the coffee your dad
makes in the morning
and sweet candles.
When the travelers enter,
they might not notice the subtle sound
of music right away,
because like a sign on the wall says,
listening is a lost art,
and it is not music that you would recognize.
The travelers wander more.
Strange names on jars of tea like ko kiecha
intrigue them, and one by one,
they all stop to read the odd sounding words.
A tall traveler who likes the color orange,
stops in front of a mug,
that has the same pattern
with her mother's black and white coat,
and reminds her of home.
Another, who likes to keep to herself,
secretly wonders why Dutch chocolate is
different from French chocolate,
and wishes she has money to try it.
A small traveler,
known for her superb sense of style
stops and stares at a sign that reads
VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS,
unable to understand why you would want to
do that, not understanding that it means world peace.
The travelers gather and marvel together
at a rainbow of candles, mounch on bought licorice
and then regretfully leave
back out into the rain.

Butterfly Herbs
by Ruby

The smell of apple blossom,
coffee, sasparilla root,
juniper berries and hibiscus in this one shop.
The buttefly necklaces,
porcelain bowls and glass cups,
the candles and oils,
so many things.
The feel of carved flowers on a bar of soap,
The image of hummingbirds in glass spheres.
The clay bowls from somewhere far away.
The  Indian and Mongolian music.
The stone dragon climbing the wall with his
reflecting rainbow eyes.
The drawings of nonsense on the walls.
The bustle of people in this hundred year old shop
looking for the right spices, coffee, perfume, oil.
The always happiness and satisfaction here.

College Town Coffee Shop
by Ingrid

You walk in and smell sweet
like a hipster coffee shop in an airport.
IT seems like organized chaos.
RElaxing music.
The walls are cluttered with herbs and teas,
the wood old and spiny,
jewlery morfs to coffee beans to chocolates.
As you walk further back,
the noises and smells become more
assorted and pristine.
There are more people, each one original,
m aking their own noise and
giving off their own aura.
The soudns of coffee brewing fill you rears
and overflow to your eyes.
The is a meeting place.
A study place.
A place for a nice treat.

Mermaids and Coffee
by Wren

I smell the candy and the coffee.
It's a mixed smell.
The herbs smell so good.
There's ginger.
There's so many more.
It's a world of paradise.
But the thing I like most
are the clay mermaids.
They were so beautiful.
More than one hundred people in this shop
looking for necklaces, candles and oil.
Everything is overwhelming, but fun.  
A college town coffee shop.

Butterfly Herbs
by Ellie J.

The smell of coffee, spices, sugar and candles
mixed with the sound of the low hum of talking,
coffee beans clinking and the rough sound of violin music.
The flavor of a rasberry candy bursts like fire
in my mouth.
Hundreds of jars on the walls contain:
coarse seasalt, organic sage, durango hickory smoked salt, margoran leaf, pu-erh.
Butterfly herbs is where you can find:  elephant teapots, monkey and penguin and bunny
salt and pepper shakers, candy, chocolate, honey, panda cups, budda statues, candles,
scent sticks, metal frogs, earrings, butterfly wing necklaces, soap and coffee. 

Butterfly Herbs
by Eliana

Notice how every few paces there is a new smell.
First you are in France.
You are draped in the scent of lilacs.
Then you smell berries and cream.
If you keep walking, you will smell saltwater,
then coffee,
then chocolate,
then rain.

 Butterfly Herbs
by Sophia

Smells touch me like a spell and
the golden dragon shifts its head as
he sits on the wall.
Entering the magic is like a dream.
I feel like a gypsty listening to music
and smelling a forest in a shop.
hers of every color and type line the walls and
lie quietly under glass covers.
Cool little trinkets sing soft tunes.
The magic is broken the minute we step out
into the rain.

A closing for our day, from Sophia...

Teardrops fall on silent walker
place to place we reapers go.
Rain makes perfect
stealthy weather
and on and on
these reapers go.

Diamond skies and murky pudding
drift among our silent pens.
Golden word and perfect pages
make us reapers in a day
and on and on
these words do flow.

Books and trinkets line these shelves
and pictures painted let us know
of fairy tales and ancient drawings
place to place
the reapers go
and on and on
these memories grow.