The second day of camp found us at the main corridor to the Rattlesnake Wilderness Area. The morning was cool and hazy and we spent our first fifteen minutes walking in silence, one at at time, up the trail. The girls were asked to let their sense fill with what was immediately in front of them. They were encouraged to be in the moment. When we arrived at our first site, they wrote four lines about the sensory experiences of their silent morning. From there, we looked at the Malaysian form, the pantoum, and the girls took it from there.
Morning Pantoum
by Estrella
The sound of my feet crunching rocks on the path below me
The morning air is my cup of coffee, making the world feel alive
The constant sound of the rippling creek, tumbling over stones
Birds sing to each other, promising a perfect summer day
The morning air is my cup of coffee, making the world feel alive
Now I smell harsh chemicals, filling the air with wispy smoke
Birds sing to each other, promising a perfect summer day
Now I hear engines, grumbling to life with the push of a button
Now I smell harsh chemicals, filling the air with wispy smoke
And now I wish I smelled the fresh, clean Earth
Now I hear engines grumbling to life with the push of a button
And soon there will be no more birds promising perfect summer days
Notice
by Kine
Nature does not keep its secrets
If you listen and don't disrupt
Trees will bend and weep for you
Let the chatter of your mind go
If you listen and don't disrupt
You will know more than what you once did
Let the chatter of your mind go
Secrets will not be kept
You will know more than you once did
Notice the details of the green fluorescent tufts that hang from tree limbs
Secrets will not be kept
See the way you never saw before
Notice the details of the green fluorescent tufts that hang from tree limbs
Admire simple flaws
See the way you never saw before
Open a doorway to soil and tulips
See the whimsical ways in which to see
Nature does not keep its secrets
Open a doorway to soil and tulips
Trees will bend and struggle for you
From their we hiked in partners, discussing our emotional strengths and flaws, moving to physical loves and dislikes. Those conversations served as a springboard for looking at Marge Piercy's poem, Barbie Doll. The children used her style and tone to focus on telling self-image stories of their own.
Ballerinas
by Antigone
I have a cousin.
She is long legs and thick hair,
excitement and loving.
She was a dancer,
though she isn't anymore,
lacy pink shoes
hair twisted into a bun
her chipping clear nail polish,
excitement and long legs.
She twirled across the floor and smiled,
and then fear came in.
He crept into the room like an assassin,
staying in the corners,
waiting until she looked in
the long hard mirror,
to finally catch a stray strand of hair,
climb it,
and seep in to her brain.
He proceeded slowly, first to her thighs
in their scratch pink tights,
and made them fat.
She started and stared.
Fear didn't leave.
Her legs stayed fat.
She stared and stared
at all the other girls,
with their belly's sucked in,
arms the color of fat free milk,
and legs the color of salad without dressing.
She looked down at herself.
Fear tiptoed a bit further towards her stomach fat.
That night at her house, she made us cookies.
I asked if she was going to have one.
She looked at me,
long legs and thinning hair,
smiled sweetly and said,
no thanks, I'm not hungry.
Duff Me
by McKenna
The little boy with the red hair,
the melting, watery chocolate brown eyes,
and pale freckled skin
poked my arm today.
Snakes, green and dripping venom
slithered from his mouth and
splattered on to my arm,
my pale, freckled arm.
"You have really hairy armssss....."
they hissed.
Then the boy turned and left.
The snakes, cobras, slithering up to
swap and hypnotize my vulnerable
cowering, yellow soul
whispered in my ear,
"Wear nothing but long sleeved shirts,
my lovely,
they are your straight jacket,
they will restrain the disdain of others."
I believed the snakes
with my whole bleeding heart.
I wore my straight jacket everyday,
fiddled with my sleeves,
wondering it their disgust would ever
pack up the snakes,
in cages meant for nightmares
and leave me in peace.
Long sleeves grew extensions
suffocating my ankles in
burning blue denim in
hazy summer heat.
High necklines grew vines,
entwining my hair,
combing and brushing and combing
day in and day out,
finally braiding their blackening tendrils
into hair ties, more and more hair ties,
elastic, prickly, tangled in brown
dreadlocks hidden under a skull cap
that everyone but I
knew was toxic, a skull painted in
the corner,
my straight jacket needed to be hidden as well,
and a fleece,
soft and comforting,
always there and always room to
spare in its sleeves,
hid my hiding clothes.
All through the years
the snake whispered in my ear,
telling me that these handcuffs
and this burlap bag that smelled
of salty tears,
that covered my head,
and that this full body cast was
worth it...
Two years later,
a little boy with brown hair,
freezing, candy blue eyes
and tan, sun-kissed skin
poked my arm,
his pencil dug into my skin,
my pale, freckled skin,
and wasps buzzed out of his mouth,
landing on my arm.
"You have really hair armsssss..."
"I've heard this one before,"
I say.
I pinch the wasp between my
thumb and index finger,
that still have a green stain on their
finger tips.
I crumple my hat, my toxic skull cap
in my fist and shake out my hair.
"Thank you,"
I say with a smile.
"I'm glad you noticed."
That's How I Want to Be
by Estrella
That's how I want to be! said all the girls
Skinny legs. Flat stomach.
Picture perfect face.
Stunning makeup. Red, pouty lips.
Gorgeous eyes, covered in mascara and eyeshadow.
Glossy, dazzling smile,
Perfectly curled strawberry blond hair.
That's how I want to be! said all the girls.
Fitted dress to show off her chest.
That's how I want to be! said all the girls.
Big house.
Expensive car.
Beach house, vacations, ski trips.
That's how I want to be! said the girls.
However, this perfect girl had a problem.
She wasn't happy.
She didn't laugh anymore.
Her smile was painted on,
her eyes didn't twinkle when
her brother cracked a joke.
She never enjoyed her favorite foods.
Gone was the perfectly content girl.
She had been replaced by the idea of perfection.
Where nutrition didn't matter,
meals were meant to be skipped,
expensive makeup was bought to hide any flaws.
And finally,
the girl had enough.
So she took off her mask,
unzipped her gorgeous dress,
stepped out of her heels,
and laughed at her brother's lame jokes
once again.
Spotlights
by Eliana
Spotlights shine a blinding white.
A girl stands in front of a white curtain.
Tackle boxes of makeup are brought in.
Foundation and concealer,
eyeliner,eyeshadow, mascara, blush,
bronzer, lipstick, coverup, and
shame
are aligned neatly inside
women in plain shirts
and plastic name tags
hold brushes
with green marble handles and
feathery end.
Powder fills the air and the girl coughs
eyebrows are ripped off with wax.
When they are done,
you wouldn't recognize her.
She wouldn't recognize herself.
Cameras flash at the girl,
standing in front of the white curtain.
Photo editors are brought in,
smaller feet and skinnier legs are needed for this girl,
bigger butt,
wider hips,
flatter stomach,
thinner arms,
bigger chest,
better posture,
smaller ears,
longer eyelashes,
higher cheek bones,
a different face.
The girl watches the editors pick her apart.
She wonders why she is here at all.
Then she washes her face and leaves.
Globs of foundation plug the sink.
When she got home
she took a pair of craft scissors,
thinned her legs and waist.
She was sent to the hospital because of blood loss.
The doctors nodded and said that they
understood completely.
She needed a thigh gap.
They understand.
The girl stared
as the doctors stitched her thin waist.
Metal staples ran up her bony legs.
The doctors patted her pack.
Said they were proud of her.
The girl stared as she was wheeled
out of the clean hospital room.
Her ugly, edited face stared back at her
from every magazine cover.
Her parents said she was even
prettier than before.
But little girls in the hospital lobby
stare
in admiration and horror,
chubby hands covering their open mouths.
The skinny girl in the hospital bed
shakes her head at them
terrified of herself,
shakes her head faster.
The girl ripped out the thick staples
in her leg and cried,
dripping dark mascara
smearing her clear face
"Give me a washcloth!"
she screamed.
She hated this mask of powdery perfection
hated this fake face.
"Give me a washcloth!" she screamed.
The doctors stared in horror.
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
2015 Poetry Camp, Day 1
What an incredible group of writers I spent my morning with! I was totally blown away by what they produced today. In fact, I was so engaged in their writing that I forgot to take pictures. Alas, their words will have to suffice.
Untitled
by Antigone
Their teacher had changed.
Long, long ago they stopped learning from school.
Gone from their heads were circumference and similies,
instead they looked to the sun.
They held each others' hand,
and dressed up their doll like a sailor,
and put her on a boat,
and floated her down the river.
She was one of our favorites,
they said.
They held hands and were taught
friendship and acceptance.
Then they went to school and learned
everything and nothing.
Numbers floated through their heads as they looked out the window.
Finally they got up and left.
They drove sixteen hours across the country,
to a new teacher.
It was crisp and white and flat,
it taught you eelegance and grace,
and they couldn't remember what a simile was,
but it turned out it didn't matter.
They kept traveling --
down they went
to people with cocoa skin,
where the air was humid and hot and lovely.
The people were their teachers
and brought them happiness.
They liked themselves.
They brought a bracelet back home to
try to hold on to themselves
but it only sort of worked.
A boy gave them a necklace.
Now you can't leave me, they joked.
They learned so much that day.
About trust,
and about placing a piece of your soul
into someone else's heart.
For the moment, equalateral triangles were forgotten,
and for the moment, that was okay.
Finally they went somewhere new.
By now they could not sit still,
they wanted more and more teachers.
But this teacher was different.
The floor bent and quaked,
there was too much water,
and houses fell down.
Streets crumpled and flaked away.
One little boy was lost.
For a moment, they thought about equilateral triangles and
circumferences and similes and going back.
Then they smiled and began to rebuild a village.
Untitled
by Antigone
My friend has cloud hair and raspberry lips, classy and distracting.
We sat on a field on the edge of a cliff and had a picnic.
"My mama," she tells me, smacking pink lipstick,
"Every time we go to visit my mama, all she talks about
are which of her friends are dying and which ones are already dead."
Her voice is a sharp whine.
I sip out of my straw and admire her freckles.
"I don't even know who she's talking about. Not my friends, not my problem. Jesus."
Her raspberry lips smack,
there is some pink smeared on the clear straw.
Her freckles shine.
I finish my lemonade and leave.
Peanut Butter and Honey Sandwiches
by Estrella
I walk into the noisy lunchroom,
fingers clutching my pink and flowered lunch box.
I sit down with my friends.
I open up my lunch box.
There it is.
The most delicious food in the world,
or so I thought.
I open my mouth and take a big bite.
The white bread, with the crusts cut off, of course,
tastes like heaven.
The mixture of the creamy peanut butter and
gooey honey make for a sweet and salty snack.
I smack my lips, trying to get the honey off of them.
I keep swallowing to get the peanut butter off
the roof of my mouth, stuck there like glue.
When I finish, I snap my sandwich container back into place,
and move on to the less exciting part of my lunch: vegetables.
And when I finish my lunch,
all I can think about is tomorrow,
and my next peanut butter and honey sandwich.
Untitled
by Estrella
"Not my pandas, not my zoo!"
her voice rang out.
My mother observes the chaos as we
gather at the cliff's edge.
She doesn't want to consume
the guilt of having one of us get injured.
Shes been trying to get us to come back off
the edge for minutes and minutes
but she can't stop us
the clouds are big and fluffy and the sky
is a startling blue.
We get ready.
"1...2...3!"
And so, we jump.
Relationship Between All of our Objects
by McKenna
Connections.
This is a story about connections.
How in even a puddle of objects,
clumped together into one space,
hardly enough room for their stories
to fit in next to them,
we see the similarities melting and
bonding those objects into one another,
for you see,
each story starts,
witha friend, a fmaily,
who decide that in order to
rebuild our island, our universe,
to know that our friendship is right around the corner,
that all you need do is call,
to write down our memories as we learn from another,
to be content with what we are given,
to cherish the places, the snowed-in cabins,
that do not require a plane ticket to be worty,
and to keep one another close,
when mountains, valleys, icebergs and rivers
may keep us apart,
these friends, these families,
have told us to believe in what we
see, to hold dear those things,
that we find on street corners,
in ocean markts
at the bottom of jewelery boxes,
and the pockets of backpacks,
for it's the little things that count.
Jelly, Mixed Berries
by McKenna
Bread, whole wheat,
brown, the color of weeds drying out, colorless,
in a fall pasture,
its beads of seeds crumbling into dust,
as the wind makes the grass dance.
Bread, whole wheat,
the sandpaper on wood symphony,
as the mare's muzzle bruses its crust,
the white, flaking seeds, falling
into the arena dirt.
Jelly, mixed berries,
capping freckled, yellowing fingers,
with purple, lumpy hands,
leaving little trails of its mixture,
along the worn leanter cantle,
giving color to the tooled flowers and
acorns along the saddle's slope.
Jelly, mixed berries,
leaving stains on white buttond own shirts,
billowing like sails on sunset orange walls,
far from this mountainous, emerald range.
Peanut butter, sticky paste,
holds the three layered sandwich together,
as it falls from the muzzle of the sorrel mare,
leaning, ever so slightly,
on the young girl,
wiht hazel green eyes hidden behind
round, wired, red glasses,
looking as if they were molded during
a crafts class, where paper clips
were the only medium,
those eyes, hidden behind those glasses,
light up and join in the chorus of laughter
as the sorrel mare startles awake
and the weathered old man,
claw-like hands grasping his cane
he had carved himself and
patched it up with electric red tape
and black patches of sandpaper,
the young girl and the old man
laughed as the sandwich
fell and the mare awoke.
Pink Bubblegum Nails
by Eliana
Pristine white hospital rooms
babies are born,
mothers cry,
pasty white skin is held in
big, weathered hands,
small pale hands with
nails painted a bubblegum pink.
Across the world,
babies are born in
pastel green houses
with dirt floors and
no lighting.
The baby is passed
from hand to hand.
Hands the color of
caramel lindours,
chocolate milk,
glistening sandy beaches.
Family cries with happiness.
Across the world again,
babies grow up,
with glowing peachy skin,
white, sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
They are sent off to school,
bright flaking pencil pouches
clutched in
chubby hands.
Babies all around the world
grow.
Mothers and fathers
and mothers and mothers and
fathers and fathers
hold their hands.
Paint their nails a
bubblegum pink.
Travel across the world with me.
Put on your white and navy sailing suit
with silver buttons and
a hat.
Chubby children with
caramel linbdour skin
run out of a red school house,
chubby hands in the air,
bouncing the grassy island.
Shaking the world.
On pristine white ski hills
children whiz past trees.
They feel like they are
on top of the world.
On pristine white ski hills
people hit trees and die.
In pristine white hospital rooms,
babies are born
and mothers with
bubblegum pink nails
cry.
On cold, graying cement streets,
cars slip and crash,
last breaths smell of alcohol.
On cold, graying cement porches
best friends dress
baby dolls with
glowing peachy skin,
white sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
Little girls grow up,
yell at their mothers with
bubblegum pink nails,
lay in the burnign sun to tan,
freckles spread across
burnt skin.
Across the world,
babies grow to young adults
and fall in love,
hold hands in the
splattering rain,
gauzy air smells like roses.
Dancing and spinning,
in love.
Raindrops burst on puddles.
Hearts burst with love.
Silver necklaces like
silver buttons on a
white sailing suit.
White lace dresses and
black suits at the altar.
Hold hands at the latar.
You are in love.
Travel across the world
together,
children with caramel lindour skin
shake the eart
when they run.
Best friends dress up
in white and navy sailor suits with
silver buttons and hats,
wear two necklaces with
bubblegum machines,
mothers with small, pale hands and
nails painted the color of
pink bubblegum
cry,
hold in babies with
pasty white skin
in pristine white
hospital gowns.
Ice Cream Sundaes
by Eliana
Glitzy prom dresses spread
over bar stools
with red vinyl seats.
Hair is carefully curled
with a big, barreled iron
and ice cream sundaes sit untouched.
Hot fudge oozes over the edges of
soft serve vanilla.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Keep your pale stomach
hidden with glossy silk,
pulled taught over your body.
Vanilla melts white in
the glass cup.
Peachy lip gloss matches
pale chiffon brushing the
metal bar of the stool.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Eyeliner frames
saltwater blue eyes.
Brown eyes the
color of
untouched chocolate syrup
melting in your glass cup.
Chatter so you have an excuse
to not eat your
melting vanilla.
You're so tired and
put together.
Pearly earrings on
pale earlobes.
Pale stomachs
hidden with glossy silk.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Stand up in metallic heels.
Flowers pin back
carefully curled hair.
The door closes behind you,
golden bell tinkling.
Melting white vanilla and
hardening hot fudge
sit untouched.
Story of Stuff
by Kine
As we grow
objects hold memories for us,
a safe of thoughts,
contain what we cannot.
Two children play with dolls
seeing past a plastic replica
of a baby and realting it
to a rash on infant's heads.
A bracelet brings memories of
growing as a thriving girl,
along with seeing and appreciating
a new culture, so different to our own,
a necklace referred to as chains
showing the dedication to her sweetheart,
now rings ton a new holder,
her daughter.
As memories fade
tossed into the wind,
stuff can always
share its mind.
The Wind Stirs
by Kine
The wind stirs the silk water.
Her voice tumbles over cliffs and jagged rocks.
The sun and the moon will never meet.
The clouds hustle over the glass
lining of sky.
A new mother stands alone
surrounded only by the
booming voice of the earth.
The sun creeps to find the moon.
The moon follows shyly.
She stands on the cliffs and jagged rocks
surrounded by the carved,
snow drenched mountains.
She holds her hands
in the air reaching
for what she cannot reach.
The water that crashed
against the rocks reflecting
the snow and white spirits.
Her head empty, simply waiting
to feel the intensity of the unknown.
She follows the crashing waves and
falls through the glass barrier of sky.
Untitled
by Antigone
Their teacher had changed.
Long, long ago they stopped learning from school.
Gone from their heads were circumference and similies,
instead they looked to the sun.
They held each others' hand,
and dressed up their doll like a sailor,
and put her on a boat,
and floated her down the river.
She was one of our favorites,
they said.
They held hands and were taught
friendship and acceptance.
Then they went to school and learned
everything and nothing.
Numbers floated through their heads as they looked out the window.
Finally they got up and left.
They drove sixteen hours across the country,
to a new teacher.
It was crisp and white and flat,
it taught you eelegance and grace,
and they couldn't remember what a simile was,
but it turned out it didn't matter.
They kept traveling --
down they went
to people with cocoa skin,
where the air was humid and hot and lovely.
The people were their teachers
and brought them happiness.
They liked themselves.
They brought a bracelet back home to
try to hold on to themselves
but it only sort of worked.
A boy gave them a necklace.
Now you can't leave me, they joked.
They learned so much that day.
About trust,
and about placing a piece of your soul
into someone else's heart.
For the moment, equalateral triangles were forgotten,
and for the moment, that was okay.
Finally they went somewhere new.
By now they could not sit still,
they wanted more and more teachers.
But this teacher was different.
The floor bent and quaked,
there was too much water,
and houses fell down.
Streets crumpled and flaked away.
One little boy was lost.
For a moment, they thought about equilateral triangles and
circumferences and similes and going back.
Then they smiled and began to rebuild a village.
Untitled
by Antigone
My friend has cloud hair and raspberry lips, classy and distracting.
We sat on a field on the edge of a cliff and had a picnic.
"My mama," she tells me, smacking pink lipstick,
"Every time we go to visit my mama, all she talks about
are which of her friends are dying and which ones are already dead."
Her voice is a sharp whine.
I sip out of my straw and admire her freckles.
"I don't even know who she's talking about. Not my friends, not my problem. Jesus."
Her raspberry lips smack,
there is some pink smeared on the clear straw.
Her freckles shine.
I finish my lemonade and leave.
Peanut Butter and Honey Sandwiches
by Estrella
I walk into the noisy lunchroom,
fingers clutching my pink and flowered lunch box.
I sit down with my friends.
I open up my lunch box.
There it is.
The most delicious food in the world,
or so I thought.
I open my mouth and take a big bite.
The white bread, with the crusts cut off, of course,
tastes like heaven.
The mixture of the creamy peanut butter and
gooey honey make for a sweet and salty snack.
I smack my lips, trying to get the honey off of them.
I keep swallowing to get the peanut butter off
the roof of my mouth, stuck there like glue.
When I finish, I snap my sandwich container back into place,
and move on to the less exciting part of my lunch: vegetables.
And when I finish my lunch,
all I can think about is tomorrow,
and my next peanut butter and honey sandwich.
Untitled
by Estrella
"Not my pandas, not my zoo!"
her voice rang out.
My mother observes the chaos as we
gather at the cliff's edge.
She doesn't want to consume
the guilt of having one of us get injured.
Shes been trying to get us to come back off
the edge for minutes and minutes
but she can't stop us
the clouds are big and fluffy and the sky
is a startling blue.
We get ready.
"1...2...3!"
And so, we jump.
Relationship Between All of our Objects
by McKenna
Connections.
This is a story about connections.
How in even a puddle of objects,
clumped together into one space,
hardly enough room for their stories
to fit in next to them,
we see the similarities melting and
bonding those objects into one another,
for you see,
each story starts,
witha friend, a fmaily,
who decide that in order to
rebuild our island, our universe,
to know that our friendship is right around the corner,
that all you need do is call,
to write down our memories as we learn from another,
to be content with what we are given,
to cherish the places, the snowed-in cabins,
that do not require a plane ticket to be worty,
and to keep one another close,
when mountains, valleys, icebergs and rivers
may keep us apart,
these friends, these families,
have told us to believe in what we
see, to hold dear those things,
that we find on street corners,
in ocean markts
at the bottom of jewelery boxes,
and the pockets of backpacks,
for it's the little things that count.
Jelly, Mixed Berries
by McKenna
Bread, whole wheat,
brown, the color of weeds drying out, colorless,
in a fall pasture,
its beads of seeds crumbling into dust,
as the wind makes the grass dance.
Bread, whole wheat,
the sandpaper on wood symphony,
as the mare's muzzle bruses its crust,
the white, flaking seeds, falling
into the arena dirt.
Jelly, mixed berries,
capping freckled, yellowing fingers,
with purple, lumpy hands,
leaving little trails of its mixture,
along the worn leanter cantle,
giving color to the tooled flowers and
acorns along the saddle's slope.
Jelly, mixed berries,
leaving stains on white buttond own shirts,
billowing like sails on sunset orange walls,
far from this mountainous, emerald range.
Peanut butter, sticky paste,
holds the three layered sandwich together,
as it falls from the muzzle of the sorrel mare,
leaning, ever so slightly,
on the young girl,
wiht hazel green eyes hidden behind
round, wired, red glasses,
looking as if they were molded during
a crafts class, where paper clips
were the only medium,
those eyes, hidden behind those glasses,
light up and join in the chorus of laughter
as the sorrel mare startles awake
and the weathered old man,
claw-like hands grasping his cane
he had carved himself and
patched it up with electric red tape
and black patches of sandpaper,
the young girl and the old man
laughed as the sandwich
fell and the mare awoke.
Pink Bubblegum Nails
by Eliana
Pristine white hospital rooms
babies are born,
mothers cry,
pasty white skin is held in
big, weathered hands,
small pale hands with
nails painted a bubblegum pink.
Across the world,
babies are born in
pastel green houses
with dirt floors and
no lighting.
The baby is passed
from hand to hand.
Hands the color of
caramel lindours,
chocolate milk,
glistening sandy beaches.
Family cries with happiness.
Across the world again,
babies grow up,
with glowing peachy skin,
white, sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
They are sent off to school,
bright flaking pencil pouches
clutched in
chubby hands.
Babies all around the world
grow.
Mothers and fathers
and mothers and mothers and
fathers and fathers
hold their hands.
Paint their nails a
bubblegum pink.
Travel across the world with me.
Put on your white and navy sailing suit
with silver buttons and
a hat.
Chubby children with
caramel linbdour skin
run out of a red school house,
chubby hands in the air,
bouncing the grassy island.
Shaking the world.
On pristine white ski hills
children whiz past trees.
They feel like they are
on top of the world.
On pristine white ski hills
people hit trees and die.
In pristine white hospital rooms,
babies are born
and mothers with
bubblegum pink nails
cry.
On cold, graying cement streets,
cars slip and crash,
last breaths smell of alcohol.
On cold, graying cement porches
best friends dress
baby dolls with
glowing peachy skin,
white sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
Little girls grow up,
yell at their mothers with
bubblegum pink nails,
lay in the burnign sun to tan,
freckles spread across
burnt skin.
Across the world,
babies grow to young adults
and fall in love,
hold hands in the
splattering rain,
gauzy air smells like roses.
Dancing and spinning,
in love.
Raindrops burst on puddles.
Hearts burst with love.
Silver necklaces like
silver buttons on a
white sailing suit.
White lace dresses and
black suits at the altar.
Hold hands at the latar.
You are in love.
Travel across the world
together,
children with caramel lindour skin
shake the eart
when they run.
Best friends dress up
in white and navy sailor suits with
silver buttons and hats,
wear two necklaces with
bubblegum machines,
mothers with small, pale hands and
nails painted the color of
pink bubblegum
cry,
hold in babies with
pasty white skin
in pristine white
hospital gowns.
Ice Cream Sundaes
by Eliana
Glitzy prom dresses spread
over bar stools
with red vinyl seats.
Hair is carefully curled
with a big, barreled iron
and ice cream sundaes sit untouched.
Hot fudge oozes over the edges of
soft serve vanilla.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Keep your pale stomach
hidden with glossy silk,
pulled taught over your body.
Vanilla melts white in
the glass cup.
Peachy lip gloss matches
pale chiffon brushing the
metal bar of the stool.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Eyeliner frames
saltwater blue eyes.
Brown eyes the
color of
untouched chocolate syrup
melting in your glass cup.
Chatter so you have an excuse
to not eat your
melting vanilla.
You're so tired and
put together.
Pearly earrings on
pale earlobes.
Pale stomachs
hidden with glossy silk.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Stand up in metallic heels.
Flowers pin back
carefully curled hair.
The door closes behind you,
golden bell tinkling.
Melting white vanilla and
hardening hot fudge
sit untouched.
Story of Stuff
by Kine
As we grow
objects hold memories for us,
a safe of thoughts,
contain what we cannot.
Two children play with dolls
seeing past a plastic replica
of a baby and realting it
to a rash on infant's heads.
A bracelet brings memories of
growing as a thriving girl,
along with seeing and appreciating
a new culture, so different to our own,
a necklace referred to as chains
showing the dedication to her sweetheart,
now rings ton a new holder,
her daughter.
As memories fade
tossed into the wind,
stuff can always
share its mind.
The Wind Stirs
by Kine
The wind stirs the silk water.
Her voice tumbles over cliffs and jagged rocks.
The sun and the moon will never meet.
The clouds hustle over the glass
lining of sky.
A new mother stands alone
surrounded only by the
booming voice of the earth.
The sun creeps to find the moon.
The moon follows shyly.
She stands on the cliffs and jagged rocks
surrounded by the carved,
snow drenched mountains.
She holds her hands
in the air reaching
for what she cannot reach.
The water that crashed
against the rocks reflecting
the snow and white spirits.
Her head empty, simply waiting
to feel the intensity of the unknown.
She follows the crashing waves and
falls through the glass barrier of sky.
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