The sky steals you softly tonight,
Tomorrow, please be back.
You left, and I was with a fright,
Indeed you’re all I lack.
Although you are not here right now,
I’ll wake and find you near.
Dreams tonight? I don’t see how,
Cause I just need you here.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Childlike Tendencies of an Exhausted Academic Mind, by Deb L.
It came down on me like a ton of bricks,
With the heavy fist of gravity helping its 9.8m/s/s descent
And inertia was celebrating opposite day.
So I let my nose wander through the botanical gardens on an eventful Friday afternoon
There was nothing else to do.
The echoes of laughs and carnival bells playing on to the edge of a memory as I trotted through the rows of flowers.
So, here I am now
Where am I, again?
Can you smell the clown faces, peeking up from below the petals? Can you taste the cotton candy blooms puffing up from the green sweet-stems?
That would be my imagination, dancing like a three year old up and down these vibrant aisles.
Green plants, red plants, tall plants, Smarty Pants
With Albert’s hair and Vincent’s eyes.
It’s hot out here
Don’t tell, but I think I’m melting
My warm, wool sweater itches but I can’t take it off because it’s soft and Mommy said not to
Frosty the Snowman is tapping on the glass windowpane because he’s lonely and my inner child has been in timeout for so long
They want to sneak off to Neverland and play with Peter and the Boys.
I feel like singing,
“You are old and decrepit, but I am young and spry”
The floor is upside down
The sky is tilting sideways
And I am somewhere in between, climbing the beanstalk that will take me to a place just left of insanity and just right of the funfair.
The Great Butterflies of Creativity are flying by me in solar-powered airplanes
I wish I could fly
That way, I could smell patriotic like that American flag at the top of the pole
Fly like the eagle it stands for
The world would be a better place
Se conzoni sono state pronunciate
The pen is eliminating my argument, erasing my words,
Maybe they don’t want to be told, they like secrets
Curiosity killed the Cat, after all
It killed me, too
Its waves have overtaken me and now sweep me away,
To somewhere extraordinarily lawless.
With the heavy fist of gravity helping its 9.8m/s/s descent
And inertia was celebrating opposite day.
So I let my nose wander through the botanical gardens on an eventful Friday afternoon
There was nothing else to do.
The echoes of laughs and carnival bells playing on to the edge of a memory as I trotted through the rows of flowers.
So, here I am now
Where am I, again?
Can you smell the clown faces, peeking up from below the petals? Can you taste the cotton candy blooms puffing up from the green sweet-stems?
That would be my imagination, dancing like a three year old up and down these vibrant aisles.
Green plants, red plants, tall plants, Smarty Pants
With Albert’s hair and Vincent’s eyes.
It’s hot out here
Don’t tell, but I think I’m melting
My warm, wool sweater itches but I can’t take it off because it’s soft and Mommy said not to
Frosty the Snowman is tapping on the glass windowpane because he’s lonely and my inner child has been in timeout for so long
They want to sneak off to Neverland and play with Peter and the Boys.
I feel like singing,
“You are old and decrepit, but I am young and spry”
The floor is upside down
The sky is tilting sideways
And I am somewhere in between, climbing the beanstalk that will take me to a place just left of insanity and just right of the funfair.
The Great Butterflies of Creativity are flying by me in solar-powered airplanes
I wish I could fly
That way, I could smell patriotic like that American flag at the top of the pole
Fly like the eagle it stands for
The world would be a better place
Se conzoni sono state pronunciate
The pen is eliminating my argument, erasing my words,
Maybe they don’t want to be told, they like secrets
Curiosity killed the Cat, after all
It killed me, too
Its waves have overtaken me and now sweep me away,
To somewhere extraordinarily lawless.
Deb L. a rat-loving schizoid with a knack for weirdness. There have been many nights this year when she's gotten negative hours of sleep and the resulting giggle fests are a constant source of raised eyebrows for her teachers. Nonetheless, she's found that such situations define her high school career; who says blondes have the most fun?
Ray J.
Ray J. is very serene in all that he does. He’s content to just sit down, read a book, listen to some tunes, and watch the world from his window.
Above and Below, by Marissa S.
Climbing above the trees, my love soars, see?
Anticipation high, I wait for thee
Never shown still, hidden in my heart
Expression like this, not taken as smart
Flying away my self flees from the known
Disappointed now, in a corner, thrown
I gain courage and thrust forward in two
I pull together. I was torn, now new.
Anticipation high, I wait for thee
Never shown still, hidden in my heart
Expression like this, not taken as smart
Flying away my self flees from the known
Disappointed now, in a corner, thrown
I gain courage and thrust forward in two
I pull together. I was torn, now new.
Enchanted, by Isabel C.
I lay you down below a tree
Your heart was caving in.
Under her spell you could not see
That she would be your end.
She cast that arrow from her bow
It struck you through the chest.
She wanted you to be her own-
Put our love to the test.
Enchanted, you cast me aside
I pleaded that you stay.
You wanted her to be your bride
But you were just her slave.
When finally she let us be-
And left you there to die-
I lay you down below a tree
And not once left your side.
Your heart was caving in.
Under her spell you could not see
That she would be your end.
She cast that arrow from her bow
It struck you through the chest.
She wanted you to be her own-
Put our love to the test.
Enchanted, you cast me aside
I pleaded that you stay.
You wanted her to be your bride
But you were just her slave.
When finally she let us be-
And left you there to die-
I lay you down below a tree
And not once left your side.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Buck, by Eddie R.
Eddie R. is a senior at Cave Spring High School and at the Center for Visual Arts at Burton Center for Arts and Technology. He is a Columbian Jew with a strange imagination. He likes to put cold objects on his eyebrows.
Keep Your Head Up, by Joshua B.
LIFE IS HARD IS PAINFUL BUT KEEP YOUR HEAD UP TO THE SKY THINK ABOUT YOU.
THERE IS A HEART WITHIN EVERY CHEST THERE IS HURT WITHIN EVERY LOVE.
THERE IS ARGUING IN EVERY PIECE OF MIND.
WHEN LOVE AND HURT MIX THEY CAN BE CATASTROPHIC.
KEEP YOUR HEAD TO THE SKY LOOK UP TO LOVE IN EVERY WAY.
PEOPLE HURT PEOPLE LOVE BUT NEVER FORGET THE ONE YOU’RE ABOVE.
SOMETIMES WE SPEAK HURTFULLY SOMETIMES WE CRY AT NIGHT BUT REMEMBER THE WAY WE FIGHT.
IN EVERY WORD IN EVERY BREATH COMES A PIECE OF OUR HURT THE WAY YOU JUDGE THE WAY YOU LEAVE CAN ONLY HURT THE ONE YOU PERCEIVE.
THE LOVE FOR ME THE LOVE FOR YOU CAN ONLY EXPLAIN HOW WE FEEL TOGETHER I THINK OF WAYS TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS YOU EXPRESS YOUR ANGER.
YOU’RE LOVE IS A ROSE ON A BUMPY OCEAN YOUR ANGER IS A RAGING SEA.
THE WAY WE BOND THE ANGEL YOU ARE I THINK OF THE WAY YOU COME WITH ME AS OPPSED TO HURT YOU CAN RECEIVE.
JUDGE ME HURT ME BUT LEAN ON ME WHEN YOU CRY I’M YOUR SHELTER WHEN YOU’RE DOWN I’M YOUR LOVE IN EVERY WORD.
MY WAY IS DIFFERENT FROM YOUR WAY MY LOVE IS DIFFERENT FORM YOUR LOVE BUT PERCEIVE ME NOT IN A WAY OF PAIN BUT PERCEIVE ME IN A WAY OF JOY.
DON’T BE GREEDY DON’T HURT I LOVE YOU WHEN YOUR AT YOUR WEAKEST.
LIFE IS ABOUT THE JOY YOU SHARE AND THE LOVE YOU GIVE CARRY ME NOT THROUGH PAIN BUT THROUGH LOVE CARE AND NURTURE.
LOOK DOWN ON ME I LOOK UP TO YOU.
YOU HURT ME I LOVE YOU DON’T LET YOUR HURT GET IN THE WAY OF YOUR LOVE. JOY AND HAPPINESS.
Joshua B. is 18 years old and he loves poetry and singing and dancing and writing. He has the best friends in the world that he loves with a passion. He’s been writing poetry since he was 7 and he is originally from South Dakota. He has a biological little brother and about 3 half brothers.
THERE IS A HEART WITHIN EVERY CHEST THERE IS HURT WITHIN EVERY LOVE.
THERE IS ARGUING IN EVERY PIECE OF MIND.
WHEN LOVE AND HURT MIX THEY CAN BE CATASTROPHIC.
KEEP YOUR HEAD TO THE SKY LOOK UP TO LOVE IN EVERY WAY.
PEOPLE HURT PEOPLE LOVE BUT NEVER FORGET THE ONE YOU’RE ABOVE.
SOMETIMES WE SPEAK HURTFULLY SOMETIMES WE CRY AT NIGHT BUT REMEMBER THE WAY WE FIGHT.
IN EVERY WORD IN EVERY BREATH COMES A PIECE OF OUR HURT THE WAY YOU JUDGE THE WAY YOU LEAVE CAN ONLY HURT THE ONE YOU PERCEIVE.
THE LOVE FOR ME THE LOVE FOR YOU CAN ONLY EXPLAIN HOW WE FEEL TOGETHER I THINK OF WAYS TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS YOU EXPRESS YOUR ANGER.
YOU’RE LOVE IS A ROSE ON A BUMPY OCEAN YOUR ANGER IS A RAGING SEA.
THE WAY WE BOND THE ANGEL YOU ARE I THINK OF THE WAY YOU COME WITH ME AS OPPSED TO HURT YOU CAN RECEIVE.
JUDGE ME HURT ME BUT LEAN ON ME WHEN YOU CRY I’M YOUR SHELTER WHEN YOU’RE DOWN I’M YOUR LOVE IN EVERY WORD.
MY WAY IS DIFFERENT FROM YOUR WAY MY LOVE IS DIFFERENT FORM YOUR LOVE BUT PERCEIVE ME NOT IN A WAY OF PAIN BUT PERCEIVE ME IN A WAY OF JOY.
DON’T BE GREEDY DON’T HURT I LOVE YOU WHEN YOUR AT YOUR WEAKEST.
LIFE IS ABOUT THE JOY YOU SHARE AND THE LOVE YOU GIVE CARRY ME NOT THROUGH PAIN BUT THROUGH LOVE CARE AND NURTURE.
LOOK DOWN ON ME I LOOK UP TO YOU.
YOU HURT ME I LOVE YOU DON’T LET YOUR HURT GET IN THE WAY OF YOUR LOVE. JOY AND HAPPINESS.
Joshua B. is 18 years old and he loves poetry and singing and dancing and writing. He has the best friends in the world that he loves with a passion. He’s been writing poetry since he was 7 and he is originally from South Dakota. He has a biological little brother and about 3 half brothers.
Canopy, by Mike T.
Michael T. is a rising senior. He’s an aspiring artist who, in addition to visual arts, enjoys musical theatre, reading, and creative writing.
The Gift of a Clock, by Kelsey S.
He rubbed his glasses against his dusted apron and slowly put them back on, the rims were large, somewhat bent to where the nose arch was a little crooked to the left. He sat with one elbow on the table, his hand stroking his curvy gray mustache while he shot a pondering stare at a grandfather clock, lying on the work table in front of him. Even though the stars were out that night he started and kept working through the dimness of candle light. Around him were hundreds of clocks, small clocks, coo-coo clocks, foreign clocks, and grandfather clocks. He always knew the time and in his workshop harmonious dings and chimes were the usual tune.
Eventually he stopped pondering the grandfather clock and dissected it. First he tugged at the jammed door until finally he found the strength to pry it open. Clouds of dust shot from within, covering his wrinkled red cheeks and large nose. He quickly swiped away the dust from his glasses and set to work on all the stray gizmos and gadgets, instantly injecting life back into the clock. He pried, painted, molded, sawed, screwed, and perfected the old grandfather clock. Like an elf at the North Pole he worked diligently all through the night until he drifted to sleep on his work stool resting his head in his arms, covered with filthy dust and beautiful dreams of a grandfather clock.
“Hello? Mr. Tuner?” His head sprung up from inside his folded arms and quickly his hands went to work on his glasses. His eyes frantically searched his workshop. “Hello? Mr. Turner, are you alright?” He stepped down from his work stool and slowly started towards the front door still yawning from his deep sleep. He had plump rosy cheeks and a belly to match while his once full head of hair was left with a large bald circle on top and curly fine whiteness surrounding it. His ears were large and he had a curly mustache that hung above his always giddy smile.
“Hello my boy, you’ve come for your clock right?” He smile and patted him on the back. The much younger man studied the room with an odd look of amusement on his face and a crooked smile, obviously astounded by the amount of clocks the old man had collected. He listened, in great amazement, to all the clocks harmoniously sing to the morning.
“Um, yes, I’m here to pick up a large grandfather clock. I dropped it by here about, say two days ago?” The boy licked his lips in deep thought while he looked up to the ceiling; there was a large hole with several birds’ nests and a ray of sunshine. He wondered why the old man hadn’t fixed the gapped hole or shooed the birds out, instead he just placed a pail below it.
“Yes sonny, you’re correct. I’ll be right back with your clock, you stay put,” he said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. He pointed to where the boy was standing still stained with his giddy smile; he was obviously excited about his masterpiece. The happy old man waddled out from behind the register, his back tilted from the massive stomach he carried.
A large crash came a few seconds after he had left and then came several coo-coos and chimes of different tones from an explosion of dust and busted clock parts. “Mr. Turner, do you need some help?” The boy called back to him as he watched a cloud of dust rise from the back room, worried about his clock.
“No, no sonny, stay put and watch my clocks, he called from the back room. After several grunts and muttered curses the elderly man came back rolling the grandfather clock in without a scratch to spare. The clock glowed with effulgence. The hand painted scenery, newly molded time hands, and even a new ticker were Mr. Turner’s outstanding show of his hard work and diligence.
“Well, here you go sonny. Take care of ‘er I worked too hard for you to ruin ‘er so be watchful when you leave.” He smiled and chuckled to himself as he patted his belly which was shaking with glee.
The young boy walked over to him and even though he was dusty and dirty he hugged the old man and said, “Thanks dad.”
Kelsey S’s favorite color is orange. She loves writing about any crazy idea that strikes her. Her favorite hobby is dancing to techno with her friends.
Eventually he stopped pondering the grandfather clock and dissected it. First he tugged at the jammed door until finally he found the strength to pry it open. Clouds of dust shot from within, covering his wrinkled red cheeks and large nose. He quickly swiped away the dust from his glasses and set to work on all the stray gizmos and gadgets, instantly injecting life back into the clock. He pried, painted, molded, sawed, screwed, and perfected the old grandfather clock. Like an elf at the North Pole he worked diligently all through the night until he drifted to sleep on his work stool resting his head in his arms, covered with filthy dust and beautiful dreams of a grandfather clock.
“Hello? Mr. Tuner?” His head sprung up from inside his folded arms and quickly his hands went to work on his glasses. His eyes frantically searched his workshop. “Hello? Mr. Turner, are you alright?” He stepped down from his work stool and slowly started towards the front door still yawning from his deep sleep. He had plump rosy cheeks and a belly to match while his once full head of hair was left with a large bald circle on top and curly fine whiteness surrounding it. His ears were large and he had a curly mustache that hung above his always giddy smile.
“Hello my boy, you’ve come for your clock right?” He smile and patted him on the back. The much younger man studied the room with an odd look of amusement on his face and a crooked smile, obviously astounded by the amount of clocks the old man had collected. He listened, in great amazement, to all the clocks harmoniously sing to the morning.
“Um, yes, I’m here to pick up a large grandfather clock. I dropped it by here about, say two days ago?” The boy licked his lips in deep thought while he looked up to the ceiling; there was a large hole with several birds’ nests and a ray of sunshine. He wondered why the old man hadn’t fixed the gapped hole or shooed the birds out, instead he just placed a pail below it.
“Yes sonny, you’re correct. I’ll be right back with your clock, you stay put,” he said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. He pointed to where the boy was standing still stained with his giddy smile; he was obviously excited about his masterpiece. The happy old man waddled out from behind the register, his back tilted from the massive stomach he carried.
A large crash came a few seconds after he had left and then came several coo-coos and chimes of different tones from an explosion of dust and busted clock parts. “Mr. Turner, do you need some help?” The boy called back to him as he watched a cloud of dust rise from the back room, worried about his clock.
“No, no sonny, stay put and watch my clocks, he called from the back room. After several grunts and muttered curses the elderly man came back rolling the grandfather clock in without a scratch to spare. The clock glowed with effulgence. The hand painted scenery, newly molded time hands, and even a new ticker were Mr. Turner’s outstanding show of his hard work and diligence.
“Well, here you go sonny. Take care of ‘er I worked too hard for you to ruin ‘er so be watchful when you leave.” He smiled and chuckled to himself as he patted his belly which was shaking with glee.
The young boy walked over to him and even though he was dusty and dirty he hugged the old man and said, “Thanks dad.”
Kelsey S’s favorite color is orange. She loves writing about any crazy idea that strikes her. Her favorite hobby is dancing to techno with her friends.
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