Poetry

Childhood Memory.5  
second draft

 Lost & Found

The veil was lowered over her face, 
her heart was pounding furiously in her chest 
and she refrained from wiping 
her sweaty palms on the tulle of her white dress.
She heard the first notes of the traditional march begin and...

 She paced up and down the crowded beach; 
A girl of only 4, 
a strawberry embroidered on her new blue bathing suit. 
The heat of August was oppressing, 
the crowd of happy beachcombers unbearable. 
Each one was laughing and tanning, 
paying no attention to the small figure at the edge of the ocean, 
the edge of her world. 
Her eyes desperately searched the mass of foreign faces, 
glimpsing two teenage boys playing frisbee, 
a girl building a sand castle, a fat man fanning himself with a magazine. 
She was trying not to panic, 
not to cry, 
not to look like a baby. 
The one familiar face she searched for eluded her. 
Where was her mother? 
Back and forth she paced, 
the frothing ocean erasing her tiny footprints *in the sand. 
Never before had she been so aware of her vulnerability, 
her innocence. 
Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed her from behind and an arm reached around her waist. 
Every fear she had ever had, 
every horror story her mother had ever told her, 
every nightmare she had ever breathlessly awoken from, 
had come true. 
She was lifted up and pulled against a firm chest, 
a man's chest. 
The tears she had been holding back burst forth and 
just as she opened her mouth to let out a deafening scream 
she turned around to see the smiling face of her father...  

... She felt a strong arm link through hers 
and she took a deep, calmming breath. 
She smiled up at his face so fuill of emotion and whispered, 
"It's time, Daddy."

Childhood Memory. I  
first draft

                                                             Lost & Found

Terrified and Lost
She paced up and down the crowded beach.
A girl of only 4,
A red strawberry embroidered on her new blue bathing suit.
The heat of August was oppressing,
The crowd of happy beachcombers unbearable.
Each one was laughing and relaxing,
Paying no attention to the small figure at the edge of the ocean,
The edge of her world.
Her eyes desperately searched the mass of foreign faces,
Trying not to panic, not to cry, not to look like a baby.
The one familiar face she searched for eluded her.
Where was her mother?
How could she have let herself wander so far out of sight?
And why wasn't her mother looking for her?
Didn't she realize her daughter was lost?
Back and forth she paced,
The frothing ocean erasing her tiny footprints in the sand.
Never before had she been so aware of her vulnerability,
And her insignificance.
Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed her from behind and an arm reached around her waist.
Every fear she had ever had, every horror story she had ever heard, every nightmare,
Had come true,
She was lifted up and pulled against a firm chest,
A man's chest.
The tears she had been holding back burst forth and
Just as she opened her mouth to let out a deafening scream
She turned around to see the smiling face
Of her father.

Shards of Memory.2
Memories of Melissa

In 1980 ...    She is born. I look into her cradle and smile
                    for I finally have a real doll to play with.

In 1995 ...    She sits on my left at Grandma's funeral and begins to cry.
                    Always strong, I hold back my tears but reach
                    for her hand.

In 1984 ...    She eagerly reaches for the green plastic pony,
                    Daddy begins to tease her about her fondness for the color.
                    She is hurt, and puts the pony back, opting
                    for the purple one instead.

In 1986 ...    Very solemnly she tells the man at the boot
                    store that she wants to be a cat when she grows up.

In 1997 ...    Claiming she needs to express herself,
                    she dyes her hair black and puts 2 new holes
                    in her ear only weeks after I move out.

In 1994 ...    She enters high school and clings
                    close to my friends and I at lunch. I
                    take it all for granted.

In 1983 ...    At bedtime she cries because Mommy
                    is not home to fold her blanket. Daddy
                    tries to fold it for her but his way will never do.

In 1998 ...    She announces at Christmas dinner that if we say a prayer,
                    she will leave the room. We pray, she remains seated and quiet,
                    no one remarks about her latest form of expression.

Memories of Melissa
first draft

In 1980 ...    She is born. I look into her cradle and smile for I finally have a real doll to play with.

In 1995 ...    She sits on my left at Grandma's funeral and begins to cry. Always strong,
                    I hold back my tears but reach for her hand. It is the only time I remember
                    holding her hand and if I close my eyes I can still feel her long, thin,
                    fingers tightly grasping mine.

In 1984 ...    She eagerly reaches for the green plastic pony at the toy store and my dad
                    begins to tease her about her fondness for the color. She is hurt, her
                    narrow lips turning downward in a pout. She puts the pony back, opting
                    for the purple one instead.

In 1986 ...    Very solemnly she tells the man at the boot store that she wants to be a cat
                    when she grows up.

In 1997 ...    Claiming she needs to express herself, she dyes her hair black and puts 2
                    new holes in her ear only weeks after I move out. She never calls me.

In 1994 ...    She enters high school and clings close to my friends and I at lunch. I
                    never would admit it, but I actually enjoyed seeing her around campus and
                    I did not mind her quiet figure seated next to me on the grassy quad.

In 1983 ...   At bedtime she cried because Mom was not home to fold her blanket just
                    the way she liked it. Dad tried to fold it for her but his way wouldn't do.
                    Only Mom could fold her blanket acceptably.

In 1998 ...   She announced at Christmas dinner that if we said a prayer, she would
                    leave the room. We prayed, she remained seated and quiet, and no one
            remarked about her latest form of expression. Mom called me later to
                    discuss the issue.

And in 1995...    We buy each other identical bracelets and call them "sister
                            bracelets". In 1999 she still had hers on.  

Older Teacher.4
The Teacher  

One day, when I was 11,
Grandma tried to teach me how to sew.
Never a very dexterous child,
my awkward fingers could barely
pin the thin pattern to
the chosen fabric.
So I settled back to watch
as she bustled about the den,
collecting her threads and needles, whistling her own private
tune, her knees cracking,
the old house groaning and settling.

We sat down together in front of the ancient black Singer
and meticulously, she began.
Periodically sucking her teeth as she concentrated,
the comfortable silence grew
with the lengthening shadows,
and my presence faded
with the afternoon sunlight.  

She paused at one point
to make me one of her famous
vanilla ice cream cones.
I was fascinated by the concentration
on her softly wrinkled face
and the way her spotted hands deftly fed
the cloth through the machine.
One would have thought she was making something more important
than a dress for a favorite doll.  

Yet when she was done I had more than a new dress
but a memory that would last through her days of cancer
and long after she had moved on.

Older Teacher. I
first draft

When I was I I
My grandmother tried to teach
Me how to sew.
We choose a pattern for one of my
Dolls and she went about
Collecting her threads and needles
Her knees cracking as she bustled
About the room.
We sat down next to each other
In front of the old Singer
And she meticulously began.
She would make a sucking sound
With her teeth as she concentrated on
The project.
Mostly I just watched
Fascinated by the rapid movement
Of the needle and the look
Of concentration on her soft wrinkled face.
I tried a couple of stitches
But found I would much rather
Watch her
She made it look so easy
Her spotted hands expertly knew
What to do.
She has since passed from my life
But I can still vividly recall
Her stout figure
Patiently sitting at
The sewing machine.

body, place, remembering.3
The Wig

He had a velveteen cover
across the dash of his '79 Mazda.
A nervous habit,
I constantly finger-combed
My long hair.
Loose blond strands would tangle
around my fingers,
catching in my rings,
clinging to my hands.
Before I could let them escape
outside the window
into the wind
he would snatch them from me
and stretch them across the dash
where they would firmly stick
to the dark fabric.
I laughed;
I thought he was crazy,
he said they reminded him of me
and made him smile when I wasn't around.
With a line like that,
I couldn't resist adding to his collection.
It became a game and by the time he sold that heap
his black velvet cover was sporting a
bright blond wig.

I wonder what the new
owner thought?

body, place, remembering. I
first draft

He had a velvetine cover
Across the dash of his '79 Mazda.
Nervous the first few times we
Went out, I constantly played
With my hair.
Long blond strands would tangle
In my fingers.
Before I could let them escape
Outside the window I
nto the wind
He would snatch them from me
And stretch them across the dash
Where they would firmly stick to the fabric.
I laughed I thought he was crazy
And then it became a game.
By the time he sold that heap
His dark velvet cover was sporting
A blond wig.

Dream Poem. 6
The Chance To Dance 

He stood on the gravel road,
the scent of damp Christmas trees filled the air.
The stars above him were dropping from the satin sky,
each one faster and hotter than the last.
They reflected in his purple eyes
filled with tears as pure as spring water.
The dog next to him whimpered,
and sat on the boys brand-new shoes.
She wasn't his dog, but she
knew she could have been with her black
fur that held all the colors of the rainbow.
The dog wanted to dance but the boy's
feet had become stubborn weeds
grown through the gravel of the road.
The stars were all around them now,
whistling like steam through a tea kettle.
The dog stood up, restless and sad.
A flaming fireball came
barreling from the heavens and landed in the boy's
trapped tears, forcing them to spill over.
The sticky star melted over him, mixing with his tears, sizzling and hissing.
The dog stepped back and watched as the liquid
engulfed the silent boy's still body.
The Christmas trees now smelled like burnt bread.
She thought she heard music
and laughter in the distance and cocked her head to listen.
No one appeared on the isolated highway and when
she returned her attention to the boy,
her boy,
he was only a puddle of liquid starshine and melted purple eyes.
She lay down beside the puddle,
the stars were still again.
The black dog knew she would
                                                Never get the chance
                                                                                                            To dance.

Dream Poem.1

He stood on the gravel road,
The smell of damp Christmas trees filled the air.
The stars above him were dropping from the sky,
Each one faster and hotter than the last.
They reflected in his purple eyes, his wet eyes,
Filled with tears as pure as spring water.
The dog next to him whimpered,
And sat on the boys shoes.
It wasn't his dog, with it's black fur
that held all the colors of the rainbow,
Yet she knew that she should have been.
The dog wanted to dance but the boy's
Feet were had become one with the gravel.
A flaming fireball of a star came
Barreling from the heavens and struck his upturned face
But he didn't move.
The star melted over him, sizzling and hissing
As his trapped tears finally spilled over
And intermingled with the sticky star.
The dog watched as the liquid
Of the star engulfed the silent boy's still body.
The Christmas trees smelled
Like burnt bread.
She thought she heard music and laughter in the
Distance and cocked her head to listen.
No one
Appeared on the isolated highway and when
She redirected her attention to the boy
He was only a puddle of liquid starshine
And melted purple eyes.
She lay down beside the puddle
The stars were still again.
The black dog knew she would
Never get the chance
To dance.

Maniacally Alive
Difficult Poem.3

Fire tears filled her eyes
As he drank her tomato soup
Soul through a straw
Forced into her belly button.
The sky cracked open and
Rained dragonfly wings
Pelting her body,
Bruising her body.
The second hand of the clock
Sped faster and faster
Until cherry juice
Dripped from its numbers while
The turtle in her hand laughed
Maniacally and removed
His shell, exposing his naked
Scales.
She grabbed her bottle of bleach
And headed for the star covered hills.
She would always be alive
If she kept running.

Difficult Poem. I

Fire tears filled her eyes
And she laughed a hollow
Laugh as her life blood was lowered
Into the ground.
The sky cracked open and
Rained cauliflower
Pelting her body,
Bruising her body.
And when the earth beneath her
Turned to tomato soup
She was swallowed whole
And still she laughed.

Awakened Life. 3
Window Vision  

I awoke at 2:3 7
with a confused start. My eyes were
bleary with the remnants
of fading dreams and, in slow
motion I turned
toward the window
only to be slapped
awake by the white brilliance of the full moon.
The rain had stopped but a few
clouds remained, shining
silver in the moonlight like freshly polished sterling
teapots. They drifted quickly,
racing in front of the moon
and then out of my window
vision. One magical
star, the moon's celestial
companion, twinkled in the distance.
The whole room was illuminated,
bathed in this bluish light;
The porcelain canister of lotion,
the pewter picture frame,
the gold doorknob,
the glossy fur
of my slumbering black
cat and the ethereal glow,
the perfection,
in my peaceful lover's face.
For those few seconds,
that pristine moment of
night, nothing was
out of place.
Peacefully,
I slipped back into sleep.

Awakened Life. I

Woke up at 2:30 with
A start.
My eyes were
Bleary with the remnants
Of fading dreams and I turned
Toward the window in slow Motion only to be slapped Awake by the white
Brilliance of the full moon.
The rain had stopped but a few
Clouds remained, shining
Silver in the moonlight like freshly polished sterling Teapots. They moved fast
Drifting in front of the moon
And then out of my window
Vision. I noticed the whole
Room was illuminated,
Bathed in this bluish light.
The porcelain canister of lotion,
The pewter picture frame,
The doorknob,
And the ethereal glow, the perfection,
In my peaceful lover's face.
For those few seconds,
That pristine moment of
Night, nothing was
Out of place.

Reflective Essay on Creative Writing

 This was the first Creative Writing class I have taken in college and I think it was one of the most important writing classes I have ever taken. Our discussions on language and the use of language was helpful not only in writing poetry and short stories, but it also proved to be very helpful when it came to writing research papers for my other classes. I found myself reading my papers out loud and listening to the language for the first time. It gave me a whole new understanding of the writing process.

I really enjoyed the poetry section of the course because I have had no previous experience writing poems, or at least I didn't think I had. Prior to this class, I would write short stories and "descriptive essays", as I used to call them. Afler the poetry section of this course, I learned that my little essays were actually poems written in the form of prose! Once I made that discovery, writing poetry was not nearly as formidable a task.

 Steve Kowit's book, In the Palm of Your Hand, was especially fun to read due to all of the great contemporary poems. I was not familiar with contemporary poets before reading his book and now I plan to read more over the summer. When you are only used to poems by the likes of Shakespeare and Frost, poetry can get pretty boring and intimidating. Kowit's instructions for writing poetry were very reader-friendly and fun to follow. I also found his prompts very helpful because, even if I didn't go with one of his ideas, it always triggered something else in me that I normally wouldn't think of writing about in a poem.

 The short story portion of the course was not as helpful as the poetry section but it was just as challenging. I have been writing short stories since I was a little kid, and I have even had several of them published. Although I found some of the prompts difficult to work with, I enjoyed the challenge. I am used to more open-ended premises but I still liked working with these new topics. I especially enjoyed taking a story from a classified ad. As soon as I began looking through the classifieds, stories began jumping out at me. It's amazing how powerful the imagination can be.

 Transitioning from poetry into short stories was difficult for me because, as I sat down to write my first story, I was more concerned with the language than the plot! I quickly got beyond that though, and slipped into the familiar realm of writing short fiction.

The Best American Short Stories 1998 was an excellent resource. Again, I have not been exposed to contemporary short stories and I was not even aware that there was a market for them. The stories in the anthology were riveting and easy to sit down and read in one sitting. I think they proved to be excellent models as well, with a broad variety of different types of stories. Each time I read one I got an idea for a story of my own.

 While I have always found that I write the best at night, this semester I was forced to write at all hours of the day, including in the morning and on the spot. It took some getting used to, and I still think I write the best in the evening (with just a bit of background music), but I now know that I can come up with something pretty much whenever I have to.

 I also made another interesting discovery about my writing: I can do comedy and I actually like to do comedy. One of the short stories in my portfolio is an observational comedy on a visit to the urgent care. At first I wasn't sure if it was good enough to include but, after I read it to several people and really had them laughing, I decided to include it. It was a lot of fun to write and it has a certain truth to it, probably because it is a true story. I know it has been said over and over again but it is really true: you write the best when you write what you know.

 So here you have my final portfolio, complete with eight poems and two short stories. I can honestly say that Creative Writing has given me a new perspective on the way I look at things. I see things every day, meet people every day, and hear conversations every day that I think would make excellent stories and poems. I have decided to keep a writer's journal in order to jot down these quirky things that I observe, that way I will be able to use them in future pieces. I think Creative Writing is a very important class to take because it not only makes you a better writer, it also makes you more aware of all the little things that go on around you.