Friday, February 27, 2009

ivy leaves.

photography was merely a happenstance for me. writing is what i had dreamed of since i was in the 3rd grade. laura numroff came to my elementary school to promote her new book, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. She read it to us and I bought a copy. I got to meet her and she signed my book. That was the day I decided to be a writer, more specifically, an author of books for children. in 4th grade i wrote a fictional story about digging to china. it was selected and published in my elementary school's literary magazine and put up for a national award, which i did not win.

I never thought that I would one day write anything other than stories filled with adventures to the beach, lost kites, a trip to the zoo, or a new puppy. photography came into the picture in middle school & the focus shifted. i continued to write in my leisure time, using it as an outlet. eventually, photography became a chore because it became a job. writing will always be my first love.

i wrote this poem in the fall of 2005 for my creative writing poetry class.
our final was two parts:
1.) a collection of our works from the entire semester, which would be one poem per week.
2.) we had to submit 4 pieces of our work to Ivy Leaves, which is a publication that the University puts out every year. a selected panel chooses between art & writing samples to be featured.

i had two poems selected & published in Ivy Leaves.
this particular poem was chosen by the faculty & read at convocation in the spring of 06, which is an interesting choice of a literary work to be read to a class of college graduates as they embark into the real world, considering it is a dark piece.

my accomplishments are far and few,
but this,
this is what i consider my finest hour.

Afternoon At The Lake

I sit on the dock in late August
breathing in thick, humid, sweet summer air
dipping my feet slowly in the lake
warm like my bath, dead water
my murky green reflection stares
back at me; and as my feet stand weighted
on the rotting wood, the sharpest splinter
pierces through my thick flesh
as words sometimes do, certain broken words
like failure and commitment,
shattered, mangled oak,
which cuts deep, hits the bone, and stings
in the fresh, bittersweet, heart-break
of the lake in late August.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

your ignorance is treason.

I believe like a liar would believe
Helps me navigate the wooden smiles, the raging seas
And all my heros pull their heads
Like a fighter would, I guess
No one ever really likes getting older
I traded my dreams for this mess of memories.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

pull the wool over your eyes.

The deep crooning of Johnny Cash filled the thick, humid air, hanging like the dipping branches of the oak trees around her. With all of the windows down and barefeet on the floorboard, she began to fidget as she grew closer to the outskirts of town. Coming back here was like drinking poison. She knew good and well that the only way she would make it out alive was if it stayed in her veins alone, never traveling all the way to her heart. If she could just keep it far away from the beating muscle guarded so securely (or so you would like think) by her rib cage, that was her only shot at survival. It's about as rare as finding a needle in a hay stack, but she enjoyed the challenge that presented itself. She always loved a good challenge, but only one she could win. Sure, she was difficult at times, but with that came determination.

In the side mirror to her right, she could see the freckles that peppered her nose and forehead, a result of countless summer days spent by the pool and at the beach. She liked having them there, feeling as if they made her more unique. She'd always strived for that. Her pair of saphire eyes scanned back & forth, the scenery now a blur of the past. She knew that if she allowed herself to grasp it for too long, the memory would just consume her, swallowing her up like a ship at sea. She did not spend the past two years building up that wall just to watch it be torn down. "you have to keep afloat" she whispered to herself in repetition. An old trick of the trade that she learned from her doctor. Sinking led to drowning and that meant failure, something she refused to settle for. She was not like other cases. She was the exception to the rule, or so she told herself. Pulling into town, familiarity wrapped itself around her like a warm blanket. She had visited each parking lot on this block atleast once. Never a planned meeting of sorts, but a spontaneous reaction that had led her there, as if the car had a mind of its own. Her breathing steadied in a timely fashion, like the rocking of a dock being swayed by the wake.

"BEEEEEP!!! Beep beep!!!" A horn blared over her shoulder, ripping her from the daydream frantically, like a fish out of water. Glancing in the rearview mirror, a rusty, old, red pickup was about two inches from ramming her shiny, silver bumper. The man was still wearing yesterdays five o'clock shadow & no shirt, his bare sunburnt chest exposed. A knot of chewing tabacco bulged from his left cheek and his grease stained middle finger was waving in the air like a flag on the fourth of july. Trying to piece together the ruckus that was ensuing, Rumer realized that the light had turned green. She thrust her foot down onto the gas pedal and the car jolted to life once more. She placed her gold aviators back onto her sunkissed face. As the orange and pink color of dusk met her gaze, she gently brushed the whispy blonde hairs out of the way, the fence lined farms that passed beside her became nothing more than smeared images. It was happening now. She was moving on.

Monday, February 16, 2009

sitting in a tree.

"hope" is the thing with feathers --
that perches in the soul--
and sings the tune without words --
and never stops--
at all--
-emily dickinson

Sunday, February 15, 2009

sudden death in carolina.

i've been piecing it together.

& it's got something to do with every look thrown like a knife across a crowded room.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

until i saw the sea.

You knew my tears.
Your promise remains unbroken.
You know my fears.
You were there to set me free.

The stars in the sky seem to notice your serenity.
As February holds the glow in my eyes.

I trust in you.
I place these days into your hands.
I am your child.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

fingertips & innocence.

i had my
arms thread through
the pretty holes
of your most romantic

Monday, February 2, 2009

dearest zelda.

sketch :: by andy warhol

"I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it's these things I'd believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her & it is the beginning of everything." -F. Scott Fitzgerald