A Little Portfolio
Hey all! While I've lost my motivation for writing stores due to a few things, I have been testing out and writing a few poems and wanted to share them! All of these poems were written based off of different poetry styles and were reworked several, several times by myself, my creative writing class and my professor. I still tweak them here or there, because a poem is one of those things that never seem to be complete... even after you publish them. ^_^
Anywho, I appreciate any comments you have to offer! No critiques please, as I will not be rewriting them until next semester when I begin revamping my portfolio once again. I just would like to know what styles you like best and such. :3
EDIT: I added the short story I wrote in the class as well. We technically wrote two, but one of them I reworked for the contest so I won't post that again. I guess this topic is a hodgepodge of stoofs I've written but have yet to share.
A Fool's MemoryCheetah
"Welcome" says the green fern by the front
steps; green branches spread open, ready to
catch you while you hop board.
Mother spent a great deal on her plants,
but eventually every fern would change.
The air is always dancing around
and gathers with it the heavy scent
of the motor-oiled sea.
Mother's boyfriend always repaints the white hull
as every year the paint rusts away.
Three pillows are perched upon
the sable captain's chair; their rich
mahogany fabric delicious to the gaze.
She always spent so much time replacing
those pillows, but the bothering waves always won.
A faded curtain wavers lightly in back
from the gentle lullaby rocking - dividing
the living from the barely used.
The boyfriend would brush the curtain away,
fetching things for her from the storage.
Perfect crystal glasses sit poised inside
a faded, white, sea-rubbed cupboard.
Mother would fill them with rich
red wine, laughing with her lavish aliens.
A massive dirty engine lurks below
where it has roared and growled.
The boyfriend spent hours
trying to fix it so they could travel farther.
So they could flee the motor-oiled sea.
An old wooden frame sits on top
of a marbled counter; the photo a changeling.
She would hold it and sigh,
her emerald eyes turning to liquid gems,
while my father smiles back at her.
In an azure sky, seagulls cry from above.
She's always gazed upon them
and admired their white wings.
Her sunfire eyes of gold stare down herds of antelope
like an Olympian beholds his opponents.
All the while she pads forward in a rhythmic upbeat,
picking one sacrifice out of hundreds.
The Serengeti clock counts down to the beginning
of the lifedeath dance.
An eruption of dust billows into the air behind
the rippling legs of ink-dotted cat.
Her spine is flexible, allowing each graceful stride
to extend further- a track star.
Her clawed acceleration is unmatched by any beast
or car for the first six seconds.
Six seconds- her long, dipped white tail sways side to side
like a balanced reed.
Her paw outstretches and trips the gazelle, it screeches
and tumbles to the earth, knowing the end.
She hears its ragged breathing and her jaws wrap around
the windpipe, cracking and breaking it.
The small hooved life stirs for a moment and then goes limp.
Dropping her prey, the sleek feline sits
as her lungs heave rapidly.
Her eyes scan the horizon and she chirps
a sweet, beckoning bird call.
Tiny, soft mew-chirps respond back as a blur of fuzzy gray appears
from the long, sun-dried grass.
The cubs sink their baby toothed jaws into the flesh
although they do not eat deceased yet.
Lesson number one was observed, the lifedeath dance.
She gives the battlefield another glance before leaning in
and inhaling the flesh till her belly rounds.
The children pounce on each other- future teardrop dancers of the Savannah:
fragile, porcelain warriors of the indirect balance.
Dear Homophobia
I have winged to touch the shores of Japan and danced amongst the bamboo forest of men and women.
I dolphined to Amsterdam and watched its windmilled skies, to Hong Kong's ship-docked bay, to Nicaragua's diving waterfalls, to Catalina's motor-whirring golf carts.
I listened to the wind lullabies of fostering earth and shook my head, trying to rid the ocean-sprayed water from my ears.
Yet the beady, moon-reflected eyes of the chinchilla stare back at me, while the laughter of hyenas and clicks of the Orca drown out all other sounds.
Two sweetly-horned antelope bound together in the delicious rays of the strawberry-sun, but they are devoured by the noise.
Days. Days. Oh dearest dawn, please claw yourself out from your cage.
The vibrant sea horse and clownfish cry at the hyenas and sigh at the Orca, they crayon themselves along the sea floor and still feel the pillowed waves.
Mud clay. Mud clay. Squish, roll and mold me so I am who I am.
I will offer the Hyena a tendril of meat and it will fishhook with me, eyes always hungry and salivating for more to round its belly.
The Hyena tilts its head as I speak garbled words, tearing the ribcage to ribbons of delicious, blood-soaked gold.
When nothing but a spattered red stain remains, the Hyena laughs and runs away, his ears folded and disappeared. The pack deafens the world with ignorant laughter.
I do not give a fish to the Orca, knowing that it will swallow my arm.
A sleek and night-blanket panther is not an agile and cotton-swab cat. The two are both different violet, angel dusted pieces of the same jigsaw puzzle.
Purring, the two felines nuzzle each other affectionately and wash their warm, rough-toweled tongues to another's face.
That's okay. That's okay. Two different beats of the heart still can love.
A balloon-bellied man with a butter-grease beard stands in his yard.
His dirt-encrusted finger nail gnarls at the white chicken in front of him..
"Turn into a pig!" He crows, "Turn into a fat pig now!"
The chicken clucks sadly, "I can only give you eggs."
The butter-grease beard kills the chicken anyway.
The Cliché of Falling
The prismatic wind clouds through my hair
and like angry ribbons they flutter above.
Years ago a little round-faced girl sat pristine upon the peeled
ivory painted porch swing, her legs dangling.
Salted tears drizzle up my face from my
wide open cove-ocean eyes, stubborn enough to not blink.
Not too long ago an awkward teenager tripped over gnarled tree roots,
but her wet bare feet kept running, scratched, bruised and dirty.
My palms face the swirling blue, white-capped waves below
and my lips curl back into a hesitant, warped grin.
Yesterday a chestnut mane woman sat alone, pearly naked
upon the shoulder of a glittering snow covered country road.
The churning ocean shoves towards me and for a moment, I hesitate.
"Will the water be warm or cold?" but with a nod,
I've already waterfalled.
The Lake
This is before I’d read Socrates. Before Shakespeare or Darwin, even before Swift or Augustine.
I don’t believe there were any coherent thoughts in my mind yet. I simply knew, maybe, that I was lost,
I can recall sobbing for hours for something, for an escaped feeling, but not knowing exactly what it was.
Probably I was depressed at the understanding I was tainted or ruined, but I didn’t know that yet.
It’s midnight. A lakeshore. Rocky shore. I recall exactly: rocky shore jagged,
There was a plethora of large grey rocks scattered everywhere to prevent erosion.
The lake? Michigan, Wolf - It doesn’t matter. They’re just all bodies of water simply given labels long ago.
I wouldn’t have understood name psychology or the socialistic views on labeling, not really.
It’s midnight. It’s pretty late. Usually I’m exhausted but not tonight, my eyes are wide open.
Sitting on a hard cold rock, I watch the dismal, silent pain of the rocky shore sky
That seems to be spattering on my face with lake spray that I keep wiping off or leaving on.
Why am I here? Because all the students, chattering all over campus, are innocent.
They are oblivious. I don’t know what that means anymore, “innocence,” or why they still have it-
It must be important if I’m sitting here crying over it, but I don’t understand it well.
I’m just attempting, I think, to keep my body numb as much as I can for as long as I can.
The rock beneath me is cold. It’s so wet, its surface slick and shining.
Another - right behind me as I sit - is dry and white, safe from the thundering waves.
Here’s what happened. I’m traveling on New Years Day, an ex calls me, convinces me to come, invites me in his room,
A room with a grey couch, a grey TV stand, a large grey blanket, a grey bed, grey windows,
Where he, my friend, my ex or a stranger for all I know starts playing with me,
Sitting himself up on the bed, staring at me with that devious grin and saying he cares about me, while tickling, just about me.
Cares about me. Those words that fired through me now seem to stay, to bury in.
The rock is getting extremely cold. The broken sky probably is getting darker.
It took me a while, too, to catch on, to what he was doing. Did I mention that he, the friend, the ex or the stranger,
Had never called me before and chose now to grace me with an invitation to see him? Did I say that?
Chose? Grace?
What a dream, though, the personal dream those days. Grace! What a thing to hold tomorrow.
He only chose, though, not me. He was like a fierce wave. When I see back to him now,
There’s nothing but those thick, forceful arms, groping, a wave, in and out, and now,
Dickinson, Orwell, Mothers, tell me, what is he, doing this, forcing this, on me, on himself.
Crashing down into, spraying it, bubbling over in, but a wave, too? Why is he doing this?
I still haven’t read Frost. I don’t understand Freud that well. Should I?
The rock is finally too cold. Maybe the right words were there all along. Naďveté. Hope.
How pure we were then, before Yeats, before Irving. Faith. Love. Care about me. Please.
*** end of poems ***
(Untitled)
My father was always a player, whether it was on or off the football field. In college, my mother said that the only time she'd give my father any attention was on the football field. There he was a sweaty, defensive machine that clawed his way through opponents so he could maul their quarterback to the dirt. Off the field, however, he would romance any long-legged female that walked by in a black mini skirt. My sun-tanned, blonde-haired mother had been warned by her roommates and fellow cheerleaders to stay away from him, so she did. Admittedly, my father said that it extremely bothered him that my mother refused to pay him any attention and at the same time it peeked his interest. It took a year before he could even get a simple date with her. Perhaps it was his corny jokes or his charming half-sided smile that eventually won her over.
He sat on the cold cement steps outside the dormitory entrance. His brunette head bowed against his two fists while he stared at the cracks in the concrete. Hours seemed to crawl by as he continued to sit there, unmoving from his position of solitude.
"Clay, what are you still doing here?" she asked. She had quietly creaked the door open partially, peeking her pale-faced head through the small opening. "It's late."
"I was thinking about some things." His blue gaze still focused on the concrete as he sucked in a cool aired breath. "Is he gone?"
"He left a while ago," she said.
"What do you think of him?" Clay lifted his head from his fists and he looked up at the frosted sky.
"I think he's a nice guy... Clay, what are you doing here?"
"Do you think I'm a nice guy?"
"Yes, Clay. Seriously, what are you doing here still? You're gonna get sick." She pushed the door all the way open and took a few barefooted steps outside. The wind was a constant, tickling breeze of chilly cold that toyed with her curled blonde hair. An occasional hum of a car whirred by on Highway 35, barely in view of the campus.
"I don't like you dating him. I really don't like it one bit," he said.
"Clay, that isn't fair."
"What's not fair?"
"You can't keep playing these games with me. You can't just keep toying-"
"Wait, games? What games? I'm not playing any games." He fixated his gaze upon her.
"You said we could date other people," she said.
"Yeah, and we have."
"Clay, I let you see other women but any time I try to find another guy you jump all over me about it." She tiptoed over to him and gingerly sat on the cold steps. The two sat in silence for a moment as the cold from the cement crept through their jeans.
"I love you, Bobbie," he said.
She bit her lip absently, folding her hands into her lap at she huddled near him. Her emerald eyes were analyzing the cracks in the cement as she curled her toes for a moment.
"You don't mean that."
"I do though. I've thought it over and I really do." He wrapped his left arm about her shoulders, hugging her to him. She nuzzled into him tentatively, resting her head against his shoulder.
"I'll give you one more chance," she said.
Almost every day around seven o'clock in the evening, I talk with my mother. I usually rant on about school and she always sighs about work. Our talks are never really important. However, I always look forward to talking with my mother and her voice carries me home. My home used to be in Glencoe, Minnesota, where I had a golden retriever, a father and a mother. But slowly my father hung out in the bars with his friends more often than with me. Then he forgot his own wedding anniversary and I bought my mother a dozen roses and signed his name to the card. When I went to college my dog died, my parents moved and now my home is wherever my mother is living. In a way, we're both crutches pivoting ourselves forward from that night. The night my father didn't come home, so my mother hopped into our 1997 Intrepid and drove to the bar to find an empty black pick-up truck. The night my father told the bartender not to answer the knocking door and my mother overheard another woman laugh. Maybe it was that night or maybe it was another, but my mother and I keep calling.
[ Sorry about the ugly formatting on the poems and the short story. This board wasn't built for accepting tabs.]
Originally Posted by mr_pikachu
