Blog Rest

Hello, all! I am just writing to say that there will be a brief blog rest tomorrow and the next day, and I will not be posting. I am going away for a couple days, and I was not planning on bringing my computer, as it would be a bit of a hassle. I promise to be back with stories, pictures, and poems when I return. Thank you for understanding that we all need a bit of a break once in awhile, and I hope you do not mind.

Happy Holidays!

Claire

Blah Days

Everyone needs
a rest, a blah day, twenty four hours of pajamas and
Staring out the window at the pencil thin branches
of mournful trees outside
Everyone needs
a break from the bleak, a good book and someone to laugh with
When spirits become low and temperature drops
A couch with pillows and blankets
A lamp to throw warm shades of gold
Across your face and the pages of your book
Everyone needs
A day of self love
Pajamas and all

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas everyone! Happy holidays! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday and are enjoying the time with loved ones. I know I am! I wish everyone joy and peace, and much happiness in the days to come and in the new year.

Thank you for everything!

Claire

What Happens After

The aftermath is
A torturous affair full
Of wrapping paper

We Have Waited

We have sat by closed doors
To hear the crinkling of wrapping paper
Eaten away the candy
From the gingerbread house, piece by piece in secretive longing
We have prayed for snow and searched the heavens
Rewarded with a brown Christmas, sunny and still
We have made hushed plans for presents
Baked food, hosted parties
We have fretted and worried, smiled and felt giddy
With excitement
Now all the waiting, all the cookies and carols have come down to
This night
Of magic fantasy
We wait now, in agony as the last day slips through our fingers
Chunks of wet sand, unwilling to fall to the ground
Time goes by at a slow drag
Like a tired old horse, slipping along
Trotting much too slowly
Twenty four hours suddenly seems
Like quite a long day
It's Christmas Eve

The Game

The blood begins to pump
Up through veins and into
A heart and soul for the
Game. Pure and simple it
Spells out energy and
A thirst to prove yourself
It pounds in your ears and
You run the length of field
Desire in every step

Party

Starting slowly
I eat the snacks before the guests. Indulge in root beer and vegetables
With onion dip, they don't come at first I joke
What a party, we have no guests
And then the friends come
In from the rain and darkness outside
Stamping boots and shaking out clothes
Handing over treats. Bottles of wine we may never use.
Slowly the party quickens, colors heighten and the Christmas tree glows
Small children adults teens and babies
Crowded into a happy home
Clean for tonight
Lights in every window and laughs at every turn
Food and food and food
Filling the bellies, too fast for me
Dishes left untouched because I was already stuffed
Soda, a rare dose of sugar
Mixed with happiness is intoxicating
The lights dance and friends giggle
My laughs sound loud and crazy
I cackle and fill up my heart with a golden syrup
Feeling simply wonderful
Later I will crash
Sagging against my bed and attempting to find humor
At the jokes that were so funny
An hour ago
Eyelids drooping, head throbbing from the soda and the cupcake
Remembering the party
In a haze of cheeriness

Calligraphy

The ink runs freely
Pen in hand I draw the world
A scrap of paper

Rain-Five Seven Five Seven Syllabic Verse

The silver leaves with grey sides
Turned up toward the clouds
These leaves are a bad omen
There is a silence

Then suddenly a drip drop
Flip flop slippy slop
There's many funny noises
Rain slapping pavement

As you might slap a bad child
Trees moan mournfully
Groaning and creaking like old
Men who sit and stare

Five Sentence Fiction: Poison

When she looked at him, her heart doubled its beats and a bead of sweat formed on the tip of her nose. Her tongue tied itself in knots and her toes curled and uncurled in her designer boots. He was her poison, infecting her body and seeping into her. With every meeting, she grew more frail, more fragile, and more in love. When his gaze fell upon her, she felt weak and strong, frail and powerful, and blissfully happy.

What To Eat...Anglo-Saxon Split Line

I wish for a water but without the ice

As cool as a cucumber, crisp and fresh

Or maybe a melon with mangos and juice

Slipping and sliding, it's sweet in the mouth

Some pasta or pickles with peppery tang

Laughing and licking the lemon with zeal

'Til the teacakes are toast-it's the end of the meal

Cold Happiness

In the frosty air
Clouded breaths go sharp with the
Excitement and joy

Only an Afternoon

Crowding around me
Elated, bouncing with joy
And hugs. So many hugs my arms grew weak
The self confidence boosted
Hey, people miss me. They wish I was there. They really do care.
Last year I up and left
Knowing they would all continue their lives without a care
Would they even notice I was gone?
Thoughts confirmed today. With smiles and laughter
We were reunited and happy
Are you back for good? Will you stay with us?
I apologize but stay firm
A good decision. A wonderful decision
We had fun. It was an era, an age
The age of Claire being there.
They go on every day. Mostly oblivious that I am gone, which suits me
Seeing them all is great,  a joy
People I don't know say they miss me
Teachers laugh and joke about my absence
Good times remembered
If only for an afternoon

The Memories Remain

Plunged into darkness

When light is lost and shattered

Memories remain

Poetry

Yesterday's post was a poem about writing poetry, and the joy I get out of it. The poem actually started as a free verse, so I am posting the original today. I like the revised draft better, but they both express my feelings about writing poetry.




When I can sit and write
Forget the world, and who I am
Define myself in ways unaccounted for in
Conversation
The poems flow through my fingertips
Easy as bathwater drifting down the drain
Fragments of me come off and find themselves
Buried in the poems. Locked into the words and unable to get away
Thoughts can fly as free as birds
Unroped, into uncharted lands
My life, my soul can fit
Into a string of lines-poem
Of the universes
Stars dance in my palms and butterflies kiss
The first grasses of spring
My poetry defines me
Those letters strung together are the puzzle of me-myself
I feel free with my computer screen
Or a notebook and some shady grass
A pencil is my wand to wield
When faced with danger, sadness, black days
The journey to self expression
Is just beginning

Poetry

The journey starts with ink and pen

I sit and write the world away

For when the blackness seeks me out

I with poetry will stay

Define myself in ways so bright

The letters flow and so do I 

To fight against the darkest night

With poetry I touch the sky

There can thoughts fly free as falcons

When I write stars dance for me

Poems fly through the tips of fingers

Words unending as the sea

I love my notebook full of dreams

The puzzle pieces of myself

When I am ripping at the seams

To this I turn upon the shelf

And sit to wield the sword of words

In one gleaming, glittering ark

With writing I am always free

On this journey I embark

Poetry Revolution

Today's poem is one of a slew of not very good practice poems I have been writing in the past couple days. I am struggling to learn new vocabulary, along with timing and rhythm of poems. I have a wonderful poetry book by Stephen Fry which includes exercises with each segment to help with the learning. I love using the book, and although the poems are not good yet, I know they will be. I use the practices to get better at the basics, rather than just the fancy little things that go on top.

Anyway, the poem for today was from one of the practice exercises on the beats of a poem, and really trying to get them down. The challenge was to write two standard quatrains (four line poems) of iambic tetrameter about TV. I tried my best with the beats and accentuated syllables, and I hope you like it.

A cooking show where people eat
The spoils and losses of their food
A show where people dance and sing
And star-crossed lovers will be wooed

The stars of shows will flaunt their dreams
And open them to viewers all
Those heartbreaks bleeding fresh and strong
Because all pride comes 'fore a fall

Shakespeare Quote of the Day

"Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again."

-The Tempest

The Tempest

tem-pest
noun.
A voilent windy storm.

the sounds and sights of the theater
"shall hum about mine ears...that when I waked, I cried to dream again"
that dream of actors
strutting the stage, playing their parts as the story unfolds
the angry king, lost of a son and crying along the beaches
caliban, the monster
whose words will open up a passage
into the island. sweet and melancholy
brimming with revenge
the set-shelves of twinkling lights
artwork, books with tattered covers
knick-knacks
then the words
sliding across my ears and into
my soul
beautiful and heart breaking
the words of a playwright
whose reign started hundreds of years ago
and will never end
wherever the tempest brings you
it has you in its grasp

A Short Note on the Order of Things

First off, I am very sorry about not writing a poem yesterday. I wanted to wait until the night because  I was going to see a brilliant production of The Tempest, and I wanted to write about it. By the time we arrived home, it was late and I knew that I wouldn't write a poem to do it justice. I will make it up by writing a poem about it today.

My second note concerns the quality of poems up until this point on my blog. I have written some lovely free verse poems, and tried my hand at others, but none were stellar, or especially well crafted poems. The blog up until this point has been about exploring my thoughts through poetry, and basically write quick poems about whatever I was thinking about, with mostly no editing and little real attention to detail and the anatomy of the poems. My holiday season goal is to whip this blog into shape, and fill it with true poems full of emotion, rhythm, and holiday magic. I have been reading up on poetry, and realized it is much harder than the thoughtless typing I have been doing thus far. This weekend I discovered caesuras and enjambments, iambic pentameter and the rhythm that goes into each and every good poem. I have vowed to try harder with my poems, polishing them and experimenting with different and more technical types of poetry. One can hardly call oneself a poet if all they write are haikus and free verse. It just doesn't work that way anymore.

Of course, my poetical revolution will not take place overnight, but I am determined to get better as soon as I can. It will be a slow journey to the types of poems I have read and loved so much, like Shakespeare's sonnets, but I am learning, and I wanted you all to know that. I am determined to become a less immature poet and grow up a little. Hopefully I will keep you posted on my progress. Thanks for all you kindness, and as always, if you have any advice or critiquing, please comment and tell me what you think. Thank you so much.

Claire

Five Sentence Fiction: Nineteen

One and two together make a pair, though seven and eight are going strong. Sixteen and eighteen are the gossiping ladies, eating little tea cakes and drinking English blend. Ten stands, broad shouldered and aloof, with secret eyes for petite four. Number eleven has been dieting of late, some new fangled appetite for fractions, and it is really paying off as far as twelve is concerned. Nineteen is the widow, weeping and sighing, and watching her family grow beneath her with the pride of motherhood fresh in her eyes.


Well, that was a really odd piece. Not at all sure where I came up with that.

Claire

Shakespearian Sonnet Attempt

Shakespearian Sonnet (attempt):



When all the world is dark and grim
When shadows fill the sky
Despair which lurks in thickets slim
Shall arise and climb on high
On seeing this the masses weep
And surge away from doom
Wander now in waking sleep
Through each meandering room
Dreaming of a lighter day
Without oppress of dark
So near the windows they will stay
Watching shadows mark
Until the light of dawn comes here
Then far away shall dire steer

Talking with Friends

Pouring emotions
In buckets on the table
Much laughter and tears

Shakespeare Quote of the Day

"A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed: how much better it is to weep at joy than to joy at weeping"
-Much Ado About Nothing

Rain and Lights at Night

Fuzzy lights, dimmed by the rain
Streaks of color
Red tail lights gleaming
Misty eyes and quiet smile
Trees dripping in the blackness
Blacktop dancing in the light and the
Rain drops
Singing, pattering
The sidewalk is set aglow
A candle in every window
Twinkle lights and glittering trees
Cozy living room windows
Cars with their friendly hum
So many lights at night
In the rain, in the cold

Fight for your Life

Every time I run astray
Onto solid, morbid ground
I turn back into the fray
Hungry as is any hound

To prove myself to masses here
And to myself, for who am I?
Who lurks and sulks both far and near
And prowls dreaming on the sly

Into the battle I am thrust
Seeking allies through my life
Who is weak and who can trust
Me, the illusion of strife

Friendships come and friendships go
Jumping waves and mountains high
Some are quick and others slow
Reaching ever towards the sky

So fight this war. It is your last
Streaming glory at its height
Dreaming now of seasons past
Sing it loud, it is your fight.

Write on Wednesdays: The Twelve Days of Christmas

The queen had been in a rare mood when he left the palace. She was whining and screaming that she wanted the Twelve Days of Christmas, and she wanted them now. What a brat. She had even thrown a stuffed teddy bear at him, which had luckily bounced off, but he was seething as he trotted down the steep mountain path to the village. The lurid pink silk banners in the palace gave him a headache, he continued to trip over blocks and dolls wherever he walked, and now the queen needed the twelve bloody days of Christmas too.

This was a day in the life of Figaro, the esteemed toy maker to the one and only, Her Majesty Queen of All Larynthia and Sovereign on High. He grumbled under his breath all they way down to the village, where he packed his bags and set off on yet another fantastic voyage to seek treasure for the queen. She was just a toddler, and here he was taking orders and scrambling all over the earth to find some stupid milking maids and pipers who deafened him with their spontaneous playing. On the boat, he to bunk with the turtledoves, and arrived on deck every morning spattered with poo and grinding his teeth.

The journeys never got any shorter either. Can you imagine spending seven years on a ship with a bunch of lunatics like dancing ladies and leaping lords? What garbage. Well, Figaro could, and with every year, his beard got grayer and his spirits lower. It was all the fault of those stupid geese. Where were you supposed to find a decent goose-a-laying, and laying golden eggs at that? He spat over the deck and thought long and hard about those geese. He needed them, after all. Figaro wasn't stupid, and he knew what the infant queen would do to him if he failed to return with the Twelve Days of Christmas. He grimaced at the thought and turned back towards the boat of calling birds, French hens, and drumming drummers which gave him such a headache.

Cauldron

Witches cauldron
Bubbling and boiling, filled with
Unlikely ingredients. This is my life
Stewing and simmering
Seething and adding
A pinch of stress
A dash of bliss
Together, magical
The commotions and conundrums of
Everyday life, living in the great iron pot
Melting and mixing into a blend
Sweet and sour, hints
Parts of me strew casually around
Tablespoon of love. Smidgen of tranquility.
In with the warts and toads eyes
There are things beautiful
Disgusting, yes. Melancholy, yes. But beautiful too.
Stirring the pot is the witch.
Watching me with blood shot eyes and gap toothed grin.
She smiles, waiting to see
What I will become.

Chorus Concert

The candles glow and set the faces
Of the watchers golden
Shadows pool in dusty corners
Eager to hear as is everyone else
Solemn, they advance down the carpeted line of pews
Folders clutching music
Faces pushed upward in smiles and song
The notes fly toward the great heavens
The arches of ceiling high above
Wreaths and garlands hang down
A light in every window
Guiding the newcomers
To the chapel
The song lifts the people
Fluttering its wings and dancing
A being all its own
Red and green and gold
Mouths form small o's
Rejoicing in the melody

Holiday Season: Baubles and Bangles, anyone?

We have got all kinds of interesting colors, and I can't wait to get them all hung up!

Recently, I have been taking a lot more pictures because I realized they are a great way to document life. They are also a nice visual compliment to all my writing, and I love looking out at the world a different way.

Me, the amateur photographer who can't really do anything fancy, is just learning how to do fun things to pictures using iPhoto.  The best part: it's really simple!

Happy Holiday season everyone! The lights came out this weekend at my house, and I thought I would post some pictures.

Claire

Studying

Relentless study
Figures blur before my eyes
Words reduced to smudge

Five Sentence Fiction: Secrets

She began to hack and cough as a blackness seeped into her lungs. Twirling tendrils through her mouth and nose, obscuring her vision and dilating her senses; these were her biggest fears. Thoughts so secret that thinking them caused her to fall into a blackness so deep, she knew one day she would never return. As the inky memories and ebony desires engulfed her, she took one lingering look at the world with clouded eyes: the woods, trees, and the babbling brook. Where she was going, she would need all the inspiration she could get.

Camera

Camera in hand and
A different perspective
Unstoppable me

Nostalgia

Sweet nostalgia is
Drinking from the honeyed cup of the past
Delighting in the sunlight
Golden memories
Swift they fly towards you
Alight on window sills and trees
Of flaxen leaves and amber blossoms
The reminiscent color of the past
Floating clouds of butterscotch
Smiles framed in sunshine
Laughs which tinkle and throw
Caramel colored beams across the walls
Bouncing beauty
Sounds and smells and sights
Tinted yellow in the bank of memory
So carefully hidden away
A cavern of thoughts and emotions
Glittering with crystals of gold
Scenes from the past
So willingly brought forth