because the clouds are pink and periwinkle
and i have never felt this way
before
because i am alone
in the mornings when i have
the strange desire to curl
up in the greying empty shell
of the bathtub
swaddled in its clay cocoon
and listening to
the magnified drumming of my fingers
when i press one ear to its dry surface
because i notice things
like a single eyelash
on my fingertip.
Make a wish Claire.
with a puff
of breath it’s
gone
and because after so long at sea
sitting on the dock again
can make the world twirl
and all i wish for
is something
in the middle.
why can’t the waves lull me to sleep?
because
is an apple in the dark
still red without light
to shine
upon it?
does Plato care
if the words
i helplessly string out
do not match the ones
i have inside?
am i still a part of the game
i do not play?
because if i pass time
counting days
i cannot find
the moments in each one
to smile.
because to sleep
is not always to dream.
because ‘certain
stars shot madly
from their spheres.’
because the light is primrose
and blue
and shining
into the bathroom
because i do not have the answers
anymore
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
I have a truth to tell
I have a truth to tell.
When the rain dances down to the pavement
Sometimes sideways in the wind, always falling to the earth
in time
And the cars make whooshing
noises as they pass with headlights glowing in the late afternoon. When thunder
laughs, deep in its throat and tosses lightning carelessly downward, and the
green of leaves is so bright against the grey that it blinds.
These are the moments of clarity, when the water swirls
around ankles in the gutters and there is a simple peace sitting by a window.
This is my serenity.
Infrequent Friend
she smiles at me
and we are in munich, all around the buildings climb towards the sky
someone is selling fuit on the corner, signs-kirsche and
pretzels bought at the market where rain drips between the overhangs of stalls
and each moment we spend together is a hundred things unsaid, of lives entwined but infrequently joined together. we have one weekend in this city.
at each stop of the U-Bahn, pressed faces against the glass of the train windows
we wave at passersby, expecting no response other than smiles we share and the hope-that somehow we have managed to brighten one person’s day.
when do we realize that living in the moment is made up of thousands of memories?
with each new city street we relish in the freedom to remember what has brought us together. in each park, where we giggle at the naked man or watch the surfers fall over and over into the white water, but continue to return to their places, an unbroken line of courtesy.
and then we are on a train, escalator, in the airport saying goodbye with looks that speak for themselves and hugs that mean a year before we meet again. and my pack is heavy on my back, heavy with regrets of each moment I stayed silent during our hours together instead of speaking what is in my heart.
and she smiles at me , a watery smile, final glance over her shoulder as she returns to the train and we turn away slowly, I cannot believe it is over already. bending down, I pick up pieces of the new experiences we have shared, ready to tuck them into a pocket of my pack, saved always for a rainy day.
and we are in munich, all around the buildings climb towards the sky
someone is selling fuit on the corner, signs-kirsche and
pretzels bought at the market where rain drips between the overhangs of stalls
and each moment we spend together is a hundred things unsaid, of lives entwined but infrequently joined together. we have one weekend in this city.
at each stop of the U-Bahn, pressed faces against the glass of the train windows
we wave at passersby, expecting no response other than smiles we share and the hope-that somehow we have managed to brighten one person’s day.
when do we realize that living in the moment is made up of thousands of memories?
with each new city street we relish in the freedom to remember what has brought us together. in each park, where we giggle at the naked man or watch the surfers fall over and over into the white water, but continue to return to their places, an unbroken line of courtesy.
and then we are on a train, escalator, in the airport saying goodbye with looks that speak for themselves and hugs that mean a year before we meet again. and my pack is heavy on my back, heavy with regrets of each moment I stayed silent during our hours together instead of speaking what is in my heart.
and she smiles at me , a watery smile, final glance over her shoulder as she returns to the train and we turn away slowly, I cannot believe it is over already. bending down, I pick up pieces of the new experiences we have shared, ready to tuck them into a pocket of my pack, saved always for a rainy day.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Haikus-a lazy portrait of my life
Being alive, I
Ponder the meaning in each
Hour of sunshine
---
Those scrabbling fingers
Self doubt creeps towards me again
A shiver in my soul
---
Two days of warmth and
I bare my legs and my heart
It is spring to me
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Sestina-A form I have never tried before and hope I have not disgraced with this poem.
At this concert, the music
Of the band, the raised voices
Consumes the listener. Dances
Upon the senses, the fiddle
Singing to the tune’s rhythm,
Fills the room with joy.
The audience, brimming with the joy
Of listening to the music
Tap their feet to the rhythm.
In each song, different voices
Following the lead of the fiddle
Cause the listeners’ hearts to dance.
When the banjo weeps, a slow dance
Of human suffering repressing joy
Until the entrance of the fiddle
Once again, happiness in the music.
With each note, the dulcet voices
Slide through the song rhythm.
The tune quickens its rhythm
Feet tap again, itching to dance
Caught up in the reel, the voices
Pause, leaving room for the joy
To come bursting out of the music
Created by the song of the fiddle.
Water for the player of the fiddle
She is worn out by the rhythm,
The audience claps for the music
To continue its lively dance
They long for an overdose of joy
A sojourn now, the babble of voices.
Intermission, each with their voice
Speak of the guitar, the fiddle
In the face of each listener, joy
A spring in each step, a rhythm
From the heart, they long to dance
To fall back into the music
They feel the joy of the voices
Enraptured by the music of the fiddle
Sensing the rhythm of the dance.
Solas
it's the toe tapping music. head nodding, clapping, heart beating to the rhythm of the song. her fingers dance across the strings of her violin, his fly across the keys of the accordion. there is a guitar too, a banjo a tambourine that rattles its clear voice along with the song.
this is a proper reel, she shouts every so often, someone beats at the floor with a boot, keeping the band in time. their joy fills the hall to the brim, overflowing out into the dark night, setting the stars on edge. in the audience, some cannot contain their grins, others sit perfectly still, unwilling to move and risk changing a single aspect of the concert.
the band quickens, laughing at their daring, tossing their heads. they are the race horses in the moments before a race, overcome with expectation. a two beat pause of perfect silence. then the fiddler begins.
her fingers fly, her bow conducting them, hips swaying back and forth, feet stomping, she casts out the mesmerizing notes to the audience. they are held within her spell.
one by one, they are all back in again. the banjo, guitar, accordion, tambourine, filling the spaces within the song with ease, sliding into notes they have created, shouting out their story for the world to hear. in this, the final leg of the reel, no eye moves from the bright players of the stage. each one is smiling, floating on the tune, quickening to the last.
the man on the accordion draws out a final note, pulling the pleats of noise from the depths of the reel. all others hold to the note dearly, slowing to take a breath for the first time since the song began. the audience exhales as one with the band. laughing, shouting, clapping, as the band bows and begins another tune.
this is a proper reel, she shouts every so often, someone beats at the floor with a boot, keeping the band in time. their joy fills the hall to the brim, overflowing out into the dark night, setting the stars on edge. in the audience, some cannot contain their grins, others sit perfectly still, unwilling to move and risk changing a single aspect of the concert.
the band quickens, laughing at their daring, tossing their heads. they are the race horses in the moments before a race, overcome with expectation. a two beat pause of perfect silence. then the fiddler begins.
her fingers fly, her bow conducting them, hips swaying back and forth, feet stomping, she casts out the mesmerizing notes to the audience. they are held within her spell.
one by one, they are all back in again. the banjo, guitar, accordion, tambourine, filling the spaces within the song with ease, sliding into notes they have created, shouting out their story for the world to hear. in this, the final leg of the reel, no eye moves from the bright players of the stage. each one is smiling, floating on the tune, quickening to the last.
the man on the accordion draws out a final note, pulling the pleats of noise from the depths of the reel. all others hold to the note dearly, slowing to take a breath for the first time since the song began. the audience exhales as one with the band. laughing, shouting, clapping, as the band bows and begins another tune.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
City of Dreams or A Weekend in New York
It's big. Really big, crowded, humming with life.
At first, I am utterly overwhelmed. I've been here before, of course.
Sometimes I come here in my dreams, spinning in the mosaic of people, having found my place in life.
This time, I am hustled out of the car, onto the streets. It's winter, but in this city winter means fashionable coats, not cold. The warmth of humanity wraps itself around me.
Breathing in famously thick air. Sluggish.
Looking upwards, I have to work to find the sky. But it is beautiful.
This city never sleeps, but I do. Somewhere in the rush of the Square, the thousands of people, I doze off. Then, I dream.
I dream of the pavements where my boots make solid sounds and the high heels of business women hurry to work.
I dream of the smells that permeate the air, the hot rush or white steam seeping from the subway vents. I dream of the people-in red. in black. in burnt yellow ochre, each with their own purpose. My purpose here is not to have one.
I dream of the lights which blind me, the buildings which dwarf me, the shops which tantalize me, the shows which stun me, the men and women who impress me or frighten me, the streets which excite me, the cabs which honk at me, and the city.
The city which causes me to dream.
At first, I am utterly overwhelmed. I've been here before, of course.
Sometimes I come here in my dreams, spinning in the mosaic of people, having found my place in life.
This time, I am hustled out of the car, onto the streets. It's winter, but in this city winter means fashionable coats, not cold. The warmth of humanity wraps itself around me.
Breathing in famously thick air. Sluggish.
Looking upwards, I have to work to find the sky. But it is beautiful.
This city never sleeps, but I do. Somewhere in the rush of the Square, the thousands of people, I doze off. Then, I dream.
I dream of the pavements where my boots make solid sounds and the high heels of business women hurry to work.
I dream of the smells that permeate the air, the hot rush or white steam seeping from the subway vents. I dream of the people-in red. in black. in burnt yellow ochre, each with their own purpose. My purpose here is not to have one.
I dream of the lights which blind me, the buildings which dwarf me, the shops which tantalize me, the shows which stun me, the men and women who impress me or frighten me, the streets which excite me, the cabs which honk at me, and the city.
The city which causes me to dream.
A Collection of My Recent Haikus or Few Words
shadows being thrown
across my bedroom ceiling
my eyelids heavy
the poetry flows
I think you do this to me
Hello to my muse
couple feet of snow
whiteness, beauty, shoveling
now my shoulders hurt
it's funny how I
can see your smile so clearly
even in my sleep
across my bedroom ceiling
my eyelids heavy
the poetry flows
I think you do this to me
Hello to my muse
couple feet of snow
whiteness, beauty, shoveling
now my shoulders hurt
it's funny how I
can see your smile so clearly
even in my sleep
That Dreaded Poem You Wrote For School or No Judgements
Dreaming
I lie in bed awake at night
And when I dream, while fast asleep
I am a bird, wings raised in flight
Awake before the dawn’s first light
Remembering dreams, struggling to keep
I lie in bed awake at night
Soaring high in sparkling white
Dreaming sweetly, delving deep
I am a bird, wings raised in flight
But when I cannot sleep, my sight
Across my bedroom ceiling sweeps
I lie in bed awake at night
Start counting sheep, put up a fight
I cannot sleep, I cry, I weep
I am a bird, wings raised in flight
Awake, asleep, it is my plight
Forever in the bedclothes heaped
I lie in bed awake at night
I am a bird, wings raised in flight
A Question From a Friend
recently i was asked a question by a friend. a question that made me ponder
as i feel asleep each night and woke up each morning, this question stayed with me, floating in the back of my mind. each time i smiled or ate a quiet breakfast with a book or struggled
over an essay. at some point, or maybe a collection of points, a litany of moments, i discovered
that i had an answer.
here it is.
What are you going to do?
What am I going to do?
well, i am going to live the way that i want to live. i am going to dance and sing and laugh.
i will probably also be laughed at.
i am going to brighten someone's day by sharing with them a secret smile, though i may not know them.
i am going to love and be loved.
i am going to run outside at the first drop of the first spring rain fall, without my rain boots on. then, i will turn my face to the sky and catch the first drops of a new season on my tongue.
i am going to be sad, watch my face get runny in the bathroom mirror as i begin to cry. but i will feel better soon.
i am going to listen to music that makes me sing along, loud, with the car windows down. i will hear the symphony of the everyday.
i am going to tell secrets with my brothers under the summer sun. i will watch the stars. i will say good morning to the people i meet.
i am going to hibernate in the cocoon of my blankets on winter nights and listen to the roar of the wind.
i am going to do well in school. i will make my family proud.
i am going to live life without regrets. well, i will regret saying that. but i can always try.
i am going to find my friends and hold them close. and always tell everyone what they mean to me. while i can.
i am going to let happiness into my life, even on the cloudy days.
i am going to do the best i can. it may not always be the right thing, but i can apologize.
i am going to live the way that i want to live.
you should too.
as i feel asleep each night and woke up each morning, this question stayed with me, floating in the back of my mind. each time i smiled or ate a quiet breakfast with a book or struggled
over an essay. at some point, or maybe a collection of points, a litany of moments, i discovered
that i had an answer.
here it is.
What are you going to do?
What am I going to do?
well, i am going to live the way that i want to live. i am going to dance and sing and laugh.
i will probably also be laughed at.
i am going to brighten someone's day by sharing with them a secret smile, though i may not know them.
i am going to love and be loved.
i am going to run outside at the first drop of the first spring rain fall, without my rain boots on. then, i will turn my face to the sky and catch the first drops of a new season on my tongue.
i am going to be sad, watch my face get runny in the bathroom mirror as i begin to cry. but i will feel better soon.
i am going to listen to music that makes me sing along, loud, with the car windows down. i will hear the symphony of the everyday.
i am going to tell secrets with my brothers under the summer sun. i will watch the stars. i will say good morning to the people i meet.
i am going to hibernate in the cocoon of my blankets on winter nights and listen to the roar of the wind.
i am going to do well in school. i will make my family proud.
i am going to live life without regrets. well, i will regret saying that. but i can always try.
i am going to find my friends and hold them close. and always tell everyone what they mean to me. while i can.
i am going to let happiness into my life, even on the cloudy days.
i am going to do the best i can. it may not always be the right thing, but i can apologize.
i am going to live the way that i want to live.
you should too.
Blog Lovin'
Due to a huge snowstorm and a long weekend off from school, I have decided to give my blog some loving. Happy New Year, and I love you, Quilt of Dragonflies! I have been doing lots of writing, wrote a decent villanelle for English a couple weeks ago, and lots of haikus, because they are fun to write and to read. I have been in a regional Shakespeare contest, visited New York City to see two Broadway productions, and I have started a 2013 jar of all the things that make me smile in my life. I encourage everyone to do this latest thing, as it has caused me to be more grateful about the incredible world each one of us has at our fingertips. School has been tough, and we are getting dumped with snow here in New England, but I mostly keep a smile on my face and some colorful scarf around my neck (I love the snow, and I love colorful scarves, so honestly, winter hasn't been too bad). I have been singing, dancing, writing, reading, knitting, and generally finding little things to make me happy in the cold dark days filled with stressful tests and gusts of wind. I hope to bombard the Quilt with poetry shortly, as I find all the writing I have been doing and put it up for the world to see. Many thanks to the followers who have stayed with me despite my prolonged absences. You guys are the best!
Claire
Claire
 |
| My 2013 jar on New Year's Day. Since then I have been adding plenty of vibrantly colored strips of paper, filled with touching experiences. |
 |
| A beautiful morning in my town. We have had a decent amount of snow here, including the 2+ feet which was dumped on us yesterday! |
 |
| A Broadway weekend in New York. Every time I visit that city, I end up never wanting to leave. |
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Take Time
As the new year begins, and my school term starts to ramp up again, I wanted to take a little time to share a magnificent piece of poetry that I have recently come across. Life can be hectic, and I think this poem, whether held to religious standards or not, contains some wonderful advice on how to live our lives. My posts may come a little less frequently now, so I hope this one brings you a little joy.
Take Time
Author Unknown
Take time to think...
it is the source of power.
Take time to play...
it is the secret of perpetual youth.
Take time to pray...
it is the greatest power on earth.
Take time to love and be loved...
it is a God-given privilege.
Take time to be friendly...
it is the road to happiness.
Take time to laugh...
it is the music of the soul.
Take time to give...
it is too short a day to be selfish.
Take time to work...
it is the price of success.
Take Time
Author Unknown
Take time to think...
it is the source of power.
Take time to play...
it is the secret of perpetual youth.
Take time to pray...
it is the greatest power on earth.
Take time to love and be loved...
it is a God-given privilege.
Take time to be friendly...
it is the road to happiness.
Take time to laugh...
it is the music of the soul.
Take time to give...
it is too short a day to be selfish.
Take time to work...
it is the price of success.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Five Sentence Fiction: Vision
What is FSF? Each week, Lillie McFerrin posts a wonderful one word prompt here. I am horribly inconsistent about keeping up with FSF, but now that I am on school vacation, I am trying to stretch my writing muscles once again. Merry Christmas to everyone, and I hope that all is good as we head rapidly towards the new year. I am excited for a fresh year of possibilities and poetry, and hopefully this blog will see some action as the result of a resolution to keep writing. This week's FSF word is vision.
Vision:
When the Bing Crosby version of White Christmas came on the radio, she sang along loudly, her voice heating the car and filling it with a jollity and festive air that she loved. As the little VW Beetle wound its way up through the mountains sugar coated with snow, she flipped on her headlights and wind shield wipers. The snow was coming down fast, making her feel very alone on the dark roads with miles to go before she reached her destination.
Perhaps it could have been avoided, had her boyfriend decided to come with her to her parents' house for Christmas.
Perhaps with another set of eyes, she would have sensed the pick up speeding the opposite way, covered by the dark blanket of falling snow.
Vision:
When the Bing Crosby version of White Christmas came on the radio, she sang along loudly, her voice heating the car and filling it with a jollity and festive air that she loved. As the little VW Beetle wound its way up through the mountains sugar coated with snow, she flipped on her headlights and wind shield wipers. The snow was coming down fast, making her feel very alone on the dark roads with miles to go before she reached her destination.
Perhaps it could have been avoided, had her boyfriend decided to come with her to her parents' house for Christmas.
Perhaps with another set of eyes, she would have sensed the pick up speeding the opposite way, covered by the dark blanket of falling snow.
Confessions of the Wandering Poet: Haikus
Haikus are for (in this case) the
frightened poet
the (this) restless mind, wandering in search of their soul
unable to set themselves free
slapping down syllables
burrowing ideas deep within
meandering through lines
hiccuping phrases, the quiet one at the breakfast table
thinking into her glass of juice
never a complete thought
there-and gone with a flash
this poet is unsure
a coward
(she's me).
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
A haiku for this season
On the streets, shared smiles
Each opening their heart to
This season of joy
Each opening their heart to
This season of joy
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
A Prayer for Newtown
a candle burns in remembrance
sitting in my heart
gusts of thoughts make the candle quiver
the flame burns on
sitting in my heart
gusts of thoughts make the candle quiver
the flame burns on
Reflections on Being Swedish
The sky outside was still dark as whispered voices and muffled footsteps echoed throughout the house. In the early hours of the morning, the kettle hummed and a little girl dressed herself all in white. A tray was loaded with tea and lussekatter, saffron buns sprinkled with pearl sugar and shaped into swirls. Three young heads bobbed up the stairs, glowing in the light of candles. As the door to the master bedroom was eased open, quivering voices began to sing. “Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia.”
I was the girl clad in white with a red sash and a crown of candles, followed resolutely each year by my brothers into the room of my parents on that frigid morning in December. In that moment, my face sparkling in the glow of the plastic lights on my head, I was Saint Lucia, reenacting the rescue of the poor peasants in Sweden on a dark night long ago, saved by a glowing presence in white who offered them food and comfort. I grew up with the story of Saint Lucia, and each year on the thirteenth of December, I lived the life of a Swede.
I will always be proud to say that I am one sixteenth Swedish. My household growing up was not of one rich cultural background, I did not come home to a second language, and I do not have one direct country of origin. Instead, out of a melting pot of European countries, there arose a love of my Swedish heritage, and I grew up knowing of my ancestors from Sweden and holding in my heart a country other than the United States. Each year, I lovingly arranged our dala horses, brightly painted in blues and reds, and read the story of the mischievous Tompte, the little spirit man who visits farms at night to bless the inhabitants. I heard news of our distant cousins living in Sweden, and occasionally thumbed through photo albums of the trip to Sweden that was made when I was two years old. Although I do not remember Sweden, it has played a large role in my childhood years and as I begin to understand my heritage.
While it may seem easy for those who are directly descended from a particular ethnic background to celebrate their culture, it is equally important for those of us who are made up of many stories and many nations to learn and to live remembering who we are. Though I may not be able to trace every country my relatives have come from, I am able to rejoice in my Swedish traditions, to proudly show up each year for the annual tree trimming at my family’s Swedish Lodge and to dance around the Christmas tree, butchering the Swedish words to every song.
Five Sentence Fiction: Devotion
What is FSF? Each week, Lillie McFerrin posts a wonderful one word prompt here. I am horribly inconsistent about keeping up with FSF, but now that I am on school vacation, I am trying to stretch my writing muscles once again. This week's word is devotion.
Each day, early in the morning when the mist clung to the tree tops and the family was asleep, Mae tip toed down the stairs and eased open the front door. The grass was cool under her feet, and she felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she scurried towards the pines and the the cool dirt that lay beneath. This was Mae's quiet time, the time when her younger brothers drooled onto their pillow cases and her parents, exhausted, stayed in bed. When Mae reached the roots of one pine tree, she stopped, and crouched down to gaze at a small green shoot peeking above the soil. This was Mae's special time, and to her, this plant was magical.
Each day, early in the morning when the mist clung to the tree tops and the family was asleep, Mae tip toed down the stairs and eased open the front door. The grass was cool under her feet, and she felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she scurried towards the pines and the the cool dirt that lay beneath. This was Mae's quiet time, the time when her younger brothers drooled onto their pillow cases and her parents, exhausted, stayed in bed. When Mae reached the roots of one pine tree, she stopped, and crouched down to gaze at a small green shoot peeking above the soil. This was Mae's special time, and to her, this plant was magical.
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