Careless

Tags

it's that time again lads, poetry

Rosalie of Against the Shadows wrote a poem that inspired me to write and just put out my thoughts. It was cathartic. I haven’t had that happen in a while.

I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. Hopefully my poem will do the explaining for me.

Careless

Dry coughs and chalk dust and cobwebs and house dust

mark out the space between nightfall and daybreak

Punctuated by study sessions of the night hours

And dreams of missed assignments and tests

Barely bothered to care.

The school is restless.

I haven’t had a moment’s peace in months

Between deadlines and crying children

Who were too old to cry in the first place

And the year is dying and it’s turning cold again

(my geranium is dead. I meant to bring it in)

Carols are here already as they try to ignore

The dead part of the year

October is an attempt to romanticize the brown

Before Christmas.

It’s that part of the semester again.

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Creative Writing Progress Post 2: “Wings”

Tags

creative writing, creative writing class 2016, poetry, progress posts, star wars, writing

Hello readers, faithful followers and minions!

Next up is my very first submission for my Intro to Creative Writing Class. Enjoy!

Submitted Version

Firelight

 

You sit in the living room, bent over your books
Fingers meshed in your ruffled, too-long hair.
The light of a fire   coaxed from small twists
Of newspaper, dead leaves, twigs, and pinecones
Stolen away from distant worlds
Of woods and rock and earth and water,
Creeks flowing to rivers and thus to oceans
Far from home, that fire blazes
In an old soup pot set on a trivet
To keep its heat from the scarred, stained carpet.
Lightning blasts and thunder crashes
Outside our humble window.
You look up at me and smile.
“Wakeful again?”
Thunder booms. I squeak.
“Come here.”
You wrap the faded afghan around my shoulders,
We two pilgrims in a world unknown.
Your pale wings protect me
Cast around me to keep a world at bay for now,
Safe.

Okay, so that was the final version. But the original poem had more lines and I just had to choose the best section. Here’s the full poem! Be forewarned, it’s much longer.

Pale wings are spread above where I sleep
As if I don’t remember at any other time
Except when I dream, but
I do.
It would be so easy to forget.
I still remember.
It hurts and yet comforts me.
A memory:

You sit in the living room, bent over your books
Fingers meshed in your ruffled, too-long hair.
The light of a fire   coaxed from small twists
Of newspaper, dead leaves, twigs, and pinecones
Stolen away from distant worlds
Of woods and rock and earth and water,
Creeks flowing to rivers and thus to oceans
Far from home, that fire blazes
In an old soup pot set on a trivet
To keep its heat from the scarred, stained carpet.
Lightning blasts and thunder crashes
Outside our humble window.
You look up at me and smile.
“Wakeful again?”
Thunder booms. I squeak.
“Come here.”
You wrap the faded afghan around my shoulders,
We two pilgrims in a world unknown.
Your pale wings protect me
Cast around me to keep a world at bay for now,
Safe.

Now, I am cold.
Rain beats the window
Alone.
Are you living or do you lie dead
Alone
Beneath the ground or on your battlefield
Unburied
Among the many others   faceless, slain?
Or are you dying, even?
Would I go to you, if I could?
I don’t know.

Your elfin face did not change.
You are the one who never grew up.
You are so far from me.
You knew the secret of flight
And still hover over me
Like some shadow out of the past.

You still are not there, but
I am enshrouded in your pale shelter of wings.

---

Okay, explanation time!

I was thinking of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin/Vader when I wrote this. I’ve always been curious about how Vader thought about Obi-Wan, if ever he thought about Obi-Wan at all, and what Obi-Wan and Anakin’s earliest days were like. That’s the inspiration that led to this poem. Hopefully you all enjoyed it! Thanks for reading, and God Bless!

Creative Writing Progress Post 1: “Memory”

Tags

creative writing class 2016, poetry, progress posts, writing

A quick introduction: This past semester, I took the Introduction to Creative Writing class. Most important thing learned: How to take feedback and balanced criticism. Other important thing learned: how fun crazy wild radical revisions can be.

So this turned out to be the poem I kept coming back to. The other one just seemed too complete to condense down into thirty lines. (And apologies for the free verse, because she said “don’t worry about iambic pentameter.”)

Enjoy!

Finals Version

Planting seeds in the garden with Grandma:
Poking small slippery seeds into the moist, dark earth.
“Won’t they be scared?” I asked. “Isn’t it dark down there?” Grandma smiled.
“That’s why they’ll reach for the sun,” she said.

The tiny seedlings are still reaching for the sun, though they’re not so small now.
Everything else is gone.

I pass quickly through the parlor: mouldering sheets cover the furniture like decaying cobwebs
Reduced to rags and shreds, neglected all alike by their makers.
Clematis, climbing, twines the railing to which I cling; support for them, merely precarious for me.
Up creaking stairs, a bedstead stands on its side, its ripped bolster spilling feathers
Like the love letters, once hoarded, now carried by the breeze, ink dripping and running, across the floor—
So brittle.
A bottle, fallen from the vanity, weeps crystal tears onto a bone-dry wood floor.
Maybe its perfume smelled sweet once, but now a smell of stale oil  too tired to be rancid
wafts my nose: a million wishes of high-school prom, “Footloose” playing in the background.
Splinters of glass from the fallen mirror reflect shattered shards of light, dimmed by dust and rust.

Why did I return?

Sunflowers lean in, peering through the glassless upstairs windows.
The sprawling roses we planted have climbed through the window and jammed up the sash; it will never be lowered.
Hollyhocks poke at the roses, but are no challenge to their supremacy.
The walls are a mass of roses; violets peep shyly from the corner
Moss crawls the dry floorboards like a rich green carpet, forgiving my passing feet with its softness.
Pansies smile from the kitchen, gossiping with laughing daffodils.
Lilacs shelter sun-beaten ferns with their shade.
Fingers of ivy pry apart the bricks and cement
and daisies push up through the floor, shifting wood and rubble aside like a curtain.
The house is a mass of wild flowers and its heady scent is a laugh of triumph:
The flowers will always remember the woman who planted them.

First Draft

Was this someone’s home, once?

Half-broken windows let in the wind
some panels neglected by Time for now;
soon enough Time will come to claim them
Entropy, her servant, going before.

Sheets that cover the furniture are reduced to rags and shreds like pale spider webs
neglected by their makers.
Up creaking stairs, a bedstead dreams
pillows tossed on the floor and ripped at the seams  spilling feathers
like yellowed letters from a mailbag.

A bottle weeps crystallized tears onto a long-since bone-dry floor.
Maybe they smelled sweet once, but now a faint smell of stale oil  too tired to be rancid
Reaches my nose.
Splinters of glass from a mirror reflect the light, dimmed and shaded by dust and rust.
Clinging to the railing as if it will hold me, I descend
As if in a dream.

Sprawling roses have climbed through the window and jammed up the sash; it will never be lowered.
Moss crawls the dry floorboards like a rich green carpet, forgiving my passing feet with its softness.
The walls are a mass of roses; violets peep from the corner
Pansies smile from the kitchen, gossiping with the laughing daffodils.
Lilacs shelter sun-beaten ferns with their shade.
Fingers of ivy pry apart the bricks and cement
and daisies push up through the floor, shifting wood and rubble aside like a curtain.
The house is a mass of wild flowers and its heady scent is a laugh of triumph.
The house is still home.

First Revision

My grandmother’s garden has moved into the house.
Sunflowers lean in, peering through the glassless upstairs windows.
I pass quickly through the parlor:
Sheets covering the furniture are reduced to rags and shreds like pale spider webs
neglected by their makers.
Up creaking stairs, a bedstread dreams
pillows tossed on the floor and ripped at the seams  spilling feathers
like yellowed letters from a mailbag.

A bottle weeps crystallized tears onto a long-since bone-dry floor.
Maybe they smelled sweet once, but now a faint smell of stale oil  too tired to be rancid
Reaches my nose.
Splinters of glass from a mirror reflect the light, dimmed and shaded by dust and rust.
Climbing clematis twines the banister, faint honeysuckle scent wafting through the entryway.
Clinging to the railing as if it will hold me like the clematis, I descend
As if in a dream.

Was this ever really just our house?
The sprawling roses we planted have climbed through the window and jammed up the sash; it will never be lowered.
Moss crawls the dry floorboards like a rich green carpet, forgiving my passing feet with its softness.
The walls are a mass of roses; violets peep shyly from the corner
Hollyhocks poke at the roses that cluster the window, but are no challenge to their supremacy.
Pansies smile from the kitchen, gossiping with laughing daffodils.
Lilacs shelter sun-beaten ferns with their shade.
Fingers of ivy pry apart the bricks and cement
and daisies push up through the floor, shifting wood and rubble aside like a curtain.
The house is a mass of wild flowers and its heady scent is a laugh of triumph:
Even if it is not mine, the house is still home.

The Button Song

Tags

again, erin rebelling, original work, poetry

It’s been a while since I wrote poetry, but then the opening lines came into my head and I came up with this pseudo-Shakespearean offering. Enjoy!

---

 

The Button Song

Tell me the company you keep

And I will tell you what you are

The Charlatan said to the Troubadour:

The things that trouble your sweet sleep,

Your dreams of troubling a star.

Your fortune, sir, for a penny a look!

Do you dare to see what Fate’s writ in her book?

Dear sir, you think you know me well?

The Troubadour said with mild contempt.

You think I dance for the sake of my bells,

With face grotesque and look unkempt.

I play for the people I see every day:

Yet never I’ve played for the same people twice.

Some prefer beer, some Chardonnay:

And for some will a glass of milk suffice.

Can you label my friends as you’d label a jar?

Can you tell the potters apart in a bazaar?

Do you think you know each human heart

When their owners themselves their depths do not plumb

And each of them their fears, and their starts;

The torrent of speech and that strikes them dumb.

Men are not buttons, nor are they their works.

Women are not apronstrings, mere wives, or berserks.

I’ve seen dreams more original in your streets

Than many the dreams of kings;

And the orphan’s throat hums many a note

That peacocks cannot sing.

And a feather I wear in my cap, good sir,

And a song I bear in my heart,

A simple life for the Troubadour,

And a truer—forgive me if I seem tart.

But I love my simple life, dear sir,

And I would not change it again,

No matter the fortune you read for a fur,

No matter my own secret pain:

And for you, fortune-teller, I’ll leave my advice:

Make a study of the poor and the meek,

Ignore your dreams of avarice,

And finally, begin to seek.

And now, dear sir, I’ll wish you good day:

The road my friends walk now calls me away.

 

A Guide To Being A Companion

Tags

comic poetry, doctor who, fanfiction, humor, poetry

Citizens of Earth, rejoice! My sister the comic genius and I have come together to write you a parody of seasons one through four of the Doctor Who revival series.

Enjoy! ;-D

Oh, I almost forgot: I need to post the disclaimer!

Donna’s hair is red,

The TARDIS is blue,

Rose Tyler is sweet,

I don’t own Doctor Who!

---

A Guide To Being A Companion

A capital ship for a time-travel trip

Was the TARDIS of retro yore

No alien living could set the crew spinning

No Dalek could breach the door

---

Only the best, at the Doctor’s behest,

Could travel to future or past;

Companions all, with courage and gall,

Would weather the Time Vortex blast.

---

Rose’s boredom set on long before dawn

When the Doctor blew up her job

On her first day, in the usual way,

They proceeded to blow up the blob.

---

Rose’s boyfriend Mickey (though often called Rickey)

Would constantly get in the way

Twice only ballast, to Cardiff and Belfast

(Although he would soon save the day.)

---

And the intern we had was apparently mad

For on his only trip

He fired salutes with the Ninth Doctor’s boots

And nearly ruined all with his slip.

---

We all took turns cooking, with nobody looking,

Jack made muffins with sugar (and glue),

Adam made toffee and burned-on the coffee,

And Rose neatly mangled the stew.

---

Captain Jack sat on Rassilon’s hat

And ruled the innuendo squad

With TARDIS-blue socks, he flirted with rocks

As he blurted out things rather odd.

---

When the Doctor does swing, it’s just the thing

For a boring, rainy day

(Though goodness knows, we have few of those!)

We once even put on a play.

---

She’s nowhere near plain, our dear Sarah Jane,

She’s clever and makes her own way.

She and Rose hit it off, with barely a cough,

And they laughed at the Doctor’s dismay.

---

We landed on the Moon with barely a swoon,

And Martha came to the Doctor’s aid.

The Master went berserk and was really a jerk,

But brave Martha was still unswayed.

---

Aboard came Donna, with plenty of drama,

Like a normal Christmas Day.

The marriage was off because of Lance’s scoff

And Donna ran away!

---

Give the Daleks a smack—hooray! Rose is back!

Three Doctors?! What’s going on?!

A Dalek’s a thief, no pretense of grief—

Get out, Davros, you’re gone.

---

Everyone else went back home, left the Doctor alone—

Four knocks, you had better beware.

When the Time Lords came back, the Master gave them a smack

But this wasn’t just a mere scare.

---

It is nature to change, though some deem it strange,

And time turns without relent.

Ten gave his life in the midst of the strife,

For the last of his time had been spent.

---

But though this song is gone the story goes on!

The new Doctor found someone to care,

For a second redhead who woke up in bed

Would find the Doctor there.

Finis

The Soldier’s Prayer

Tags

captain america: the winter soldier, fanfiction, marvel, oops i did it again, poetry, the avengers

Because I could not stop at one post today and Iris is not currently near a computer to read my email and I’m flailing around waiting for The Winter Soldier.

Enjoy!

The Soldier’s Prayer

Red star for death, silver for light.

The pale ghost stands against the knight.

Pawns hover on the sidelines screaming,

Broken from their complacent dreaming.

No fear, no pain, no dreaming grace;

Seeking, finding, another place,

Hope rises to be crushed by an iron fist,

Terrors rise by chaos kissed.

I can’t forget, I must relive

Once more pour out all I can give

But once more it may not be enough

And I can’t see what a diamond is in rough

I want it back, wish I had died

Worthless all the tears we’ve cried

We could imagine, we could pretend,

But this path only leads to the end.

Red star for death, silver for hope,

Teeth gritting, against a straining rope.

I won’t back down, I will not bow

Only God holds this solemn vow.

Red star is dying in the night,

Self-destructive terrifying sight,

But will another replace it tomorrow?

All future sight is veiled in sorrow.

We could imagine, we could pretend,

But I’m not blind to this desperate end.

Red star for death, silver for light,

Please Heaven don’t let me fail this fight!

…okay, that started as a commentary on how a red star is a great metaphor for Communism, since a “red” star is a dying star, and Communism as a political system is inherently flawed and self-destructive, but then Steve stepped in and turned it into a more emotional thingummy than just a philosophical musing. *punches Steve in the arm* Thanks a lot, I really do like you but sometimes you just do unexpected things to me! Like throw a wrench in my perfectly good plot outline… *sigh*

For Brothers

Tags

brian jacques, c.s. forester, captain america: the first avenger, horatio hornblower, john flanagan, marvel, poetry, ranger's apprentice, redwall, star wars, the avengers, thor

For Brothers

For all brothers everywhere

On the front lines and back home

There is not one heartstring tied

That will ever come undone.

For every laugh you share

For every smile you try to hide

Every time you stood up straight

And told the other guy “step aside.”

For all brothers separate

By death or cruel fate

For every tear you drop alone,

For every hour you wait.

You feel each other’s every pain,

You know each other’s heart.

For every one who lieth slain,

For the lives that didn’t start.

For all brothers bound by curse

To nightmare deep and dark

For every tear you shed awake,

And to the silence hark.

The elder can not sway his hand,

The younger named a traitor’s stand,

Pray destiny the wheel may turn

And take you back to your homeland.

To all brothers far from home

Alone, on watch, tonight

I hang a prayer on every star

To pierce the sky with light.

Until the Watch-Star leads us home

From all the trials of war

We shall tell the tales and carve them in stone

Of all you who’ve gone before.

---

This poem is dedicated to all brothers everywhere, whether by blood or in spirit, and especially our boys in the military. I pray every night that God will keep them safe.

Obi-Wan and Anakin

Steve and Bucky

Martin and Gonff

Thor and Loki

Will and Gilan

Horatio and Archie

Brothers not by blood, but by heart.

Remember them.

Frozen

Tags

disney, frozen, poetry, writing

No, not the flippin’ movie.

Because while ice can be beautiful, it is generally a symbol of death, or evil. After all, someone with a frozen heart=a villain. (Which is where Frozen gets crazy confused.)

Frozen

Standing frozen in the doorway

Each breath seems to take more strength than I have

Keep on breathing

Don’t think. Try to move

Breathless as it strikes again and again

Ruthless

And I’m powerless

Rearing up with outstretched claws from the dark

And takes me

Back into the darkness

It’s cold.

I’m frozen.

Demons bleed out from the edges of the sky

Blood red

Like blood on snow

Thin threads of red through ice

And seize whatever they can reach.

I want to scream

My voice is gone

And I still can’t cry.

Silence now.

Nothing but the crack of stone

And splintering of ice.

I wait for dawn

But it won’t save me.

I’m frozen.

The ice always wins in the end.

Guess who… teehee… I’m on a poetry kick, it seems. ;-P

Mocked Guardian Meaning

Tags

c.s. lewis, disney, g.k. chesterton, j.r.r. tolkien, lord of the rings, pixar, poetry, star wars, the chronicles of narnia, wreck-it ralph

Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that the dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that the dragons can be slain.

~~~~G.K. Chesterton

Two days ago, I posted a poem I called Mocked Guardian, and I asked people to guess its inspiration and its meaning. Some guessed it was situations from stories (specifically involving Obi-Wan). No. Others guessed it was a life experience, or a dream. Not quite.

Mocked Guardian, in essence, is a collection of themes from nightmares, certain stories I’ve read, and life experiences, but there is a broader message. Mocked Guardian is a commentary on a trend in popular culture, something that is all too common today; the destruction of all safeguards against evil, and the defamation and vile slander of all childhood heroes. You could say it was the outcry of a man’s silent, boxed-away conscience; it could be the ignored guardian angel whose existence is denied. It could be the lament of an Aragorn whose necessity is denied, along with the existence of real, present, vicious evil. It is also the cry of pain of a child whose heroes are cruelly ripped away and defaced, while the villains are glorified. It is a nightmare in which all the heroes have been removed, all the protectors have been banished, allowing the myriad evils of the world to come down in shrieking hordes, ripping, tearing away like harpies, bringing fear, while the undefended children have not so much as a Rosary to fall back on.

But it is also a ringing cry of defiance, a rallying cry, a lament with a background message of hope.

To me, storytellers! To me, lovers of art, literature, and fiction! To me, lovers of history and lore! Don’t let them take away our heroes. Keep fighting. Because if we don’t protect our heroes, who will?

If you don’t agree with this message, if you feel attacked, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to attack you. Like Galadriel, I’m not dangerous myself. You brought your own danger along with you. And if you feel attacked… this is some friendly advice… maybe it’s time to drop the baggage?

And to those who don’t believe in moral absolutes, no offense, but your ideas are a boatload of eggsy moonshine!

About the picture: The above drawing is sort of related to the poem. Only sort of. Depending on your point of view, it’s either a nightmare Obi-Wan had a few months after his master’s death on Naboo… or it could be a Star Wars and Wreck-it Ralph crossover fanfiction that I haven’t written yet. You decide. 😉

I know that the proportions are wrong, and the line thickness is somewhat distracting and also a bit too variable, but compared to some of my other art, it’s pretty good. I still need to practice my poses, and drawing shouting people and crying people and people in despair, etc., though. 🙂

Mocked Guardian

Tags

completely random posts, confusing nonsense, poetry, rambling musings

Hello, everyone! I originally thought that I wasn’t going to post today, but I decided to post after all, because I love you all so much. :-3

This is my first attempt at free verse poetry. Tell me what you all think! 🙂

Edit: Meaning and inspiration for this poem now up. 🙂 Read here!

---

 Mocked Guardian

Screaming out voiceless into the night

Pleading my freedom behind glass walls

No light shall shine upon my hopes

And dreams all die away

None can hear my voice again

Trapped behind these invisible walls

Unseen, unfelt by any hands

My grace fades like the twilight away

Unheard as in a genie vase

With pain I call; shadows grip about me

Dragging me down into depths unknown

Where back behind oblivious minds

Their shadows call away, mocking, mocking

With voices none but I can hear.

They trapped me here behind their minds

A guardian who no longer walks free

To guard from evils the heedless ones

Who say that evils do not exist. Liars!

Before they locked me away, they mocked me

And doomed their world to spin away

Leaderless, helpless, into excoriating black,

Since they deny that black exists.

None shall follow now.

I can not protect that future until the past is reconciled.

I lie trapped behind the walls of hate

Of those who say they do not hate.

They have numbed their minds; they do not see

What lies before them, what fate they set themselves,

What doom they forged for their children’s children,

Covered over with the glamour of countless lies,

Cemented with the blood of countless children.

And here I will lie, screaming unheard, unfelt,

Beyond the reach of sound, unseen,

A light cast by no shadow here, invisible,

Unknown, unthought, wishing to be unmade

Until at last the walls crumble down, leaving me free,

Free, to dissolve away at last, free, to throw myself on empty space,

Free to discorporate into bodiless light, seek oblivion,

And pray once more to cast myself, alone, unnamed, unbodied

Stripped of all that once I thought was me

Naked before the Throne and empty, alone,

At last of all these illusions free

Between my self and eternity

The truth: A servant of the Divine.

The lie, nonexistence. I cast myself on God’s mercy,

And He shall hear and succor me.

---

Yes, there is a story behind this. But I want to hear all your guesses first. Maybe I’ll post tomorrow and tell you what the inspiration was if you make lots of good guesses today. No, that was not a bribe. Oh, who am I kidding, it totally was. 😛

Cheerio! See you all tomorrow! 😛