As the blog is getting a small revamp, I’ve decided that this “Page” can be somewhat of a memorial post to my Creative Writing class. I wrote all these during it. I loved it. I need to write more, just randomly.
Fat – belly – rolls
Leftovers and turkey
Cravings for pumpkin, chocolate, apple
Wash it alld own with gravy.
Roll (wehat or white) me over to the couch
Smother me with a buttery blanket
As I nap
Hoping the plates and plates of food
So I can eat more.
From a far off land
To lead me to my destiny
Trekking quickly there
Only to find, no one had called
Plagues my old body.
Adventures have filled my life
“Red sky, red sky
Blood burns in stars so bright.
The moon is red, the sun is dead
Fire light the sky tonight.”
“Black penguins pass
Slipping and sliding away
Going gaily on down
Heartily homeward bound.”
“Blue fish, blue fish
Swims swiftly south today
Away from cold, Away from north
Summer waits for fish today.”
“Blue chils the sky
Sweater vests and hats
Attacked by wind
Teeth chatter nonstop.”
“Stewed blueberries slither down the hot pot into the yellow dish, steam rises a mixed color of fruit, water and burnt seeds.”
wet and soggy
leaves on ground
rain, rain, rain
“The annoyance in front of my face. It hangs in front of my eyes, falling up and own, forward and back, ear to ear. It isn’t very noticeable, but I know it’s there – it is ALWAYS there. I hate my chronic sore neck and small headaches.”
Parachutes in jackets of orange and yellow
fall out of high branches in green trees
softly floating to the ground below.
Many times they land off target
into nests of brown or blonde hair.”
“I see the sun, but feel no warmth. I see the rays, but am not blinded.”
“Birds ferociously arguing with the noise of construction.”
“night falls lightly, leaving glances
small glimpses and pools of light.
sun is gone, moon is come but
day doesn’t want to leave yet.”
“They sit, one bench apart
Never knowing how far
How close together they are.
Both in a world of their own
Only ten feet from each other.
One bench apart is too far.
They look past each other
Into the beyond, never seeing
Into his, or her eyes.”
“pour me out a story
sing it to me soft.
pour me out a story
play it to my ears.
pour me out a story
tell me what happened so many years ago.”
“To be back in Wales – to forget everything here. To go to the past but never exit time, nor enter into it. Places of history, of mystery echoing me to return and stay. Stay and forget as I never leave my Neverland.”
“A blue tie – the perfect tie for a plain old raindrop to wear.”
“A shadow light up the evening –
orange covers purple
rain drops splatter across colors
orange on top of purple.
Tires drive through puddles
the water spraying up colors –
dark blue overthrows the orange,
and throws away the purple.”
“The stars showed what shadows were come to pass.”
“She threw the fish back in the pond – it was too small for her needs. What she needed was not the small anchovy, but a large silver catfish. Wiping the sweat off her brow with her sleeve, she sat back down in the canoe – this was harder than she thought.”
“Why did this work? Everything she had always tried never worked. She ha just given up hope of ever succeeding, but this time it worked. Laughing, she twirled, her blue skirt flowing out.”
“Tears push up under my bottom eye lid. A crooked smile stretches to my cheek bones. I totter on my feet, my hands wringing a cloth that’s not there. That feeling of nervousness laughing, mocking me, sticks to my stomach, reading up to tickle my throat. I am nervous, really nervous.”
“Musing – what is it? It sounds like ‘amuse’ – am I amusing my self as I think and ponder and write? Is it entertaining to me? Or does it suggest words of my Muse – those masterpiece ideas bursting forth with ingenuity that I have plagiarized and tried to pass off as my imagination?”
“Curly locks over a pink top”
“Who are we? I don’t know. But we are here – that is the important thing.”
“A braid, so tenderly done, hanging at the end of the neck – a calm, serene hairdo for a laid back smiling girl.”
“The white shirt, sourly stained pink in the underarm”
“The worst illness.
I want to throw a chair,
Pull out my hair, can’t stand it.
Brain waiting to implode.
The worst curse,
A mumble-jumble of words,
Nothing is right, crumple and throw it to the fire.
A sick unease irks me.
Writer’s block – so terrible, so frightening –
It plagues me, stealing, preventing.
No happiness can escape the blackhole.”
“Why move on? Why move foward? There is so much here. Many adventures yet to have a tthe top of this hill. Why roll down to suburbs below? Too many opportunities arise, take advantage. Why move on?”
“The Scarlett Letter
A scarlet letter
The red hot iron, branding my soul.
I can’t ignore the matching drops of blood
Falling in the pattern of an ‘A.’
The scarlet letter – adulturess.
The rusty iron-filled design weighs me down.
No words will escape my matching lips,
I wear it alone – the sin is mine.
A scarlet letter
My heart has broken – turned from red
to cold, stone, black rock.
I am the Black Man’s lover now.
The Scarlet Letter
My crest to pass onto my child,
My sparkling white Pearl, forever
Marred, marked, stained – a naughty Imp.”
“‘I am not a weapon to be used. I am a Fae, and more than that, I am your Maraka. I will not be treated as such an ignorant body of kiji you take me for!”
So many trees – big and small, tall and short, thick and skinny branches and leaves scattered everywhere on the ground – dirt ground, some grass – ore like a foest setting. Two playgrounds, one with a canopy. My treehouse in the forest. Surrounded by deep ditches, like a maze wondering through the open forested backyards of my block.
I would play back there – indians, adventure, runaway, fantasy, fights with swords and magic, army, jungle kids – building shelters over the ditch.”
“Window in my house:
Look to the corner of 7th N 4th E can see the campus and the Y. When curtains are pulled, you can’t see anything – too dark. When the curtains are opened, the room lights up. I can watch the whole day go by – see weather, the changing beauty of the Y, people passingby – spend hours just watching. I take breaks from homework to just stare, makes me want to go up to the Y.”
“Seagulls in the morning:
Squacking, loudly around 4 am, as soon the sun lits up – eating and attacking trash in Cardiff. Time to get up – a new day – new adventure, true, it’s an annoying sound and a ridiculously early time to wake up, especially cuz we have late nights, but always ready for a new adventure once seagulls wake me up. I can look at the bad and good views of life.”
The wholly smell of wood smoke – not gross like burning food or a cigarette, but it has a certain taste to it. It is accompanie by the crackling sound and warm blanket of heat. When my fmaily would go camping in National Parks every summer, we would have dinner by fire, make s’mores on popcorn, cuddle in blankets, read by firelight, go in tent and wake up next morning to build another fire. I love the outdoors, love fires, love camping, there is such peace, tranquility, family bonding. I miss doing it now.”
“The fancy of Neverland lives in me still.
I shall never grow up – Never.
I may grow tall, hair grow long.
I may be married with children of my own,
But I shall never grow up – never!
Flying with fairies, fighting pirates –
High adventure – how fascinating!
Friends with Pan – truly exciting –
I shall never grow up – NEVER!”
“Y Wyddfa – Snowdon
Is it raining below? Grey fog in front, pushing from behind, The dismal cloud laughing, mocking.
The puffy white clouds blend in with the grey, moist blanket. Was that the train’s horn or the wind? Sight and hearing can’t help you find the train – right next to you or past the cliff edge.
Slippery rocks, loose or wet try to turn me around, ‘don’t go higher’ they scream, silently.
Is it raining below? No rain rides on th wind here, but it appears, clings to me, I’m heavy with rain.
Is it raining below? Does the sun shine? Is there warmth? Peace? Quiet? Tranquilitiy? Green?
Is it raining below? It must be – I’m climbing the mountain in the cloud.”
“‘There are two geese on sentry duty,’ reads the handmade sign, painting the way to the ruined castle. Usk, full of history, full of blood and rage, built of mortar and stone from sweat and toil, was now a background garden.
On top of the hill, trees and brush became the castle walls. A few stones laid helter-skelter on the courtyard, filled with courtisans of a new breed. Chickens were escorted by a proud rooster. The goat engaged the sheep in conversation near the fountain while the two sentry geese kept a wary eye on us as they made their rounds. One wall remained, now painted green with a halo of pink flowers growing from centuries old grey stone.
The walk on the wall led to the chapel, only recognized by a small cross engraved in stone. The pews, now hedges. Guarding the chapel was a tiny grove, a large tree bending to lift all its branches and leaves on its back. One arm it offered as a swing.
My very own Secret Garden – Usk Castle.”
“The beat pulsed through her chair, vibrating, her glasses subtly moving in tune. Numerous voices followed the song, some off-pitch, some to slow, some creating unknown words. Lights flickered, shining blue, green, yellow, red, purple, disfiguring her face while giving style to her plain white dress. She knew the song, her mouth silently forming the words. She knew the dance, her feet softly shuffling. Yet, here she stayed, in her chair, watching the party go on without her.”
“Shining bright, shining strong.
True love in celestial form.
A crown of glory, feelings on my sleeve,
Love abounds, the halo of splendor.
True love conquers all –
‘For what do stars do best?’
An ever after, never an ever after,
Never an ending – eternity:
Star’s bright love – true love.
-written while watching Stardust.”
“Wind blowing her haird, a mane fills her head, complemented by a fur-lined jacket. Dark glasses lie about her blue eyes as brown. A serious look on her face, (she is actually enjoying it) stares into the sunset as she rides her glider through the red sky.”
“The music sporadically spilled across one ear and out the other. A clanking symphony of bells, chimes, sticks, and hands wound circles around the chanting and dancing. Colors swirled, splashing the tribe in the off-beat of the tune.
To any other ear, it was noise. To us, it was our soul, flying, pounding the soft dust of earth with our calloused feet – celebrating allwe were, are, and would be.”
“Thinking was her favorite pastime. She would think of numerous things – how the bees could fly faster than her, how the dew never dampened her clothes, how her hair color matched her rose, yet her wings matched her guardian spirit.
Pulling one knee up to her chest, she rested her chin on it while she swung her other leg under the sturdy rose leaf.
Mamso fluttered by, the speed of his wings faster than her identical ones could ever match. Smiling, she touched his head in acknowledgement.
‘What were you thinking of this time, Tsarin?’ Mamso asked.”
“Many strenghts become one when the time is right.”
“She snarled as if as a cat with its fangs bared.”
“Journal writing is my pride and joy – it keeps me sane. It is my best friend.”
“Visions of possibilities swarm in a hurricane, threatening to overcome the future.”
“Her violet eyes lit up – amythests sparkling in the cave, hinting at her joy in the joke.”
“Half unseen from the world, she peers over, curious to see what she was missing.”
“Mae ddrwg ‘da fi, ond dw i’n meddwl dy fod ti’n hefryd.”
“long hair fluttered as if finding joy in riding the wind.”
“The railroad tracks began in the middle of the room and disappeared through the wall.”
“What do you do when the thing you treasured the most has shattered to pieces due to your own clumsiness?”