Periwinkle

Periwinkle tastes like Swiss Cheese,
Airy as paper on my tongue,
Tangy as saltine crackers,
Crinkling and crackling on the roof of my mouth
As light as ice cold milk,
Sounds like it too,
Like my grandpa does, mizing the ice
Into his glass so that it is so freezing it bites at your throat
Jazz music in the elevator,
You remember the tune faintly, in the back of your memory
But in a second it can slip away
The wind and the crickets whisper its melody into my ears,
At touch as flimsy and light as cotton balls,
Feathery as bubbles drifting away to the moon,
Smells as washed as sunscreen lotion and perfume on your collarbone,
It is your collarbone, just as slick and as bony

Wild

Wild is me slipping into the running river,
WIld is leaping off the boat, the shore, away from my worries,
And onto something better,
To burst like a cannonball into the deep cold waters,
Wild takes a running start, doesn't look back,
Is confident in rightness does, does not second guess, or regret
Wild knows that winter is lonely, that each different snowflake
Must still fall to the ground,
That spring is spontaneous and unpredictable, open and larger than life,
Wild understands this, because Wild is Spring, too
The lilacs blossoming on the wilted branches, they are Wild,
The bees, busy workers, going about their own lives, on an errand for the Queen,
Still observe the life around them,
Still can feel afraid, and know when to sting
Some say that only people have feelings, but I know better,
The deer, with her young quick-stepping children, allows them to run
Yet stays close behind,
The lions fight fot the top, roar and stalk and lay deep down low in the grasses,
Sinking into the dark brown dirt
They are King, and nobody stops them, they hold power, take control of the jungle
Surrounding them, a monarchy that no one disturbs,
Even the wind with her smooth, gentle touch
Can be roused and join the thunder in its fitful storm,
The trees are old, but they have seen more than we have seen,
Their leaves still tremble and quake
Being Wild is feeling, is power, and understanding,
Wild is fear, in knowing when to be afraid, and when, like the bee,
To sting

Supernova

I want to be a bird in the densest tropical canopy of trees,
Slick, curling leaves that branch above the creeping tigers,
Slippery snakes, roaring lions, and their fumbling cubs
I am safe above the rest, my vibrant wings blooming into
A locomotive flower,
Reds and purples and yellows that dance in the wild skies,
Widespread and free,
No one can catch me,
I dive and do summersaults,
I'm an open-air acrobat, gravity can't keep me down,
I can fly to the sun, to the blaring stars,
The tips of my feathered arms can touch the small planets,
I'm a supernova flying machine,
I"m ultraviolet, the spectrum of light
Can't keep up with me,
I'm always growing bigger than I was before,
My wings leading me to the skies,
Maybe someday I'll leap beyond,
For now I am the bird singing into the jungle,
The Toucan gazing at the world below,
Wings bursting open

Lotta Poems

Dakota Stage

Liked the people there,
How they draped their arms on the wiry railings,
How they kicked their feet as they sat on the stage,
How the looked out into the empty auditorium,
And felt like a star,
Liked how we talked,
Confident and loud,
When we became our character,
Exciting
Energetic,
Liked how it contrasted the ivory colored walls,
And the dim lighting,
And the dust particles floating in the air
The costumes beneath the stage,
All the colors
And masks and dresses,
Boxes of shoes,
Fabric flowers,
Scraps and leftovers,
Smelled old and like wood,
Loved that place

Brent

The morning he left,
I got up early,
Threw my hair in a messy ponytail,
Threw on yesterdays jeans
And a wrinkled t-shirt,
Found mis-matching socks,
And tied my shoes in the car,
The sky was still dark,
Light just peeking over the horizon,
I’d never been up so early,
Never so early and never so anxious,
So final
Mom sat next to me,
Can’t remember if we talked
Arrived at the airport,
Couldn’t find him,
Sat down, waited
Waited
Waited
They came, Brent, Ellyn, Nanna,
All carrying his bags,
All looking tired and sad and just like me
Ellyn had on a Yankee’s baseball cap, her short hair
In mini pig-tails, knit-scarf and jacket,
Bought a handful of fruity Mentos for me,
Grabbed a few, mostly pink,
Gave the rest to me, and a quarter for some more,
Hand turned yellow and orange,
Candy stained,
We stood beside him while he checked in for his flight,
Followed him up the escalators that usually
Are really fun,
Prayed with him,
Safe flight,
Until we meet again,
Watched him standing on the other side of the glass,
Waved and blew kisses,
Wouldn’t see him for a while now,
Off to Nicaragua,
Meeting Shawn,
Who just yesterday had left too,
Got back in car,
Mom drove to the Donut Hole
Bought a dozen different kinds,
No jelly-filled
We hate that kind,
Just chocolate and white-frosting flavored,
A couple powdered,
Or cinnamon and sugar,
I wasn’t tired,
I wasn’t hungry,
I just wanted them to
Come home


August 28th, Stormy Night

Brothers thumbing
Melodic chords,
Singing about
The world being painted blue,
But the I wished to see your smile,
The evening everything thrashed wildly through the air,
Rumpled the leaves,
Worn and weathered,
That night birthed a fierce storm,
Like a dragon, it breathed out
An orange flame sky,
The wind tumbled and twirled
In open-air acrobatics,
As the sky chanted its own
Earthly song,
And my heart beat in step
With a thunder bongo dance
The rapture of my arms,
Wide and expanding across
That molten sky,
I threw myself into
The depths of the ritual,
And came out of it
Still
Without
You

Idiosyncratic Words

Idiosyncratic-peculiar

Idiosyncratic
Static
Radio
Ruffle
Truffle
Snuffle
Plick-plack
Plink,
Taking a drink,
Stroll on the streets,
Lollygagin’
High five left hangin’
Smack
Track
Runnin’
Feet slap slap slap
The pavement,
Boom
Bang
Let’s go gang,
Headin’ of to Hollywood,
Neon
Tubercular Lights
Chemical Green,
Carbonated Pink,
Pop Purple,
Flash, flash, flash,
Each step beatin’
In rhythm
I like the language,
I like the sound of words,
How they crack and sizzle
And drizzle, drizzle, drizzle,
Drip, drip,
SPLAT
On the concrete

Princess Poem

Through the plastic
slanted shades
lies the snowfort
broken and brave
it's drawbridge
leading me to the moon where my
throne awaits in the curve
of darkness and
silent dreams
floating like bubbles,
permeable,
so breakable,
they cannot be touched
or the delicate skin shatters,
evaporates,
and disappears
they are the secrets
of a sleeping body,
an inmate in her cell
finally free

My guard is the
night in all its
black armor,
the sky
hear the trumpets,
blaring like sirens,
announcing the sun,
introducing the light,
wake up princess of the stars

Through the plastic
slanted shades
rises the sun
brilliant and brave,
a glass slipper
visible on the brink
of the horizon

Micaela Rose

Letter to Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge

Dear Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge,

Whirly, wispy, winter sits outside my window; brown tire tracks trail dirt in the clean snow. Just like the muddy tracks, I have dirt in my thoughts. I have accepted a way of writing that not only disillusions my voice, but cuts off who I am.

I never used to have problems writing. I could just look at the world, and I’d have something to say. I picked up ideas all over the place and wrote them down. It was within the words I had strung throughout every room, that I was told my writing was crazy.

My eighth grade English teacher, tall, prim, with a crooked smile, is the one who changed the way I write. He sat me down, and said he needed to talk to me. I had written about my love of words. He didn’t see it. He said he had asked me to open a can of worms, and that I did so, but then took handfuls and tossed them everywhere. He didn’t know where I was going, or what the point was. He told me to cut down, simplify, erase, revise, and simplify again. Trying to please him, I did this. I have not heard my voice since. I’ve caught glimpses of it sounding tight, sophisticated, and choked. I lost the life in my writing. I lost myself. I had a one-track train; it didn’t turn, loop, or even reverse. If I even strayed off the side, the shock collar that I seemed to wear burst with electric power.

I first read your book about three years ago, when I was nine. My grandma was flipping through it at the kitchen table one morning, and found a poem she and her sister had written. “Capricious rainbow, you do a pastel leap across the sky,” it began. I was astounded. It was fantastic—full of words! She told me your book, poemcrazy, brought out these free ideas and playful words. We read it together. I was enchanted.

Inspired to write, we threw around words, just as you suggested. We wrote them down, and tossed them into a red-hot bowl. Then we grabbed a handful of words out of the bowl, and wrote a poem using whichever ones we wanted. This process began freeing my voice and ideas. We made up words and let them come out as they pleased. We gave ourselves pen names and read our word pool poetry. I wrote: Star you fly away…beautiful like a poem, mighty like a tiger…you are my golden sky star.

I miss the freedom I had in these little poems.

Apokatas’ tasis. Out of apparent catastrophe, bring blessing, Greek. Until last night I had felt as if I had lost my voice. I told my mom, and she told me a story. My dad had rototilled our garden, and recent rain left the ground a mushy, muddy substance. I stepped outside in the dim sky, and saw worms. Everywhere. I ran inside. “You have to come see this!” I said breathless.

I want to write with worms everywhere again. I prefer them squirming under my feet, pearly light bulbs in the night. I’ve picked up your book again. I’m writing, and what do you know, here I am!

Thank you, Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge, for opening, and then re-opening my words. Your book has taught me the power of writing, and allowed to play with words—squish them like playdoh, and mix colors, just for the fun of it. I can move freely, carting more than one idea.

Ciao,

Freedom Dancer
Micaela Gerhardt