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
Monday, January 26, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
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
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
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Stardust
Today as I slowly zoned out
in my science class,
I thought about how before I learned science,
before I knew what lay beyond us, the planets and moons
and stars and galaxies and black holes and dark matter,
the sky was just sky.
The stars were sparkling fire balls giving us light.
And everything was so simplistic-
this is people,
this is ground,
this is birds and fish and animals,
this is Earth,
this is sky,
here is our moon, darling.
What possibilities lay beyond those words?
Today Bill Bryson's voice comes out of the CD player in our classroom.
"At some point in time, everything, ALL things, were compacted into something so small that it was half the size of an atom. This is called a singularity. In three seconds, this singularity exploded (the Big Bang.) And, withing three minutes, our universe became. How did all matter become so small? We don't know."
We don't know. But somehow we came out of it. The earth and the waters and sun that keep us alive. Here we are, and we are made of stardust. This is no metaphor, though it could be.
We are made of stardust.
in my science class,
I thought about how before I learned science,
before I knew what lay beyond us, the planets and moons
and stars and galaxies and black holes and dark matter,
the sky was just sky.
The stars were sparkling fire balls giving us light.
And everything was so simplistic-
this is people,
this is ground,
this is birds and fish and animals,
this is Earth,
this is sky,
here is our moon, darling.
What possibilities lay beyond those words?
Today Bill Bryson's voice comes out of the CD player in our classroom.
"At some point in time, everything, ALL things, were compacted into something so small that it was half the size of an atom. This is called a singularity. In three seconds, this singularity exploded (the Big Bang.) And, withing three minutes, our universe became. How did all matter become so small? We don't know."
We don't know. But somehow we came out of it. The earth and the waters and sun that keep us alive. Here we are, and we are made of stardust. This is no metaphor, though it could be.
We are made of stardust.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Our Summer Novel
Fall comes
And summer ends
It is no longer the burning secret
Our element of surprise
We now know
The wavering stories of our summer
When the river ran wild like the bare soles of our feet
And the bare souls of our bodies
Ready to soak up the words of those days
Yes, the winds are growing cold
The leaves are whimsical shade-changing
Umbrellas
And here we are
Standing beneath them
And the stories we lived
In those earthy, hot summer months
When the outdoors were our playgrounds
Are either stories think of,
Or trash in the crinkling leaves of autumn
And summer ends
It is no longer the burning secret
Our element of surprise
We now know
The wavering stories of our summer
When the river ran wild like the bare soles of our feet
And the bare souls of our bodies
Ready to soak up the words of those days
Yes, the winds are growing cold
The leaves are whimsical shade-changing
Umbrellas
And here we are
Standing beneath them
And the stories we lived
In those earthy, hot summer months
When the outdoors were our playgrounds
Are either stories think of,
Or trash in the crinkling leaves of autumn
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Ode To Summer
We sat inside
A quiet night
trying to conquer Mario Galaxy
Oh, what nobleness
Come, she said
We are going on an adventure.
Where?
Where are we going?
What?
Where?
The expected replies.
You'll see.
Just come.
We're going on an adventure.
Jumped up the steps,
grabbed our shoes,
here we go.
Grab some chalk.
Okay. Lets go.
In the darkness
we run across the street.
Feet flying, where, oh where, are we going?
Take me somewhere.
Lets draw.
Legal grafiti
along the sidewalks
as we go.
Waves of blue here,
pink fish,
smiling face.
Friend's driveway.
Hey Brandon,
Tom's Cool!,
face with mustache,
Welcome Home.
Preist's house.
Hi Father,
scribbled in heart,
more smiling faces.
Across the street, and to the church.
Cross in green,
LOVE,
and, what was it, Riley,
that you have drawn?
Guitar Teacher's house.
Hi Arnold,
big guitar.
And finally, to the school.
Do we love it?
No.
Run, run.
Across this blacktop you have known.
Tetherballs: don't get hit in the face.
Fake a lay-up at the basketball hoop.
Onto the playground.
I'd forgotten how big it was.
Down the slide into the sand.
You're it!
Tag.
Finally, quiet.
Except the creaky swing.
My swing.
Only now the faded blue is
cheap red plastic.
But it is still mine.
Enveloped in the light of a street lamp.
Like the lonely swing it is.
A quiet night
trying to conquer Mario Galaxy
Oh, what nobleness
Come, she said
We are going on an adventure.
Where?
Where are we going?
What?
Where?
The expected replies.
You'll see.
Just come.
We're going on an adventure.
Jumped up the steps,
grabbed our shoes,
here we go.
Grab some chalk.
Okay. Lets go.
In the darkness
we run across the street.
Feet flying, where, oh where, are we going?
Take me somewhere.
Lets draw.
Legal grafiti
along the sidewalks
as we go.
Waves of blue here,
pink fish,
smiling face.
Friend's driveway.
Hey Brandon,
Tom's Cool!,
face with mustache,
Welcome Home.
Preist's house.
Hi Father,
scribbled in heart,
more smiling faces.
Across the street, and to the church.
Cross in green,
LOVE,
and, what was it, Riley,
that you have drawn?
Guitar Teacher's house.
Hi Arnold,
big guitar.
And finally, to the school.
Do we love it?
No.
Run, run.
Across this blacktop you have known.
Tetherballs: don't get hit in the face.
Fake a lay-up at the basketball hoop.
Onto the playground.
I'd forgotten how big it was.
Down the slide into the sand.
You're it!
Tag.
Finally, quiet.
Except the creaky swing.
My swing.
Only now the faded blue is
cheap red plastic.
But it is still mine.
Enveloped in the light of a street lamp.
Like the lonely swing it is.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Lights
Colors began turning hazily into the sky
And the water
And the ground was just ground
Something beneath me
Holding the gravity that kept me
From blowing away
Loud crashes of bursting fireworks
Echoed through the spacious
Waves
The vast empire of water and sky
Crackling and shattering the quietness,
The sheltered thoughts we hide in
And all I had with me to mark this time
Was burning metal
Emitting sparks
And drifting smoke
And with it I wrote a simple
Thanks
Which sailed away with the wind smoldering
The heavy breaths I wore
From running into my own seclusion
At the end of the beach
That tipped point that led to the water
Where I stuck the ashy stick into the sand
My own farewell
To the greats
Who have done something
For us
For this world
This sparkler of light
For them I hold up
And twirl
And promise that I, too, will be something
Good
And the water
And the ground was just ground
Something beneath me
Holding the gravity that kept me
From blowing away
Loud crashes of bursting fireworks
Echoed through the spacious
Waves
The vast empire of water and sky
Crackling and shattering the quietness,
The sheltered thoughts we hide in
And all I had with me to mark this time
Was burning metal
Emitting sparks
And drifting smoke
And with it I wrote a simple
Thanks
Which sailed away with the wind smoldering
The heavy breaths I wore
From running into my own seclusion
At the end of the beach
That tipped point that led to the water
Where I stuck the ashy stick into the sand
My own farewell
To the greats
Who have done something
For us
For this world
This sparkler of light
For them I hold up
And twirl
And promise that I, too, will be something
Good
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
