Boy & Beast

Hi all! This is a short poem titled Boy and Beast; content wise it strays from my other writing, but this was inspired by a little bit of ekphrasis. Enjoy! 

 

Golden shades of blue great each other, the beast’s scales tangled in the light, sun speckled

A heavy robe draped over the boy, much too large for his frail body, it cannot belong to him

The beast’s tail coils and contorts

Bare feet, without claws, without scales or armor, not broken but breakable

Where did he leave his shoes?

The ground no longer moved, no longer echoed and errupted beneath the two

The beast’s eyelids fluttered, magnificent dappled purple and azure, defeated eyes shut

There is lingering dread painted on the boy’s irises which meet with the beast’s sunken chest

It rose

His heart still thumping, still pumping, still beating

 

A boy with dirt stained teeth and cheeks, nose and throat

King of the sky lay bleeding in a low place

The two were now more alike than they were different

The boy knew this well

Sweet smelling smoke hung in the air, pouring of out the beast’s nostrils, it did not seem to stop

But it was not sweet, it was the smell of death

The sound of an ancient body ascending and dematerializing

Where a beast had once stood, once sailed through sunsets of gold and blood

Skies of blue

 

Time must persist, the sun sunk into the valley radiating shades of mourning

Melancholy rolled over the young boy, pouring over him like the folds of his robe

Golden shades of blue great each other, the beast’s scales tangled in the light, star speckled

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after David Scriven Crowley’s Andrew with Faith and Reason

This poem was written as a response to David Scriven Crowley’s painting titled Andrew with Faith and Reason displayed at the Emery Art Center. Check out more of his wonderful work at http://www.davidscrivencrowley.com/#!

 

Two stallions, raise torn hooves into sky, muddy ochre and onyx

The avoidance of dirt

Where are your shoes?

Soft lilac soil sinks below

Lavender, peach pulp clouds crowd above, Zeus is watching

And he is angry, face flushed an ungodly red, bursted blood vessels

 

An unfamiliar portrait of a hero, at least you appear to be

Lit by yellow hues, a familiar flesh tone to I and to you

Holding two roped reigns, for what purpose?

Where do you look to with such fear, teeming from pupils

Is it the Gods you fear?

 

Muscles all strain and writhe, casting shadows which overlap

Mauve, plum, muted rose and mulberry, unruly manes

Looming landscapes stretch themselves along the campus, and two arms length

Two stallions, who bear the names Faith and Reason

I later learn you bear the name Andrew

An Open Letter to the Scar on my Right Knee

This poem was written in a poetry class at University of Maine Farmington’s annual Longfellow Young Writers Workshop. 

 

You are pink and fleshy, hues of salmon, a divot which mars my kneecap

You are the creation of river rocks and clumsy footing

Off balance footing, I would never make it in the circus

Big top, red and white

You are a reminder of the last day laughter filled my belly and crowded my bones

Why don’t scars go away?

Why don’t scars leave, like people so easily do?

 

Mid-September air stung at my skin, prickly sensations scattered my bare ankles

Jumping from brinded rock to brinded rock, he was only a few skips ahead of me

All was below me and with a thudding sound and splashing of icy water

I was below all

Smile still strained, uneven teeth continued to show

I was happy and I was red and the water too was red

Why didn’t my smile go away?

 

Spindly shaking fingers were held out to me and I was back and standing

On five dollar flip flops, legs shaky and knees shaky

Right knee shaking

This the last time our dead skin cells collide

Meshing and melding like seemingly close galaxies

 

After that Tuesday there were no phone calls branching into 2 am

You had still not introduced yourself yet

Come Wednesday our weekly trip to the dingy pizza parlor on the end of South street was abandoned, old habits rotted effortlessly into the ground, leaving its bones exposed

 

Thursday passed and the flowers he had given me began to die

I looked down to my right knee and through the bandage I could feel you growing

You were born into a harsh environment and endured when I knew I could not

 

Sunday night I sat alone in my bed, amongst pillows and sheets and linens

Pink rimmed glassy and jaundiced eyes wanted to look anywhere but down

I needed to look anywhere but down

Yet there seemed to be an anchor which tied itself to my chin

There you were

 

Why don’t scars leave like people do?

On Poetry & Boundaries

This poem was written in eighth grade, and recently revised. I apologize for the lack of posts recently! I am currently revising my piece “About Tabitha Paine”, which will hopefully be published in an anthology by May. This is a very time consuming process, one that I’ve been putting all of myself into. Enjoy! 

 

Poetry knows no bounds

In fact, a poet knows no bounds

I will not follow a guideline

The art of restriction wraps  tightly around my shoulders

Leaving lines of purple and markings of maroon

I will color outside the lines

For I do not care if the sky will be blotted white or black or orange or lilac

I will paint a sky of my own, a sky belonging to my mechanisms

think outside of the box

I will not write using a rhyme

simile

humor

alliteration

I shall not revise my work

my poetry is raw

more raw than a sunflowers roots

a salmon extracted from the raging rapids by means of a grizzly’s jaw

Canines and incisors

my poetry is fresh

fresher than the fruits of spring

fresher than the air encircling a mountains snow spotted cap

My poetry is flesh, of my own and of others

My words personify into sinew and dead skin

I carefully construct letters and arrange them like freckles and constellations on olive stained cheeks

I write with a flow

a flow that will not be constricted by a set of rules

my poetry is a river,

yet unlike a river, it shall shatter the dam of restrictions

Poetry has no bounds

And neither will I

Rain Rain go Away

Rain, rain, don’t go away

For I find the strangest comfort in a foggy window and my noisy yellow rainboots

Come again, visit me on Sunday and wrap around my shoulders like a woven blanket the morning after snowfall

I like the abundance of kisses that speckle my cheeks, trying their best to imitate my freckles, leaving me behind their icy drops

And the sound, the sound fills up that empty space in my head and between my ears

In the absence of thoughts, the sound consumes me

I smile at the sight of my reflection in the divots of my driveway that are filled with puddles of all sizes and shapes

Because I find myself beautiful in this mirror

Though my hair is weighed down and sopping

Though a single drop teeters on my nose, hanging on with a weak grip and wavering hands

Until down down it falls, splashing and rippling at the ground

And the mud shifting under my weight as I saunter amongst the trees

Rain, rain don’t go away

In Lieu of Flowers

In lieu of flowers, I want you to read this poem

For these words and scribbles come from the deepest and darkest corners of my throat

Bring me a bouquet of letters, and your beaming memories

Like our picnic under the birch tree, a checkered blanket laid beneath us on the knobby forest floor, and how I laughed until my insides burned after you tripped over that damn branch, you can remember the way it jutted out of the ground

For I don’t want the pain to scratch at your lungs and solidify in your stomach

I know when you cry your eyes look more blue like the Atlantic than they do green

But I like your green, and your freckles and your crooked teeth, and the lines and roads that map your face when you smile

I did admire the beauty of daffodils, but please, don’t bring me daffodils

In lieu of flowers, bring me the tranquility of rain that I grew to love

When we would sit in my driveway for hours, until the numbers and lines and ticks and tocks melted off of the clock

My hair was spotted darker, and strewn with rain drops and so was yours, but oh god

We smiled

I do not want the trash bin to be filled to its wiry brim with used tissues

or to hear the aching sounds that disease the air

Bring me the laughter and bring to me light that beamed through you in June

Just place it on my doorstep, don’t be afraid to get your calloused hands dirty

and know I will be out to retrieve your love and wishes once the stars tuck me in under a charcoal blanket

Please do not remember me for who you wanted me to be

Remember me for who I was

Raw and trembling

In lieu of flowers, please remember me

 

The Color of Summer

A small poem reflecting on my favorite aspects of the summer while I’m feeling the winter blues, enjoy! 

 

the color was red

it was the red that blanketed the skies and the red of the incandescent roses

the color of summer had to be red, like fireworks on the fourth of July

and melting cherry popsicles in mid August

 

no, if i’m remembering right

the color that those brilliant three months brought us was yellow

sunflowers that stood taller than I and a cartoonish sun

yes, the golden hues of sand and my five dollar flip flops

 

again, it has occurred to me that june did offer a palette of green

grass clippings and praying mantises

it was lighter than the color of the volkswagen beetle always parked in the lot next to the cove

but certainly darker than the granny smith apples they’ve been selling at the farmers market

 

the color of summer could be blue, if you squint your eyes and tilt your head

as blue as the ocean and as blue as the sky

the same color blue I paint my toenails  

and yes, the same color blue you painted the fence last June

 

maybe violet, but maybe not

the lilacs were more reminiscent of May

and the grapes and the buttons that line my favorite jacket

but I can see purple in the night sky, swirling with the stars and coating the night

with its gentle and mauve kisses

 

looking back, the color of summer

it wasn’t a color, no feeling can be scribed as a simple hue

the color of summer was laughter pouring out of wide smiles

and the feeling of bare feet treading unfamiliar paths etched into the earth

it was dirt under your short fingernails and the freckles that scattered my cheeks

it was the love affair of the sun and the sea

of the sun and us

it was love, yes

it was love

The Question & Answer

“Why do you write?”

These words slip from my mother’s jaw

Down and down until they kiss the pavement

Scratch that, a picture of romance and beauty is not what I wish to be etched onto this canvas

Down and down until they smack the pavement, the sound capillaries splintering like birch

Those words fall out and drizzle down as if it were a cloudy and charcoal coated Monday

 

Why do these words, and letters

And quirks and thoughts trickle themselves unto parchment

Persisting in a world now blotted and stained in figures and gears and metal and calculations

The click clack of the keys aches my bones mother, knocking on my door with a heavy brass fist, and I can no longer toy with these equations that scramble in my brain like twisted knotted up yarn

 

The numbers here before you and me, they don’t add up

Fives and the sixes and the sevens

But the words, oh mother, and the letters and the quirks and the complete and strangely symbolic chaos strung up inside

They do add up mother

 

They add up more precisely and evenly and exactly than any God damned number ever could

Making sense of a senseless jaunt

The words and stories help coat my wounds

They help as if they were cool water and ointment or loosely wrapped gauze

They help mother

I swear by it  

On Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub or any Alike Disambiguations

I hold a firm belief that Satan comes in many forms, a variety, an array

This is my conviction that I grip to dearly, even if my knuckles were to whiten

You are at will to seek his presence at any corner, really

Last week I watched him strolling about Fourth and Emery Street

But that’s another story

It’s almost a game, you see, no more sinister than sorry and jenga or monopoly

A promise, a lamp, a person, a sentence, a phrase, a typewriter if you follow

So please, offer him a place inside your throat, deep down where nobody goes

A fine leather arm chair, the kitchen counter, a lived in mattress in the guest room

Somewhere hollow

The wicked are often misunderstood, the kind misinterpreted by twisted tongues

So, if you like

Invite him over for a cup of tea, although he won’t admit to it he does much appreciate chamomile and Tolstoy

Because his mother calls him by George, but friends know him as kind

Have a drink, pour a glass, I will promise you that the wicked are often misunderstood

and the good are not of interesting company