Around this time last year I had a really strong urge to write things. Poems, stories, a novel, anything really. Then for a long time I didn't have much of a desire to write at all.
I don't know if it was because I went back to look at some of the things I wrote, or because I've been reading poetry lately, or just because it's that time of year again, but the itch is back. The problem is, I just don't know where to begin. So maybe some writing will show up on this blog in the near future. And maybe not. I'm just here to give the heads up;)
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Obviously I'm on a poem kick. Another from Anne of Green Gables. I've got imagination and bosom friends on the mind...
The Lady of Shalott
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Another great. I'm in a poetry mood tonight.
The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
The Highwayman
Ever since I heard this poem on Anne of Green Gables I loved it. Then I tried to use it when we had to recite a poem in english class when I was in school. I could never find it back then so I used a different poem. Something about tonight made me want to look it up and I found it:) And actually, I just read it in its entirity for the first time and it's a bit...rough? But I'm still leaving it up cuz of my Anne love lol.
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle—
His rapier hilt a-twinkle—
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter—
Bess, the landlord's daughter—
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened—his face was white and peaked—
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter—
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
O sweet black waves in the moonlight!,
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight—
Her musket shattered the moonlight—
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter—
Bess, the landlord's daughter—
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle—
His rapier hilt a-twinkle—
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter—
Bess, the landlord's daughter—
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened—his face was white and peaked—
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter—
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
O sweet black waves in the moonlight!,
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight—
Her musket shattered the moonlight—
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter—
Bess, the landlord's daughter—
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
February Poem, Day 2
I cannot go to school today
I cannot go to school.
My teachers are all mad at me,
I've broken all the rules.
I've broken all the sticks of chalk,
I wrote on all the desks.
I pulled all of the girls hair,
And all the cubbies, wrecked.
I didn't come in from recess time,
I started a food fight at lunch.
I hid under my desk in math,
Gave the bunny pencils to munch.
I put a frog in the teacher's desk,
I fed my homework to the dog.
I led the class in a silly song,
And ran from the principle at a jog.
So I cannot go to school today
There is a problem, you see?
'Cuz I wreaked havoc on everyone else,
Today they'll wanna wreak havoc on me!
I cannot go to school.
My teachers are all mad at me,
I've broken all the rules.
I've broken all the sticks of chalk,
I wrote on all the desks.
I pulled all of the girls hair,
And all the cubbies, wrecked.
I didn't come in from recess time,
I started a food fight at lunch.
I hid under my desk in math,
Gave the bunny pencils to munch.
I put a frog in the teacher's desk,
I fed my homework to the dog.
I led the class in a silly song,
And ran from the principle at a jog.
So I cannot go to school today
There is a problem, you see?
'Cuz I wreaked havoc on everyone else,
Today they'll wanna wreak havoc on me!
Monday, February 1, 2010
February Poem, Day 1
It is February! I can't believe it. January sure went by fast, which is interesting, because usually my Januaries (how DO you pluralize January?) seem to crawl. One of the goals I made for myself for February is to write a poem a day. That idea came off of my life-list-desire to write a book of poems. I thought it would be fun to write a poem every day for a month and then make it into a little book for our coffee table. Yes, I chose February because it is the shortest month haha. I may not post them all because of hectic scheduling this month but I'll try and post some. They should be pretty varied since I love different kinds of poems. I wrote this one today after I heard a bird singing on my way into work. It's a haiku. Enjoy:
I heard a bird's song
I thought to myself, "Spring time?"
My cold hands said no.
I heard a bird's song
I thought to myself, "Spring time?"
My cold hands said no.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
For the love of finding forgotten things
I was puttering around old files on my computer today and found this poem I had written ages ago. Doesn't you own writing look better to you when you've forgotten about it? It does for me. I love reading over old stuff I've written, especially if I stumble across something I wrote down and then, presently, forgot about.
Enjoy:
Enjoy:
Stolen moments.
Stolen kisses
Now like raindrops dripping off the window of my life.
Leaving behind streaks barely enough to remind me
Barely enough to taste the kisses
Left over from foggy nights
Bittersweet.
How can it be, but bittersweet?
It will never be able to be full,
Complete.
Never can I be perfectly happy with those stolen moments
The perfection of his arms around me,
His fingers on my skin.
Never will they be enough to overcome the feeling of injustice
Never will they set the confusion straight.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Mewry Chrustmas
It's Christmas Eve! And guess what I'm doing? WORKING! What?! This is officially my first "adult Christmas." For some reason I accidentally keep typing "Chrustmas" and I keep correcting it but, now that I think about it, working on Christmas Eve kind of does make this feel like "Crustmas": crusty and no fun.
So, in honor of the Day, I thought I would entertain you with a little poem about Christmas (yes I just typed that word three times before finally getting it right). Unfortunately I haven't actually written a poem yet so this is going to come right off the top of my head and will probably be exceedingly bad. Enjoy!
Twas the day before Christmas, and all through the store,
Not a thing was a-happinin, the employees were bored.
The papers were stacked, and ready to file,
But the office was slow, so that might be awhile.
The workers were sitting, bored at their desks,
While visions of leaving danced in their heads.
And I was a-sittin, ready to leave,
Wondering why it was here I must be.
The minutes ticked on, and drug by so slow!
And all I could think of was when I could go.
My first Christmas Eve as an adult and I think,
I liked Christmas much better as a child. This stinks!
The phone had rung once, but it was only some spam,
The rest of the day went on, dead as a pan.
I thought of home, with presents and snow!
And wondered when, there, I could go.
"I can't wait for tonight!"I thought with a grin,
I couldn't wait to be with my family again.
I knew there would be food, delicious and warm,
And I could think of this season when my Savior was born.
"Tick Tick!" Went the clock, has it been only three minutes?
This poem sure has an awful lot of words in it!
It is very long, and I'm trying to find,
More verses to fill this up, come on Mind!
I'm all packed to leave, with presents on the floor,
Ready to go, as soon as I walk through the door.
Christmas would be much easier if Santa would help,
Or at least if he had sent me some of his elves.
Still, this Christmas has not been so bad.
It's new, and it's different, but I can handle that.
Soon there will be children, running around!
And then I'll probably be rushing all over town.
So I think I'll sit back, and enjoy this holiday,
Before things get crazy and all my free time is taken away.
By children who need food, clothes and toys toys toys!
Hopefully I'll have a girl, not just all boys.
And now I am not going to write anymore.
This poem still goes on but I'm getting a bit bored.
But have a Merry Christmas and don't forget,
That "Chrustmas" can be "Christmas" yet.
Didn't I say that would be awful? Well, Merry Christmas anyway. I hope your holidays are everything you could ever want and that you keep in mind the Reason for the season.
XOXO
However, there is hope on the horizon as I get off early and prepare to head to Atlanta to spend some time with Trey's family. I can't wait. I know I've said it before but I really lucked out in the family category and I can't wait to begin the holiday festivities with them!
So, in honor of the Day, I thought I would entertain you with a little poem about Christmas (yes I just typed that word three times before finally getting it right). Unfortunately I haven't actually written a poem yet so this is going to come right off the top of my head and will probably be exceedingly bad. Enjoy!
Twas the day before Christmas, and all through the store,
Not a thing was a-happinin, the employees were bored.
The papers were stacked, and ready to file,
But the office was slow, so that might be awhile.
The workers were sitting, bored at their desks,
While visions of leaving danced in their heads.
And I was a-sittin, ready to leave,
Wondering why it was here I must be.
The minutes ticked on, and drug by so slow!
And all I could think of was when I could go.
My first Christmas Eve as an adult and I think,
I liked Christmas much better as a child. This stinks!
The phone had rung once, but it was only some spam,
The rest of the day went on, dead as a pan.
I thought of home, with presents and snow!
And wondered when, there, I could go.
"I can't wait for tonight!"I thought with a grin,
I couldn't wait to be with my family again.
I knew there would be food, delicious and warm,
And I could think of this season when my Savior was born.
"Tick Tick!" Went the clock, has it been only three minutes?
This poem sure has an awful lot of words in it!
It is very long, and I'm trying to find,
More verses to fill this up, come on Mind!
I'm all packed to leave, with presents on the floor,
Ready to go, as soon as I walk through the door.
Christmas would be much easier if Santa would help,
Or at least if he had sent me some of his elves.
Still, this Christmas has not been so bad.
It's new, and it's different, but I can handle that.
Soon there will be children, running around!
And then I'll probably be rushing all over town.
So I think I'll sit back, and enjoy this holiday,
Before things get crazy and all my free time is taken away.
By children who need food, clothes and toys toys toys!
Hopefully I'll have a girl, not just all boys.
And now I am not going to write anymore.
This poem still goes on but I'm getting a bit bored.
But have a Merry Christmas and don't forget,
That "Chrustmas" can be "Christmas" yet.
Didn't I say that would be awful? Well, Merry Christmas anyway. I hope your holidays are everything you could ever want and that you keep in mind the Reason for the season.
XOXO
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sparkle and the Jewelry Box
Once upon a time there was a fairy named Sparkle. Sparkle lived in the land of the fairies, but her favorite thing to do was go and spy on the humans. There was one house in particular where she liked to watch. This house had a little girl, about five years old, that fascinated Sparkle. Every morning, after her chores, the little fairy would fly through the leaves of the forest, flitter over the little creek and settle herself on the windowsill ouside the little girl's room.
Sparkle was a young fairy and, as such, was not quite old enough to be a fairy godmother. She knew that when she came of age she would be assigned to a human that she would watch over. Sparkle desperately hoped that she would be assigned to the little girl in the house she liked to watch, but for now all she could do was wait and hope. She desperately loved this little girl, whose name was Violet. She would laugh as Violet played around her room and would cry when the little girl was sad.
One day, during one of her visits, Sparkle noticed something new in Violet's room. It was a shiny little jewelry box. When the lid was opened it played a tiny, tinkly little song and a delicate little ballerina twirled on the spot. It was obvious that Violet loved her new treasure. She was squealing with delight at the ballerina and kept winding up the knob to play the music over and over. Now, as you may know, fairies are so small that they can only feel one emotion at a time. Sparkle saw the little ballerina in the jewelry box and was taken over by an emotion she had never felt before: jealousy. Jealousy consumed the little fairy until the tips of her little pointed ears turned green. She wanted to be beautiful like the little ballerina. She wanted to dance to the little song. But most of all, she wanted to be loved by little Violet.
In a stormy mood, Sparkle rose up and flew back to the fairy village. Up, up, up one of the surrounding trees she flew until she reached the highest branch where she plunked herself down and sat to stew. After a while, the jealousy was replaced with sadness and Sparkle flew back down to the ground. She went to see her friend, the oldest fairy in the village, to see if the older fairy could help her with her problem.
After Sparkle explained her plight, the old fairy said, "Sparkle, you know that fairies are magical creatures. I can see that you are very distraught and I can offer you help, though it will come at great cost."
"What can be done?" asked Sparkle.
"If you are willing to give up your life as a fairy and give up your wings, you can trade places with the little ballerina in the jewelry box."
Sparkle was very excited and, being so small, could not be anything but excited so she quickly agreed. The old fairy said some magic words and Sparkle felt herself start to change. Everything was dark and she felt her wings drop away. Suddenly, she saw a thin crack of light, that grew wider and wider. She realized that she was inside the little music box inside Violet's bedroom. The music began to play and Sparkle's feet, rooted in place, began to turn around and around. She had become the little ballerina and she was happy.
Years passed and Violet grew too old for the little jewelry box. She played with it less and less until one day, she stopped playing with it at all. The box got dusty and was finally moved up into the attic for storage. Sparkle sat in the dark, her feet rooted to the base of the jewelry box and a permanent smile pasted on her face. There was nothing to be done. Her wings and her fairy magic had left her when she wished to become the ballerina. Forever she would be fated to wait until some other little girl was presented with the, now antique, jewelry box.
Be careful what you wish for.
Sparkle was a young fairy and, as such, was not quite old enough to be a fairy godmother. She knew that when she came of age she would be assigned to a human that she would watch over. Sparkle desperately hoped that she would be assigned to the little girl in the house she liked to watch, but for now all she could do was wait and hope. She desperately loved this little girl, whose name was Violet. She would laugh as Violet played around her room and would cry when the little girl was sad.
One day, during one of her visits, Sparkle noticed something new in Violet's room. It was a shiny little jewelry box. When the lid was opened it played a tiny, tinkly little song and a delicate little ballerina twirled on the spot. It was obvious that Violet loved her new treasure. She was squealing with delight at the ballerina and kept winding up the knob to play the music over and over. Now, as you may know, fairies are so small that they can only feel one emotion at a time. Sparkle saw the little ballerina in the jewelry box and was taken over by an emotion she had never felt before: jealousy. Jealousy consumed the little fairy until the tips of her little pointed ears turned green. She wanted to be beautiful like the little ballerina. She wanted to dance to the little song. But most of all, she wanted to be loved by little Violet.
In a stormy mood, Sparkle rose up and flew back to the fairy village. Up, up, up one of the surrounding trees she flew until she reached the highest branch where she plunked herself down and sat to stew. After a while, the jealousy was replaced with sadness and Sparkle flew back down to the ground. She went to see her friend, the oldest fairy in the village, to see if the older fairy could help her with her problem.
After Sparkle explained her plight, the old fairy said, "Sparkle, you know that fairies are magical creatures. I can see that you are very distraught and I can offer you help, though it will come at great cost."
"What can be done?" asked Sparkle.
"If you are willing to give up your life as a fairy and give up your wings, you can trade places with the little ballerina in the jewelry box."
Sparkle was very excited and, being so small, could not be anything but excited so she quickly agreed. The old fairy said some magic words and Sparkle felt herself start to change. Everything was dark and she felt her wings drop away. Suddenly, she saw a thin crack of light, that grew wider and wider. She realized that she was inside the little music box inside Violet's bedroom. The music began to play and Sparkle's feet, rooted in place, began to turn around and around. She had become the little ballerina and she was happy.
Years passed and Violet grew too old for the little jewelry box. She played with it less and less until one day, she stopped playing with it at all. The box got dusty and was finally moved up into the attic for storage. Sparkle sat in the dark, her feet rooted to the base of the jewelry box and a permanent smile pasted on her face. There was nothing to be done. Her wings and her fairy magic had left her when she wished to become the ballerina. Forever she would be fated to wait until some other little girl was presented with the, now antique, jewelry box.
Be careful what you wish for.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Mr. Rivers
Mr. Rivers sat unblinkingly at his desk.
"Tap tap tap," went the old tree against the panes of the window.
"Tap tap tap," went Mr. Rivers' pencil on the desk. He had been staring at the blank wall across the study for over half an hour now and to no avail. The plain beige paint wasn't exactly giving him the spark of enlightenment he needed right now. With a sigh and a grunt, Mr. Rivers sat back in his chair. The old chair creeked against the hardwood floor in protest to the weight shift. He rolled his head to the side and stared at the bookself to the left of his desk. Old, dusty books stared back at him. When was the last time anyone had dusted this office? Oh well, he thought, old books are supposed to be dusty anyway.
Mr. Rivers looked around the rest of the study. It was exactly what he thought a good study should look like: dark wood covered the floor and shone in the reflected light of the fire in the hearth. The mantel was large and took up almost one whole wall. It held some dusty old photographs but predominitly featured a carved pipe placed on stands in the center. Mr. Rivers was not a big smoker, the pipe was mostly for effect, but he did take it down every now and then, when he was deep in thought, to take a few puffs. In front of the fireplace were two arm chairs placed at an angle on a crimson rug. They were just the kind of chairs you would expect in a study; chairs that looked like they had come out of an old Sherlock Holmes movie. The opposite wall was covered in bookshelves holding his precious books, as well as a few other odds and ends. His desk sat in front of the window, facing the blank wall and the doorway. It was a good desk: dark, carved and polished wood, heavy and ornate. The desk was his favorite part of the office. It was his working place, his creative haven and his thinking corner.
"Tap tap tap," went the old tree. It was ticking away the minutes, the hours, that Mr. Rivers sat at his desk thinking about nothing. With another sigh, he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and pulled himself up from his chair. Nothing had come to him, and nothing would. It was time to chalk the situation up as a loss and move on.
Mr. Rivers opened the door of the study and walked down the hallway to the sitting room.
"Alright," he said to his somber son, "you can keep the puppy."
As he turned and walked back down the hall to the sounds of his children and their new pet celebrating, he couldn't help but smile just a tiny, private smile. Sometimes not being able to find the answer is the only answer you're going to get.
"Tap tap tap," went the old tree against the panes of the window.
"Tap tap tap," went Mr. Rivers' pencil on the desk. He had been staring at the blank wall across the study for over half an hour now and to no avail. The plain beige paint wasn't exactly giving him the spark of enlightenment he needed right now. With a sigh and a grunt, Mr. Rivers sat back in his chair. The old chair creeked against the hardwood floor in protest to the weight shift. He rolled his head to the side and stared at the bookself to the left of his desk. Old, dusty books stared back at him. When was the last time anyone had dusted this office? Oh well, he thought, old books are supposed to be dusty anyway.
Mr. Rivers looked around the rest of the study. It was exactly what he thought a good study should look like: dark wood covered the floor and shone in the reflected light of the fire in the hearth. The mantel was large and took up almost one whole wall. It held some dusty old photographs but predominitly featured a carved pipe placed on stands in the center. Mr. Rivers was not a big smoker, the pipe was mostly for effect, but he did take it down every now and then, when he was deep in thought, to take a few puffs. In front of the fireplace were two arm chairs placed at an angle on a crimson rug. They were just the kind of chairs you would expect in a study; chairs that looked like they had come out of an old Sherlock Holmes movie. The opposite wall was covered in bookshelves holding his precious books, as well as a few other odds and ends. His desk sat in front of the window, facing the blank wall and the doorway. It was a good desk: dark, carved and polished wood, heavy and ornate. The desk was his favorite part of the office. It was his working place, his creative haven and his thinking corner.
"Tap tap tap," went the old tree. It was ticking away the minutes, the hours, that Mr. Rivers sat at his desk thinking about nothing. With another sigh, he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and pulled himself up from his chair. Nothing had come to him, and nothing would. It was time to chalk the situation up as a loss and move on.
Mr. Rivers opened the door of the study and walked down the hallway to the sitting room.
"Alright," he said to his somber son, "you can keep the puppy."
As he turned and walked back down the hall to the sounds of his children and their new pet celebrating, he couldn't help but smile just a tiny, private smile. Sometimes not being able to find the answer is the only answer you're going to get.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Oft I gaze
Idle eye,
Past the surface
To your heart.
Hard to read.
I used to know,
So well...
Now,
Unfamaliar to me.
Lo, a twinkle.
Nay,
Mistaken.
Could it be?
Alas,
Not taken.
Shy,
I feel.
Slowly breaking.
Strangers pass,
Hark!
Unseeing.
Wispers rise.
Stop!
Believing.
Enemies now?
No,
Indifferent.
Behold, a glance?
No,
you missed it.
Strange to me,
Yet,
Familiar.
Idle eye,
Past the surface
To your heart.
Hard to read.
I used to know,
So well...
Now,
Unfamaliar to me.
Lo, a twinkle.
Nay,
Mistaken.
Could it be?
Alas,
Not taken.
Shy,
I feel.
Slowly breaking.
Strangers pass,
Hark!
Unseeing.
Wispers rise.
Stop!
Believing.
Enemies now?
No,
Indifferent.
Behold, a glance?
No,
you missed it.
Strange to me,
Yet,
Familiar.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sing
So I've basically decided that I should write a musical. I do that a lot don't I? Decide things.
So that's my plan. Unfortunately I don't have a story or any songs yet; just the idea that I would like to write a musical. Actually, I don't have any idea how to write songs. I can write poetry but I'm not sure that's the same as writing songs. Also, I'm not sure that writing songs for musicals is the same as writing songs in general. Also also, I have no idea how to write music. If I'm going to write a musical can I just write the words to the songs and then someone else can put music to them? I guess it's my musical so, really, I can do whatever I want.
I used to be able to sing. I think. Well, to be more accurate, I used to not be able to sing and then I went to thearpy and then I could sing. But not thearpy for singing. Just regular thearpy. True story. But a story for another time. O my gosh I think I just had the idea for my musical! I'm a freakin hero. Anyway, I couldn't sing and then I could and now I can't again. It's really strange. I like to sing, and I sing a lot, usually when I'm by myself. Ok I just realized that I lied. I don't sing a lot. I don't even know why I said that. It just flowed from my fingers. Odd. So I can't sing and *apparently* I'm a compulsive liar.
Ok so back to the point. If this has a point. I can't sing: I try but it's like I lost my ability to stay on key. It's really odd. And, frankly, kind of embarassing. I did used to love to sing. Now when I'm in the car I usually don't do anything but think. And talk to myself in my head. I guess that's why I want to go into writing, and not singing. Most of my ideas come to me while I'm driving.
Do you know those people who can't be in the car without having music on? It's like they can't be alone with their thoughts. I bet none of those people are writers. It's not that I don't like music, I do. But most of the time I don't even think to turn it on because I'm already lost in thought by the time I turn the car on.
Ok so after that huge rabbit trail, I guess my point was that in order to express myself musically I'll have to write a musical since I can't sing. Also, I guess I made the point that I can't write the music for my musical since I am not musically talented. See? Not a rabbit trail at all.
O ya, and I think I could be musically talented. I used to play the flute and the piano and the guitar and I was pretty good (at least at the first two. I couldn't get past the pain of growing callus's on my baby fingers with the guitar.) and I was a fast learner. Just wanted to clarify that I am not *entirely* musically enept. But I can't play any of those things now. So maybe I am. Ugh.
So that's my plan. Unfortunately I don't have a story or any songs yet; just the idea that I would like to write a musical. Actually, I don't have any idea how to write songs. I can write poetry but I'm not sure that's the same as writing songs. Also, I'm not sure that writing songs for musicals is the same as writing songs in general. Also also, I have no idea how to write music. If I'm going to write a musical can I just write the words to the songs and then someone else can put music to them? I guess it's my musical so, really, I can do whatever I want.
I used to be able to sing. I think. Well, to be more accurate, I used to not be able to sing and then I went to thearpy and then I could sing. But not thearpy for singing. Just regular thearpy. True story. But a story for another time. O my gosh I think I just had the idea for my musical! I'm a freakin hero. Anyway, I couldn't sing and then I could and now I can't again. It's really strange. I like to sing, and I sing a lot, usually when I'm by myself. Ok I just realized that I lied. I don't sing a lot. I don't even know why I said that. It just flowed from my fingers. Odd. So I can't sing and *apparently* I'm a compulsive liar.
Ok so back to the point. If this has a point. I can't sing: I try but it's like I lost my ability to stay on key. It's really odd. And, frankly, kind of embarassing. I did used to love to sing. Now when I'm in the car I usually don't do anything but think. And talk to myself in my head. I guess that's why I want to go into writing, and not singing. Most of my ideas come to me while I'm driving.
Do you know those people who can't be in the car without having music on? It's like they can't be alone with their thoughts. I bet none of those people are writers. It's not that I don't like music, I do. But most of the time I don't even think to turn it on because I'm already lost in thought by the time I turn the car on.
Ok so after that huge rabbit trail, I guess my point was that in order to express myself musically I'll have to write a musical since I can't sing. Also, I guess I made the point that I can't write the music for my musical since I am not musically talented. See? Not a rabbit trail at all.
O ya, and I think I could be musically talented. I used to play the flute and the piano and the guitar and I was pretty good (at least at the first two. I couldn't get past the pain of growing callus's on my baby fingers with the guitar.) and I was a fast learner. Just wanted to clarify that I am not *entirely* musically enept. But I can't play any of those things now. So maybe I am. Ugh.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
My Day
*RINGRING!*
"Hello? No we don't carry that. I'm sorry. Try here?"
File, where's the file?
*RINGRING!*
"Yes we do. When do you need it? Here's our fax. What's that? I'll be looking. Ok, thank you!"
*click click.*
*scrollscrollscroll*
*typity typity type*
Where's the file? There's the file.
Need more paperwork.
*faxfaxfax*
*RINGRING!*
"Hello?...*click*
Dang telemarketers.
When am I going to find time to paint?
What was I working on again?
File, right that file.
When is lunch?
*tickticktick*
It's only 9:45?!
Insurance, insurance.
*typetypetype*
*scroll scroll*
Paper paper everywhere!
*faxing faxing*
Oh my eyes!
Gotta go to the grocery store after lunch.
I wonder what my husband is doing.
I wonder what it's like outside.
I wonder what it's like to not have a headache.
So tired.
*Filing filing*
*RINGRING!*
Oh not again.
"Uh huh, uh huh. Ok ok. Great. Yes. Ya. Ok. Ok. Uh huh, uh huh. ZZZZzzzz...O what? Yes, right. Uh huh. Got it. Great. Ok. Ok. Bye."
Blah blah blah.
*staple staple*
*faxfaxfax*
*scrollscrollscroll*
*click*
*typey typey type*
Sigh.
What time is it?
7 minutes till lunch!
Lunch!!!
6...
5...
4...
3...
2...
1....................
LUNCH!!!!
*shovelshovelschovel*
*chomp chomp*
*nnnaaaaappppp*
*YAAWWWNNN!!*
*streeeetchhh*
...
*RINGRING!!*
*shuffle shuffle*
"Hello? Uh...hello?"
*filing filing*
*type*type*type*
...
*silent silent*
*tick tock tick tock*
*stamp stamp*
*staple staple*
Insurance, insurance!
*RINGRING!!*
"Hello, yes. Right away...*RINGRING* Can you hold?"
"Hello? No I'm sorry we don't have tha...*RINGRING!* Just a minute."
Where is the file?
*fax fax fax*
*typing typing*
*silence silence*
*RINGRING!*
*RINGRING!*
*RINGRING!*
"Hello? Yes. I'm sorry. What? No. Ok. Yes. Yes. When? Tomorrow? Great. Ok."
What time is it?
2 more hours?!
How long have I been here?
Sigh.
*type type type*
*scroll scroll*
*click click*click* *click*
*tap tap tap*
*scribble scribble*
*faxing faxing*
*RINGRING!*
Seriously?
"Hello? Yes. Ok. No. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Great. Ok ok. Ok. Yup. Ok. Great. Ok. Good. Ya. Yes. Nope. Yes. Uh huh. Uh huh. Mmhmm. Mmhmm. Ok. Ok great. Ya. Ok. Ok. Ok. Bye."
Sheesh.
*typing typing*
*silence*
How long have I been here?
2 more hours?!
What?!
I wonder what the traffic will be like on the way home.
I can't wait to work out tomorrow.
Why does my head still hurt?
I think my computer might be frying my brain through my eyes.
Sigh.
*filing filing*
*type type type*
*tick tock tick tock*
sigh
Now where did I put that file?
"Hello? No we don't carry that. I'm sorry. Try here?"
File, where's the file?
*RINGRING!*
"Yes we do. When do you need it? Here's our fax. What's that? I'll be looking. Ok, thank you!"
*click click.*
*scrollscrollscroll*
*typity typity type*
Where's the file? There's the file.
Need more paperwork.
*faxfaxfax*
*RINGRING!*
"Hello?...*click*
Dang telemarketers.
When am I going to find time to paint?
What was I working on again?
File, right that file.
When is lunch?
*tickticktick*
It's only 9:45?!
Insurance, insurance.
*typetypetype*
*scroll scroll*
Paper paper everywhere!
*faxing faxing*
Oh my eyes!
Gotta go to the grocery store after lunch.
I wonder what my husband is doing.
I wonder what it's like outside.
I wonder what it's like to not have a headache.
So tired.
*Filing filing*
*RINGRING!*
Oh not again.
"Uh huh, uh huh. Ok ok. Great. Yes. Ya. Ok. Ok. Uh huh, uh huh. ZZZZzzzz...O what? Yes, right. Uh huh. Got it. Great. Ok. Ok. Bye."
Blah blah blah.
*staple staple*
*faxfaxfax*
*scrollscrollscroll*
*click*
*typey typey type*
Sigh.
What time is it?
7 minutes till lunch!
Lunch!!!
6...
5...
4...
3...
2...
1....................
LUNCH!!!!
*shovelshovelschovel*
*chomp chomp*
*nnnaaaaappppp*
*YAAWWWNNN!!*
*streeeetchhh*
...
*RINGRING!!*
*shuffle shuffle*
"Hello? Uh...hello?"
*filing filing*
*type*type*type*
...
*silent silent*
*tick tock tick tock*
*stamp stamp*
*staple staple*
Insurance, insurance!
*RINGRING!!*
"Hello, yes. Right away...*RINGRING* Can you hold?"
"Hello? No I'm sorry we don't have tha...*RINGRING!* Just a minute."
Where is the file?
*fax fax fax*
*typing typing*
*silence silence*
*RINGRING!*
*RINGRING!*
*RINGRING!*
"Hello? Yes. I'm sorry. What? No. Ok. Yes. Yes. When? Tomorrow? Great. Ok."
What time is it?
2 more hours?!
How long have I been here?
Sigh.
*type type type*
*scroll scroll*
*click click*click* *click*
*tap tap tap*
*scribble scribble*
*faxing faxing*
*RINGRING!*
Seriously?
"Hello? Yes. Ok. No. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Great. Ok ok. Ok. Yup. Ok. Great. Ok. Good. Ya. Yes. Nope. Yes. Uh huh. Uh huh. Mmhmm. Mmhmm. Ok. Ok great. Ya. Ok. Ok. Ok. Bye."
Sheesh.
*typing typing*
*silence*
How long have I been here?
2 more hours?!
What?!
I wonder what the traffic will be like on the way home.
I can't wait to work out tomorrow.
Why does my head still hurt?
I think my computer might be frying my brain through my eyes.
Sigh.
*filing filing*
*type type type*
*tick tock tick tock*
sigh
Now where did I put that file?
Friday, September 11, 2009
The City is a Dragon
The city is a dragon and the cars are its scales.
Sitting motionless on the highways and shimmering in the sun.
The city is a dragon and the workplace is its firey mouth:
burning the day away to an endless field of ash and smoke.
The city is a dragon and my computer is its eye,
hypnotizing me as I stare and can't look away,
until I forget what it's like not to have a headache.
The city is a dragon and the phone calls are its teeth;
knawing on me until I'm numb.
The city is a dragon and the clock it its tail...
swishing away the minutes in the slow tick-tock of endless
Time.
The city is a dragon and the people are its wings
loudly battering and battering the wind,
demanding their own way.
The city is a dragon and the dragon sleeps at night.
Sitting motionless on the highways and shimmering in the sun.
The city is a dragon and the workplace is its firey mouth:
burning the day away to an endless field of ash and smoke.
The city is a dragon and my computer is its eye,
hypnotizing me as I stare and can't look away,
until I forget what it's like not to have a headache.
The city is a dragon and the phone calls are its teeth;
knawing on me until I'm numb.
The city is a dragon and the clock it its tail...
swishing away the minutes in the slow tick-tock of endless
Time.
The city is a dragon and the people are its wings
loudly battering and battering the wind,
demanding their own way.
The city is a dragon and the dragon sleeps at night.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
When I can't sleep...
This is what happens when I can't sleep all night and I've got writing on the brain. It needs some work (hey I typed it on my iPhone) but eh, here ya go.
He was homeless when I met him. Nothing to his name but memories of the past and some tattered blankets. Sometimes I would take him food. He was shy about eating it in front of me, I could tell. He would only nibble a it while I was there but it was always gone the next time I went to see him.
Everyone knew him. He was like a legend on the streets. An old veteren who had seen his fair share of the tougher side of life. When we would walk the allies and streets where he lived people would wave and call out to him. When we walked in my neighborhood people would usually just ignore him. If they did look it was with expresions of unease or disgust. He didn't like coming to my neighborhood. He had a sense of pride that sometimes gets lost in the desperation of the streets. It wasn't lost to him though, it seemed to be all he had left of whatever his life was like before.
I could tell he had come from money. He had the look of being well cared for at some point. He carried himself in a way that spoke of breeding and if grander days. I never found out how he came from that life to this one.
We used to sit sometimes. He liked to watch the cars. He would drift of to another world while we sat there. I knew he had seen things, had been around. I always wanted to ask him about it but I never did. I wondered if he wished things had turned out differently.
I tried to take him home a couple a times. He always ended up leaving. In a way it felt like he was meant for the streets, ya know? He was a kind of vagabond. After awhile I stopped trying. I stopped feeling the need to rescue him once I realized that he didn't want or need rescuing.
It rained the day he wad buried. I wa the only one there. Who knows where the people from his former life had ended up. It was an unemotional affair. I knew he would have wanted it that way.
I wish I had a picture of him. He taught me so much. I still go and visit him sometimes. It's a simple grave: just a small mound with a big stone at the head. I got in the habit of visitin the pounds after that. I would wander between the cages looking for a face that reminded me of his. None of them did. He was a one of a kind, that dog. He showed me the kind of unconditional love that is unique to animals, and he taught me how to be ok with who I am. I owe a lot to that stray.
He was homeless when I met him. Nothing to his name but memories of the past and some tattered blankets. Sometimes I would take him food. He was shy about eating it in front of me, I could tell. He would only nibble a it while I was there but it was always gone the next time I went to see him.
Everyone knew him. He was like a legend on the streets. An old veteren who had seen his fair share of the tougher side of life. When we would walk the allies and streets where he lived people would wave and call out to him. When we walked in my neighborhood people would usually just ignore him. If they did look it was with expresions of unease or disgust. He didn't like coming to my neighborhood. He had a sense of pride that sometimes gets lost in the desperation of the streets. It wasn't lost to him though, it seemed to be all he had left of whatever his life was like before.
I could tell he had come from money. He had the look of being well cared for at some point. He carried himself in a way that spoke of breeding and if grander days. I never found out how he came from that life to this one.
We used to sit sometimes. He liked to watch the cars. He would drift of to another world while we sat there. I knew he had seen things, had been around. I always wanted to ask him about it but I never did. I wondered if he wished things had turned out differently.
I tried to take him home a couple a times. He always ended up leaving. In a way it felt like he was meant for the streets, ya know? He was a kind of vagabond. After awhile I stopped trying. I stopped feeling the need to rescue him once I realized that he didn't want or need rescuing.
It rained the day he wad buried. I wa the only one there. Who knows where the people from his former life had ended up. It was an unemotional affair. I knew he would have wanted it that way.
I wish I had a picture of him. He taught me so much. I still go and visit him sometimes. It's a simple grave: just a small mound with a big stone at the head. I got in the habit of visitin the pounds after that. I would wander between the cages looking for a face that reminded me of his. None of them did. He was a one of a kind, that dog. He showed me the kind of unconditional love that is unique to animals, and he taught me how to be ok with who I am. I owe a lot to that stray.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Because I can
In leiu of a real post, I would like to offer you this short story:
Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. As seems to be a running theme with princesses, this princess was under a curse from an eeeeviiiil witch.
The eeeeviiiil witch was jealous of the princess because the princess was so beautiful as well as so kind. She was loved by everyone in the kingdom and knights and princes came from aaaall over the land to seek her hand. The witch was jealous because she was ugly and despised by everyone because of her wickedness.
Because of her jealousy the witch set out to curse the princess. She cast a spell on her, turning her into a raven. However, because of the goodness of the princess, the spell was altered and instead of being turned into an ugly raven, the princess was turned into a beautiful dove. Still, the kingdom grieved that they had lost their princess.
The father of the princess, the king, sent out a decree saying that if any man could find a cure for his daughter, he could have her hand in marriage. Many came from far and wide bearing cures for the princess. They tried potions and counter spells but nothing worked. Finally, the princess and the king and queen grew soooo weary of trying different remedies that the king announced that they would only continue to take cures until the end of the month, and after that they would stop and resign themselves to the princesses' fate.
One day, near the end of the month, a peddler came into town asking to see the king. He claimed he had the cure that would restore the princess. They had heard this so many times that the king and queen had no hope but they agreed to see the peddler. He was brought before them and, after saying that he had been sent from his master who was a prince from a far off land, he produced a beautiful ruby necklace from the folds of his cloak.
"The princess had only to put on this necklace to be restored," he said, "As long as she wears it she will be human. If she takes it off she will again be turned into a dove, but as long as she puts it back on she will always be restored to her human form."
The king and queen permitted the necklace to be put on the dove. Instantly the little dove was transformed into the beautiful princess. The king and queen were overjoyed! They ordered that the peddler be adorned with fine clothes and they loaded up his horse with gold and jewels. Then they sent him off telling him to return with his master so that he could wed the princess.
Several months passed and the prince never came. The princess became sad because she had fallen in love with the man who had helped her. She grew sadder and sadder the longer she went with no word from the prince or the peddler. One night, while she was up in her room thinking about the prince and wondering if she would ever meet him, she noticed a faint red light. Looking around, she finally realized that the light was coming from the rubies in the necklace. Suddenly she knew, she *just* knew, that the necklace could solve her problem. She took off the necklace and was transformed into the form of a dove. She picked up the necklace from her dresser and started to fly.
She fleeeew and flew until she came to a beautiful palace with shining walls. The princess alighted and put the necklace back on, taking on the likeness of her human self. She walked up to the gate and asked to be admitted to see the prince. She was taken instead to the peddler who had brought the necklace. He took her into a room adorned in rich tapestries and expensive ornaments. There, by the window was a dove mounted on a golden perch. The peddler explained that this was the prince. He had been cursed, like the princess. He had such a good heart that when he heard of the plight of the princess he had sent the necklace, giving up his human form to help her.
When the princess heard this she was overwhelmed with gratitude and wept for the fate of the kind prince. She insisted that something must be done! Finally she thought of a plan. She told the faithful peddler that she would take off the necklace and made him promise that he would break it in half and give half to each of them.
The peddler did what the princess requested and went to put each half of the necklace on the two doves but the magic was gone. Only as a whole necklace would the charm work. He put the necklace back together and placed it on the dove that was the princess. After her told her what was wrong she was very sad. She then decided that if they could not both be human then they would both remain doves forever. The faithful peddler, whose name was Arnold, would keep the necklace safe and would continue to watch over the two doves.
Back in the princesses' kingdom, the king and queen were distraught with worry over what had happened to their daughter. One day as they were looking out the window, they saw the very same peddler coming up to the castle. The ran out to meet them and saw that he had two doves with him. Arnold explained all that had happened to the king and queen and they agreed that their daughter and the prince should remain with them.
The two doves lived very happy, very long lives (for doves) and had a beautiful baby dove. When their child was old enough it was decided that he should get to wear the magical necklace. The child grew up to be a handsome and brave prince and, eventually, he became king. All the people said he was the wisest and kindest king they had ever had and everyone loved him. He had a long reign and insisted that all the portraits painted of him contained two doves.
And everyone lived happily every after.
The End
Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. As seems to be a running theme with princesses, this princess was under a curse from an eeeeviiiil witch.
The eeeeviiiil witch was jealous of the princess because the princess was so beautiful as well as so kind. She was loved by everyone in the kingdom and knights and princes came from aaaall over the land to seek her hand. The witch was jealous because she was ugly and despised by everyone because of her wickedness.
Because of her jealousy the witch set out to curse the princess. She cast a spell on her, turning her into a raven. However, because of the goodness of the princess, the spell was altered and instead of being turned into an ugly raven, the princess was turned into a beautiful dove. Still, the kingdom grieved that they had lost their princess.
The father of the princess, the king, sent out a decree saying that if any man could find a cure for his daughter, he could have her hand in marriage. Many came from far and wide bearing cures for the princess. They tried potions and counter spells but nothing worked. Finally, the princess and the king and queen grew soooo weary of trying different remedies that the king announced that they would only continue to take cures until the end of the month, and after that they would stop and resign themselves to the princesses' fate.
One day, near the end of the month, a peddler came into town asking to see the king. He claimed he had the cure that would restore the princess. They had heard this so many times that the king and queen had no hope but they agreed to see the peddler. He was brought before them and, after saying that he had been sent from his master who was a prince from a far off land, he produced a beautiful ruby necklace from the folds of his cloak.
"The princess had only to put on this necklace to be restored," he said, "As long as she wears it she will be human. If she takes it off she will again be turned into a dove, but as long as she puts it back on she will always be restored to her human form."
The king and queen permitted the necklace to be put on the dove. Instantly the little dove was transformed into the beautiful princess. The king and queen were overjoyed! They ordered that the peddler be adorned with fine clothes and they loaded up his horse with gold and jewels. Then they sent him off telling him to return with his master so that he could wed the princess.
Several months passed and the prince never came. The princess became sad because she had fallen in love with the man who had helped her. She grew sadder and sadder the longer she went with no word from the prince or the peddler. One night, while she was up in her room thinking about the prince and wondering if she would ever meet him, she noticed a faint red light. Looking around, she finally realized that the light was coming from the rubies in the necklace. Suddenly she knew, she *just* knew, that the necklace could solve her problem. She took off the necklace and was transformed into the form of a dove. She picked up the necklace from her dresser and started to fly.
She fleeeew and flew until she came to a beautiful palace with shining walls. The princess alighted and put the necklace back on, taking on the likeness of her human self. She walked up to the gate and asked to be admitted to see the prince. She was taken instead to the peddler who had brought the necklace. He took her into a room adorned in rich tapestries and expensive ornaments. There, by the window was a dove mounted on a golden perch. The peddler explained that this was the prince. He had been cursed, like the princess. He had such a good heart that when he heard of the plight of the princess he had sent the necklace, giving up his human form to help her.
When the princess heard this she was overwhelmed with gratitude and wept for the fate of the kind prince. She insisted that something must be done! Finally she thought of a plan. She told the faithful peddler that she would take off the necklace and made him promise that he would break it in half and give half to each of them.
The peddler did what the princess requested and went to put each half of the necklace on the two doves but the magic was gone. Only as a whole necklace would the charm work. He put the necklace back together and placed it on the dove that was the princess. After her told her what was wrong she was very sad. She then decided that if they could not both be human then they would both remain doves forever. The faithful peddler, whose name was Arnold, would keep the necklace safe and would continue to watch over the two doves.
Back in the princesses' kingdom, the king and queen were distraught with worry over what had happened to their daughter. One day as they were looking out the window, they saw the very same peddler coming up to the castle. The ran out to meet them and saw that he had two doves with him. Arnold explained all that had happened to the king and queen and they agreed that their daughter and the prince should remain with them.
The two doves lived very happy, very long lives (for doves) and had a beautiful baby dove. When their child was old enough it was decided that he should get to wear the magical necklace. The child grew up to be a handsome and brave prince and, eventually, he became king. All the people said he was the wisest and kindest king they had ever had and everyone loved him. He had a long reign and insisted that all the portraits painted of him contained two doves.
And everyone lived happily every after.
The End
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Rut
I haven't felt like blogging lately. I'm not exactally sure why. I just have not had the "word" so I haven't written it.
I've been getting more good deals lately. I won't post them right now because, well, I don't feel like it. Maybe I'll post them later. It's my blog and I'll post what I want to. Lalalala.
Trey and I have been running this week and it has been awesome. I see a big improvement in my motivation when I know it's not just going to be me. So that's pretty sweet. (said with Kip inflection. It is way more fun if you say "pretty sweet" like Kip. Just sayin')
Whats been on my mind all day is the changes that we are wanting to make in our lives. You may remember the post where I talked about my breakdown? Well that got me realizing that I was in a rut and the only way I was going to get out was if I got up and did something. Hence the running, hence...other things.
I'm not really ready to talk about what were considering right now. I've noticed a pattern of me saying that I am going to do something and then, for some reason (usually my laziness) that thing I'm going to do never happens and I feel like a liar. So no more of that. For example, I'm gonna say that Trey and I have started running but I'm not going to say we have committed to everyday or something like that. If it happens, it happens. If not, well, I'm out of shape but at least I'm not a liar.
So we're moving out of the rut. We are packing our things and saying goodbye to the old "Rut, Sweet Rut" and moving on. The steps we're taking are relatively small (for now) but if everything goes as planned they will lead to some pretty big changes.
In other not so evasive and slightly less exciting news: we've been looking for new furniture! We really need a love seat but we got sucked into looking at whole new living room sets and we got all excited and we dreamed...and then we decided that, for now, a love seat will probably be fine and maybe well get a TV. Well see. Love seat anyway.
We've also been spending some time in Atlanta visiting Trey's family. We are headed back that way tomorrow and I can't wait. It is a nice little vacation for us and we love seeing the fam. I feel so at home there.
So that's my little wrap up for ya. It has been a long and boring week (lots of internet surfing. You come to find that the internet is actually not all that fun. Sigh.) On to tomorrow!!
I've been getting more good deals lately. I won't post them right now because, well, I don't feel like it. Maybe I'll post them later. It's my blog and I'll post what I want to. Lalalala.
Trey and I have been running this week and it has been awesome. I see a big improvement in my motivation when I know it's not just going to be me. So that's pretty sweet. (said with Kip inflection. It is way more fun if you say "pretty sweet" like Kip. Just sayin')
Whats been on my mind all day is the changes that we are wanting to make in our lives. You may remember the post where I talked about my breakdown? Well that got me realizing that I was in a rut and the only way I was going to get out was if I got up and did something. Hence the running, hence...other things.
I'm not really ready to talk about what were considering right now. I've noticed a pattern of me saying that I am going to do something and then, for some reason (usually my laziness) that thing I'm going to do never happens and I feel like a liar. So no more of that. For example, I'm gonna say that Trey and I have started running but I'm not going to say we have committed to everyday or something like that. If it happens, it happens. If not, well, I'm out of shape but at least I'm not a liar.
So we're moving out of the rut. We are packing our things and saying goodbye to the old "Rut, Sweet Rut" and moving on. The steps we're taking are relatively small (for now) but if everything goes as planned they will lead to some pretty big changes.
In other not so evasive and slightly less exciting news: we've been looking for new furniture! We really need a love seat but we got sucked into looking at whole new living room sets and we got all excited and we dreamed...and then we decided that, for now, a love seat will probably be fine and maybe well get a TV. Well see. Love seat anyway.
We've also been spending some time in Atlanta visiting Trey's family. We are headed back that way tomorrow and I can't wait. It is a nice little vacation for us and we love seeing the fam. I feel so at home there.
So that's my little wrap up for ya. It has been a long and boring week (lots of internet surfing. You come to find that the internet is actually not all that fun. Sigh.) On to tomorrow!!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
What do you want to be when you grow up?
I have always wanted to be a writer. Always.
Of course, I wanted to be other things too: a doctor, an acrobat, an accountant. Apparently I even wanted to be a polygamist (12 husbands and 24 children. I guess I was also opperating under the allusion that each set of parents could only have 2 children. I was about 3.) But for some reason I have also always wanted to write.
My first memories of using computers always go hand in hand with writing stories. We used to write stories for our classes in elementary school and bind them with old book bindings covered in wallpaper. I remember writing (and illustrating) several stories about my cat. I had the idea that I would make it into a series one day. Laugh. I remember sitting at my desk in my room typing out of the pages in one of my Christmas books, for practice I guess, and dreaming of one day typing up words that were my own.
For as long as I can remember I have written stories in my head. They are usually about me, talking about myself and what I'm doing in third person, or even talking about what I imagine I could be doing. I have always had a bit of an imagination.
I once fancied myself a poet. Then I found out I can only write, cheesy, but funny poems. Too bad no one will ever get them unless they were "there."
The reighning (sp?) thought in my head, however, has been to write a novel. A novel that everyone will love and that will be made into a movie. The kind of novel that people can get lost in and forget their own lives, just like I do when I read great books.
The main problem I have is that I get all sorts of little ideas but I have yet to hit on the ONE. The story that I really want to sit down and spend time in. I guess I felt like I would finally find IT, MY story, when I grew up. Well, Hello! I turn 22 a month from tomorrow. I would say that "grown up" is well on it's way here. Time to write! Am I too impatient?
So this is it for now. This and lists and notes. That's what I write until I hit on my novel gold. I'll just sit here waiting to grow up till then.
Of course, I wanted to be other things too: a doctor, an acrobat, an accountant. Apparently I even wanted to be a polygamist (12 husbands and 24 children. I guess I was also opperating under the allusion that each set of parents could only have 2 children. I was about 3.) But for some reason I have also always wanted to write.
My first memories of using computers always go hand in hand with writing stories. We used to write stories for our classes in elementary school and bind them with old book bindings covered in wallpaper. I remember writing (and illustrating) several stories about my cat. I had the idea that I would make it into a series one day. Laugh. I remember sitting at my desk in my room typing out of the pages in one of my Christmas books, for practice I guess, and dreaming of one day typing up words that were my own.
For as long as I can remember I have written stories in my head. They are usually about me, talking about myself and what I'm doing in third person, or even talking about what I imagine I could be doing. I have always had a bit of an imagination.
I once fancied myself a poet. Then I found out I can only write, cheesy, but funny poems. Too bad no one will ever get them unless they were "there."
The reighning (sp?) thought in my head, however, has been to write a novel. A novel that everyone will love and that will be made into a movie. The kind of novel that people can get lost in and forget their own lives, just like I do when I read great books.
The main problem I have is that I get all sorts of little ideas but I have yet to hit on the ONE. The story that I really want to sit down and spend time in. I guess I felt like I would finally find IT, MY story, when I grew up. Well, Hello! I turn 22 a month from tomorrow. I would say that "grown up" is well on it's way here. Time to write! Am I too impatient?
So this is it for now. This and lists and notes. That's what I write until I hit on my novel gold. I'll just sit here waiting to grow up till then.
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