reconciling ill-matched threads

1950's Fortress Woman: In Memory of Lois Scoville

2011-07-26T23:21:00.000-07:00

Without memorial
but not without
memory.

One of few fortress branches
in this bloodline tree.
Seep your strength into my roots.

if only we could have spoken as girls.
I long to see you flirt and cry.
Instead you were the matriarch,
sassing, winking and stoic.
Dropping ice cubes into your chardonnay.

If only we were young together,
we metropolitan women.
You New York furniture buyer,
and I San Francisco book publisher.
Baking your Swedish lace cookies,
and shocking you with my tattoos.

Someday we'll be together,
city girls on clean cobblestone streets.

Earning My Blisters

2011-06-24T14:07:00.000-07:00

Two hands cup my heart
For years they were brick walls
I wandered and stumbled the streets
Lying with confidence and self-control

But my heart ate away at the flesh of my hands
like a sun slowly melting wax
Begging to be released and seen

So I placed a veil over my glowing orb
and showed it frantically to the first person who approached
but the veil and my lies kept me safe
and removed. The first person was gone
within a beat.

I lied and said I didn't regret.
But I do.
I would visit Dr. Mierzwiak if I could.

My little sphere pulsating with longing,
I continued on and attempted
Amidst indecisive boys and excruciating dates.

Then you appeared,
and I immediately liked the back of you.
I pursued and orchestrated,
and emasculated.
You were sweet and left me flowers.

I took the veil off of my light.
And you held my hand, gazing at me with steady eyes.
I let it roll into your hands.
My tender star, gently sunning the insides of your palms.
At first you held it delicately,
even more gingerly than I ever did.
I was in awe and had
momentary relief for my raw fingers.

As time went on,
you forgot what you held captive.
I knew eventually
it would return,
biting at my skin.
I didn't foresee it
shattering to pieces.
Glowing shards line the undersides of your feet.
I hope they burn and cut.
And I walk these streets, with a void.

I earn my blisters with each risk I take,
they slowly crawl up my legs
from my feet,
over my hips, between my breasts
and settle into my ribs.
Each day they combine and grow.

And tomorrow, it will glow.

To the Wanderer, to make much of Seattle (My Herrick imitation...in title only): For Angela's departure

2011-01-14T18:46:00.000-08:00

Dearest lover of quiet moments,
and the movements of the unseen.

I pray your roots lock into the Seattle soil.
Let them grow deep,
let them be exposed to the elements.

You are such a beautiful sprout,
allow yourself to flourish.

Let the birds flutter around you,
take root so the creatures of the earth
can shade themselves
beneath you.

Continue to love Him in the unreserved, fierce way you have.

So much is before you,

"stretch beyond what limits you."

A Valediction Upon Melody's Departure

2010-04-07T09:20:00.001-07:00

Dear collector of moments,
Let's freeze this frame a bit longer:
The warmth of the indoors,
With the occasional breeze,
Causing us to curse the cracked windows.

Your affection and creations of beauty
Will be heavily missed.
You are a loss to your city
And a blessingful gain to the land
Of sun and freeways
And spray tans.

I wish I could go with you,
Or that I could appear south
Whenever I desired.
But postages stamps
Will connects our hands,
Over invisible candles.

There was a fire on the tracks this morning, delaying my arrival

2010-03-30T16:13:00.001-07:00

My brain, such a stale void
And this train isn't moving.
Spit me out
Until I crave you again.

My passion directionless.
stuck here at the station.
The doors are jammed open
But no one moves to leave.

wait while the collected debry
Of inactivity
Is cleared away by some faceless worker.
Only to remain paralyzed.
The blood rushing...slowing

Helpless, waiting.
Waiting for life to live me.
But as soon as challenge rises,
My knees buckle.
And my voice becomes strained.
I desire control and yet I do nothing.

Some sort of hummingbird,
Giving the appearance of productivity,
While not savouring the nectar.

God, give me compulsion,
Let me swoon over you.
My suitor, why have I grown weary?

Let me excite over the possibility of your skies.
And if destiny is to be by your side,
Show me marital bliss.

Draft written between 24th st and Powell stations

2010-03-19T06:52:00.001-07:00

Paint the edges of my alter black
I want to feel your borders
Let me be contained
So I know you are here
Riding this line, swaying with the rails.
I am here, but rushing to the next destination.
My body is faint but addicted to the fast pulse.

The hummingbird beats of my heart
Remind me of my limits.
My brains misguided messages
Reminds me that I cannot out speedwalk my flaws.

A Meditation on Saturday Night

2010-03-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

Oh little hermit crab
Retracting under
your pile of covers
and sheets.

Pouting at his departure,
the subtraction of warmth.

You layer on more blankets
to substitute a companion.
Your cave growing larger,
easier to escape into.

The illusion of safety
and protection.
When none,
this time,
is needed.

While you nest and build,
he is outside,
cold and traveling home.

The Two Occasions When Max Richter Made Me Cry

2010-02-20T08:20:00.000-08:00

Sitting helplessly on my bed,
waiting for the clock to turn an hour later,
still damp from the shower,
hunched over my little book
of technology.

Little drops
not from my locks
but from my lashes
dash upon the keyboard.

The violin turning, caressing
my little hummingbird heart.
Comforting my weak, dangling limbs.
Over my shoulders, circling my elbows.
Relief in the form of a sympathetic piano
slides down my spine and settles in my lower back.

I find no rest in rapid drums,
and vocals do not offer peace.
I contain a gluttonous amount
of pounding heartbeats and
cycling words on my own.

My hopeful bow,
running over the strings.
Pointing out my hurt and cynicism.

Reset and challenged,
I am ready for what is next.

It is hours past midnight
and I am standing alone in my room,
in an Anne of Green Gables dress
and bare feet.

Faded brown carpet beneath,
my feet begin to dance,
without a lead.

I imagine wood floor,
and my feet in shoes.
My lead, with his gray hair,
and distinctive dancing face.
He is swaying his hips,
like he did as a teen
at the sock hop.

He turns me,
and pulls me towards him.
I put my head on his broad chest,
and remember what my second home felt like.
Sitting on the sofa,
watching ridiculous television
and action-packed thrillers.
I would lean my body against his side,
and let his arm around me tighten.

He won’t be there on the day
I’ve planned since I was five.
So tonight, in my dress,
I twirl myself to the piano
keys slowly building,
and let chin and cheeks
become soaked with missing him.

Bare and heartbroken,
I am honest with my grief.

Spine of a female

2010-01-01T13:31:00.000-08:00

(found in my journal dated 1-8-09 and this draft is 1-1-10)

This fortress is chipped in places
And worn smooth in others.

The brokenness along the branches
Is distinct to one sex.

Wood chips and leaves tumbling down
And yet this tree stands firm
because of those roots
who are not their father's gender.

Will this pass on to my son?

Poetry Night

2009-12-31T12:39:00.000-08:00

So as many of you know, I am apart of an intentional Christian faith community in San Francisco called ReImagine. One of the portions of this community is a Women of ReImagine night that occurs once a month, here is a description that one of the leaders, Melanie wrote about it:
Last spring we had several women of ReIMAGINE interested in making it a priority to host semi-regular gatherings for women. We envision a setting where women can:
* meet with a semi-consistent group of women with purposes that go beyond being social
* be vulnerable, open, emotional, speak out and try out new ideas without judgment
* try on different leadership roles and see if they fit
* receive unconditional love and respect for the stage of life they are in, and the life experiences they have encountered thus far.
* explore the unique qualities and feminine dimensions of being a woman following in the way of Jesus

While I haven't been able to attend, they asked me to lead a night, next Friday, on poetry. I am all excitement. It has been so long since my Ladies' Poetry Nights of Santa Cruz, when we would meet once a week, sharing and writing poetry as a way of worshiping God and building community together.

So I'm going to bring a little Rilke... not sure who else. But there will be some poetry discussion, hopefully ladies will bring some of their own favorite poems, or something they've already written. And we will also have some time to draft up poems and share our works in progress (the ultimate in making oneself open and vulnerable to others, in my opinion). Needless to say, I'm excited. Poetry holds such a precious place in my heart.

And this is the prompt I will use for when we do the poetry writing portion of the evening:

Semi-Sphere: The Song

2009-12-06T20:48:00.001-08:00

For my 24th birthday my dear talented friend Emily (artist name: MLE) turned this poem into a song:
http://lysandrabrooks.blogspot.com/2007/05/semi-sphere.html

Here's a link to her music site:
http://virb.com/mlemusic

She's going to put semi-sphere on her third album (not yet released). So keep any eye out for it! Otherwise, if we are hanging out, ask me to play the song off my ipod :)

It made me so happy, and also brought me back to the time I originally wrote the poem (the month dad died) and I started crying while listening to the song.

I love this girl!

Beach House's "Astronaut"

2009-10-25T20:04:00.000-07:00

[in lieu of a new poem, I thought I would post these lyrics from a favorite song of mine. They are so lovely. "Astronaut" is from Beach House's album "Devotion". You should probably play the video while reading the lyrics, I cannot believe they were at Bottom of the Hill a week or so ago, I am so brokenhearted that I missed them!]

Come over to my house
I'll pour some tea for us
one sugar or two
Your hand is right in front of me,
your finger fragilely, holy on
my side

Faster than an astronaut
who's coming home to what
he left long ago
I've made this brand new bed for
you, I trust the things we do,
holy or not

open the gate cause you're already late,
at the end of the lane, is a glass of
lemonade, keep 'or the path when
you hear the laugh, in the white of her
palm is your heart

{I'll be brave for a while
I won't bring you down
anymore than you are}

Please, be my baby, don't mean
maybe or not, look out the
window, there's a bright
yellow cat...

A Nauseating Meditation Passing by the Massage Parlours

2009-10-04T17:22:00.001-07:00

neon reds and pinks,
coloring the paper mache
cupids and hearts
in the window display.

the window display,
which does not display.
Instead of expose,
it conceals
the daily tortures
within.

these images of love,
create new associations.
the inflicted trauma
upon women
i have never met.

and now,
this valentine's day,
i will flinch
when i see:
the reds and pinks.

that these johns arrive
with selfish expectations
of solely their own pleasure,
and exit
with their pressed white shirts
entering into their sports cars,

it's more than I can bear to imagine,
let alone begin to comprehend.

Good Afternoon LA

2009-09-29T22:21:00.000-07:00

these moments of panic come out of nowhere.
the most recent was saturday.

sitting in my mother's car,
begging the light to turn green,
I felt a wave go over my head,
and I held my breath.

my eyes were blurry under water,
only my bubbly prayers
and silent words of comfort
could bring oxygen to my lungs.

coming ashore, I felt insecure,
with my damp clothes
and misshaped hair.

eyes were averted,
and the hunger
for attention and affection
was not met.

8-10

2009-08-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

shall i continue to be the mule
or attempt to flit about like the hummingbird?

my happiness is entertainment for others.

approaching this moment of abundance, i feel overwhelmed.

8-8

2009-08-08T11:37:00.000-07:00

curve and turn, curve and turn
infinite when laid on its side.

today is your day of double forevers.

[on melody and derek's wedding day...8/8]

7-28

2009-07-28T21:59:00.000-07:00

my cheeks may be hollow and my hair amber
but I am still a still-life
if you look through my key hole

Sitting in a salon waiting for the red to sink into my hair

2009-05-31T00:02:00.001-07:00

She sits and stares into her hands, focusing more on the blood rushing out of her leg causing it to tingle than her fastpaced, colorful surroundings. In these moments of fast forward, she always moved slower- the energy of the room draining her... Like her leg. She has been sitting for the past forty-five minutes but the movement around her deflates any artificial energy that she had sucked out of a mug earlier that day.

Watching her hair dye change from pink to maroon was her favorite part of the trip to salon. It always confused her why the dye never looked like the red it was to become. This world of beauty and preparation left her in a state of child-like wonder.

1,1 (copying Rilke)

2009-05-09T18:17:00.001-07:00

I grip this corner with my pinchers
There is nothing else to hold
Release little paper climber!
Fall from the high rise into nothing,
Which is really something, just other.

The train rolls ahead, as I lean into the direction of the old. Being pulled back to the new.
Excitement awaits, just with less history.
I reach my arms inside and to the tertium quid.

The unknown is my deep well that I reach into.

Emily Dickinson [introduces the spring, while Chad VanGaalen sings "Phantom Anthills" in the background]

2009-03-22T14:37:00.001-07:00

March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know --
The Persons of prognostication
Are coming now --
We try to show becoming firmness --
But pompous Joy
Betrays us, as his first Betrothal
Betrays a Boy.

poem found in my notebook from earlier 2009

2009-03-16T23:01:00.000-07:00

[i love finding first drafts of poems, especially when I think "hm what the hell was I trying to say with this?... I kind of hate this poem]

foam rising up.
we are alone in chaos.

the bitter remains of our tongues:
a common, clique experience.

all my words are used up
like discarded tissue.

All I want to do is express.

Even this experience
is only an echo
of past outcries.

Rainer Says It Better: Two Rilke Poems Instead of my own

2009-03-08T15:05:00.000-07:00

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me,

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

[Normally I would post these on my "raise high" blog, but since I want to keep it dedicated to my 40 day experiment, I will post these two Rainer Maria Rilke poems that I feel EVERYONE can relate to at this moment. In the personal/individual but also as a collective.

Plus, I haven't written any of my own poetry worth mentioning. Rilke ALWAYS writes whatever I'm thinking/feeling better. Here is the other]

Your first word of all was light,
and time began. Then for long you were silent.

Your second word was man, and fear began,
which grips us still.

Are you about to speak again?
I don't want your third word.

Sometimes I pray: Please don't talk.
Let all your doing be by gesture only.
Go on writing in faces and stone
what your silence means.

Be our refuge from the wrath
that drove us out of Paradise.

Be our shepherd but never call us-
we can't bear to know what's ahead.

My fear of too much pleasure

2009-01-10T17:25:00.001-08:00

Passing through the concrete of home,
lies an introduction
to a completely foreign sound.

Remote beats, odd utterances,
distant yet connected.
An exact fit
expressed by unknown men.

I push the plastic further into my ears,
the inner drums swallowing the drumming.

I inhale and start to sprint,
listening to the sounds and not my exhaustion.
The only response to overwhelming joy
is to weaken my body.

I push myself away from beauty
because ecstasy has no place here.

how i feel right now

2008-11-07T12:22:00.000-08:00

she is a possessed doll
flailing, trembling about the stage
from one end to another she is swiftly dragged
almost falling off the front edge
into the audience

the puppet looks desperately above at the master
trusting him, frightened at the possibility
that his desire is the fall
she pulls against the tug of the strings
trying to cling to the floor boards
which do not provide a foot hold

at any moment she will implode

another draft

2008-10-23T21:05:00.001-07:00

rather than venture onto the beam
she sits and looks at the walls

chopping off her arm
prevents a broken bone

fear masked by strength

now she does not feel her fingers
tracing the cold rail, hopping the wood bits

wake

2008-09-29T21:16:00.000-07:00

logic beginning to make sense
desirous of something circular

collect these tacks, watch them transform
to yellow bubbles
floating overhead

why i avoid the whole dating situation

2008-09-18T22:23:00.000-07:00

instead of attempting the beam
she sits and looks at the walls

chopping off her arm
prevents a broken bone

great fear masked by supposed strength

now she does not experience her fingers
tracing the cold rail, hopping the wood bits

ray

2008-09-11T21:58:00.000-07:00

your best qualities are your flaws, lovely
so take this wine glass and soak it up
let the sounds that make you shrink
be the breath that urges your feet

satin weighing on your eyes
hunched shoulders to show attention
just expand your ribs
and be honest

a meditation on women who do not believe women are strong enough for leadership

2008-08-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

the rocks we set in place
are knocked down by our knees

protected

2008-08-09T17:48:00.000-07:00

like a decorated crab she protects herself with unconventional images.
shock value replaces sincerity.
so that each day does not seem like the previous.

Trying Something New

2008-07-04T21:48:00.001-07:00

I'm going to attempt short fiction

and may post a little here

Reasons why I haven't been writing poetry

2008-05-22T11:41:00.001-07:00

I've stopped going to poetry group meetings

I'm writing a thesis on poetry and am poetried out

I'm happy

split

2008-02-23T00:26:00.000-08:00

it comes in fluctuating forms
a small picture being noticed
a comment on a website
and the foam rushes to the sands
bringing moisture and relief
but also ache.

that little something he had
perfect strangers see in us.
and yet, as hard as i try
i cannot find him in me.
only the freckles on my shoulders
that you can barely see,
mark me as his.

an ending without explanation
i feel robbed.
i wish i knew for certain.
because the thought of his sadness
would very well end me.
thats probably why i do not know for sure.

the night fills my vision,
i swerve in the mountains
and my heart races.
death is so much closer now.

the woods inflate my lungs,
i stumble across the wooden bridge,
remembering the love conversation on the bench in the bend.
the possibility is so much further now.

the sofa in the cafe supports my back,
i curl into a small ball,
while reading my book.
i am alone and firm.

womb of ink

2008-01-14T22:30:00.001-08:00

little purple cube
turning over in your womb of ink
if I get too close will you squirt your inerds out?
leaving me in a dark fog
wondering what I did wrong
maybe you will open your tentacles
and absorb me into your middle

wrapped in your many legs
I feel both trapped and comforted
if only I could release and let
you swallow me whole
but the many hurts that surround
my soft pink inside
no longer allow penetration
they stand guard like boulders.

Doll (another redrafted poem)

2008-01-09T14:59:00.000-08:00

this dance began with heartbeats and hand claps
tap, slap, clap
shuffle, step
and SNIP

she sits and stares
reading her surroundings
analyzing, concluding
she thinks too much and acts too little
the words never quite say it, nor are executed properly

all the strings are cut
the performance is over
and she crumbles into a pile of limbs

he is all men
catching her staring
her glass eyes roll up
to focus on the lights
and not the woods floors
where her foot imprints should be

the dark absences absorb the glow endlessly
her eyes swallow the beams
all she can do is stare

the man who embodies all men
he approaches her and stands next to her heap
the light reflects off her porcelain skin
and bounce off the whites of his eyes
his spotlight in her direction

he lifts her arms
they reach around him
and return to her
to graze her lower back

he creates for her
little moments of distraction
she stares and absorbs too much of him

the branches begin where the song (and the strings) left off
slowly they grow, split and thicken
weaving between her fingers, taking a hold of strands of her hair
they insert themselves beneath her armpits
and as they heighten, she begins to straighten
her limbs configure,
she unfolds
until the illusion of standing alone is complete

the woods immerse the doll
they swallow her colors, until only the porcelain
of her face can be seen
the branches continue, enveloping over her head

until they reach the heavens or consume her completely,
they will never be satisfied.

a reflection on a birth's eve: to lisa ann [redrafted maybe ready for the coffee read?]

2008-01-09T14:13:00.000-08:00

we are little fragments glued together
bounding on our merry way
colliding and contriving
unraveling apart into piles on the ground

she kneels next to me
helping my scraps reassemble
temporarily
until the next gust of wind
or a different fragmented creation
breaks me apart

again and again

brokenness comes from the gut
abs contract as we release
bits of water and snot

she is aging and yet much more beautiful that I
she cries, yet I rarely see it
if she becomes uncollected in front of me
what will I do?
the woman who shares my face
will I know how to help her put herself back together?

sometimes I fear a broom will come
and sweep our parts into a pan
and we shall stay in our broken state
sobbing and screaming
never able to stand up again

easter dress

2007-12-17T21:56:00.000-08:00

these little moments
creep up and rise
like innocent tides
increasing and rolling

me at five in an easter dress
catches the eye of the clerk
he comments on how cute i look
with my dad

the pink lace and aqua ruffle
the grey haired man in the dark suit
keeps me from an emotion free
beer purchase

windows speckle like my cheeks
as i drive home
to an unsafe bed
that can hold dreams
and terrible nightmares

a reflection on a birth's eve

2007-11-26T22:45:00.000-08:00

we are little fragments glued together
bounding on our merry way
colliding and contriving
falling apart into piles on the ground

she kneels next to me
helping me reassembled
temporarily
until the next gust of wind
or different pile of fragments
blows me to pieces

brokeness comes from the gut
abs contract as we release
bits of water and snot

she is aging and yet much more beautiful than I
she cries, yet I rarely see it
if she becomes uncollected in front of me
what will i do
will i know how to help her put herself back

sometimes i fear a broom will come
and sweep our fragments into a pan
and we shall stay in our broken state
sobbing and screaming
is the anticipation worse than the event?

Red Poppy (draft 1)

2007-11-12T14:59:00.000-08:00

This little red fabric flower
with the thin wire stem
and green plastic middle.
Bought every 11th of November
for an unstated price
dollars and coins shoved into
a can with a white paper cover.

To go to men who weren’t as lucky as that Big Swede.
The older man in clean, but worn clothes
holds the tin and smiles gratefully
when a donation is made.
But within those turned lips
is a bit of sadness.
Because he and the white haired Swede survived.

Floating in life with unmentionable memories
that well up inside and burst forth
during the night.
Tremors, tears and tension
reliving the fear
of bombs, shrapnel and guns.

Death and loss, more times than could be grieved.
The mind cannot wrap around
this little poppy that sits upon my dashboard.

But I hunt for the weathered man
in front of the grocery stores.
To give the donation for my Swedish father,
who would walk up to the granite wall,
Press his hand upon the name
of the hero… his luck.
Trace the name with bits of charcoal
and insert the wire in the crack.

The phone won’t stir this year
with the Swede’s voice:
“Remember…
Remember…
Those who gave their lives for their country.”

While our views differed about wars,
lost lives are lost lives.

And I will find the little red poppies and buy two.

transitions

2007-10-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

bubbles dance around my skin
exfoliating the insecurities
about the insecurities
the first, deeper layers intact

im beginning to inhale
to fill my lungs
with the same freesia oxygen
that opened my eyes
in may

but now i have understanding
to match my sight
words to stitch into my quilt
of pain and love

the seagull patch,
next to the coral colored heart.
Gone, but not forgotten.
questions remain unanswered.

my little owl in a foreign land,
sewn next to the cherry blossom love,
above the patch of technology,
diagonal from the book worm,
next to the library mouse,
and my favorite rainbow.

the patches lie in piles around my knees,
the overwhelming beauty of it all

I am drunk on joy.

on a sheet of paper from the summer that i just found

2007-10-14T22:08:00.000-07:00

falling down
new perspective

looking forward
instead of up

is this holy?

[its clique, but i want this recorded, cuz when i wrote it down, i felt it was urgent to and i want to respect the summer dani in the cubicle, who was dying to write]

quick 5 minute poem before sleep (or else I'll never post on this thing)

2007-10-05T00:14:00.000-07:00

beneath these pink lids
the branches stretch beyond the rain drops

tonight i will meet you
under the bough
the veil of blossoms shade your eyes
the curving and breaking
fingers run over textiles
touch is what we all miss

you graze my chin
before you turn and disappear
the blossoms quiver

tomorrow i will wake
inhale the stale bedroom air
and go about my day

a suffocating solution [draft 3]

2007-09-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

I devour your words, your disappointment
and all that I desire
is to scoop you up
fitting the crook of my arm
beneath the bends in your knees
and wrapping the remaining arm
around the broad of your back

To hold you in
shield you from the world

the physical pressure relieves and heals
this way you cannot find harm.
I know what you need.

He and I sit in my bed
(I think I need him there)
I unravel and fray
words of loss
about
the man who stumbled at fathering
but was created to be a grandpa.

The pain rolls down my face
as he pulls me in
the force
tugging me downward

He lays atop me
every part weighed down
I suffocate beneath his chest
gasps mistaken for cries
the weight increases upon my face and body.

This physical comfort constricts,
it does not heal the wounds,
his or mine

Although the pain seems gone,
he simply removed my sound
from traveling to his ears.
It remains,
and the pain becomes physical
as he tries to fix my hurt

and I learn that applying pressure
will not protect you

Doll [for lack of a better title]

2007-06-19T16:11:00.000-07:00

this performance began with heartbeats and hand claps
tap, slap, clap
shuffle, step
and snip

she sits and stares
reading her surroundings
analyzing, concluding

she thinks too much and acts too little
the words never quite say it, nor are executed in the right way

all the strings are cut
the dance is over
and she crumbles into a pile of limbs

he looks at her staring
her glass eyes roll up
to focus on the lights
and not the wood floors
where her imprints should be

the dark absences absorb the glow
her eyes swallow the endless beams
all she can do is stare

he approaches her and stands next to her heap
the light reflects off her porcelain skin
her arms reach around him
and touch her back

he creates for her
little moments of distraction
she stares and absorbs too much of him

the branches begin where the song (and the strings) left off
slowly, they grow, split and thicken
weaving between her fingers, taking a hold of strands of her hair
they insert themselves beneath her armpits
and as they heighten, she begins to straighten
her limbs configure
she unfolds
until the illusion of standing alone is complete

the woods immerse the doll
they swallow her colors, until only the porcelain
of her face can be seen
the branches continue, enveloping over her head
until they reach the heavens or consume her completely
they will never be satisfied.

[Please give me feedback on this one, I'm not sure if its 'finished', if you want to see the picture that inspired it go to this link:
http://ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/cornell/cornell.bebe-marie.jpg Also if you have suggestions for titles I am down]

anticipation (written to put off studying)

2007-06-13T13:47:00.000-07:00

tastes like old coffee and feels like perspirating armpits
the disguisting is delightful
dry, sticky lips

I don't want to be anywhere else but here
perched in a corner, swaying to Fiona
ready to swoop
and to sit with peers at a bar

spiders crawl up my front
while i stare at their legs
familiar faces on strange bodies
nails stretch to inconvient lengths

stale liquids, damp arms
stare into walls

[ek, written on a whim without rewrite]

desire excercise from poetry group

2007-06-08T02:21:00.000-07:00

knowledge of the itinerary
is a yarn strand
stretching, reaching
from between my toes
through to the unseen
(frustrating fog)

this is a prayer of immaturity:

remove these necessary planks of wood
they block and fragment my desire

I dare to grasp prematurely
threat of cutting
a shift punch to an early ending

if pressing fast forward were optional
to watch the ribbon reel and spin

instead bow to desire
acknowledge its presence
and then lets run
down the alleyways
pollution caressing our faces
type into technology
and hope that once the first plank is leapt
there will be an exposure of something fitting

Overreacting Ray (my book poem for poetry group)

2007-06-04T22:44:00.000-07:00

unread
moments of redemption slip through your fingers
no, of course the violent pulp novel sequels are more interesting
than the hollow, needy codex on the bed
the quicksand cover blending with the spotted sheets

reshaping perspective
black smooth box with lid
regain perspective
three weeks have passed
overreacting ray

my alarm clock is spiteful
chirping at the meeting of exhaustion and rest
pull back and let go
allowing the purple tones to rise
the release is in the violence

builds, presses up against limits,
pushes, pressures

this book of mourning bleeds into conversations
apologetic of pain
understanding ryn
a quarter of a day away

your eyes are pink and glossy
words are able to draw the tears
i’ve wanted for months

but not like this

you hand me a cardboard book
with empty printer pages
and tell me to write

semi-sphere

2007-05-26T11:36:00.000-07:00

at night, in the pitch black
interrupted by a shell-shaped night light
when I was five
in my large room
shelves lined with barbies
and stuffed animals
I would shut my eyes tight
and rub the lids
and then in a flash would open them
and be surrounded by a semi-sphere of
sprinkling, multi-color, iridescent dots
raining down upon my bed
the semi-sphere
slowly decreasing
with the passing seconds
made me feel safe
and I would slowly drift off to sleep

at night, in the pitch black
slightly interrupted by a muffled flashlight
when I was twelve
in my smaller room
at one of the two houses I lived in
walls covered with pictures of dogs
and pre-teen heartthrobs
I would make a protective, tangible
semi-sphere
this time of my pink quilt
with my hand-held luminary
I opened my eyes
to the columns of words
on the thin pages
of a book that some called oppressive tradition
others called a love letter
I called it my comfort
imagining wings of refuge
round my bed
and I would slowly drift off to sleep

at night, in the pitch black
darkness uninterrupted
when I was seventeen
in the new room, smaller than the others
one option of two
floor covered in second-hand clothing
that my mother hated
and a typewriter with freshly inked pages scattered
my semi-sphere no longer constructed
replaced by fantasies
of leaving and creating anew
of falling in love
with my best friend
who hated me
and who I hated in return
finding comfort in faith
and the inevitable ending
of temporary problems
I would hug my pillow
desperate for contact
and I would slowly drift off to sleep

tonight, in the pitch black
interrupted by the flashing screen of technology
I am of drinking age
in my rented room, the smallest of all
walls covered with pictures of loves
and the floors littered with books
the semi-sphere lays in fragments
small sapphire shards
that cut up my safety and confidence
I sob into my blanket
my stomach contracting and releasing
with each uneven cry
I wear a little shard on my finger
to remind me of the missing second home
of the man with the seagull colored hair
and the poise of an eagle
in my little room with the broken semi-sphere
I mourn my loss

CB

2007-05-23T23:34:00.000-07:00

I just want to post some pictures of a flower that brings me joy:

The very last picture is done by the very talented Ryan Chambers.

pink blossoms blink
dry, bald, blossoms
close
and dream of a time
when your blooms will be white

a prayer for sleep

2007-05-21T00:52:00.000-07:00

faded beige walls
enclosing in

tonight will be filled
with whites, pastels, hope
dreams of walking stuft animals
across the piano keys

dash out this despair
with the moths circling around
my handmade paper lamp

tomorrow will be filled
with blues, bolds, stress
postmodernism and reinventing history
with a side of drug narratives and nihilism

but tonight let this romance linger a little while longer
my polka dotted pillow led me on, pull me down
into slumber

a blog for blogging's sake

2007-05-16T23:33:00.000-07:00

I made a blog to write in prose/blog style. Its attach to my profile. Its called Freesia Inhalations, I was going to call it Emotional Constipation (ref: poetry group) but then realized it might jinx me for a lifetime of emtional constipation. Krystal (my roommate and friend since freshman year of high school) put a vase of the best smelling freesia in my room when I can back to Santa Cruz after Dad's service. I hope despite all the shit (sorry to delicate eyes) that is going on, that I am always able to smell freesia.
-check it out if you like

I just realized that this post is very poop themed.

i kinda like it.

i dare you all to write a poop blog.

Sleepless Grief

2007-05-13T23:56:00.000-07:00

Kathryn told me this quote and its the main thing getting me through all this. Its from Sleepless in Seattle: "Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great [...] for a while."

I feel as though my entire torso, beginning at my heart (as cliche as it sounds thats how I physically feel), has caved in. I really do need to remind myself sometimes to breathe. The caved in chest is not the best breathing tool...
Today was the first day I was able to really cry in SC.

If you want details about how Dad died, there are news articles- though they hint at suicide- but the cops confirmed it later as murder. Also Robertscoville.com is where people can post about him, my family checks it everyday.

Usually I only use this for poetry- but I haven't been feeling that poetic lately and I wanted to let everyone (cough Joann) know how i was doing ;)

love, dani

My Father

2007-05-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

Monday Night/ Tuesday Morning my dad was killed. I am home. Please let people know.

Reflections on a sunday afternoon

2007-04-29T14:53:00.000-07:00

sapphire billowing presence
pushing up against this space
freedom through confinement
curves, fit, exact placement

if only incidents were puzzle piece
snap-able
Derrida’s distance … inescapable
palpable

inhale- confine
exhale- desert me

my brown hair is beginning to devour me
forehead is gone, next – my eyes
will that make me blind?
I see too much anyways

perhaps a little ignorance
a little less discussion
a little too much thought

my bamboo axis of salvation hanging
always hopeful

where is God on this Sunday
is He the hair-
the air pushing my curtain?
or the words

perhaps the perspiration beneath my arms
…maybe not

perhaps he is in the capital letters
the words forgotten, or inappropriate
the abandoned words, the censured words

lets liberate within this

heavy arms, waste away until midnight
I’m only thinking
and feeling

Bubbles, blankets and dies

2007-04-08T20:11:00.000-07:00

crescent dimples with deep guttural bumps
examining your piece of pale landscape
encircled, encaptured
safe, not controlled
or owned by force
but given on shaky grounds

careful

on the door, brushing the counter
legs making hoops and loops
pulling me down with you
bubbles, blankets and dies

my red goatee, thick spiked hair
reaching for cover~ embarrassed
you completely composed and handsome
freshly cleansed, renewed
dark pink shells curled

can never appreciate green
mountains that kill
to end an era that still needs a proper beginning

water filled sponge pillows

bad advice handed under streetlights
where girls are impregnated
in a sweating hall, far from here
you are dancing

little pink pop

2007-03-26T22:47:00.000-07:00

standing in the ruins, puddles around in my feet
drips down from my branching finger tips
paralyzed and floating
dusty box with dried markers and cut photos
and there you are

my little pink plastic popper
the small rose colored rubber bump
that hopped
you were always a comfort
in the days of monkey bar heart break
and hateful flirting

can you still jump?
you can.
the only tangible thing that
hasn’t let me down
a small pink piece of plastic
that I bought in second grade for a dime
but even you will betray me

someday

you will hop away
into a dusty corner with old cassettes
and I will be left here
straddling tree trucks
feeling attracted and appalled
at nostalgia

Let’s Exploit my Distress, Shall we?

2007-03-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

Hand raised
And descend!
Oo, that’s nice.
Wrong phrasing there.
My absent presence-
Stings with a hint of green?
Ha ha, awkward…

Crinkled, paralyzed bear claw.
No words please, just notes and chimes.
Be quiet Jon.
Now is not the time.
unreasonable and ridiculous
Shaking off anger
Only to find his brother.
Sickness in middle
Please purge this
Small bumps on lip line and eyebrow
its coming out the skin
if not my mouth.
Cannot stay in.
~(Too honest for an audience?)

Absence of gap, broad shoulders, beautiful exhalations
punishing the wrong
self infliction never gratifies
conveying it outward
always worse

all because of a misplaced pause

tiny rock stealer!

2007-03-01T00:35:00.003-08:00

Do you want to run
in the sun
his kiss will leave brown spots

small clumps of sand
Used as weapons
Indian clay?
Sand box sealer?
tiny rock stealer…
circle circle dot dot
A visit from the doc

trying to catch affection
Lumbering along on plump legs
never will, if I could touch
What would I do?
Less knowledge, less confidence
“the more knowledge, the more grief”

white round beads

2007-03-01T00:35:00.001-08:00

White round beads
hanging in an unnatural V
I look from the crisp pages
to my dry, cracked hands
When did they become so pale and bloated?
I know these pages better
words outweigh well-being
knowledge as mental quicksand
enclosing over my ears
its all been said
even that

free write from first poetry group (slightly revised)

2007-03-01T00:33:00.000-08:00

glass oval lens, layers of beams
scrunched blades between toes
pointed to expression
attempts at capture
sun-catcher, soul enlightener
the cliché of warmth
drunk on joy
clears away cynicism

freckled soil from rain
look up, cover over
briskly let us leave

waddle bow-legs
bronze goatee
unhappy grumbles
of little coal-colored dog
trudging along

2/12/07 Robby

2007-03-01T00:29:00.000-08:00

white stick with red stripe
bumping into tables, chairs
shaking hands of strangers
soft voice, strong musk
heavy, breathing mouth

i reach and retract

i am not like Nicolas

i wasn't needed for assistance

i only watched, strunk and small
deflating by the minute

instead I open my computer and write about Robby
which does nothing

1/6/07

2007-03-01T00:26:00.000-08:00

my place

walking into
my place
beards and lip rings
welcome back
in and out
the door
cancer only for outside use
reuniting with a friend
laughing til sushi hurts
the ending of an era
cliches all around
cold white mocha
long conversations
little flakes
between roof and tongue
cold hips in january
wet pits in june
shivering legs under blankets
smooth valleys
almost finished apple
faded ink on hand
cool wood chair
friendly face across table
five dollar theology books
sprinkler dancing
in my place

1/2/07

2007-03-01T00:23:00.000-08:00

red exit sign
emergency?
obligation?
foot on your ass
pushing you out the door
can time stand still
and seal this moment
eternity, does it exist
where time is not feared?
rekindle all those friendships
you felt bad for allowing to distangle
all the time in the world
becoming a reality
smal brown dog
at lower left corner of bed
breathing, snorting, snoring
little sister
too old for her age
jealous mother
wishing to be a sister
stepdad cracking puns
hitting mother's buns
invisible uncle instructing
fur in nostrils
smells like home

12/29/06

2007-03-01T00:21:00.000-08:00

void

empty of purpose
white void
invisible organs
pit of the stomach punch
frusterations, answers questioned
cold skin
warm, fresh breath
what am i even doing
bad habits
smoke stained jacket
late nights
early mornings
breakfast with a question
side of doubt
eat it up
its normal
doesn't mean it
will taste well

wow, i wrote angry poetry in decemeber... dang
oh well, it was how i was feeling

12/25/06

2007-03-01T00:19:00.000-08:00

This is my post from Christmas:

"Christ mas?

empty of a savior
red green with white
paper crumpled
love soon swallowed by greed
so quickly i forget
the entire point
instead pout and compare
who cares whats in the bag
or box my own ears
disappointment wells, losing control
nails too long
will do damage
close my eyes
bathroom mirror
deep breathes
its not about me
family, love
CHRIST?
forgotten

not one i am proud of. but today was lovely but i was def a shit today. I completely forgot about Christ today, on His birthday! I am such a bad friend
-D"

That was an intense day

12/23/06

2007-03-01T00:18:00.001-08:00

sitting in black dress
that i don't want to wear
acting as a buffer
between adolescence and mid-life self-absorbtion
tension at the table
quietly will eat sashimi
pretend all is well
in reality wanting to have
gray/white hairs between fingers
freshly riped from scalp
i wish there were more female knights
not just flaming joan
instead i will be the hero through polite conversation
distracting the monster
save the blonde heroine for a few hours
blue shiny shoes, blue bead necklace
should leave
are possessions worth all of this?
does blood thicken in certain areas?

12/18/06

2007-03-01T00:15:00.000-08:00

lil sis stop crying
three weeks isn't long
lil runt kitten
stop mewing
outside lil sis' door
slumber takes over
while small brown dog
snuggles a new pink blanket
dry skin around my nose
itches my fingernails
lil sis your life is not over
its only just begun
three weeks is not long
maybe its not fair
but its not that long

my baby step

2007-03-01T00:10:00.000-08:00

the first poem I wrote since sophomore year of high school. i really like fragments, this really isn't something i'm proud of. But I want to store ALL my poems on this blog thinger... (from 12/16/06)

dry cracked fingers
held together
aligning with their partners
empty breathes
wishing for sleep
sleepless nights
with stale breath
bile and stale
sore and itchy
is the rose
that is meant to be treasured
gasping gulping
small critter
creating panic
sick and tired
just too damn sick and tired
heavy breathing
raping me
of a chance of slumber.

mmm not sure how i feel about the use of "raping"
but im not going to bother to change this one. not worth it.

purpose

2007-02-28T11:11:00.000-08:00

to detach from a community of critical commentors

to feel comfortable expressing myself, while realizing there is nothing new under the sun

to be honest, but hopeful

to try my best at REAL expression

-dani