And now sit on the white brick
Monday, December 3, 2012
And now sit on the white brick
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Here is a pantoum I wrote about the beach:
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
He forces everything down deep inside
Note- The 4th line translates from French as "Come here my dear"
Friday, June 1, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
His dirty sneakers slam into puddles, slush and sun baked pavement.
5 miles a day.
1,825 miles a year.
Every morning, every evening.
through rain, sleet, snow and hail, he runs.
His apparel varies with the weather.
He is a star of track and field.
hurdling every obstacle with ease.
Long and lanky.
A fine specimen his coach says.
a man with a round belly and a yellow visor.
he could never keep up with his students.
as his students run, the coach jogs around the track.
Yelling, "Faster" "Harder"
An ever ticking stopwatch clutched in his hand
as his shrill sounding whistle bounces
up and down on his chest.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
He doesn’t see everything in the world.
Only part of it,
It is simpler for him.
He sees the world through
Lewis Hine’s lens.
Black and White.
His ailment goes unnoticed.
All the crowd wants is a show.
They shout and cheer until their throats are sore.
What do they care anyway?
It should be his palace; He should be comfortable there.
He’s more of a Ferdinand.
Would rather sit lying in the wildflowers,
Then be in the arena.
Where the ground is covered in thick dust.
And there is no peace and quiet.
The matadors don’t understand.
Why he doesn’t respond to the color
They’ve tried them all
To no avail.
He doesn’t understand why the crowd
Jeers and boos.
The other bulls do.
The tease him
A simple “Kick me” sign would do
Made by horns
Line his side.
It’s always the same
The Matador reluctantly
Drops the red cape
He looks half asleep
The crowd boos.
He is led away.
Just 54 ties.
It is no life for a colorblind bull.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The wind blew remnants of the house across the forest scattering debris among the trees. A long piece of gutter blew and entangled itself in the branches of an elm. The trees were green and vibrant but no birds were perched in their lush branches. The whir and rumble of a car motor broke the silence and soon a Model T slowly came into view. The car drove on a dirt road and its tire crunched over small pebbles that were lodged in the dirt. The windows were tinted and the car looked out of place in the spring foliage. When the black car was parallel with the remains of the house it slowed to a stop. The window slid down and a man with binoculars looked out of it. His pale skin had a green tinge to it and he had bags under his narrowed eyes. Underneath the navy blue binoculars he smiled and rolled up the window. The car drove away leaving tire tracks in the dirt. Silence was all that remained.
Bells tolled loudly sending a startled flock of pigeons into hasty flight. The dark square was relatively empty except for a few street performers who stood drearily in the thin drizzle. Most of the shops in the square were closed and the cobblestones were lit only by a couple of dim street lamps.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
From the darkness came the light.
Spitting fire across the pale sky.
Like a box of colored pencils.
All the colors.
Every single one
In the morning sky.
welcomes glorious day.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I think its been about a week. Here is a poem:
I Wonder if you understand
What the music is.
To you it must seem
like the daily beating,
And we say that practice is torture.
But what about you piano?
For the pain you feel must be real
and not imaginary.
I wish that you could hear the music I play.
For then you would hear what music is.
I hope that someday you will know what music is.
And finally be at peace.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The air was crisp and cold. Summer had rolled a gutter ball this year and the temperature hadn’t gone above sixty degrees in all of March and April showed no sign of changing this. A light crust of snow covered the grass. Tufts of green sprouted out of the white snow.
I tapped my pencil against my hand and thought. April break was finally here and already I was bored out of my mind. All of my friends had flocked like migrating birds south to the warmth of the Bahamas or Florida. I had been left in complete solitude to wallow in misery and boredom.
My mom- who had been sick of my complaining about having nothing to do- had given me a list of ideas of things to do over break. I had chosen writing simply because it was the activity that involved the least room cleaning and community service.
I’m not a good writer mind you; actually I’m quite bad. My book report on Tom Sawyer had come straight off the back cover. As a matter of fact I hated writing.
So, here I was, sitting at a desk, with a clean sharpened pencil in my hand, and a blank notebook that leered at me from the desk. I leaned my chin on my hands and stared at the wall in front of me. I had nothing, nada. Everybody always says that the best way to be good at writing is just to write, but how can you write if you don’t have any ideas to begin with.
I needed something, a spark, inspiration. I stood up and walked out of my room.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
I opened the 320 million dollar door and entered a lobby area where an old woman sat behind a desk. She looked up and squinted at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses.
She spoke in a gravely voice, “Are you here for the betting match?” she asked softly.
I nodded and then said, “Yes, I am.” I reached into my jacket pocket and took out a green chrysanthemum. The flower’s bright hue contrasted brilliantly with the black of my dinner jacket.
I handed the delicate flower to the old woman and waited while she examined it and turned it over in her hands. Finally after about three minutes of examining, she brought the chrysanthemum to her nose and sniffed deeply. She nodded and handed the flower back to me.
“Everything seems to be in order. It’s the 12th floor and don’t even try going to any other floors,” she said looking at me from over her glasses which dangled precariously off her long pointed nose. “If you do, you will be escorted off the premises immediately.
I took back the chrysanthemum and walked towards the elevator. I pushed the up button and immediately the doors of the elevator opened with a cheery “ding”
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
It was four o'clock in the morning and the sky was the color of the inside of a grapefruit. Jack rested his head on his hands and looked around at the people who sat near him in the large auditorium. On his right sat a large man with red hair. He wore a green and white striped polo shirt that said Apple Blossom Country Club in red letters. He was reading a book called "Arnold Palmer's Secrets to Golfing" On Jack's left sat a woman with straight black hair. She was currently yelling into her iphone, "What do you mean you broke the heating Ralph? You know what I've had enough of you!" She hung up.
Jack sighed and turned his gaze back to the auditorium stage. Jack and all the other people in the room had come for the undertaker's convention. A daylong event where the newest and best coffin technology would be unveiled. Around him Jack heard nothing unusual, mostly jokes about death. He heard from behind him, "Wow, run over by a steam roller, that's pretty impressive. But I have better, I had a client who was eaten by a rhinoceros." This was greeted by many oos and ahs. Finally the ceremonial coffin was rolled in and out of it popped the host of the event. He happily proclaimed, "Welcome to the annual undertaker's convention!"
The host's name was William A. Huffer but the undertakers thought that was too formal and called him "Huff 'n Puff Huffer" Mr. Huffer continued, "It’s a great honor to be here for this joyous event. Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Mr. Huffer took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and opened it. “The winner of the award for best coffin goes to…” He paused dramatically, “The Wooden Reaper, Embalm Studios,” shouted Mr. Huffer.
The man who had been bragging about his unlucky clients eccentric death jumped up and pumped his fist. As he walked down the aisle toward the stage a voice came over the loudspeakers, “This is the first Mortis Award for Embalming Studios coffin. They have been nominated three times.” The crowd clapped and cheered as the man climbed up the stairs to the stage. The man mounted the stage and was handed his Mortis award, which was a golden trophy in the shape of a coffin.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I've been very busy over break. Some actual art coming soon. All I can say is that it involves the grim reaper and balloons. Enjoy, follow and comment.
Does Silence echo?
Can you hear it? To find out
I yell silently.
In the quiet, see
the big bright moon reflecting
our worst fears and hopes.
Crying without tears.
I heard your voice but did not
turn or acknowledge.
In the middle of
the scent, twisting tendrils of
Rivers of tastes flood
the silence. The rapids run
wild never stopping.
Shredders rip and tear.
Through the silence like bell tolls.
The still is disturbed.
You might be able
to hear, taste, or see silence.
But can you hear it?
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
I am a very classy man. I’ve been told this many times and have grown to believe it myself. I think it’s the bowler hat. It really makes or breaks you. I walked down the street strutting my custom strut that I had perfected after hours of practice. It was about nine o’clock and I was strolling leisurely toward my friend Sir Charles Whaler’s London penthouse. My 5,000 dollar suit flapped behind me in the wind. The sun shone high above the boring grey buildings bathing the sprawling city in light. As I reached the crest of the hill I saw the house, or more honestly the top of it. Atop the tall penthouse was a sprawling rooftop garden that was home to many rare and exotic planets. Surrounding the garden was a wide dome of clear glass. It been erected to protect the vegetation from pollution that rose from the many smoke stacks that scattered London.
As I walked down the hill and saw the entire house I was disgusted. It was obvious that my mutual friend Sir Charles was filthy rich. I was dirty rich, but he was filthy rich. In short that is like the difference between millions and billions. A sign above the door said proudly in gold letters The Estate of Sir Charles Whaler. I knocked on the door and listened to the echo with my ear to the door. To confirm my discovery I sniffed the door and was surprised. Agarwood, one of the rarest woods in the world. The door I estimated weighed about twenty pounds. The wood cost one million dollars per ounce. In twenty pounds there are 320 ounces. My mouth dropped. Sir Charles had spent 320 million dollars on his front door. I couldn't imagine what the inside would look like.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
I found a perfect cord today.
The perfect mixture of black and white keys.
The air shattered and time caught its breath.
Conducted by an angel.
My fingers skittered along the keys again and again.
The Perfect Chord.
The Golden Chord.
Mine at last.
It held love and sadness, anger and fear.
Longing and lust. Envy and happiness.
The great game of hide and seek was finally over and the world seemed to shiver.
But gone again the notes flew away.
The golden chord like the golden snitch.
Elusive as always.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The secret burned and pulsed inside of her like an uncontrollable fire. Her mind flailed and writhed trying to escape the grasp of the evil, villainous truth. She longed to shout it out to let it escape, reaching all who could hear. But no, she couldn’t, she was logical. She would stay calm.
Annie took a deep breath her chest moving up and down with each breath she took. She gritted her teeth her body shaking slightly.
The secret had started with the word. California. At the moment Annie had heard the word she felt only one thing. Fear. The cold monster that had driven its dark tendrils into parts of her heart and soul she didn’t even know existed. The silent tears flowing that had drowned her in mournful lamentation.
She had wanted to run, to flee everything about the secret. She wanted to find a place to be alone and free.
And still the secret bubbled at the tip of her tongue and threatened to boil over into the world. Finally she couldn’t bear it any longer and whispered the word over and over. California, California, California.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Poem about various emotions.
Sadness drips like soggy mist.
Like trumpets playing Taps.
Rolling notes of night and goodbye.
And rain blurs our world.
Anger is like a flaring fire.
Like splattered pomegranates on the tiles.
Battering swords of desperation.
And fire burns our world.
Happiness cuddles and comforts.
Like inspirational hymns and spirituals.
Bright like a summer sun.
And light brightens our world.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Jason sat on the tree branch his arms dangling by his sides. He looked down at the branch that he was sitting on and thought, the tree he was sitting in would eventually be cut down and then maybe it would be crafted into a chair and maybe he would even sit in that chair as he was sitting in the tree now.
A red leaf fell from the branches cutting through the chilly fall air. He sat and sat until the edges of the world softened and everything merged together into one thing, but what that thing was he did not know.
He leaned forward so he could get a better look at the thing and as he did he fell out of the tree and plunged toward the frozen ground.
He fell through the ground but at the same time it felt to him as if he was rising, or was he falling? He could not tell.
Around him was a cyclone of red, yellow, and russet leaves. All spinning around him like a giant whirling cloak.
But now he was moving and this time he knew he was falling. He fell and fell and he saw many strange things but none were important and he didn’t remember any of them.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Bernard walked down the dark street kicking loose pieces of asphalt and watching them skitter down the street. As he walked he saw the lights in the various stores and restaurants that lined the street dim and then go out completely. Dangling by his side was a large black instrument case that carried his Linton oboe. Every so often the case would bump against his beefy thigh. Whenever this happened his eyes would swivel and come to stop and channel their dislike to the over-sized case.
After Bernard had walked a couple more blocks down the street he reached his apartment building. He pushed open the heavy door and walked up the stairs that led to his cramped fifth story apartment. He reached the top of the stairs panting and reached with clumsy fingers into his pocket for his keys. His hand emerged with the key that glinted faintly in the dark. He inserted the rusted key into the keyhole and after a faint struggle pushed open the door and staggered inside.
Bernard walked deeper into the narrow hallway and reached his arms out looking for the light switch. His fingers found it and turned the light on. A light that hung from a wire flickered and then turned on flooding the apartment with a dim glow. He walked in and proceeded to turn on another light in the small kitchen.
He un tucked his button down shirt and took off his Nikes. Bernard opened a cabinet above the sink and took out a large pot that he filled with water and then placed on to the electric stove. He jerked open his refrigerator and took out a half full carton of eggs. He opened the carton and carefully placed the eggs one by one into the pot of water. After he had placed all of the eggs into the water he turned on the stove and walked to his couch where he collapsed gratefully on to the soft cushions. He sighed with relief and closed his eyes.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The dawn sun rose expelling bright rays of light across the endless ocean of corn stalks that blew noiselessly in the summer wind. It was a hot day in Prairie Marsh Wisconsin, whose population was 8,603 people, (Recorded at the last census) It was only four o’clock in the morning but many people were up setting up the county farmer’s market. The farmer’s market was something of legend; it had been reviewed in the New York Time Travel section by Michelle Higgins in the Practical Travel column. The article as written follows;
Continuing in my journeys in Wisconsin I ventured into, Prairie Marsh, Wisconsin which is a charming little town in Barron County. It is located four hours from Green Bay and Madison and five hours from Milwaukee. The most famous thing in Prairie Marsh is the farmers market which is widely considered as one of the best farmer’s markets in the Midwest. Every Saturday a sign is lifted between two telephone poles that proudly reclaim “Prairie Marsh Farmer’s Market, The only Emu Egg Omelets in the Midwest.” Along with the emu eggs there is also, eggplant salsa, vegetable juice smoothies, moose medallions and honey combs dipped in chocolate and even a large selection of freshwater caviar. In my visit I met Jane Sumac, the head organizer of the farmers market. She is a bubbly woman with wild blond curls and piercing blue eyes.
When I asked her what is the goal of the farmers market she didn’t hesitate before answering this, “The main goal in the Prairie Marsh Farmer’s market is to bring fresh fair trade meat and produce to the public at a fairly cheap price.” She continued with a smile, “It’s a pretty unique place,” she tells me goodbye as the first customers start to arrive for the morning market.
If you happen to be in the area, I highly recommend that you visit the market. Saturdays, starting at eight.
By Michelle Higgins, AP
Milo slapped the newspaper down on to the wooden table with many rough patches and knots in the brown solid surface. He had saved the article, not for a scrap book or a keepsake, but as a reminder of his mother. Jane Sumac. On the page in the newspaper where the article is there is a hole in the page, this hole was where the one photograph in the entire article, a picture of his mother, all blond hair and blue eyes. Milo sighed and stared at the hole in the paper imagining his mother bursting through the hole like a whale leaping up from the water.
He waited as if it could actually happen. Nothing. He sighed again, it was a tired sigh, a mournful sigh; that sigh was what summed up Milo’s feelings. Tired and Mournful.
He stood up stiffly, like the tin man, the tin man whose joints needed a oiling, in the form of happiness. Happiness, a thing that Milo’s life was extremely devoid of at the moment. He walked to the side of the road and sat on a log that was still wet from the night’s rain. He sighed again, the only sound in the still silence that let you here the blood flowing in your ears. He picked at the rotting log with his fingernails letting the flakes of wood fall to the dewy ground slowly accumulating in a pile.
A car drove by its tire kicking up geysers of water droplets from the dirt road that was Main St. The car’s front tires hit a puddle, splashing Milo with muddy water. He ducked to no avail, he coughed and spit out water and then wiped dirty water off his face and hands. He walked inside, a gloomy expression on his face.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The man was dressed in decidedly unremarkable clothes.
In fact, they were quite shabby. She could tell that even as he ran. His plain shirt was torn along the edge and his black slippers had multiple holes.
It was an odd contrast, actually: his creased, drab clothing in shades of brown and grey, and the bright object he held in his hands.
It was a large piece of pottery, a vase, bigger than his head. The colors of it so new and fresh the sun glinted blindingly off the glazed surface. Blues, golds, crimsons. All in intricate design. Vibrant.
But look. He was stopping. His feet were planted firmly on the cobblestones, holding the vase high with both hands. She could see him better now, as he stood still, a faded brick wall behind him. Middle-aged, with a roundish face and small stubbly beard. There was no expression in his features. No expression as slowly, slowly, he drew his hands apart and the vase fell.
Fell down to the street in what seemed the slowest manner gravity would allow.
It shattered. A mass of color and fragments of dreams. There was a scream from the street below. The man’s face stayed blank. She banged the window shut.
There were warm tears welling up in her eyes now. She opened the window back up and let herself fall, not caring anymore.
Kir’s dreams were fitful that night.
Her entire life was falling down, and she was falling. And everything around her was falling.
The vase. Dropped by the man in the square.
Raya. Out the window. To that same square, because it was too much to bear anymore.
A white feather. Drifting. Doors slamming and a light flashing:
On, off. On, off.
Morse code. Old metal pipes lying under the snow, waiting to be found again. The spilled salt. Red droplets like blood. Or maybe they were blood. Nothing was certain anymore.
Everything was falling and spinning, spinning and falling.
There was none of it.
A cannon firing blanks.
The darkness was crushing her.
Everything. Nothing. No more.
He swept up the pottery shards. The girl’s body lay on the stones, crumpled.
His mustache ticked his lip, like it always did, and he sneezed. Why did he have a moustache anyway? It was idiotic. He would shave it off tomorrow.
Looking up at the darkening sky made him wonder. Why was anything anything?
There were still dark stains throughout the square. He had tried to scrub them off. They stayed. A reminder.
Everywhere was disaster, disaster was everywhere.
There were tears in his eyes. He let the broom fall to the cobblestones.
Tendai stared out the window at the town center. People bustled through the square, noses red from the biting wind.
It was as if they didn’t care, she thought. They were caught up in their own lives, their own business, thinking about inane things like how butter sure was getting expensive or a little itchy thread in their coat.
Did it not matter to them? Did nothing matter? It was just the way they walked past the stains on the cobblestones, the pink marks spreading like pale flowers that killed her inside. The way the people stared straight ahead and walked faster, and pretended—to themselves and to the world—that they weren’t in the middle of a catastrophe.
Tendai told herself maybe it was the right approach. I mean, life must go on. Through war and through hardships.
But she always came back to, how can they not care?
There are bodies lying in the street and people act like they aren’t even there.
She sighed deeply. It was something Tendai did a lot, lately.
How is everything like this so SUDDENLY? How can the empire just unexpectedly work itself into a corner and start making all the wrong choices?
She sighed again.
Well, no one knew the answer to that.
Picking up her quill, Tendai turned her attention towards the piece she was supposed to write for the newspaper. Of course, it didn’t make her feel the least bit more cheerful thinking about what was coming. After her weekly fiction piece it had been arranged that she also write out a list of the dead.