Monday, December 3, 2012

Triplets on the mantle.

Three candles
red, brown, and green.
with blackened ash coated
In front of the painting with the cracked
glass front.
You shattered Prince Edward Island
when you were a baby
your parents say.
Now they sit, dejected, on the mantle
like a losing politician.
burned out during a power outage.
And now sit on the white brick
and dark.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

November Morning

The sky is pale on this cold November morning,
Jack Frost has visited overnight and the grass is fringed with white.

I walk past the neighbor’s car, which has been hidden under a white tarp
like a blanket or a birthday present.

Few cars drive on the road at 7:15 in the morning.

I can see my breath and pretend to be smoking a pipe
sending clouds of water vapor into the brittle air.

And I am astonished and captivated by a single brown leaf,
hanging precariously from a single thin maple branch.

I know that the only leaf left hanging will soon plummet to join its peers
and join the brown heaps on the side of the road.

The deciduous angiosperm skeletons whose hard wood is bent
at random joints and angles stand and I see them shivering along with me.

Its amazing how time flies
as the birds fly south.

I wonder what the leaf feels like as it watches the cars go by
on the quiet road.

Soon it snow will come
and the brown heaps will disappear.

And the cycle will repeat as if time was reversed
and the leaves will grow again, green and beautiful and strong.

And the leaves will return to the same trees
that they left so long ago.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Sandy Pantoum

Rain falls drizzling
from the drab sky.
Pitter Patter.
Like slow moving oil.

From the drab sky.
Delicate lady finger clouds
Like slow moving oil.
Float through the sky.

Delicate lady finger clouds
wispy and whipped; frothy
float through the sky.
Like thoughts or dreams

Wispy and whipped; frothy.
Trees sway and puddles form.
Like thoughts or dreams.
The calm before the storm.

Like thoughts or dreams.
Rain falls drizzling.
Like slow moving oil.
Pitter patter

Waiting for the storm to hit. Good luck to you all


Monday, October 15, 2012


He has his toys organized all in a row
wrenches, and hammers, and pliers.
Criss-cross apple sauce.
He has lenses over his eyes,
almost invisible
in the light of his office.
On the pelt of a
plum shag carpet.
Asking questions
that don’t make sense.
Taming the roaring lions
that prowl the wild
savanna of your

Friday, September 28, 2012

New Design

Blog has a new design! Do you like it??


Such delicate things.
Lost in the wind and moaning breeze.
Wing in a sling.
Fighting for the courage it needs.
A monarch.
A king.
Brilliant and colorful.
King of the skies.
Lost in the night.
Going south as the chill approaches.
Patterns on wings, and antennae.
Too thin to touch.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Some alternate Haiku

The vines rowboat leaves
Swayed by the winds shifting wake
Struck by spring’s sea spray.
Sailing to clear places
And toward the horizon.

Lighthouse guides the lost
Far from lurking rocks and stone
Shying from harms way
Lighting the true path
For one to take.

He saw no petals
Falling from trees or flowers
With slow wind, but his
Feet brush the pink
Confetti from the cherry tree.

Scaling to the top
Shading eyes to see the land
Grabbing onto branch
As to stay up
And see as long as possible.

These haiku forms are called Tanka, they are just haiku with two added lines at the end

Monday, August 27, 2012


Pantoums are a fairly unknown form of poetry. It is one of my favorites. Learn more about them

Here is a pantoum I wrote about the beach:

Waves are crashing, snatching, latching
on a sandy beach lapping at our ankles
so many vacations,
And tourists with cameras around their neck.

On a sandy beach lapping at our ankles
single mothers escape work
and tourists with cameras around their necks.
Lifeguards sit bored, making 30 dollars a day.

Single mothers escaping work
keeping a nervous eye on their splashing children
lifeguards sit bored, making 30 dollars a day.
They wear sunglasses and slowly scan the water.

Keeping a nervous eye on their children
and watching surfers who glaze the waves
they wear sunglasses and slowly scan the water
unafraid of anything from the sea.

And watching surfers who glaze the water
boat captains smoke and weigh the days catch
unafraid of anything from the sea
mooring their boats onto rickety sea docks.

Keeping a nervous eye on their splashing children
waves are crashing, snatching, lashing
lifeguards sit bored making 30 dollars a day.
so many vacations.

Saturday, August 4, 2012


We sit watching the birds fly from branches in trees
and gargoyles spit out the rain.
Magazines are ripped apart
and used as lining in nests.
Photographs and all.
And we will only stop when the wind starts to sing lonely love songs.

Friday, June 29, 2012

The Lament of the Swan Feeder

He is there everyday.
At the edge of the ever lapping hungry waters.
Out of his mouth comes a gurgle of words.
Venir ici mon cher,” he says.
The old ladies cringe away from him.
From his beard and mustache
As soft and tender as an eyelash.
He never notices everything
Living selectively
Around trouble.
His eyes milky white
And his shirt patched.
He wears no belt, it would bind him he thinks.
That is not allowed.
Lined hands covered in rips and tears.
His veteran gears need oiling.
Inside he screams and wails
He forces everything down deep inside
To where it pounds at his soul like John Henry’s hammer.
Crudely ripping bread
And tossing it into the swan’s water and onto the grass
Which is his bead.
In his palace of a grassy hill.
Tears have grooved deep canyons into his
Rough cheeks and bread crumbs cover his pant legs.
Sourdough and cornbread
From the trash.
He measures the days with wind and sky.
He never calls he has no one at all.
He is nobody’s son, an orphan.
He waits eternally for the sky to fall.
He wears an amulet around his neck which sways before he steps.
Shoes which have walked miles.
An antique, vintage man.
He talks to the swans as he feeds them,
“Maybe one day I’ll leave, where would you be then,”
He asks them teasingly.
Even putting on his shoes is like a journey beyond the sun
So sometimes he doesn’t put them on at all.
He wraps a scarf around his neck every day at noon.
One day
Someone will understand him.
He is a dweller.
Not a lodger
Nor a liver
Or a fleer.
He has never gotten a valentine.
He doesn’t speak of the future or the past.
Only partially visible he winces behind his lips.
Etherized, numbed.
His world is angled with frayed edges and jagged curves.
We shall go to see him
One day, you and I.
And hear the songs of the man, the swans and the trees and grass.
Until the leave’s swaying
Lowers our heads into
Beds of moss and clover.
When bells toll and pigeons fly
Joining the swans.
In murky
Scribbled alleyways.
Swans as white as snow
Out of place with this mysterious man.
In his mind there are books of philosophy and religion
There are houses full of beautiful paintings.
And empty bookshelves.
We shall go to see
The man and his swans
Until the sun sets
And all the lights go out.

 Note- The 4th line translates from French as "Come here my dear"

Friday, June 1, 2012


Escape by flight.
Looking at his father below with pride.
“Look Papa, I’m next to the sun”
Not noticing the hot globs of wax that fall
from the soft speckled goose feathers.
Each droplet melting in the hot Greek sun.
His father, “Come down child, lest you fall and die.”
The son smiles and shakes his head
and flaps his wings, just a bit closer.
Icarus pinned against the brilliant azure sky
like a giant bird.
6 foot wingspan.
Below him rolling hills and vineyards
beside him fluffy clouds.
His father below is engulfed in thoughts of machines
and his other contraptions.
Icarus with the heavens in sight.
A single feather falls.
As if plucked by a giant hand.
Zeus perhaps.
And then more and more.
Until he has nothing left.
Reaching with one hand.
Grasping at the air.
A grimace on his face.
As he remembers what his father told him so many times.
That what goes up, must come down.

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I've been very busy. Please comment and enjoy.

More poems soon.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Star of Track and Field

Star of Track and Field

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.
The coach:
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

Poem in Memory of Trayvon Martin

This is a poem I wrote in memory of Trayvon Martin who was shot in killed in Stanford, Florida for no logical reason. 

Do I look suspicious?
Walking in the dark.
Hood up.

There was no justice that night
Just prejudice.
To judge by anything
You do not know.

Nothing much.
Just a soul, a heart.

Life can be thrown away.
Just like that fateful night.
In Stanford Florida .

Rest in Peace Trayvon.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

The Color Blind Bull

He doesn’t see everything in the world.

Only part of it,

It is simpler for him.

Fewer shades

Of color.

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






And Raspberry.

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

But no

Bloody scratches

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.

He has

No Wins

No Losses

Just 54 ties.

It is no life for a colorblind bull.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012


Sorry I've been such a pathetic blogger lately.

Random Story Beginning:


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.

Chapter 1

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

NaPoWriMo Day #1

Well happy National Poetry Writing Month! As part of this month long celebration I will be taking the challenge of writing a poem everyday for the month. This my first poem:

From the darkness came the light.

Spitting fire across the pale sky.

Every color

Blended together.

Like a box of colored pencils.

All the colors.

Every single one

In the morning sky.

The sunrise

welcomes glorious day.

The Future of this blog

I'm sorry i haven't been able to post as much as I used to. I have been very busy and I should be able to post more consistently now that it is April. Later today I will post some writing so yeah.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Dear Piano

Sorry I haven't posted in so long. I think its been about a week. Here is a poem:

Dear Piano,

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.

Yours truly,

The Player

Monday, March 19, 2012

Saturday, March 17, 2012


I made this in Photoshop:
It is sort of a promotion of the Hunger Games.
Please comment!
Happy St. Patties everybody!

I made this in Photoshop:

Thursday, March 15, 2012

New Story!

This is a new story I started. Collage coming tomorrow or Saturday.

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

Haiku Monday

Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I think it has been about five days. Here is a haiku I wrote:

Greedy eyes, darting.

Houses, money on our minds.

Its Monopoly

Tomorrow or maybe Wednesday I will be posting a collage.



Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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

Haiku Monday- To Those in Darkness

To those with no voice

To those who linger and hide.

To those in darkness.

To those without tears.

To those with no will or soul.

To anonymous.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Artist Trading Cards

So over the break I'vs discovered a new type of artistic inspiration. Artist Trading Cards. Artist trading cards are miniature works of art about the same size as a baseball card. You can make these out of any material but I prefer collage.

Here's my favorite of the ones I've made:

Thursday, March 1, 2012

The Undertaker Convention

This is a story I started in writing group today:

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


How the grim reaper travels...

Yes I know the balloons are too small but hey... its my first water color so yay!

Monday, February 27, 2012

Haiku Monday

I will be posting something a little more awesome later this evening but for now here's another haiku monday:

Glass waters glisten.
Mirror-like patterns on its face.
Spinning whirls of light.

(I don't know why I though mirrorlike was a word.)

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Collection of Haiku about the senses

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

glowing aromas.

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

The Tale Of Sir Breakenridge

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

The Golden Chord

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

Haiku Monday

Based on a line prompt.

Does Silence echo?

Can you hear it? To find out

I yell silently.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The Secret

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

Emotions Poem

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.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Bella's Story


Japonia was a wild land. Golden, emereld and tin castles emereged from the wide, maple and oak woods. The aroma of fresh pine needles, in which scaterred on the ground and up in the trees, filled the air and covered the golden building of the king and other important towers that were not shadowed above by trees. The population there was not on a sign, therefore, if you wanted to know, you’d have to climb the tall oaks and count the castles. But you couldn’t climb any tree with holes in them. Those were the fairies property. The people who lived there had settled there after the fairies, in which case the fairies had claimed the trees to themselves, and were aloud to keep them that way. And yes, the same when walking. If you saw a sort of cave with a wooden door on it, sticking out of the ground, you must not walk over it. Those were the homes to the dwarfs. This was very risky because dwarfs were very caprishous, and if were mad, could bite the head off a giant. But all of them had a good side. At least, when the people first settled in Japonia. Dwarfs had built the golden, tin and gem plated castles and in return, asked for nothing. Yes, there were lots of magical creatures in Japonia, in which case, you had to be very careful about where you went or touched. All the people loved the magical animals, but not one. The dragons. They were fire breathing, sharp clawing dangerous beasts! Which is why around Japonia there was a tall (taller than a dragon I would hope) golden wall that protected them and kept the dragons out. Every year, the people in Japonia had a dragon hunt when they would send out hunters to kill the dragons. They hoped for the dragons to go extinct. For the dragons, if they ever did get in, would breath fire on the tin buildings and turn them to rust! And in one of these golden kingdoms, a young girl sat on a velvet stool, twisting her hair, and biting her other strand of hair that was stiff from being twisted. Her name was Adiela. Adiela Veavet.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Weird Random Thing

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

Haiku Monday

It's a Masomenos Poem!!!!

I, Masomenos.

Am Nothing but everything.

All at the same time.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

New Story!

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

Prairie Marsh Story Beginning

This is a story I've been working on. Here's the beginning:

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

Haiku Monday

Filled with red rubies.

Sweet, sour, and bitter taste.

The Pomegranate.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

10 Different Ways of Looking at a Walnut

I wrote this poem in writing group. It was inspired by the poem, "13 Different ways of looking at a Blackbird"

In the vast forest,
the only sound
was a falling walnut.

Taken from sky
to earth,
the walnut sits for many seasons.

The mountain adventurer,
knapsack leaning on his back,
steps on a walnut.

If a walnut falls in a forest,
and no one is around to hear it,
does it really make a sound at all?

The Walnut,
eaten by people,
eaten by squirrels.

Who walks in the many
cliffs, crags and fissures
in the shell of a walnut.

There are some with
a rare talent, to
see the pattern in the leaves
of a walnut tree.

Rain falls in a storm,
the pattering
is accompanied by
the creaking of a walnut tree.

The food critic sips
wine aged in a barrel
made of walnut
and nods.

They thought they found
Blackbeard's lost treasure
but when they opened the chest
they found that it was full of walnuts.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Ava's Writing Piece



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.

She wept.

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.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Haiku Monday

This is about a mask I made in 3rd grade.

Constantly staring.

Face, cold-blooded, looks ahead.

Motionless, always.

Strings attached in back.

Strikingly proportionate.

The mask, hanging, still.