Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Is smarter, better, faster, and much more powerful.
I can lure these sin-eating mortals with my devious ways.
You say, Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but not if those eyes
Are ugly. Like mine.
Red and wicked. My horns will get them. They will
Give in. Succumb to my powerful ways. Your silly
No-fun nonsense will never keep them around. Do
Good. Be kind. Love others, you say. Can’t you see, they don’t
Want to. They want it my way. It’s your way
Or the highway, you say. The highway to hell. Well, they won’t listen.
The highway to the fiery pits is paved with
Fool’s gold. Temptations and deceit will entice those mortals into
My arms. Sins of the flesh, sins of the
Godless. They will march down the highway in droves.
The saints go marching in. Hurrah! Hurrah!
Your golden rule: Do unto others, as you would want them to
Do unto you. They don’t believe that shit. You get nowhere in life
Living by those standards.
Immorality rules in my world and in theirs. You can’t
Convince them of anything else. Keep trying
You self-righteous good ol’ boy! Your ten commandments put ideas
In their heads. You have given them imaginings of
Sugar and spice and everything nice but I will show them
What real little girls are made of.
My harangues from tongues of snakes will charm and
beguile them into malevolence.
What goes around comes around, and it’s comin for you old man. The
Militia of heathens is going to devour your angels. Have their cake and
Eat it too. The sadistic war is approaching and your cherubs are
Enlisting. They won’t be conscientious objectors.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Another Creative Writing prompt... lucky for me, I don't actually have to think to do these posts! Supposed to be just a poem about what you believe. One more week of poetry and then I get to write fiction!!!! YAY!
I believe in wearing short shorts only when your legs fit in them,
In skate shoes with black laces and unsweetened iced tea.
I believe that romanticism is overrated and usually doesn’t have good intentions,
I believe in strong men crying and young women fighting with everything that they have.
I believe in painted toe nails and hot pink gerbera daisies,
In prime rib cooked well done and strong hand shakes.
I believe in using paper plates and plastic cups without recycling them,
I believe that most people know others better than they know themselves.
I believe in driving in a car full of people with no music on,
In breve lattes with extra foam and expensive jeans.
I believe in swimming in water so cold it takes your breath away,
I believe in chocolate cream pie and fried potatoes with onions.
I believe that lies are sometimes ok if they make people feel better,
In clean toilets and brushing your teeth.
I believe in a good stick of chapstick and mean little brothers,
I believe that video games don’t make kids dangerous, bad parenting does.
I believe in brown hair with blue eyes and faith but not religion,
In coffee ice cream milkshakes and ponytails.
I believe in young love lasting forever, the twelve steps and black mascara,
I believe that although our parent’s example is what we follow, it may not always be right.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
One More Hit
His eyes glimmered in the sunlight the deep
Blue that only I seemed to notice. The kind that
Kept you watching, waiting for more. Expecting
To be sucked in. But always left out to dry. There I was
Standing with him, but feeling completely solitary, as if I was the
Only person left in the entire universe. My heart
Throbbed as if it would never feel right again. Like a headache that
Took over your entire face, made you
Blind to the world, to all reality. That’s what those eyes did to
Me. And yet all I ever wanted was more. Addicted.
Aching, yearning, craving, more of
Him. He took my hand and stared into my eyes.
I felt it
Again. Except this time, I could tell it was the last. His words
Wanted to seem genuine, like he might really be coming
Back. But I knew, in my core that he was not. Not
This time. I sensed the love in those deep sapphire
Eyes, but it was not the same. He was
Gone, the man I once knew, was gone. My addiction
Stolen by false highs and obsession, embezzled by the
Hunger for one more hit. And just like that, my heart
Dropped, as he flicked his Marlboro on the ground
Stamping the red ember into the dirt. The flame was
Out and so were my emotions. As he walked away, I blinked,
Expecting tears to carry me away, but they didn’t
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I just found out what all the PromptTuesday blogs were about. And found the prompt.
Yay for me.
Here's this week's prompt from Deb and Cheri:
Today’s PROMPTuesday keeps it simple.
Read this poem (one of [San Diego Momma's] favorites):
Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock
by Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
In red weather.
Meditate on it for a minute. Then write whatever comes to mind.
Here are PROMPTuesday’s rules:
* You must write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kicks in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
* Keep to 250 words or less.
* Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
* Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine something pretty. Something happy. Anything. All she wanted was sleep. She wanted to spend an hour, maybe two, thinking about nothing. Clear her mind of all the bullshit. The fucking bullshit that had engulfed her, her entire life. She imagined herself lying in bed at home when she was six years old. Trying to please him. Keep him off of her. Anything to keep his mind off of what he always so desperately wanted. Touching her, gratifying himself. She always wished the tigers that were on her little red footsy pajamas would jump off the fabric and bite him. Rip his face to shreds, or even worse, rip apart the thing that he thought made him man. She would quietly slip away to her room, praying that he would not hear her and follow her in. But he always did. He would stomp down the hall, and the hair on her neck would stand straight. The shakes would start and she would begin the prayers for morning.
“No!” She screamed. She sat straight up in bed, the goosebumps taking over her body. She glanced at the clock. One in the morning. It had been two hours of sleep. Sleep that was always haunted by his eyes.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Stop, go, stop, go
The cars, in their straight lines, begin the dance
Of five o’clock
Brake lights flash in a repetitious fashion
The rhythm makes me want to tap my fingers
Upon the plastic of my steering wheel
I attempt to create a song in my head
Lights singing a disjointed song
Of silly beats
Red, green, red, green
Yellow, yellow, yellow
Or speed up and run the light?
All cars deciphering meaning through colors
The woman next to me sings with her radio
Her lips moving
But I hear no sound
She’s smiling and laughing at herself
And I laugh also
Flipping fingers at fellow drivers
Out of anger and frustration
It’s like a silent movie
The cars all moving in between speeds
All brake lights turn red
As the actors realize they are in danger of
A speeding ticket (God forbid!)
Windows down, and windows up
Or in between
The cars weaving in and out
Like a braid on a little girls head
Blonde hair woven together
To create a complex length of rhythm
Red, green, yellow, red
Stop, go, stop, go
Slow, slow, slow
The dance of five o’clock boogies on.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Creative writing prompt #2... Write a poem that compares two usually very different situations using concrete images.
Don't you wish your blogging was as easy as copying and pasting your assignments from some silly college course?
Yes you do. Don't lie.
The Past Is Only Ashes
Your hand touches me at the small of my back
The breath sucked out of me
Like a back draft of a fire
The story I read in the paper said
A cigarette in a flower pot
On the deck of the first floor
Left still smoldering
The wind blustering through the railings
Igniting the miniature ember
Bursting into a ball of blistering flames
And with no one’s knowledge
Creeping into the building
Stalking the wood, ready for detonation
At any moment
Destruction, complete and utter devastation
To all things that went before
The women and children rushing
Scurrying along, fearing for life
Paying no attention to the direction they were headed
Only trying to get out
Absence filled with a new flame
A new beginning only starts from a bitter end
And suddenly nothing matters anymore
Burnt to the ground
Amidst the ashes of past flames
Flourishes a new blossom
With roots firmly planted in the fertilized ground
My heart pitter patters
As you get down on one knee
My mind jolts to the future that is upon us
Grown out of a fury of flames and ashes
Where nothing is left.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Apparently in my two weeks off from the wonderful world of college classes, I thought it was unnecessary to post any new blog entries. Oh well, I highly doubt anyone noticed. It's not like I have a huge following like katydidnot
So, here you are... the first Intro To Creative Writing prompt. Write a poem about driving to a place that you love or hate. You have to start, end, or both with a question. You have to make reference to at least two road signs. And you must have a list of concrete items. Sounds fun right?
Please if you feel so inclined, do it too. Now.
Every. Single. Day.
Is Frying Pan two words ma’am?
Yes, two words.
Just like the pan you fry fish in.
Frying Pan Road
Driving home. Every. Single. Day.
Twenty three miles from town
Fills my car with things
One flip flop, jumper cables,
Spare coffee mug
Three sweatshirts, a jug of water
“You can never be too prepared”
My mother always claimed.
Twenty three miles
Fills my head with thoughts
With the river
Meandering down the valley
My car traveling against the flow
The engine struggling against
Little oxygen and steep hills
Strawberry rock to my right
The waves crashing against the red dirt
Freezing lungs gasping for air
As we hurdle into the river
Frying Pan River
The yellow sign claims
As I turn my my tires around
The red sharp rocks
That have fallen in the road
Cliffs slowly eroding
Only to pop my rubber tire
Just a minor stall in my drive
Seven Castles jutting overhead
Firey orange in color
Sharply contrasting the blue sky
Another yellow sign
It must be magic, since it’s hidden.
“Watch that corner, black ice”
My mother muttered as I learned to drive
The thought that always crossed my mind
Around. That. Corner.
Slowly accelerating up the dam
Coming around the corner
Sparkling sun rays on the lake
Nothing like that first view.
Spiraling around the reservoir
My eyes droop with exhaustion
I tell myself
Thinking all the way
Anything to keep my mind
On the road
Frying Pan Road
The blue mail box
With creamy yellow stars and moons
Painted on the side
Relief from driving,
The long day,
Too many thoughts
Relief from reality
Ma’am, is Frying Pan two words?