Friday, November 4, 2011

They were all that wasn't.

She was curious, he was everything.
She was conflicted, he was walking.
He was blue, she was rabbit.
She was there, he was taking.
She was science, he was falling.
He was architecture, she was nothing.
She was indignant, he was amazing.
She was right, he was scared.
He was crazy, she was love.
She was Eliza, He was Fitzwilliam.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Shayli = Haley

cry through explanation.
don’t but do
and loose by winning
the ticking race of chronology.

She knows but doesn’t tell.
instead, breaks down.
A scream that looses some
 and rejects them all.

count your fingers.
count your fingers
and don’t tell.
Because it won’t end.
it never ends.

tunnels of nothing barrel through
the pain and anguish,
monsters attack
the vision of a world
that seems artificial.

lights masquerade as hope
but bring a crash landing reality
destruction of the soul.

Thursday, October 20, 2011


      I had never felt night's grasp squeeze so tightly around me before. That murky October evening swallowed moonlight and starshine, like the gaping maw of a black hole. The streets of the neighborhood were barren and cold; the streetlamps flickered here and there, splotching the fog with off-white stains easily washed away by an ephemeral shower of sparks from exposed wiring.
      I wandered, stumbling over occasional debris and near-invisible curbs, reaching out with my arms to feel for solid salvation. I felt nothing, though, except for a chilly autumn wind that slipped indifferently between my fingers.
      Then the sky flickered, much like the streetlamps had before. A distant, but familiar rumble of thunder echoed around me. Frigid drizzle followed. It was only a storm.
      But the thunder quickly grew louder. Rain poured. Within seconds, I was drenched from head to toe, jacket to bone. I felt like I was turning to ice, like I was being numbed with every step. My feet splashed in the rain – water soaked through my shoes. In despair, I clung to a street sign that miraculously came into arm's reach.
      Then I heard a terrible, terrible noise. It roared like a locomotive thundering down a canyon with dozens of loaded boxcars following. Its deafening drone seemed to conjure a tempestuous swirl of wind. I nearly blew away.
      With the help of the street sign, I regained my footing and blindly began to run into the darkness and the rain. Fear fueled me, and drove me against the storm. It didn't fuel me long, however; my lungs burned, my chest begged me to stop breathing. I took a bad step and slipped (inevitably so, from all the rain) into a ditch. The grass was unfriendly and freezing, but my body refused to rise when I heard the sound of houses being ripped apart.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

even my head wasn't safe, they told me. so where was I to go?

the real world wasn’t
good enough
the leaves lacked their sparkle
and trees ceased their dancing
whenever I turned to look

they did it on purpose, I was
sure, because the malignant spirits
amused themselves through
tormenting mortal children.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
and I didn’t want to be mortal.
the adventures which inspired me
had me jaded and questioning my perception of magic.

reality was dull, and there was nothing, nothing,
nothing at all I could do to change it.
imagination only spins so far before it
crumbles into bitter disappointment.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
for where were the elves and the witches and the
long-forgotten magic which would transport me away
from this dull grey cul-de-sac
and the green plastic swing
and the tree that wasn’t actually
inhabited by wood faeries?

my magic wasn’t real
the labyrinth wasn’t real
Hogwarts wasn’t real
the shire wasn’t real –
my imagination had lied to me without
and the only thing left was
reality, which simply wouldn’t do.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
and though my dream catchers tried in vain to make it less so,
there was no escape, no reprieve
for an old soul in a child’s
body who wanted nothing more than to leave
behind mediocrity before fully comprehending what it meant:
wholly and entirely trapped, with the solid comfort of awakeness
no longer reassuring

the real world wasn’t
good enough
though the tendrils of hopelessness and
boredom were worse than any cruel sprite
my imagination might have conjured.

they bite at my tongue and scratch my eyes raw, teasing.

now, there are potions to make them all stop
but I’d miss the last remnants
of a real world that was good enough.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Calm Seas

Anger never fixed anything
but it makes you feel better
feels good to watch the glass
break into tiny pieces
watch the world around you
and crumble to your feet

Crumbling till there's nothing left
no buildings.
no support.
no one there
to witness.

To witness your break down
witness the salty water
drain from your face
creating the Sea of Agony
you now live in.

You half way hope
(and three quarters don't)
that someone will notice
will see you drowning
in your own sea

But you know that they won't
because on the surface
the seas are too calm.
the waves are too composed.
for anyone to suspect

Emotions never fix anything
so maybe
it's better to be an empty shell
drifting for eternity
in the sea
of your creation

Friday, September 9, 2011

a failed exercise in stoicism.

her mind is a blur,
possibly because her hands
are unsteady, with their slight
shaking, and
her eyes don’t focus as well as they should
in the early morning.

she repeats the same sayings,
the same jokes, like mantras, so as to
give her body the rhythm it so
dreadfully lacks

she dresses
and faithfully turns down the sleeves
of her blouse
piecing herself together by
breaking herself apart –
is believing in something so
darkly insignificant a crime?

the promises she makes are hard
and shiny like tumbled stones
yet their jagged qualities can’t be
tumbled away.
they remain brittle.

she practices printing, then
script in fine red ink,
trailing her y’s and making the
sharpest of v’s
mostly she wishes her facial features were
so she could pronounce her emotions
instead of puncturing them.

she is a weaver, and with orchid-scented
palms she hooks and threads and
nimbly orchestrates the digits at the end
of her weakening arms.
these tapestries of elaborate
hope are nothing more than gossamer,
light and fleeting,
and she uses them in defense, allowing
them to settle over those who would rescue her
to comfort, and cover, and fool.

there are lies, which she
harmoniously practices at the jewelry
counter, or the river, or on those she loves.
for when she tells the truth,
it tastes like plastic.

and comfort is better than worry and truth;
they may have grown, but she can
still shield them
from the harsher aspects
of the world –
how no one ever really “gets
and we’re all just survivors
of our own personalities

she’ll continue surviving
unless she doesn’t
but the more they try to silence her ramblings
and still her unrelenting hands
the less they’ll remember of how
they thought they solved her
in the first place.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011


Did you cross the river on your journey to this town?
For there lies a no-man's land of spirits,
and fates from which no souls could return.
No sunlight shines on the riverbed of murk.
The souls slipped from the graveyard: from the soil to the stream,
and haunted both the bridges and the water.
Are you still alive or are you now broken
by the things you've seen that made your skin grow pale?

When you walk these cursed fields, you call Death upon yourself.
There's not a soul who can save you, and no chance that you'll survive.
The Reaper accepts no pleading, breaks no contract with the curse;
All wars that have been waged here still burn beneath the rot.

Friday, August 26, 2011

The baby prompt thing

[Sorry I didn't read it out loud, I just didn't know how to say it without sounding weird... Yeah, I'm not making much sense, never mind hahaha]

You know when
you're in one of those moods where
your words don't sound right,
things refuse to fall into place,
no one seems to be around,
(even if you're in a crowded room)
and all you can think of
are baby shoes?
Or maybe it's not that.
Perhaps you recall
forgotten toys,
broken record players,
or anything else
that is abandoned
like you.

It seems awful then,
when your mind is closing in on you
and all that you want to do
is write sad poems
about dead baby shoes.

But there is  always a light,
always a toy rediscovered
a record player rewired,
people found when there
once were none
and there is always
another child born
to fit it's wriggly feet
into a pair of new shoes.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Aug. 13th Meeting for RiversideYoungWriters!!!!!!!

     I've missed you all--I have secured a guest speaker to talk about song writing--I'm excited--come see me I miss you all. Dust off your songs--and bring them with you.
     I received the following message from our guest speaker--Feel free to point the teens to this example of some WORKING outreach I did in Orange a few years back.  The 9ONE1 to 4ONE1 track is available on i-Tunes and Amazon but here's a link to the video.   I was tapping into my rock days, as you can see  : )
In lieu of payment, maybe you can enourage buying the cheap downloads at Amazon and hitting the youTube site to drum up interest.
Good for the guys that are now heading to college.   ; )     I won't see any money but they might.......
Thanks much!
Best regards,
Michelle O'Hearn
(aka MiCKi)
I'm REALY excited!!!!! I'll see you there. Mrs. F (with snacks!)

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Daddy's little girl

Dad bought
a  $200 painting
to hang on a wall
in the house of stone
that he built
on a hill

the picture is simple
in a simple frame
a girl dressed in gray
a sky riddled with clouds
a house of stone
on a hill

she looks sad
but I like her dress
it looks like my dress
the one I hung up
in my room
on the door
where I can see it
so I don’t forget the night
I felt like a little princess

my father dropped
my blue writing desk
that all my friends had signed
and left tiny messages upon
to remember them by
now the corner is chipped
and the paint peels
little love letters
little broken hearts
just crumble away

It’s blue
like the wide open skies
in the painting
and my dress
it’s a beautiful dress
my blue and black dress
with tiny sequences and needle work
and little bits of lace

I love that dress
He took it down from the door
said it was damaging the paint
denting the door frame
my dress lay piled on the floor
in a heap
I love that dress

If you look at it closely
that is, the door
you’ll find no dent or chip
no scratch in the paint
but my dress is torn at the hem
you stepped on it on the way out

and my little blue desk
is chipped

Your painting will look
lovely on your perfect wall
I hope it covers up
all the baby hand prints I left there
long ago
so you wouldn’t forget me
no matter how hard you scrubbed
and rubbed
and tried to wipe the mess away

I finished cleaning your floor
it shines like silver
I made sure not to leave a smudge
you can see your face
reflected back like water
on the smooth wood

you walked across it
in your shiny shoes
and left perfect mud tracks
from door to door

I’ll clean it again.
No worries.

And then I’ll help you hang
that picture on the wall
with a level
to make sure
it’s exactly straight

And when I fall asleep on my bed
and forget to take off my shoes
or to take out the trash
perhaps you’ll hesitate
to roll my filthy shoes away
lest I dirty the bed…
to toss me out with the rubbish
to drop me on the polished floor

like my little writing desk
and my blue dress

I chip too


[ I'll always be daddy's little girl... but there was a time, when without warning, he became Dad.  I don't know where my daddy went, but I'll always love him... I'll always be his little girl.  my daddy bought me the little blue desk.  my daddy picked out that dress.    ....Dad loves this house. ...It's a great house.  He built it, out of stone, you know, on a hill... ]

Monday, July 11, 2011

number of.

this is the list thing I wrote on Saturday at the library.

lakes peacefully viewed: 1
therapists seen: 2
kittens fostered: 13
kennels slept in: 1
assignments not turned in: 7
English assignments not turned in: 0
rings: 3
painted fingernails: 9
pairs of broken shoes: 1
breaths just breathed: 4
number of scratches: 85
number of freckles: 32
hours slept last night: 8
hours slept the night before: 3
brothers: 1
blue marks: 14
cookies devoured: 731
boyfriends: 1
trolls kissed: 1
times I’ve been wrong:
            something serious: 2
            not so serious: 493,026
tomatoes in a basket: 12
times swimming this summer: 1
distance to closest pool from home: 10 feet
fish dead: 16
squares on the ceiling of the kitchen in my first house: 351
phone calls:
            made: 89
            received: 54
            missed: 109
bracelets: 2
shoes under the table: 10
letters in my name: 17
birthdays had: 16
birthdays celebrated: 4
posters: 11
relatives it takes to break the sound barrier: 4
pills taken: 147
pills not taken: 167
countries visited: 8
photographs taken: 36,794

Tuesday, June 28, 2011


     A lantern swung about in the wind after a thunderstorm's wrath struck a small, sleepy village. Clouds obscured the stars while rivulets of fallen rain trickled and tumbled through the streets. Somehow, despite the water and wind, a flame still flickered in the lantern. The hatch on the side, cast open by the wind, left the flame exposed to wicked winds and torrential downpours.
     However, in the midst of the storm, a villager was awakened. In his nightclothes, he walked into the street and latched the lantern shut. With a hand on the pole supporting the lantern, he watched the sky as the clouds dissolved into a black, starlit void.

Friday, June 24, 2011


     Dim, murky lights, despite how little or how much heat they may generate, look warm to me. They emit a sense of coziness. Yellow and orange hues of incandescence feel familiar and comfortable to us. But then, the bright fluorescent bulbs and tubes we surround ourselves with look cold. The photons from those lights harshly sting our eyes. They have no capacity for familiarity or comfort -- they are strangers.
     I'd rather sit with you, beneath incandescent lights and a warm blanket, than with strangers in a storm of icy eyes and cold shoulders.

Monday, June 20, 2011

The beginning of that book that I'm writing. I'm almost halfway done with almost all of it! :D

“The bunnies, the bunnies!” he sings to me.
“Can I eat them?” I question, my face merely inches, no millimeters, from his. 
“No, Fia” he whispers while brushing my hair from my eyes. “Time does not allow it.”
“Then, will you kiss me?” I say nervously, biting my lip.
“Time does not allow...” he trails off while his eyes fixed on something behind me. 
“Go! Run! Now!” he screams as he vanishes.

The thunder rolls across the sky, carrying thick, heavy rain that breaks in through my window, waking me to yet another torturous night, Startled by a banging window, I sit up in bed. My breath comes out harsh and shallow.

“The window” I breathe. 

Shakily, I climb out of bed and stumble over to my now soaked carpet just below the broken window. 

“Great. Now the stinkbugs will have a nice, damp environment.” I sigh.

I reach to close the window but then stop. There’s...something out in the rain. Barley noticeable, I squint to be sure, is a teenage boy with hair matted and tangled against his scalp. 

“Andrew?” My voice wavers, I clear it and shake my head.

I squinch my eyebrows in confusion just as the boy walks three more paces and then vanishes. Jerking backwards in shock, I slam the window down, loose my balance, spin around quickly, my ginger hair flying out of its loose ponytail, and promptly fall to the floor.

Well, that was graceful.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

the source of music.

I picked up my old violin today.  I had't played in over a year, and I was very nearly surprised to find I'd missed it.  Beginning with book one, I played through my Suzuki repertoire, applying the same passion to "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" as to Dvorak's "Humouresque".  I caught myself swaying.  Though I played the strings like a child - sloppily, notes spilling onto one another like a haphazard fountain - I was happy to do so; to behold the old, damaged-but-beautiful instrument (chipped varnish and all), to pull forth music from paper, to surprise myself by still remembering nearly every piece by heart.

I'd forgotten how potent this joy was, the joy of being the source of music.

[The  majority of my paragraphs are going to be coming from blog posts on this bloggetty blog thing.  Is that laziness, or just resourcefulness?]

Thursday, June 16, 2011

tuesday afternoons.

The afternoons are colourless here.  The greens - if any exist - are pale and sleepy, the browns and greys become dominant, and the sky acts as an uncomfortable, too-warm wool blanket, drained of blueness.  The only object of interest in the blank sky is the moon at night.  It shines with an alarming intensity, too bright for the heat we've had here.  Granted, temperatures have fallen, and thank goodness for it - one can only handle sitting in a boiling pot for so long, even if it is one's home-town.

Monday, June 13, 2011

It's the summer, I have no brain.

Train of thought . . . traaaaaaaaain of . . . what happens when your train of thought crashes? Writing about ranting. No. Ranting about writing. . .? Something. Jenna and Miranda are being distracting. This is going to be so difficult to do this summer. Maybe I should try and center my thoughts. Ok so I'm seeing my mind. Big and squishy. Being pushing onto a tiny dot. It's balancing. There, right . . . in . . . the center. See, now it's balanced! It's centered on . . . jolly ranchers. Or jello. Maybe both? The door monsters are coming and you're first prize. Should you die inside out or flee to the hills of the fresh beaten yesterday? You know, the problem with mixing this and that is that the that becomes this and the this becomes that and then there's no more this and that but rather that and this and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how you write a paragraph.


Sunday, June 12, 2011

Paper Army

The hands laughed, joyful, full laughs, their silky palms coming together in rudimentary claps. The fair skin of these small hands was the color of uncreamed milk, a silky, smooth, white color; an unmarred surface only a child's hands can provide. their palms were pink, the color of unripened cherries, still hanging from the blossoming tree. The hands played with the fun things the face had brought them, crumpling them and listening to the wonderful sounds; tasting the rough surface, like the marbled stones that lie under the croaking frog.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Paper Army

The two hands peered around as they rested upon the worn, wooden planks. "Here you go honey." The large face with wide red lips and dark brown eyes peered down at the two small hands, and they peered back; at awe with the smile and the sweet words. Before the hands the face put sheets of rough paper, brilliant colors; purple like the blooming lilacs, green like the croaking frog. white as the great fluffy clouds that always escaped the hands, no matter how high they reached. the face put even more wonderful things before the hands; smooth little brown things, with holes that broke up the otherwise even plain. There was thin stuff taht was smooth, and brown, but creased like the small child's hands, and rough with this repetitive texture.

Another Story about Jane

For anyone who wasn't at the meeting thingity today, or if there was some kind of profound comment you needed to make.

I give you: Jane's quest for a Porsche.


Jane really needed a Porsche. Not because she was vain, or materialistic, or anything. No, really - she just needed to arrive to a party in a Porsche. 

Jane didn’t have much going for her. She stole toilet paper from work, she was stuck in a cubicle with 3 men – one enormous in girth, one enormously obnoxious, and one, rude, intolerable punk – she didn’t know how to apply eyeliner, and she managed to singe off one of her eyebrows recently in a very unfortunate toaster oven accident. 

Of course, as is natural in the world, Jane’s friends were quite the opposite. One was a very successful, lesbian comedian – she had been on Ellen three times to date, and Portia wasn’t too happy to see her returning again. One was a lovely Swedish model, which really requires no elaboration. And one was a famous author of numerous self-help books, which helped millions of people worldwide except the person they were written about. 

This is why Jane had begun to lie. She invented a traveling lover who visited her all the time, except when she might be able to introduce him to people. She invented multiple episodes of intense office intrigue; including a terrible fax accident with compromising photos from upper management to various other men in the company. 

These lies were harmless, as they could never be proven true but could never really be proven false. Jane’s downfall was when she decided to lie about the Porsche. Apparently, a ridiculous bonus was given to her as hush money and she had, as any sensible person would, blown this bonus on a new Porsche.

Jane was beside herself now – she needed a Porsche to cover her tracks, to keep up the charade.

You see – when you “buy a Porsche” people tend to want to see it, and you tend to say “sure, you can see it sometime” because you think that day will never come. But it does, and then you’re screwed. Luckily, Jane may be a clumsy liar, a terrible toaster oven operator, and a generally plain, unappealing person in general – but she can be pretty clever when she reaches a new level of desperation.

Naturally, Jane understands that she can’t just walk into a Porsche dealer for a test drive, because Jane is not Megan Fox nor does she have some kind of sparkly credit card with a credible, recognizable bank. Jane is Jane and she banks with the Bank of the Mattress, located in her shoddy apartment.

But, Jane can test drive a Porsche if she turns up in a Mercedes, and she can test drive a Mercedes if she turns up in a SAAB, and she can test drive a SAAB if she turns up in a late-model Ford. Jane can likely sucker the Ford guys on foot.

Jane is successful in the Ford dealership, mostly due to poor sales and lack of women in the office, and quickly works her way up to a Mercedes, which she promptly slides into a Porsche dealership and then asks for the coveted test drive. At first, she’s greeted with suspicion, because she does not look like a typical Mercedes owner. She does not smell like a Mercedes owner. She really should not be driving this Mercedes, but, she is. And the Porsche salesman likes commissions because he’s a car salesman and they tend to enjoy such things, though the same cannot be said for Volkswagen dealers, who content themselves with stories about the 70’s and drink on the job. 

The Porsche is glorious. Jane cannot feel her butt because of the uncomfortable seats. She can barely see the road because of the odd tilt of the windshield. She nearly kills herself and countless others when she hits the gas and rockets off at too many miles per hour. Jane thinks she could get used to this. Jane is feeling very cool.

“Vendela!” Jane calls when she arrives to her Porsche’s unveiling party. She calls from the Porsche with the window rolled down, because that's what someone with a cool Porsche can do.

“Jane! So good to see you, darling!”

Vendela, the Swedish model – the blonde bombshell on the Victoria’s Secret commercials; the one’s you pretend you aren’t watching – quickly ushers Jane into her loft and loses her within seconds to a massive crowd of important people. Yes. Because when you are a Swedish supermodel you can walk around with a name like Vendela and people still want to talk to you. Designers, models, rappers, actresses, actresses’ men-on-the-side who double as gardeners, and countless other infinitely more fabulous people than Jane flittered around. Jane still feels cool – Jane arrived in a Porsche and her keys are sticking out of her “Coach for the street corner” purse.

Jane feels much less cool when she is taken from the party in handcuffs for stealing a car from a Porsche dealership. Apparently, they don’t want you to test drive a vehicle for 12 hours – they tend to believe something is up when this occurs. 

Jane hits rock bottom when she needs to acquire bail from her friends. 

Jane doesn’t think she’ll lie anymore. 

Then she thinks about toilet paper supplies at work – and decides not to lie anymore to her friends. The company is still fair game.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

If You Could Touch Air

Two poems today! :)

If You Could Touch Air

all you had to do
was gasp
for Air
and the magic within
it who gives Life

intangible things seem
to disappear so quickly
and sometimes you forget
they’re there

if you could touch
Air, what would
you say? if he could
hear you,
would you ask him
why he exists?

and Life? her, too.
she seems to be an
aloof character at times
and a lack of
oxygen befuddles
your mind

it’s clear, though
how much you love
and rely on them,
one and the same

isn’t each breath you
take or
don’t take
a decision?

but for every person
who calls Life a gift
and Air a necessity,
there will be another to
differ and dissent

“isn’t it strange to
think,” they’ll tell you, “that
in the end gifts and
necessities are removed from
your being
in one fell swoop?”

and so it is
that the things others will
beg you
to see are invisible and
only noticed when
taken away


I apologize for my incompetency at this posting regulary business!


for a million days
she was sitting there
twirling a strand
of her tangled hair

not that a million
days could fit in
that moment—more
likely it was just
a minute

but who gets to s
ay how long a
heart stays frozen?

ice will thaw its
white, transparent
 cracked self, eventually

she had a theory
of a fiery heart
that once burned
with life

something could steal that
fire away
with the instant its
own fire went out

and so her flame
had turned into a
small kindle

it’s only as orange
as the setting sun

the setting sun that
trickles away holding
its light on the world
each second it can, until
it’s gone

for a million nights
sat there
twirling hair
dark night
heart ice