Glass Garden

11 04 2012

Fragile glass garden

So sharp and picturesque

Flowers of ice

Transparent leaves

Glass Garden

Nothing dies

It simply shatters

No one walks

No birds sing

To enter is to bleed

On sinister shards

The ornate bench

Is not for sitting

The daisies are not

For plucking and placing

Behind your ear

Blatantly untouchable

Starkly impersonal

Cold glass garden

 

Shhh, be quiet

 

A rose just fell

Did you see it shine

And tease the light

Into revealing its true colors

Brilliant hues

Of stolen colors

That’s what makes it

This glass garden

Stolen shades

And delicate glass

Suspended above

Bloody footsteps

 

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I’ve Missed This Place!

2 04 2012

Well, hello dear friends. It’s been a while. At first, I wasn’t getting on because my muse had lost its oomph, so to speak. It still hasn’t been regained, but I’m working on it.  I was also going through a lot of personal changes as well. Still am, but when do they stop? I also had lost sight of my original intentions for this blog. Poetry is a lost art. It is a fantastic way to convey messages, ideas, and opinions. I think it is topics like this that will make this art relevant. I think poetry needs to be made more accessible. In English, we read poets from centuries ago. I enjoy these poets and their genius, but most do not. I think it is time we started teaching poetry of our contemporaries. I’ve read poems on here that should be in my literature book. They are written to a modern audience. They are in the vernacular, so to speak.

I started this blog to write, share, and enjoy the written word. But I started paying attention to views and followers and comments. All very good indicators, but they take away from this blog as an outlet for my feelings and were beginning to add stress. So, I stopped for a breath.

I haven’t written very much recently and what I have written is very different, I think, from what I used to write. I did, and still do, analyze issues in society. The past few weeks, months (I haven’t counted) have been spent analyzing ME. I started to write solely for the sake of therapy. I refer to those poems as “Chalkboard Me”. I probably will post a few of those in the future, including the introductory one I wrote.

Bottom Line:I’m glad I’m back, but believe me I had to leave





You Painted My World

24 02 2012

Hello!! I’ve been gone forever due to the idiocy of Comcast. They were supposed to cancel my neighbor’s service, but instead cancelled ours and it took a million forevers to get things worked out. Glad to be back!! I’ve missed everybody!!

xoxoAndrea

Imagine the blandest of grays

The darkest of blacks

And the starkest of whites

My world until you shed some light

You painted the grass a verdant green

And the cardinals a regal red

Richly gold became the sun

And the roses a delicate pink

You painted my world

The salty ocean became teal

So vibrant enough to feel

The earth once black

Now a chocolate-brown

The slow soft sunset

You spent so much time

Each orange flash

And the jagged streaks of pink

Sprinting across a palette of red

Still tinged by the day’s baby blue

My world is color because of you





Fake Paternal Love

16 01 2012

– This is a poem I have been needing to write for my entire life.  It’s my first step to healing the wounds my father has inflicted upon me.  You can grasp much of the situation from my verses, but I will tell you more.  My father has never provided for me.  He does not pay child support or medical bills or anything.  My brave, strong, and amazing mother has done everything for me.  They treat her like crap, him and his female dog of a wife. He tries to make me feel guilty about not coming to visit him and about asking him to pay for my school trips.  

This is, I realize, a very angry and vengeful poem and I hope someday I will be able to write one that is not as much so, but that day seems eons away from this one.

 

Not once did you apologize

For all those lies

The endless stream of excuses

A brilliant rage in me induces

Fake paternal love

Is the poison arrow shot

By a cruel hunter at a naive dove

Someday I will make you pay

For treating my mother and I this way

You have no right to chide me

For pointing out the truth

You are an irresponsible child

And make me look like an adult

By never doing as you should

I’d shoot your foot if I could

When I am older

I will rain down on you

A thousand legal boulders

One by one they’ll crush

Till of you there’s naught but mush

Even then I will not have my revenge

My ire will someday fully be released

And all you’ll be able to do is cringe

 





The Dead Villager

14 01 2012

Here I lie

Unseeing eyes

Wanting to cry

Those soldiers have come

In planes so large

They block out the sun

Shots destroy every silent night

My whole word screams but one word, “FIGHT!”

Who said they could come?

Who said they could come

And just take over

Pushing us around

Like a bulldozer

I’ve seen atrocities

That would you astound

And knock you speechless

Flat on the ground

Like me

In this hot desert sand

A worthless olive branch

Limp in my hand

We don’t need them

They think they’re so good

Go back home

Words are for peace

Not soldiers with guns





My Writing Process

9 01 2012

Words flowing

Thoughts stirring

Mind whirring

Pencil writing

Nail biting

Eraser clearing

Lines smudging

Self editing

Idea combining

Hopes climbing

Intense debating

More erasing

Writing is

So frustrating





Paint Me

31 12 2011

            Paint me in a wood

                 Running with the deer

                 Paint me on the beach

Conch up to my ear

Paint me with a book

Sitting on the yard swing

Paint me in the pool

Arms spread like wings

Paint me naive

Before I ever knew

Loved ones leave

Paint me smiling too

Face punctuated by dimples

Life’s original commas

Paint me soft pastel

Preserve my innocence

Then paint me bright and bold

Atop the world in every sense

Paint me pencil in hand

Sewing words together

Paint me with my waist length hair

Adorned by an eagle feather

Paint me as I am

But not what I’m becoming

Paint me in a time

When my visage was truly mine