Young Writers Society

#12 - runs (music)
the joys of playing second lie in runs across the break and the compromise of not squeaking your ears out or the low and pretty to play the harmony - it’s not the rhythm that will break you, it’s the transposed violin that jumps between Eb and C and leaves no room for transition. It’s not the rhythm, it’s the fighting fingers and breath and notes that don’t come out that lead to exposed divisi that only is melodic if you don’t get lost in the details.

#13

#14
it’s cloudy again and i almost long for sun
when the AC won’t turn off and the wind whistles
through the cracks in the doors that were never quite sealed
and the trees bend, reaching closer to the ground with each gust
that smells a little bit more like rain.

the ground is still dry, and only the wind relieves the thickening humidity.

#15
we’ve forgotten what full sun feels like
between passing breaks in the clouds



#16
the sun warms the cool air
that tears itself apart in seeking winter
(at night)
and summer
(at noon)
and leaves bugs bigger than my first kiss
splattered across the windshield
like you drove down 5 in the middle of June
just asking for a bath in guts and smeared dreams
left by the side of a four-lane highway to nowhere.

the space between pants and tank tops and shared blanket
is found between your fingers.

#17
lines come reaching from 10 years past
to pull back -
they scratch and cradle and pick at wounds
long healed over and buried:

the ones that never leave, no matter how much distance rests
between then and now.

#18
the hills are green and we don’t know what to make
of winter that hasn’t entirely left us for spring:

they’re warning that fire season will be worse than drought years
for all the new fuel that’s growing.

#19
the chords don’t come out right
when compared to half-remembered whispers
of a melody heard through rustling leaves -
not headphones and played attempts
of amateurs that reach just beyond
the limits of ability and patience.

Mesh, I really liked #9 -- does it make sense now?

@Hannah - I'm liking leaving it as it is, right now! It still doesn't entirely feel finished to me, but that'll be something to play with later. Of course, later may end up meaning this weekend, but we'll see.

In the meantime, though:

#20
april is a month of juxtaposition:
cool breeze, warm sun,
and the lukewarm rain that makes
every jacket uncomfortable.

i sit in goosebumps at night
thanking the stars it’s still cool
enough to sleep.

#21
you were layers steeped too long
along the coast stained red and bleached
by summer sun that never knew its strength.

#22
i never liked even numbers because they never belonged to me:
sixteen was less mine
than 17 ever was -
eighteen and twenty were exercises in insanity
(and never learning that hard limits do not change for boys)
to twenty-eight in resigned monotony
and trying not to look too close beyond the horizon.

Don't even ask me what these are. I don't even know. And I need to catch up on my napo reading, still.


#23
thump thump thump
of early summer
brackets bright days and windy nights
that cool off enough to hint at winter
and the relief that only happens
at dawn in midsummer
in the calm before the mosquitos wake.

#24
the neighbor is out again
until half an hour past sundown
because spring lends more hours
to shoot baskets than the porch light in winter

#25
8 o’clock is no longer sacred -
dark, silent, and prone to monsters that lurk
just out of the light
and glowing eyes

8 o’clock is no longer sacred
to things that go bump in the night

#26
lights go on
nets go up
children shout into the dark

dogs bark
as they take over the park
from cars that flee as games wind down
and summer lights up with a spark.

#27
hot tea on a summer morning
leaves condensation and sweat
dripping down cheeks, adding
trickles that stick shirt to spine
because heat plus heat equals
liquid state.


#28
i know my tea pot inside and out, imperfections and plastic lip and toosmalllid and the knowledge that gifts cannot be returned to sender no matter how well-intentioned because giving a model number to a unit that won’t slowly poison from the inside is the stuff that builds the path to hell, because it’s not the giving that’s the problem; it’s the asking.

#29
3% humidity in a sea of grass
[remnants of a too wet winter
and April swings from hail to
steam to wind]
stripped bare by mid-season wind
storms barely hide the wild rabbits
[new this season of abundance]
and mosquitos that twirl from bare skin
to warmed mud and back again
to race against fleeing feet
and a dry season compounded
by extra fuel and still-wet creaks
better suited to Arkansas in August
than California spring.

#30
i hold the ace of hearts in my hand -
never played.

Haha looks like I'm not the only one who had to do a last-minute binge-write. Congrats on finishing!

It always feels strange reading your NaPo when everything here is always SO WET. I'm just like, take some of our rain we clearly don't need as much as we get. But I love that when I'm reading through your thread everything feels hot and dusty and I'm thirsty. I think you communicated that really well!