Young Writers Society

Up, up, and awaaaaaaaaaaaay!

1.

I. Then

Once she used to know
where the fairies go
and how
to show
herself to those she knows.

II. Now

She's forgotten how to speak
she's starting to feel weak
and meets
defeat
as tears run down her cheeks.

7.54

The golden ratio of beauty.
They say all the models have it.

Widow's peak to chin
width of brow and
width of nose
mouth to nose
ear to nose
vertical to horizontal
symmetry
a perfect ten

Beauty is no longer
in the eye of the beholder.
It has been reduced to a mathematical equation
the way students reduce fractions in class
reduce the life of a man named Joe
to the amount of change he will receive
if he buys 13 watermelons at 69 cents a pound
and pays with a twenty.

Golden ratio
golden goose
golden egg
golden touch

King Midas did not turn out so well.
What's so wonderful
about
gold?

Lovely sounds there in the first part and an interesting construction.

I like the concept of 2, but I'm not sure the transition from math to gold was smooth enough. The comparison was made apparent in the 1st line, but then we kept going forwards from it and I forgot P: But this line:

if he buys 13 watermelons at 69 cents a pound
and pays with a twenty.

Srsly is gold, because I was trying to do the math in my head and the confusion/frustration of a mathematical parameter for beauty hit me full force.

I.
One summer she spent
holed up in the kitchen,
canning homemade jam.

In August I announced
that I only liked jelly.

II.
She tells me,
If anyone asks you
if your mama's Catholic
and can she make a roux,

you can say yes.

III.

One winter we built
a sled-hill from the snow
dumped on our corner by the plows.

Four hours she traipsed
up and down our three-foot hill with us.

IV.

Over bad Mexican food I tell her,
Our friends are having a second baby.
We’re jealous.

At this talk of grandchildren,
she sighs and wishes
that she were not moving to Virginia.




(I know it needs more, like one more verse or something, but this is all I've got after like a week of working on this. More time for fixing in May.)

acclaim the rain
green spring sprang
away with pain
and winter lanes
green spring sprang
o'er the plain
attain champagne
constrain disdain
acclaim the rain
the rain the rain
the rain the rain
acclaim!

(Halfway nonsensical, but it's the first warm spring rain of the year here and it's making me feel AWESOME.)

BlueAfrica wrote:I.
One summer she spent
holed up in the kitchen,
canning homemade jam.

In August I announced
that I only liked jelly.

II.
She tells me,
If anyone asks you
if your mama's Catholic
and can she make a roux,

you can say yes.

III.

One winter we built
a sled-hill from the snow
dumped on our corner by the plows.

Four hours she traipsed
up and down our three-foot hill with us.

IV.

Over bad Mexican food I tell her,
Our friends are having a second baby.
We’re jealous.

At this talk of grandchildren,
she sighs and wishes
that she were not moving to Virginia.




(I know it needs more, like one more verse or something, but this is all I've got after like a week of working on this. More time for fixing in May.)

Wow. I love this poem. You worked on this for a week? It definitely shows. It's so emotional and simple, speaking volumes more than what's actually written. (The first line, the narrator announcing that she doesn't really like jam, is great!)

^^

I measure my life in
TV shows

I could watch
The Simpsons at 6
and Big Bang Theory at 7
then at 8 a Lifetime movie
and at 10 American Dad.

Then eat.

At 11 more Simpsons
at midnight Futurama
or maybe I'll cruise around
Netflix
or pop in a DVD.

Then sleep.

Then wake up.
Work
school
come home
homework
in front of the TV

and it starts all over.

Bookivore

Rip crackle smack
Mmmm
gobbling up pages
like French fries.

Page after page
after page,
never enough
to satisfy.

Curled up in an
arm chair
like I'm eating
a TV dinner,

curled up in an
arm chair
with my nose
buried in a book
to breathe in

the delicious
new book old book
smell.

New book fresh
as a plate of sushi,
the words as raw
and wild and risky
as a bite of smoked fish.

Old book like
the family pasta sauce
my father makes.

Book after book,
meal after meal,
filling up my soul
instead of my stomach.

Sometimes I feel like
the distant city lights that are
muted by the dark and the rain
but
sometimes I feel like
the freeway lights shining
red and white on all the cars
lined up bumper to bumper
in the dying light
instead.

Hope

The future finally shines before me
after so many months of darkness,
a distant horizon beckoning adventure,
casting shadows behind me instead of in front.

I rise to greet it like the morning:
my soles curling against the dewy grass,
my palms touching the whiteness of the early sun,

at last feeling strong
and excited
and unafraid.

The Garden

Hibiscus flaring sunset-colored blooms
in the dry heat of a Hundred Summer
Hummingbird moths pausing over
the sharp musk of lavender as if
choosing from a menu
The soft scent of roses drifting
through the air like lazy bees
Gerbera daisies bending their heads
in exhaustion from the heat
Canna lilies arching slender stalks
over snapdragons and mint leaves
in the slanting golden light
of a summer afternoon
as I sit back on my heels in
the cool soil and soft grass
and read a book.

Prayer of a White Woman

Forgive me, oh Africa,
according to the multitude of thy mercies.

The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver

I have sinned against you,
born as I was to a race of ghosts
who pull money in hand over fist
like the fishing nets of your people.

Wash my whiteness away with the depths
of your rivers,
the cool crocodile depths
of hidden hippos twitching their ears
and wildebeest crossing carefully in migration.

The sins of my fathers run deep.
They have seen your civilization and called it
savage,
enslaved your people and stripped your lands bare,
fed you with one hand
and shackled you with the other.

Forgive me.

Cleanse me with palm wine,
gird me in raffia,
paint my face with clay and loam
and erase my whiteness and the sins against you
so that we may live together as we should:

You my mother,
the land where humans once crawled
from the rifts on their hands and knees,
and I your child,
the prodigal daughter,
glad to return to you at last.

She dove into the Baltic just to feel
the frigid water smooth against her skin
and scaled the Ural Mountains like the bear:
to see what she could see on the other side
of Narodnaya.

She hiked the Balkans next,
hiding small secret things in
their woods and creeks, dark with summer:
silk-furred mink and padding lynx.
And then she trekked the Serengeti,
keeping company with
giraffes who watched for danger
and straddled the water's edge for a drink.

In Melbourne she listened
to the legend of Baiame
and the creation of the world and all beings
during Dreamtime;
in Tiwanaku she watched the Aymara yatiri
raise their palms to the solstice sun
after the longest night of the southern year;
then took a canoe down the Amazon River
to swim with pink dolphins.

But when she came home,
she slept wrapped in sheets like
the mummies she'd seen in Cairo:
alone, beautiful, and perfectly preserved.
Instead of mountain paths and woodland trails
she walked the city streets,
her hair blown back by diesel winds.

She came home only to leave again.
Only to rest on cotton sheets
when she would have preferred a bed
with the swift green scent of grass.


(Not sure this one is done, either. I'm having a hard time ending it.)

I only want to
find a cave with a downy
bed and hibernate

like a drowsy bear
fatted for winter on a
diet of honey.