Long Time No

2010-07-26T14:32:00.001-04:00

Years, literally, have gone by, but I blame this on myself more than anything else.

I found this cute site where you can see who you write like, in theory. My results said that I write like James Joyce, and I'm sure the poor man is turning in his grave. Sorry James!

I write like
James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

In time, I hope to break back into the world of writing. This is the plan at least.

Below Par

2009-02-06T09:31:00.003-05:00

Winter in Worcester is unkind, a cold hard slap against an already battered cheek. Months slip by, drops of condensation down the tiny window’s frame.
Somewhere, my inner poet dies a little. Wondering where the words have gone.
In a few weeks, I will officially be a graduate, which makes me want to both dance with joy and shake in my boots a bit. For our university’s annual poetry contest, I have been prepping a few olds poems, mostly the one below, but I’m not sure about it yet:

Dear Howard,

When I read the words hung
from your spine, the slippery
image of your face after sleep
emerges and solidifies.
Out on the library steps,
I think of flimsy wings,
the sameness of it all.
Love pops like a spit bubble.
Although not a hero,
this simple sameness
courses through my tissues
and grains. Your words of skies
and leaves and love all the same.
What does it all mean?
If I could call myself a poet,
tie the loose tassels of my journal
to the truck’s bumper, I would be
forever scrapping. To fall behind
the world and its weight, to drag
down the lines of my face with
tired hands, to trace the white lips
that speak of pica. What does poetry
mean to a simple minded woman
from the depths of New Jersey?
More than any poem, library steps
regardless, can capture.
The raw, bold essence of our love
is limitless. Arrange the letters
in an order that resembles truth.
Perchance, moving some unmovable
heart to feel again. To pump the blood
with a heart so small. Feel the pulse
in every second. This is what poetry means.
A bird may build so many nests,
charging, wet to the touch,
and take them south to other woods.
The sky, like fifty billion pieces of frozen glass,
must feel all woods the same,
the wooden frame of the room never built.
Their love, his love, the same, the same,
keeping it all inside.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to work on creating new material lately, so I hope I can get some recognition. If not, it’s just another day in paradise here.
Getting a barking cough and swollen glands is not ideal during the semester. Wish me good health, peace, and chicken soup.

Wet Moons and Poetic Justice

Long Time No

Below Par