some poetry

My senior year of high school, I enrolled in a creative writing class.  It just so happens that poetry IS a form of creative writing.  ;) And so with no prior experience, I began writing many poems and after lots of practice began to enjoy it.  Hence, I decided to share a few:

We were assigned to write a love poem for Valentine's Day. And despite my obsession with romance novels and weddings, I really don't have a love life. Instead, I chose to write this poem about the old Highway 91 I drive everyday.

"The Road Home"

Her windy road is

predictable,

only because I’ve driven it

hundreds of times.

Her red rock,

building around me,

listens to the echoes of

my rants, my cries,

my outbursts in song.

The blues of her reservoir,

glistening in the reflection

of the sun,

remind me to breathe,

to be quiet,

to relax.

Her distant mountains,

the cerulean silhouette

against the clouds,

gives me courage, support,

I can do this.

Her road

leads me home.

Each day of the quarter we learned a new "word of the day." For this poem we were assigned to include all the "words of the day" we had learned up to this point.

"Lack of Inspiration"

This was no exiguous task,

no ode or elegy.

It was a mandala of

impervious inspiration,

impossible breakthrough.

I rehearsed my valediction

in the back of my mind

as I struggled for etymology,

even exiguous etymology,

before I lost my equanimity.

But the propensity in my

dissident self urged me instead

to exacerbate the situation

with the behavior of an iconoclast.

Not a tinge of compunction

crept into my cogitation

as I deviated from former

ways, unsure and insecure

of what direction to take,

but trudging forward

anyhow.

Here is a poem about a little mountain/hill by my house I love to hike to when I just need time to be alone--to be still.

"Still"

Slippery rocks

sharp rocks

sound like shards of glass

clinking together

as the dogs follow me

up the sandy, steep slope.

Open sky

blue sky

coated with the glow

of the sun,

the setting sun that

casts shadows on the prickly bushes,

torn bushes, 

dry, crackled bushes.

I tuck my knees in close

on the cold

rough boulder;

the one that sits tallest

the scuffed boulder

the color of charcoal.

Steady,

scarred lava rock

lines the tops of the mountains

behind me,

dotted with clumps of sagebrush.

Familiar

spurting sprinklers

water the alfalfa fields below

their rhythm calming me.

Chh-ch, chh-ch, chh-ch.

My eyes follow the vivid

green trees

that weave through the valley,

the taller trees

that follow the flow of the creek

between the azure,

rolling hills.

Hushed wind

sharp wind

soothing wind

rises and falls,

pulling and pushing,

taking and giving.

And I sit--

still.

And here is a poem about my beloved creative writing teacher whom I absolutely loved and learned so much from.

"Filling Cups"

She sits at her desk,

penciling in notes and filing papers,

reading and rereading,

Marking and erasing.

She fingers the golden cross

hanging so delicately around her neck.

we await the smile of approval,

or the pursed lips of disappointment.

Her laugh, contagious and light,

eases the stress, the misunderstanding,

the confusion.

She reads smoothly, strongly, steadily,

her voice never missing a beat.

Her passion increases our thirst--

our thirst for knowledge and skill and ability.

And she offers us the cup.

We had the opportunity to write a free-choice poem. I had always wanted to write a poem about piano but didn't want it to be super cliche. And so I decided to base my poem off of one of the contemporary pieces Cherileigh learned and played fantastically well.

"Sontata no. 1, 4th Movement | Ginastera"

Her fingers bounce

repeatedly,

rhythmically,

nonstop,

striking chords sharply

and accurately

they ring--

the chords--

stinging the air,

energy rising,

rolling on,

fingers springing,

building

with intensity

and volume,

vigorously

piercing each key,

black and white

clashing with dissonance,

resounding

with the last

note.

Here's a poem that had a slightly specific form to it, one that included all the five senses. The purpose was to make an abstract idea more concrete.

"Uncontainable"

Excitement is the color of the brightest blue sky,
the rush of screams on a roller coaster,
the scent of rain before a storm,
the first juicy, crisp watermelon,
the countdown on a calendar,
the sudden take off of an airplane.
I can't contain it.

And last of all, this is one of my favorite poems. We had to write about our favorite place.

"Nauvoo: City Beautiful"

Humidity clings to me

the moment I step outside;

my body soaks it in 

with no escape.

My heart pumps 

and my feet pound

past the towering corn fields

drowned in green, 

the tips of the corn blurring

against the pale blue sky.

The swing of my arms propels me

around the corner

down Mulholland Street

where I feel the rising sun 

warming my neck.

The faded road is empty of cars

but full of anticipation for the new day.

I run across cracked sidewalks, past T-shirt tents,

catch a glimpse in the windows of the fudge factory.

At last I reach the fence and continue to the front gates

‘til I see the glistening of the river,

its gentle ebb and flow.

Then I stop.

I turn to face the sun behind me.

I look up.

I see white,

an erect structure,

stained glass,

peace.

Its walls reach up,

the tower,

the golden angel,

the trumpet.

I stand on sacred ground.