closet poet? probably not.

I am feeling extremely frustrated at the measly 486 words of my fiction piece for creative writing. I sat in the library and started it over and over again. I hated it and deleted it at least 4 times. Finally I gave up and went on a run hoping the fall air and probably the last bit of sunshine for a while would clear my head. Sadly inspiration didn't come on that run. When an idea (thanks to kira) started to appear on my word document I realized- of those 486 words not a signal one of them so far is made up.
Let's face it... making up stories isn't one of my talents. I have been nervous for this unit in my creative writing class all semester. I ate up the non-fiction like dinner on a fast Sunday. I gritted my teeth through the poetry assignments. I'm not a poet but I loved the reading my professor asked us to do in preparation for class each day. I didn't always find the confusing stanzas so incredible like many of my classmates and chuckled as my friend Matt whispered "do you think they would say the same things if I wrote that?" No Matt... if your name was E. E. Cummings you could write "red rabbit run" and they would say it was original and profound but until then, no.
And with that said here are a couple of my poems from class.

Inspired by Love Poem with Toast by Miller Williams

  

Love Poem with (Chocoloate Peanut butter and Banana) Breakfast Essentials Smoothie

Some of what I hope, I hope

to see shoot star wishes come true.

that I’ll get an A, that I’ll find a job I love,

that I’ll have a happily ever after.

The rest of what I hope, I hope

to come out on top.

that I’ll graduate without too much debt, that depression will stay where I left it,

that old wounds with new layers of skin heal completely.

With hundreds of forks in the road

shaping my journey through life,

I make decisions, the best I can, experimenting.

deciding what to eat,

deciding what to wear,

deciding who to love,

deciding how much or how little,

deciding to keep trying,

deciding when to quit,

deciding what time to set the alarm,

deciding to pick up an extra shift,

deciding what is appropriate,

deciding when to make the jump,

as I wonder and worry

not knowing what to expect,

as I evaluate the coming day,

as the to do list gets longer and the dreams get wilder,

I sip my breakfast drink and anticipate.

One of the many things I planned on but never got around to blogging about inspired this "imagistic poem"

The lights go down slowly,

as energy quickly rises.

Hundreds of strangers

brought together for a few hours to never see each other again,

standing shoulder to shoulder anxiously gazing into glaring lights.

Lights flash first blazing white then fire red,

blinding and mesmerizing.

Burning your eyes but holding your gaze.

Soaking in rhythmic drum beats

enchanting hips and heads to sway left then right.

The mood drops to something sentimental.

Stars twinkle from iPhone flashlights

as robotically arms go into the air.

Throats soar, feet aching

backs and necks sticky with sweat.

The final cord is struck in a fireworks of lights

and fan girl screams.

The lights go back up,

the energy  drops,

the arena empties.

Room of Hearts

I walked into a room that I would now call mine.  While I had been away my younger, funnier, smarter brother had moved his things into my bigger, darker, and more grown up room and my things into his.  I knew it was going to happen and wasn’t surprised when he followed me downstairs to see my reaction to the switch.

When I opened the door to what I consider his room but everyone else considers my room I was hit by sensory overload of color. Covering every inch of every wall were paper hearts.  There were hearts attached to strings hanging from the ceiling, hearts strung to the fan and hearts lining the window. They were all a little different. Each had been hand cut and lovingly stapled into the wall. I was surprised to hear that Dad not only approved but helped staple hundreds of holes into the walls.

Michael, the same brother who had commandeered my room was given credit for the hours and hours that had gone into this part of my welcome home. Michael told me that he had cut hearts late into the night watching endless episodes of The Walking Dead for weeks leading up to my return until Mom and Dad made him stop. I chuckled a little as I pictured my over six foot tall, basketball is life mindset, 18 year old brother sitting in his room late at night with a set of scissors and stack of paper. The image still sends a warm fuzzy feeling to my stomach.

I had been gone for a year and a half and along with the hearts a big Canadian flag hung on my wall, right above my bed. I had spent 18 months away from my loving family on a religious mission. One of the best parts of the time I spent away from them was hand cutting and taping hearts on the every door of every member of my church who lived within a 40 minute driving range. I remember my hand aching and blisters beginning to form from cutting countless hearts. I had sent many pictures and e-mails home to my family about the activity. It had impacted me a great deal.

That was what I thought of each time I walked into my new room and looked at all of the hearts. That is why 9 months later not a single heart has been taken down. The fan still hasn’t been turned on -even in the hundred plus desert heat. The cool air wasn’t worth the risk of knocking hearts down.
As the hearts that had been tied to string and taped to the ceiling began to fall down I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away but instead stacked them carefully on the dresser. I wanted to keep every heart.

Those hearts brought peace to my soul as I came back to a new world and a new room. They reminded me that even when he was sassy, my younger brother loved me. They symbolized the two parts of my life that are most important to me- the love of those who welcomed me home and the love I had for those I had to leave behind.

***I'm in a creative writing class this semester. One of my most favorite things to do is write in this blog. It is the reason I decided to explore that part of myself and take this class. It is going to seriously challenge my not always so creative writing. I'm excited.

Words are powerful. I wrote about the hearts in my bedroom because they meant something to me. In class we exchanged papers in small groups and talked about everyone's pieces. I was struck by how each piece said something different to each person. I think that is why as humans we like creative writing or music or visual art. We don't have to be the author for it to speak to us.

I write very honestly. There isn't a whole lot of guessing. I'm going to work on that vague or mysterious part of writing. It'll be hard for me because I'm not vague. I'm a say it how it is kind of girl. Hopefully over the course of the semester I'll learn to write more deeply and powerfully. You'll have to be the judge because what better place to keep a few of the things I write than my corner of the internet.

xoxo