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So I'm trying to SLOWLY reintroduce myself to the world of writing, after such a long freaking break from it. It's like starting all over or something, dude. So like... this poem is basically me tryin' to figure out what the crap happened, and how in the world that stupid WALL got there. sweatdrop
Once upon a time,
In a world unexplored-
Be Without people,
And be without reward...
We turned to our words.
To writings on the wall.
To colors and sounds,
That would surely save all.
Out there a light shone...
Casting shadows unplanned.
Pulled from our corner
We find courage and stand.
We followed the white...
Through hidden hell- not back.
Somehow split to two,
Where's the voice I now lack?
I remember it...
To want to write aloud!
All the confusion,
My head lost in the cloud.
Now that it has gone,
And taken me... or most,
I'm left with nothing,
Flowering art turned ghost.
So I say to you,
Those still clutching lost hopes,
Always keep them real,
Unbound by tainted ropes.
Don't let mists fool you,
Don't have it born away...
You will need your voice,
Even use it someday.
So hold your dreams safe.
Keep your talent alive.
Grip all your friends close.
And remember to survive.
 Raynai · Sun Jul 23, 2006 @ 02:51am · 0 Comments |
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To be a Thomas/To Have a Heart >.< Whichever. (26) |
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So this little puppy won meh first place in the Senior Prose division of the Norm Stung Youth Writing Competition sponsored by Outdoor Writers Association of America. Ya'll should tell me what ya think, eh? whee
I knelt behind the fallen log, the secrecy of our business multiplied in my imagination, even though I could barely catch a glimpse of the creature that held the attention of both my older brother and father. The gunshot echoed off the hillsides, ringing in my ears, and I peered over the iced bark with anticipation etched across my eyes. Seconds later I was numbly trudging through the deep snow, my hands in my armpits, following as eagerly as any other member of our trio to the fallen deer. The depth of the white fluff had lessened remarkably under the tree's shelter, and I stood with my brother atop a grizzled root protruding from the ground. My boot absently went to scuffing a divot in the frozen dirt and snow, in hopes of warming those unfeeling appendages.
My father's words faintly brushed over my thoughts. Something about turning around, but all of my attention was focused on the carcass. My young mind knew exactly what had just taken place, and it also realized that the shape laying in front of me was my dinner. Rather abruptly, a horrible smell beyond description intruded upon the crisp scents of winter, pines, and the nylon of my coat. Grimacing, I buried my nose in my collar and looked away toward the white trees farther up the sloping mountain. As my gaze wandered across the unfamiliar wood, my ears were listening to my father's instructions on how to field dress an animal. I found the whole idea uninteresting, especially because I wouldn't even be able to help carry the meat, I being far to young to be anything, save a hindrance.
I slept most of the way home, missing the beautiful sunset peaking between the branches. No matter, there would be one of matching grandeur tomorrow night, for sure. I awoke to my brother shaking my arm, and followed him down from the truck seat. A couple drowsy blinks, accompanied by my father's figure walking around the rig to hand me a slimy piece of something, brought me back to reality. For a fleeting moment I found myself swallowed by disgust, but once I recognized it as the heart, my repulsive instinct fell away and I thought of just how wonderful my portion would taste at supper. A wide smile spread itself across my face, and I carefully gripped the slippery organ behind my back, feeling the way to our log cabin by memory. Light streamed into the driveway as my mother opened the door, her silhouette standing to one side. I thought my secret wonderfully hidden behind my mask of disappointment, unbeknownst to me that my suppressed grin was obvious.
"Did'ya get anything?" my mother called from the doorway, and we three shook our heads. My mom went along with our trick, and played her part well when I revealed the yummy from my shadow.
Later in the evening, I observed quietly the spectacle of my parents hoisting the meat well out of the reach of the dark's creatures. It swung solemnly on hooks from the eaves off the back of the house. I was told the meat would taste better when aged, than if packaged right away. Nevertheless, we dined royally, our meal consisting of fried heart and back strap, brown gravy made from the drippings, dried morels adding their own taste. That night I retired to my old cotton sleeping bag on a hand-crafted bed and aging mattress, my dreams full of sledding and building igloos. Tomorrow those dreams would come true, and I couldn't wait.
I am a Thomas child, and this is how I grew up.
---
Lots of kudos and love to the Spokesman Review, who published this in last Christmas's paper... so that I could enter this contest! whee
Raynai · Sun Jul 16, 2006 @ 02:08am · 0 Comments |
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Empty Cell --Critique-- (#25) |
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Cooked this one up late at night... cuz I couldn't get the image out of my head. XD Still sucks, though. --This is the edited version. 3nodding --
_____
There's a prison devoid of life,
Its walls tall and forboding.
There's a small cell to end the hall,
Its prisoner decoding.
There's sound scribbled across the bricks,
Its letters scattered and torn.
There's a rough hand tracing the lines,
Its owner feeling forlorn.
There's an eye scanning every scratch,
Its pupil round and aware.
There's shackle clanging at all times,
Its chain smooth with endless wear.
There's one rusty chair for sitting,
Its back broken and bent.
There's one stiff blanket for sleeping,
Its cloth filthy and spent.
There's vine growing through the thick bars,
Its leaves grean, healthy, and whole.
There's a click of heals upon the stone,
Its maker black as coal.
There's a grin plastered to his face,
Its teeth are white and gleaming.
There's a cloak upon his shoulders,
Its color red and streaming.
There's a friendship between the two,
Its endurance has proven strong.
There's rescuing planned for tonight,
Its time is not very long.
There's a squeek of un-oiled iron,
Its cause is easily guessed.
There's a clasp of hands in the hall,
Its significance well pressed.
There're quick movements toward the door,
Its observer dead and gone.
There're horses dashing to the woods,
Its trees pink with endless dawn.
There's singing to hear from the hills,
Its writer happy at last.
There're diff'rent notes to be heard,
Its sounds are new stories cast.
Raynai · Tue Feb 14, 2006 @ 05:36am · 0 Comments |
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The Five Senses of a Waterfall (#24) |
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Raynai · Tue Feb 14, 2006 @ 05:24am · 0 Comments |
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Children of the Dewdrop --Critique!-- (#23) |
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It's been so long since I've written poetry!
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She is a dewdrop shimmering,
arrow And playing rays of sun.
Balanced upon a leaf of green,
arrow Her fall has just begun.
It is hard to keep together,
arrow While dodging limbs in fright.
Her little children have not grown--
arrow Unlearned is skill of flight!
Small birds and busy squirrels play;
arrow Unnoticed they glide by.
Passing over flowering bush,
arrow Through ivy vines they fly.
Their hold grows weak but none are lost,
arrow And still the dewdrop plummets.
In her sight forms mossy ground
arrow And its mushroom summits.
Ripples disrupt her gleaming face,
arrow As farewell's are passed 'round.
Her children can finally soar,
arrow They leave without a sound.
---
Eh... yeah... that's supposed to be a lyrical poem. sweatdrop
Raynai · Sun Dec 04, 2005 @ 04:04am · 0 Comments |
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sweatdrop We were given a portion of the painting that's on the Cistine Chapel... only the part with the two hands... you could tell one was all muscular, and the other was lean and such. Anyways, we were supposed to guess which and was whose, then write why it might be the other way around. I'd originally thought the muscled hand was Adam's, and the lean one was God's... so this is my arguement against myself. This ish in exact words, too.
Age: 13! Yay! (I'm treasuring every piece of writing I can salvage from this year, can't you tell?)
*Deep breath- Oki!* Kinda like... God's eagerly reaching out to his perfect creation. Weary after long toil, his muscles stiff, almost unable to grasp the magnifigance of what He's created, and the raw destructive nature it will inevitably possess, the curiousity present throughout the following generations and the pain His masterpiece will bring Him.
Ignorant of his potential, innocent of all things to come, eyes glued upon the unimaginably magnificant yet pain-possessing being above him, simply in awe of Him. Using his new muscles to reach out to his creator, curious and uncomfortable with the mix of pain, joy, wonder, fascination, and dread playing across the heavenly figure's face, self-doubt starts to bubble in his mind, his breath catching as the unknown reaches toward him.
*^^ I just had to write that down before I could start 4laugh * (((OOS: yes, I drew out the smiley)))
The difference in levels of innosence (sp?) of the two is hard to grasp. Adam is new to this world which God has created and is preparing to introduce to him, while God knows His trouble is just starting. God's hands are calloused from His long hours of labor, Adam's newly created, undeveloped and lean. He's just learning to manuever this odd body of his, his movements being exaggerated and uncontrolled, God's tired and tense, movements being supressed. Both are awed by what they see and a mix of curiousity and fear is playing and lingering in both minds.
Possibly not sure of what is expected of himself, Adam has the urge to be wary of this new creature of obviusly higher and more divine origins than himself. psh.
---
*ahem* You probably had to see the picture to understand it. Or not. I find myself lost while typing that, so don't worry if you don't get it, either. rolleyes
Raynai · Mon Oct 10, 2005 @ 11:40pm · 0 Comments |
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