Original Poems lll

THE DACKS
This ancient and untouched ground,
sacred to this population
and the rightful one before it.

Pines who talk
and stones who remember
the lakes who paint

The beating of centuries
sounds in the deep woods
through the ground, and up feet

4 YEAR PARTY
Its the only way to look at it,
every year for many months nothing but
shouting and talking ones mind
in the confines of the rough walls and glossy tiles

Some chose to like it some chose not to
the classic "Time of our lives"
coming out of the warm confused mind
in to the windy world which is there room for room
person for person
ours to do with

Sometime I wonder why
sometimes it gets hard and exhausting like every party,
but from the beginning and to now and further for sure
it still seems like a constant dance
to my music.

THE CHEST ( object poem)
In the attic sitting there by the round window
agains the rough wooden walls
 green and yellow light falling on it through the dust

the creak of the old boards
an old padlock, a new found key,
The hinges wined out of their long held positions

Inside were papers, ancient flowers and images
of a family long past, a family only my grandfather remembers
black and white, the faces I see in myself, my brothers and sisters.

The Chest receives them again, its treasure and
its duty to protect

Original poems II

WOODS
Walking through the woods,
nothing to hear but the soft
whisper of the wind in the valleys

the cold bark of black trees
rough and illuminated
by the moonlight

the crack of ice and the
movement of animals
deep, deep in the dark forest

WORM GUTS
The smell of pond water
and worms, fish and dirt
the sound  of the wind, but not that of the winter,
a warmer and softer wind, which
smelled sweet like the woods.

The pointless throwing of a line
maybe? just curious little
sunfish, but over there
by the spring, under the pine
thats where the bass hide

out on the boats, to the island.
just going along, hoping for something
you knew you would have to through back in the
end, but who cares
it was the summertime.

WHY IN THE NAUTRE
I was walking in the hills
and I asked the thyme why it smelled the way it did
like summer games and picnic sunsets
the thyme all looked at me and
laughed

I was walking through the woods
and asked the Rover tree why is sounded the way it did
dry and loud like cracking bones
the Rover tree looked at me and
laughed

I was walking in the stream
and asked it why it felt the way it did on my feet
like clean mud and warm ice
the stream looked up at me and
laughed

I was walking through the grass
and through the trees
and through the rain
and the thunder
and asked someone why these things are the way they are
and it
told me.

Original poems 1

SPRING TIME
The snows and bitter cold of winter
gave way to the smell of mud and sound of birds,
the hard cold ground
replaced by a living sod

Waking up to darkness
gave way to waking up to a gray horizon
animals were returning from their winter retreats
the quiet of winter was leaving

in the distanse rivers and streams were running again,
off in the distance waterfalls were running just like they used to
winter was dying, spring was on its heels.

AUGUST NIGHTS
There were no limits to these nights
summer nights, surrounded by lights
eager to see faces and hear voices that you haven't seen for months
the sound of rides, voices a sea of voices

leaves of trees, screams of joy, laughing
no problems here just you feeling at the top of the world always watching
cotton candy, caramel apples, pizza.
friends

the walk to the sleepover house
a dewy ground, lamp lights reflected off the pavement
of these quiet streets
with the shadow of leaves dancing on the summer ground.

WHERE I AM FROM
I am from the wooden blocks, from the oreo cookies
I am from the dirt on the fishing worms
I am from the massive oaks, the thyme on the hiding hill
I am from the clam bake and broad shoulders, from Nanet too and Jack of course, and also Paul.

I am from the quick to temper and the "do you know who I am?"
From "Eat your crust damnit." and "What ever you want to do with your life."
I'm from silent and holy nights
I'm from the Italian Iowans. Beans and church basement food

From Uncle West and the rattle snakes,
From The arrowhead adventures
and the water skiing boys

I am from the upstairs closet, the drawer in The Godfathers Desk
The Artifact box in he basement, and the green field that cannot be forgotten.
All streaked with dusty sunlight.
all of us burdened to thicken their brims

Vocabulary On My Mind

The obsolete and trivial boy soon became intractable to his elders who were banal. His typical languor soon turned into a swagger and his raucous looks soon became grandiloquent. His shy nature became convivial. All his adversaries soon became submissive to him because of his ominous vibe. He mitigated his fear and replaced it with an avid atmosphere. Austere teachers were skeptics but were petty to his problems. His sly nature allowed him to thrive on the work of others. And while some might call him a narcissist but he knew they were obtuse.

“What I Need to Know about WRITING AND WRITERS to Become a Better Writer”.

The one thing that i noticed from our presenters and their writing is that all of them, some more to the extent than others seem to follow their passions in their writing. they all seemed to mention the fact that one must write about what one wants to write about. I think that they are all right about this. Life is too short to be focusing on something you don't want to do. If i was going to write a good story i would write it on something that I enjoy writing about. So my question is "why do people write" is it their passions? I want to do my project on this because too many times have I been writing for a school  project and thought to myself "I hate this so much." Other times I free write and feel like my writing can take my mind anywhere. Any memory can be revisited and any dream elaborated on.

The speaker today was interesting. She stressed writing about you passions and writing about things that you liked. She kept my attention for most of the presentation, and I think most of the class as well based off the amount of question asked. 1/17 weaker (***)

Guest speaker four: Robyn Ringler

The first thing I noticed when I read my first essay was that it was easy to read. I did not feel board or uninterested. Each essay flowed nicely, all were loaded with detail which gave the piece voice and character. My favorite essay was "High Dive". Ringler said in "My artistic journey with HIGH DIVE" that she read this to a group of people and nearly broke down. She nearly broke down because her father died in a car crash. I happened to read "HIGH DIVE" After I read "My Artistic Journey with HIGH DIVE." Me knowing that her father died untimely and then reading an affectionate essay about her father added some weight to the piece. After reading the biography and reading "HIGH DIVE." I would say not knowing ringlet as a person i would guess that she is a driven individual. At the end of "HIGH DIVE" she says "This had been my first high dive, but it was not going to be my last." connecting that to the things she has done i life according to the biography like taking care of Regan after he was shot in 1981, she is published in the Times Union and New York Times and not to mention she opened her own book store. 


Our art speaker was interesting. We only had him for about 55 minutes but I thought he was a valuable speaker. a little depressing at times but a good speaker and he provided helpful tips on writing. 1/12 speaker (****)

round THREE=Stephen Leslie

When  I first saw the Haibun I thought that it was the little paragraph at the very end. I soon realized it wasn't and read through it. When i got to the end I didn't think that it was very good. It didn't sound like poetry to me. Then I went back and read it slowly, paying attention to the breaks and pauses, the punctuation and the lack of punctuation and I felt a rythm. What I noticed most was the way that the lines cut off, like this
"...speaking only when
necessary..."
It ads pauses and rests like in music, those are the things we hear and feel in poetry. i also liked the description he used. The best example of this I found was "....Cold black Granite walls..." I thought this a perfect  of what the vietnam memorial was like (I've been there). It makes them ominous and describes them physically.

We watch as the clouds unfold in the summer sky, rolling and unrolling
by an invisable wind. As we stand there I realize that I have nothing to remember
or to be troubled with. I remember none of my problems. Every day now was a
Never ending guessing game of "Whats Next?" We had no plans
because thats the way we liked it. This was not the earth we knew this was
an earth of our own making, our own crafting and it was in every sense compltely perfect and
green and free.

We have nothing to worry about. No problems to cloud our minds just the
air and grass and the never ending daydream that is our reality.

Adventures now
untold and unlimited
This won't end.

I thought that our speaker today was great. She kept the class interested and engaged very well. Her stories were very interesting. The whole time she was talking I thought to myself "Wow, I want to do something like this when I grow up." She certainly had a bunch of stories to tell and a load of advice to give. Not only about writing but also about her travels. She made me feel that getting to know what you want to write about is just as important as being a good writer. Those two things go hand in hand. I really enjoyed hearing Dr. Smith talk about her travels and give advice. This advice i could connect with because I do plan to travel my whole life, much in the way that she does. And could you imagine getting paid to do that? 1/10 speaker=*****