Stine

I'm a simple girl,
With simple needs.
I don't require
Extravagant gifts
Or a lavish lifestyle
In order to be happy.
Just a warm cup
Of coffee.

My comfort lies
In nature.
Whether I'm sitting within
Or observing from afar.
Watching the dirt
Blow this way
Then that.

Calming,
Like the strumming
Of a wooden guitar.
Sounding out
The nuetrality
In my soul.

As the bark
Of a cherry weeping willow.
Nothing will penetrate
My spirit.
Though my
Innocence may come and go,
With the seasons,
My endurance
Will stay rooted
To the ground.

Period Seven

Our screaming pencils
Scratch against silent paper.
Emotions run down.

Backslide

The best way to get rid of any butterflies
Is to chase them away.
A farewell to all that was good.
Greetings to threatening
E X P L O S I O N S
And last words.

What's next
Will determine our fate,
And I can't seem to convince you:
WE DO NOT NEED
ATTACKS.
We need solutions.

Renga poem (add to it!)

Orange leaves fall
To the black pavement

Nightmare creeps into existence
The sun falls back on it bed
A slow motion replay of yesterday.

The face on the moon
Is brightly smiling.

Children on
The playground laugh
Carelessly and happily.

I used to cry at the sight of scraped knees
That hasn't happened in years.

Years and days can be the same
It only depends
On the things that surround you.

Demons surround you
You cannot run, you can only fight.

Open space
Defend your kind,
Remember the screams of the wicked.

Children argue on the playground
Friends fight with friends.

Parents loudly carry on
Their nightly "discussion"
As their children try to sleep.

Her sleep was always interrupted
By his incessant snores.

The cat shoved his
Paw swifty
Through the night.

Wolves howl melodicly
To the steady rythm of crickets.

Always in the background,
The drummer lays the cement foundation
For the rest of the musical structure.

With foundation in absense the renga
Will collapse like a bad move in jenga.

A poet's mind is very great
Full of words, stanzas and verses
On ever-ending dictionary.

Where Destiny Took Me

I'm from empanadas and Colombianas,
The gold, the blue, the red
Constantly reminding me why I'm here
And the prejudice I'm up against.

I'm from the shadows my sister cast.
I'd watch from the sidelines
Hoping I'd be noticed
And feel disappointed when I wasn't.
But if I could just be like her for one day...

I'm from the hated,
The depraved belief in one God the Father the Almighty
Maker of Heaven and Earth of all that is seen and unseen
Begotten not made.
I carry my Hial Mary's
And unmoving faith with me always.

I'm from the overprotection of my mother
As she sits oustide for an hour
After "dropping me off".
And I inherit her protective ways over my siblings:
I will exhaust every horrible possibility of their whereabouts
Until they're finally back in my eyesight.

I'm from "FOR SALE" signs on front lawns,
Hand written letters to Hawaii,
Visits to Maryland,
And weekend calls from Las Vegas.
From friends closest to my heart,
And live so far away.

I'm from too much stress and not enough time.
Hard work, okay grades,
The black, the white, and everything in between.
I'm from looking at the bright side no matter how dark it is,
Believing that things will be okay
Because I'm from the time and place I was meant to be.

Men Who Stand Too Close

I can't be won by hollow compliments
And plastic foliage.
I know their thoughts
As their chairs inch closer,
Their hot breath on my neck.
Some are tall and white,
Others dark and handsome.
Inside is the same man
With one line
And one intention.

But while they whisper their transluscent words,
While they pour out
"You're so beautiful"s
I realize I'm no more important to them
Than their girlfriends,
Who have no clue
Where their perfect boyfriends are.

Their hands move closer to their desired destinations,
Suprised when pushed back by mine.
They wonder why I don't fall for their lies.
The reason is simple:
I know that I deserve respect,
I know they won't give it to me.
To them
A pretty face,
Is nothing more.
What they don't realize
Is I am not
A pretty face.

***This poem is still VERY rough***

If Honesty is the Best Policy

I'm a hypocrite.

I lie,

And I hate it.

I like attention.

I hate listening to people's problems;

I really don't care.

I'm anti-social;

I pretend not to see people in the hallway.

I'm insensitive to others,

And sensitive myself.

I'm jealous.

I'm hurt.

I'm resentful.

I'm not always okay.

Now for once- you tell the truth.

Of Callous Hands

The merchant stepped of his vessel,
Talisman in hand,
With no intention of luck
Except for luck in love.

A dark haired beauty
With sapphire eyes,
He only dreamed to touch.
Her rosy cheeks
And calloused hands
Sent him thousands of miles away
Marooned on his island
Of stars and daydreams.

He had been told,
“It’s just a phase,
It will come then pass."
But her fragrant hair,
Like raspberry and pears
Always brought him back.

The merchant stepped off his vessel,
Talisman in hand.
Across the way
Her radiance shined
Ravaging through the air.
Her daring smile
And olive skin
Sent images of a future bride.

With a faint smile
And mumbled hellos
He handed her
His treasure.
A silver wreath
On a golden chain
Sent her all a flutter.
Then magnetic hands
Broke the breeze
As they drifted along the way.

Those heavenly years
Flew right past,
And the merchant found himself at his vessel.
Once more he stepped off
With his talisman in hand
But no sapphire eyes to greet him.
No fragrance of raspberry or pears,
Nor a daring smile to melt him away.
All that awaited him:
An occupied tomb
And a mourning heart
Full of memories
Of calloused hands.

Birth Day

The room is red,
The floor is cold.
A baby
No one knows,
Shattered across glistening tiles.

You had few options, true.
But-
They were
Options.
To save a live,
Or watch it die.

Door number three was found.
And your solution
Did not involve nine months of solitude,
The embarrassment of Planned Parenthood,
Missing out on teenage normalcy.
And why make life more difficult,
After all?

A drink,
No, two (Or three)
Could drown this cell out.
(Four, to be safe)
But you’ve forgotten,
It’s not a cell,
Not at all.
It’s a baby;
It’s a boy.
It’s breathing, beating,
And now dying.
Another drink:
Sends him spinning,
Vision blurring.

And what alcohol didn’t solve
Smoking did.
This human
With black lungs and a tiny cry.
Is now heaving,
Coughing,
Wondering what his mother is doing.

And you knew what you were doing:
Not listening--
Not growing.
Expelling the undesired
Consequence.

Now
The floor is red,
Her face is white,
Ear splitting screams crack the silence,
Of her baby’s.
Lifeless.
Heart.

A Prayer

Calling all space aliens,
In praise of guns- and roses,
In search for homes with orchards
And freshly cut grass,
With all the lust allowed by law.

I don't trust these imperial views,
These slaves of gossip.
While others survive on controversy;
I simply need air.

I don't understand
The pay off
Of gaining land
While losing credibility,
Of where the bridge to nowhere
Begins
Or ends,
Of how the times betrayed
Its values.

But I keep my faith
That we are learning:
Alliance,
Purity,
And patience.