As requested, here is a piece I wrote in 11th grade U.S. history. 'Nuff said.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the outside world as the rain pelted the window. Sitting at my bedside, biting my nails, I pondered an appropriate course of action. Something had to be done . . . and it needed to be done immediately! I knew then that only one of us would survive.
I hesitantly crossed the lonely, two-room apartment and withdrew a long carving knife from the kitchen drawer. The street lamp outside radiated a dull yellow light, which struck me sharply in the eye when it reflected off the hard steel. Anger and abhorrence raced through my body. I needed to rid myself of this madness that I had restrained for so long! Now, the dam was about to burst.
Shadows momentarily came to life as another flash of light struck in the distance. Without warning, the window flew open and let in a cold world of cruelty and despise. I couldn’t hear the thunder roar for my heart was throbbing ever so forcefully. Vivid images of what was to come ambled through my mind. I could visualize the entire crime!
Ever so slowly, and, oh, ever so silently I would creep. The knife, ascending above its target would glisten in the scarce light—the residue left from previous victims burning my nasal passages with satisfaction. With one swift motion I would be free. Free . . . from this gutting pain that had been held within!
But wait! My conscience throttled me.
Someone would be sure to notice! An icy chill raced up my spine. Every single hair on my back bristled as a gust from the open window rushed across my neck. I dashed across the room to shut it, dropping my weapon on the cold, tile floor. As if the window knew what abominable sin I was about to commit, it slammed shut, before I reached it, vibrating the streaked glass in disgust.
“I can’t stand it!” I screamed.
I was going insane. I needed to stop myself before I did something rash . . . but that was exactly what I had to do! I had to clear my mind! I returned to the kitchen, ever so silently. In an effort to soothe my nerves, I slowly filled a tall glass with milk. But as the cold, white liquid slid down my throat, my mind snapped!
There was no turning back now! I dropped the glass, still half-full, and lunged for the knife where it lay on the floor. My knuckles went deathly white when I clenched the instrument with both hands. The glass, shattering on impact, did not sway my concentration in the slightest. My bare feet, now bathing in a pool of whiteness, began to move. Slowly, I stumbled towards my victim. I could hear my adversary calling me, taunting me. It was either now or never.
Within seconds it was over. I don’t care what happens to me any more. The only regret that I have now is that I didn’t save any of the cake for later.
30 October 2009
28 October 2009
3 Poems
These are the poems I mentioned in my post about writing places. There not so hot, but they were a start. The last one, is garbage, I know (It was a class assignment), but it was printed twice incorrectly, and I just want to see it the way it was written.
“Subway”
Steel centipedes
Zigzag for miles
In darkness.
The violence of graffiti grows greatest
When the drones exchange
In a high-pitched squeal
That pierces the night air.
"Subway" was the runner up in a school contest in 10th grade and subsequently published in a literary magazine in England.
“Autumn”
Amber swallows up the sun
and red reflects the sun.
A freshness is freed
and rides on the wind.
A golden age of color
arises only to die
after its brief glory.
"Autumn" was published in the newspaper my junior year of high school.
“The Sun Will Be Shining” (for graduation, 1994)
I sit and ponder—
Where am I going?
These years of change,
These years of growth
Have all come down to now.
I reflect and discover
That I am ill prepared
Or rather scared ,
For what is to come.
Did it have to come so soon?
Exponential responsibilities,
Harsh reality,
And real life
Are about to welcome me.
Can I do it?
Do I have what it takes
To survive the trials
That will shape my life?
Can the courage be found in me
To unlock the door
And step outside?
Of course,
For the storm will cease
And the sun will be shining.
Blah. I still don't like it.
“Subway”
Steel centipedes
Zigzag for miles
In darkness.
The violence of graffiti grows greatest
When the drones exchange
In a high-pitched squeal
That pierces the night air.
"Subway" was the runner up in a school contest in 10th grade and subsequently published in a literary magazine in England.
“Autumn”
Amber swallows up the sun
and red reflects the sun.
A freshness is freed
and rides on the wind.
A golden age of color
arises only to die
after its brief glory.
"Autumn" was published in the newspaper my junior year of high school.
“The Sun Will Be Shining” (for graduation, 1994)
I sit and ponder—
Where am I going?
These years of change,
These years of growth
Have all come down to now.
I reflect and discover
That I am ill prepared
Or rather scared ,
For what is to come.
Did it have to come so soon?
Exponential responsibilities,
Harsh reality,
And real life
Are about to welcome me.
Can I do it?
Do I have what it takes
To survive the trials
That will shape my life?
Can the courage be found in me
To unlock the door
And step outside?
Of course,
For the storm will cease
And the sun will be shining.
Blah. I still don't like it.
26 October 2009
"Quality" PIece
This exercise was hatched from a Tom Romano workshop this past Saturday. Cool idea!
Doubt called for the fourth time this morning…just to make sure. Her “ooh, just one more question, dear” sucker punched me, just as her previous three concerns had. Had she thought out my life more carefully than I had? Really? “You won’t forget to write, will you?” The apprehensions she instilled left me stammering like a seventh grader who had been caught cheating, as I shuffled my feet back and forth in the front hallway and gazed across the mist covered autumn patchwork pulled over the mountains on the horizon.
Just by the tone in her voice, I know she’s mimicking a conversation she’s just had with Guilt: “Are you sure you need to go all that way?” She prattles on. “Have you packed your toothbrush? Extra underwear?” But I’ve stopped listening to her nagging and have tuned in to the background noise of her children: Regret and Reflection beg, pull her apron strings and each other’s hair, tattling, retaliating.
“You're always welcome back,” is the last thing I hear she mumbles as I hang up. Resolution has just rung the doorbell.
But just as I turn to let him in, I look down and see that reason has sent me yet another text.
Doubt called for the fourth time this morning…just to make sure. Her “ooh, just one more question, dear” sucker punched me, just as her previous three concerns had. Had she thought out my life more carefully than I had? Really? “You won’t forget to write, will you?” The apprehensions she instilled left me stammering like a seventh grader who had been caught cheating, as I shuffled my feet back and forth in the front hallway and gazed across the mist covered autumn patchwork pulled over the mountains on the horizon.
Just by the tone in her voice, I know she’s mimicking a conversation she’s just had with Guilt: “Are you sure you need to go all that way?” She prattles on. “Have you packed your toothbrush? Extra underwear?” But I’ve stopped listening to her nagging and have tuned in to the background noise of her children: Regret and Reflection beg, pull her apron strings and each other’s hair, tattling, retaliating.
“You're always welcome back,” is the last thing I hear she mumbles as I hang up. Resolution has just rung the doorbell.
But just as I turn to let him in, I look down and see that reason has sent me yet another text.
22 October 2009
Where Do I Write?
I read “Do You Have Any Advice for Those of Us Just Starting Out?” by Ron Koertge to my 9th graders this morning. One of their possible writing topics (among others) was to reflect upon a place they enjoy writing. This is what I wrote with them:
Over the years, I’ve had several hidey-holes and isolated spots where I’ve escaped in order to put thoughts to paper. I believe I first started to develop a personal writing habit on the bus traveling back and forth from Newmarket to Lakenheath every day. Good old Bus #11 with the drivers we’d harass until their dentures would come loose or their hair came out in clumps: Trevor, Surfer Joe, and a few others. Quickly tiring of the gossip and drama, and having proved myself not the best poker player, I turned to sketching out poems on colored graph paper, feigning homework. Publication of “Subway” in some obscure British magazine that I never knew the name of gave me the confidence I had lacked throughout junior high.
I remember sitting on a fallen tree at Scout Camp near the English-Scottish border supposedly writing about the environment, taking note of the silence, the flora and fauna, the smell and shape of rain, the interrupting screams of a twelve year old on the receiving end of a wedgie.
Mr. Bainter’s history class became my fiction workshop. “The Ultimate Sin” was a gift. In Mrs. Misselhorn’s, poetry sprouted in the margins of the mundane grammar exercises. Medieval Lit gave birth to haphazard sonnets. Ironically, the only writing that didn’t happen was when I signed up to write for the school paper. Deadlines ate me for breakfast. But the passion to write and publish intensified. “Autumn” somehow appeared in the school paper without a name. I remember overhearing the two advisors for the writing club “Lancer Lot” debating over which of their students could have written it. Ha! I never told them.
I took a creative writing class my senior year and suddenly I had an eager audience. The first pieces of the year sounded like Lord of the Flies. Guess what I had been reading. My writing teacher said my description reminded her of Joseph Conrad, whom I had never read before. So guess what I went to find in the library. Guess who I started to imitate. Then Roald Dahl. Jack London. Poe. I started my own novel, a story about a kid whose life was a living hell, tortured by everyone in his family and in the community—a story worthy of any black turtleneck wearing beatnik, or so I thought. Everyone told me the writing was incredible, so realistic. I’ll confess. Everything I wrote was a lie; all the gut-wrenching pain and angst I poured onto the paper never happened. It was complete garbage. I thought I was pretty hot stuff, though, being able to fool so many people, manipulating emotions and crap like that. Now, looking back though, all I gained was a big head. Weird. I look back at what I wrote and get a little nauseated. I stunk. I was a liar…but I was a writer.
Not too many people know this, but I was voted the graduating class poet—a post the student council created for me. I had buddies ask me to write a poem for their girlfriend to commemorate their two-week anniversary. Kids asked me to write lyrics for their bands: metal, rap, country (which I refused), and even Christian rock. I’m still a little ticked that the poem I wrote for graduation was misprinted in the program.
Frequently, I’d wake up on the floor of my room, pen still in hand, arm contorted from falling asleep on it. I once had to use a muscle relaxant for three weeks to get the feeling back—a fact my mom still doesn’t know about.
At Ricks I’d make a daily pilgrimage to the computer lab, plug into my Discman, and depending on my mood, lose myself in Pink Floyd, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Cause and Effect, Candlebox, or local favorite Agnes Poetry. I began carrying a thesaurus and a dictionary in addition to my notebooks that I’d scratch in. I took a poetry writing class, where we had to write a one poem each day of the semester. My brain pulled more than a muscle from that stretching exercise, and I swore to never write poetry again. But again, I lied.
I’d escape in the middle of the night to watch the harvest moon collide with the Tetons, hole up in the quiet recesses of the performing arts center—a silent sunbeam coming through the semi-curtained glass alcove. I’d bury myself in the stacks on the third floor of the library—bare feet hugging the heat register—and smother myself in mountains of words modern and classic. But the muse only found me when I frequented my favorite haunts. In my apartment with all the roomies, in class, walking across campus, the well was dry.
Now, what seems like several lifetimes later, the locations have changed, time has passed, I have a lower center of gravity. But inside, with the exception of a missing appendix, I’m still the same me, only I’ve molted—shed my skin a few times when it became too restrictive. I’ve found new places to write: my desk, my car, the side of a newly-frosted autumn carpet mountain in October. But now I don’t hide. I don’t need physical isolation to write any more. The turbulent stream of life continues to rush past, but the difference lies in the fact that now I can call a time-out in the busiest of traffic jams, the noisiest of restaurants, and even the most trying of bedtimes; and capture my thoughts in words no matter where I am.
And whether I can scribble down notes in the moment, or if I have to mentally capture an image and reconstruct it later, I can still find the solidarity that writing brings no matter where I am. It’s more of a mental construction site, if you will, rather than a shadowy corner or a sundrenched bedspread—my own (un)tidy hobbit hole, where no one can enter unless they’re invited. My special writing place materializes wherever I make the time to lose myself in my thoughts and my words. It exists whenever I invite specific chunks of memory and image and emotion over for pizza and the game. I write wherever an idea stops to say hello, or goodbye, or whatever.
It's rough, I know, but it needed to come out.
Over the years, I’ve had several hidey-holes and isolated spots where I’ve escaped in order to put thoughts to paper. I believe I first started to develop a personal writing habit on the bus traveling back and forth from Newmarket to Lakenheath every day. Good old Bus #11 with the drivers we’d harass until their dentures would come loose or their hair came out in clumps: Trevor, Surfer Joe, and a few others. Quickly tiring of the gossip and drama, and having proved myself not the best poker player, I turned to sketching out poems on colored graph paper, feigning homework. Publication of “Subway” in some obscure British magazine that I never knew the name of gave me the confidence I had lacked throughout junior high.
I remember sitting on a fallen tree at Scout Camp near the English-Scottish border supposedly writing about the environment, taking note of the silence, the flora and fauna, the smell and shape of rain, the interrupting screams of a twelve year old on the receiving end of a wedgie.
Mr. Bainter’s history class became my fiction workshop. “The Ultimate Sin” was a gift. In Mrs. Misselhorn’s, poetry sprouted in the margins of the mundane grammar exercises. Medieval Lit gave birth to haphazard sonnets. Ironically, the only writing that didn’t happen was when I signed up to write for the school paper. Deadlines ate me for breakfast. But the passion to write and publish intensified. “Autumn” somehow appeared in the school paper without a name. I remember overhearing the two advisors for the writing club “Lancer Lot” debating over which of their students could have written it. Ha! I never told them.
I took a creative writing class my senior year and suddenly I had an eager audience. The first pieces of the year sounded like Lord of the Flies. Guess what I had been reading. My writing teacher said my description reminded her of Joseph Conrad, whom I had never read before. So guess what I went to find in the library. Guess who I started to imitate. Then Roald Dahl. Jack London. Poe. I started my own novel, a story about a kid whose life was a living hell, tortured by everyone in his family and in the community—a story worthy of any black turtleneck wearing beatnik, or so I thought. Everyone told me the writing was incredible, so realistic. I’ll confess. Everything I wrote was a lie; all the gut-wrenching pain and angst I poured onto the paper never happened. It was complete garbage. I thought I was pretty hot stuff, though, being able to fool so many people, manipulating emotions and crap like that. Now, looking back though, all I gained was a big head. Weird. I look back at what I wrote and get a little nauseated. I stunk. I was a liar…but I was a writer.
Not too many people know this, but I was voted the graduating class poet—a post the student council created for me. I had buddies ask me to write a poem for their girlfriend to commemorate their two-week anniversary. Kids asked me to write lyrics for their bands: metal, rap, country (which I refused), and even Christian rock. I’m still a little ticked that the poem I wrote for graduation was misprinted in the program.
Frequently, I’d wake up on the floor of my room, pen still in hand, arm contorted from falling asleep on it. I once had to use a muscle relaxant for three weeks to get the feeling back—a fact my mom still doesn’t know about.
At Ricks I’d make a daily pilgrimage to the computer lab, plug into my Discman, and depending on my mood, lose myself in Pink Floyd, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Cause and Effect, Candlebox, or local favorite Agnes Poetry. I began carrying a thesaurus and a dictionary in addition to my notebooks that I’d scratch in. I took a poetry writing class, where we had to write a one poem each day of the semester. My brain pulled more than a muscle from that stretching exercise, and I swore to never write poetry again. But again, I lied.
I’d escape in the middle of the night to watch the harvest moon collide with the Tetons, hole up in the quiet recesses of the performing arts center—a silent sunbeam coming through the semi-curtained glass alcove. I’d bury myself in the stacks on the third floor of the library—bare feet hugging the heat register—and smother myself in mountains of words modern and classic. But the muse only found me when I frequented my favorite haunts. In my apartment with all the roomies, in class, walking across campus, the well was dry.
Now, what seems like several lifetimes later, the locations have changed, time has passed, I have a lower center of gravity. But inside, with the exception of a missing appendix, I’m still the same me, only I’ve molted—shed my skin a few times when it became too restrictive. I’ve found new places to write: my desk, my car, the side of a newly-frosted autumn carpet mountain in October. But now I don’t hide. I don’t need physical isolation to write any more. The turbulent stream of life continues to rush past, but the difference lies in the fact that now I can call a time-out in the busiest of traffic jams, the noisiest of restaurants, and even the most trying of bedtimes; and capture my thoughts in words no matter where I am.
And whether I can scribble down notes in the moment, or if I have to mentally capture an image and reconstruct it later, I can still find the solidarity that writing brings no matter where I am. It’s more of a mental construction site, if you will, rather than a shadowy corner or a sundrenched bedspread—my own (un)tidy hobbit hole, where no one can enter unless they’re invited. My special writing place materializes wherever I make the time to lose myself in my thoughts and my words. It exists whenever I invite specific chunks of memory and image and emotion over for pizza and the game. I write wherever an idea stops to say hello, or goodbye, or whatever.
It's rough, I know, but it needed to come out.
21 October 2009
"Duncan"
Here's a little one-minute story I wrote as a high school senior:
It never should have happened. He never had a chance! I mean, he didn’t even see it coming. Some things in life just aren’t fair.
There we were, minding our own business on that glorious April morning. The air was cool; the daisies stood ever so perfectly in the long, green meadow. Nothing could have been more tranquil.
All of a sudden I looked up.
“Look out!” I wailed, but it was too late.
I miss Duncan. I wish it had been me instead of him. But no, the flyswatter had to get my best friend, my brother. May he forever rest in peace.
It never should have happened. He never had a chance! I mean, he didn’t even see it coming. Some things in life just aren’t fair.
There we were, minding our own business on that glorious April morning. The air was cool; the daisies stood ever so perfectly in the long, green meadow. Nothing could have been more tranquil.
All of a sudden I looked up.
“Look out!” I wailed, but it was too late.
I miss Duncan. I wish it had been me instead of him. But no, the flyswatter had to get my best friend, my brother. May he forever rest in peace.
20 October 2009
Mr. A's Not-To-Do-List
1. I will never do cute.
2. I will never sell out.
3. I will never become zombie food.
4. I will never forget the crack of the bat.
5. I will never use aluminum when wood will suffice.
6. I will never say, "No, I'd rather not grill tonight."
7. I will never be skinny.
8. I will never go pink.
9. I will never escape junior high.
10. I will never be completely sane.
2. I will never sell out.
3. I will never become zombie food.
4. I will never forget the crack of the bat.
5. I will never use aluminum when wood will suffice.
6. I will never say, "No, I'd rather not grill tonight."
7. I will never be skinny.
8. I will never go pink.
9. I will never escape junior high.
10. I will never be completely sane.
Haiku
cottonwood drifting,
apathetically floating—
like a teenage mind
This was inspired as I accompanied junior high students to Lagoon (an amusement park) last spring.
apathetically floating—
like a teenage mind
This was inspired as I accompanied junior high students to Lagoon (an amusement park) last spring.
"Ode to My Dorito Crumbs"
This was another exercise from the Central Utah Writing Project called a "Bring Me" poem.
How rebellious,
how impetuous,
you tweezer specks!
Uninhibited by destiny,
your spicy cheesedust-laden
bodies leave their mark
upon my fingers,
lava-intensive and salty,
cheddar and sticky;
You leap from my mouth—
jarred and broken,
Unwilling to die,
to feed
my insatiable appetite.
Oh, chip crumbs,
stay!
bring an end
to my hunger
so I don’t get my fingers
greasier
while scavenging
for more.
How rebellious,
how impetuous,
you tweezer specks!
Uninhibited by destiny,
your spicy cheesedust-laden
bodies leave their mark
upon my fingers,
lava-intensive and salty,
cheddar and sticky;
You leap from my mouth—
jarred and broken,
Unwilling to die,
to feed
my insatiable appetite.
Oh, chip crumbs,
stay!
bring an end
to my hunger
so I don’t get my fingers
greasier
while scavenging
for more.
Sudden Slayer Snuffing
This was an alliterative exercise during the Central Utah Writing Project this summer. The goal was to create a paragraph/story using the same sound as much as possible:
The somewhat psychotic slayer slipped silently onto the sad scene. Surreptitiously, she spied the sortie of zombies sipping and slurping slimy substances from something, or someone recently smothered and smashed and squished.
Suddenly, she shouted. “Stop, you spleen suckers!” Screaming sadistically, she sent a smattering of shotgun shells into their subhuman skulls.
Stunned for a second, the simple, slobbering subjects smiled stupidly. Sammy the Slayer shortly shrieked in shock then slumped slowly. Someone, or something, had circled, sneaked up, seized, and strangled her.
Suppertime!
The somewhat psychotic slayer slipped silently onto the sad scene. Surreptitiously, she spied the sortie of zombies sipping and slurping slimy substances from something, or someone recently smothered and smashed and squished.
Suddenly, she shouted. “Stop, you spleen suckers!” Screaming sadistically, she sent a smattering of shotgun shells into their subhuman skulls.
Stunned for a second, the simple, slobbering subjects smiled stupidly. Sammy the Slayer shortly shrieked in shock then slumped slowly. Someone, or something, had circled, sneaked up, seized, and strangled her.
Suppertime!
Published!
Check out this link to a specific piece in the National Gallery of Writing:
http://galleryofwriting.org/writing/305481
It's also being published in the 2009 Utah English Journal.
"For Zachary"
“For Zachary”
Not even
the crack-sing-smack-sting-
barehanded snag of a foul ball
while balancing a foot-long
with yellow mustard, onions
and sweet pickle relish,
nor the
sky-slash-earth-crash-
explosion of light and adrenaline
while lightning’s intensity charges each arm hair
through the double-paned window drizzle
and safety of four walls,
nor the
sit-back-deep-black-
deep thought expanse of infinite stars
while a dying fire toasts backsides
like perfectly golden marshmallows
slipped between grahams
is worth experiencing
without a son to pass it on.
*This is just a piece I put together based on vivid images from a dream and a few sounds that stuck in my head.
Not even
the crack-sing-smack-sting-
barehanded snag of a foul ball
while balancing a foot-long
with yellow mustard, onions
and sweet pickle relish,
nor the
sky-slash-earth-crash-
explosion of light and adrenaline
while lightning’s intensity charges each arm hair
through the double-paned window drizzle
and safety of four walls,
nor the
sit-back-deep-black-
deep thought expanse of infinite stars
while a dying fire toasts backsides
like perfectly golden marshmallows
slipped between grahams
is worth experiencing
without a son to pass it on.
*This is just a piece I put together based on vivid images from a dream and a few sounds that stuck in my head.
"Death to Emo"
“Death to Emo”
Take your over-clichéd,
tear stained,
eye liner streaked,
grief ridden,
sucks-to-be-me
excuses
for poems
from the stone-washed,
trash tossed,
shadow skinny
girl pants, and
bleed
the gothic ink
stains and
wannabe
angst
through the bent
wire mesh condenser
drenched in two-
day old saliva
and evidence of
non-existent
Right Guard;
and dump the malice
into a lonely
metal dustbin
where it belongs,
and douse it with
kerosene
before striking
the soul-emancipating
match.
*I wrote this while observing a particular group of "misunderstood" students interacting with their parental units at a parent-teacher conference.
Take your over-clichéd,
tear stained,
eye liner streaked,
grief ridden,
sucks-to-be-me
excuses
for poems
from the stone-washed,
trash tossed,
shadow skinny
girl pants, and
bleed
the gothic ink
stains and
wannabe
angst
through the bent
wire mesh condenser
drenched in two-
day old saliva
and evidence of
non-existent
Right Guard;
and dump the malice
into a lonely
metal dustbin
where it belongs,
and douse it with
kerosene
before striking
the soul-emancipating
match.
*I wrote this while observing a particular group of "misunderstood" students interacting with their parental units at a parent-teacher conference.
"Middle School Menagerie"
During zoo hours
most beasts slump over desks,
sluggish and lethargic,
oblivious
to their keepers’ attempts
to preserve the species.
Apathetic
cud-chewing camels
stare through
the morning lessons
while a pair of chipmunks
in the back row
precariously
pick and poke
the sleeping grizzly
in the corner.
An overly cheerful peacock or
a howler monkey
who forgot his meds
occasionally
breaks the morning monotony
with a sudden outburst of joy
(or fear)
at the predator
in the next aisle
two seats behind.
Whinnies and trumpets and chatter
escalate toward a climax
when the cages open
for feeding time—
a mixture of musk
and manure
and mealtime manners
cut loose into the hallways.
Glassy-eyed gators and
pathetically overstuffed pythons
attempt to absorb
more than their lunch
after they return to their
artificial biomes
and four-walled
habitats.
Heads still in the clouds,
the giraffes
are oblivious to the
pack of hyenas
scheming,
waiting to prey on the weak
and young
and insecure.
Late afternoon
a troop of gorillas
stirs from docility
(and civility)
with occasional grunts
and thumps
and bumps—
and the animals
escape their enclosures,
the more timid creatures
slinking away
to take their chances with vipers
and other venomous bottom dwellers
in the undergrowth.
But even the most
(semi-)
ferocious lions—
with their voice-cracking,
deep-throated growls
and their whiskers,
and their bared claws—
reach out.
Inside
they are just
overgrown kittens
hiding behind wisps of manes
craving
individual attention
and a scratch
behind the ears.
*This came from a brainstorm I had after taking my own kids to the zoo. I wrote the 1st draft while sitting in a reading endorsement class.
most beasts slump over desks,
sluggish and lethargic,
oblivious
to their keepers’ attempts
to preserve the species.
Apathetic
cud-chewing camels
stare through
the morning lessons
while a pair of chipmunks
in the back row
precariously
pick and poke
the sleeping grizzly
in the corner.
An overly cheerful peacock or
a howler monkey
who forgot his meds
occasionally
breaks the morning monotony
with a sudden outburst of joy
(or fear)
at the predator
in the next aisle
two seats behind.
Whinnies and trumpets and chatter
escalate toward a climax
when the cages open
for feeding time—
a mixture of musk
and manure
and mealtime manners
cut loose into the hallways.
Glassy-eyed gators and
pathetically overstuffed pythons
attempt to absorb
more than their lunch
after they return to their
artificial biomes
and four-walled
habitats.
Heads still in the clouds,
the giraffes
are oblivious to the
pack of hyenas
scheming,
waiting to prey on the weak
and young
and insecure.
Late afternoon
a troop of gorillas
stirs from docility
(and civility)
with occasional grunts
and thumps
and bumps—
and the animals
escape their enclosures,
the more timid creatures
slinking away
to take their chances with vipers
and other venomous bottom dwellers
in the undergrowth.
But even the most
(semi-)
ferocious lions—
with their voice-cracking,
deep-throated growls
and their whiskers,
and their bared claws—
reach out.
Inside
they are just
overgrown kittens
hiding behind wisps of manes
craving
individual attention
and a scratch
behind the ears.
*This came from a brainstorm I had after taking my own kids to the zoo. I wrote the 1st draft while sitting in a reading endorsement class.
National Day on Writing!
In honor of this newly distinguished National Day on Writing (Thank you, Congress!), I've decided to step outside my comfort zone and write online. Hence, this blog exists.
I think I'll post every so often a little writing...some polished...some rough. And I welcome any comments or criticisms or cupcakes you care to throw my way.
If you wish (not like anybody would) to use any part of these musings, please let me know, as some carry copyrights outside of just me.
I think I'll post every so often a little writing...some polished...some rough. And I welcome any comments or criticisms or cupcakes you care to throw my way.
If you wish (not like anybody would) to use any part of these musings, please let me know, as some carry copyrights outside of just me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)