Palmtree Contemplations

Night ached to flee Metropolis Where sin pervaded and crept like weeds. With covered eyes and grey-dark mantle She trembled through its streets. Lust's toxic flowers burst in flames Singeing her once glimmering train. While Death's madness came stampeding And trampled on all Night's dreams. Stealthy Greed perused the streets, Concealed with Night's unwilling aid. When dawn arrived with glorious light, Night fled in grateful shame.

As I look back over the last year of life, a lot has changed. I am definitely not who I was last year in November. I want to take this moment to remember some of the greatest moments of of my twenty-first decade of life. Hence, the list that follows. When I Was 21... 1. Tea-Time Started And Didn't Stop. Basically, a bunch of people will receive a text inviting them to my apartment for said "tea-time". They show up, tell me what kind of tea they want to drink, and then tell me about their lives. It was never going to be anything spectacular. I just wanted to be around my friends more. Now, though, I get requests for it. "Please call for a tea-time," my friends ask. I have found that after a long day all I really want is to come home to my apartment, put on the kettle while friends arrive, and then listen as they tell me of their adventures. For me, that is why Tea-Time is my favorite event: I am able to listen and serve my friends, and in this way I let them

Do you remember that night years ago When we stood between two Freeways? I don't usually care to think of that. Do you remember how the darkness Sat around us while light streamed on Above? It all smelled of cigarettes and trash. Do you remember what you said, How brightly we dreamed at winter's Midnight? We were foolish then, and young, especially you. I remember how you gave me wisdom, With kindness and consideration for my Fears. You were always afraid then, weren't you? I remember that you said God Could work in and through my Doubts. God and I were on good terms then. Life had not happened yet. I remember how hopeful you were,  How even roaring cars kindled your life giving Ideas. Yes, well, ideas and hope were nice things back then. Look, I've gotta be somewhere. Later. While I went one light filled way, you went Nowhere. I pray you will remember and find strength to leave That prison. Wave your hand and catch a Ride.

The Weeping Daughter The light here is blue And yet the ground is red. All is collision where I sit, With my problems still unsaid. I am weak, You are strong Of course all this true. But nothing is its proper color So what am I to do? I whisper and I weep, Floating in a purple daze You bring me back to blood stained earth, By Your Love that always stays. It is tranquil blue, yet fiery red. I cannot understand it. Help me penetrate this mystery, Show me how the colors fit. I Would Like... I would like to see Without thought of being seen. I would like to speak Without fear of being overheard. I would like to end These fierce desires stirred. My heart glows warm, beats cold Wanting what it cannot hold. I would like to know Without ever being known. I would like to take Without ever being taken. I would like to stay Half asleep while awakened To the cadence of your voice Painting the soft white noise. I would like to leave Without wishing I could sta

Across the aching distance I send my armored prayers, Hoping they will reach your soul And lodge their smiles there. Fierce and forceful is this fight, Drawn and weary is your heart, Yet the God of heaven gives His love And truth to tear these lies apart. You labor long and restlessly, I cannot end this pain you feel. Only hold you while you weep And remind you what is real.           

When the rain begins I leave my Philosophy reading behind with a squeal, run down the twisting Music Department hallways, and stand, breathless, watching the downpour from just inside the department's glass doors. Outside, the world is being washed clean by the deluge. The deep black pavement of the parking lot is covered in a sheen of water. I can see currents forming on top of it. Raindrops bounce and slide down the sides of the glass enclosure surrounding me, and I am lost remembering... I used to watch the river currents bending and curving in the rain outside my window. During most rainstorms, I was out in the river with everyone else who had any sense, feeling the currents and rain up close. Swimming in a rainstorm was wet, cold, and electrifying. The world was grey, black, and fierce, hitting us with full force from all directions. Everything became the ever present now: this feeling of water smashing into your face, the giggle you let out when thunder peals above you, and

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life." Psalm 39:4               When I was young, my siblings and I used to play hide-and-seek in a small California cemetery. Those were bright, summery days filled with laughter and frantic chases amongst headstones and memorials. To me, the cemetery was my family's private playground. When my parents did language study in Manaus, there was one particular bus route that ran right beside the cemetery. It seemed a place of magic and mystery to me, with its white, sloping, walls that glittered with broken, green and brown glass. I wanted a key to those barred blue gates. I always leaned forward in my seat, my eyes memorizing the shapes and peeling colors of the many crosses and monuments to the Holy Virgin. Years later, at college in Arkansas, the cemetery near my school has become my place of solitude. I will pace the rows of graves, call out quiet, sometimes silly greetin

My girls made me stay in the bathroom for ten minutes before sending someone to lead me back to the cabin. We made very exaggerated small talk on the walk back through the trees as though there was nothing going on, although we all knew there was. When we reached the cabin, they threw open the door, pulled me in, and proceeded to serenade me with a parody of Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway". It was silly, filled with references only we understood, and incredibly off-key. Halfway through, I wanted to cry, but there was more. They made a neon green "Early Birthday" card (VERY early, since my birthday's not until November), bought me a Blue Lake shirt that they all signed, and filled a Blue Lake mug with Skittles, M&Ms, and AirHeads. Then they presented me with a picture of WonderWoman. "See? I gave her green eyes and brown hair like you," one of them told me. "And her suit is blue with white and black because you like blue and play the piano

It is evening and you are four, Walking in your nightgown To see the golden, gleaming moon. It is morning and you are sixteen, Scribbling a prayer in vivid blue ink Beside the dew drenched field. It is twilight and you are ten, Jumping and sliding in thick mud While night-swallows swoop by. It is afternoon and you are seven, Running in your bathing-suit Beneath the gutters gushing rain. It is barely light and you are fourteen, Sighing with simple delight As you wake and warm the piano. It is midnight and you are eighteen, Swinging with happy eyes shut 'Neath stars and a trembling tree. It is June and you are twenty-one, Writing remembrances by lamp light To keep away forgetting.

When I was nine, my father built a large bookcase that stretched from the smooth cement floor to just below a crossbeam supporting our rafters. You could say that the Palm house was held up by all the knowledge stored on that bookcase. Over 500 titles stood proudly on its shelves. If they were particularly large and cumbersome, they knelt pages down and spines up with their fat, attractive corners silently pleading to be grasped and opened. Even then, I saw myself living out my days in some apartment filled with books: leather bound journals featuring my own adventures, novels that should have been read by everyone but were not, volumes of poetry in original languages, and dusty histories with photos of the author on the back of a fraying, half-torn paper cover. Scattered throughout the apartment would be all the books my father had passed onto me from his own exquisite bookcase. Two weeks ago I arrived home to Brasil to help my parents move back to the States permanently. One of m

I sank into a blissful dream Of mysteries and hidden things, Never caring for the consequence The stolen moments soon would bring.   For when the mists receded And dreaming was no more, I woke to find myself in sunlight, Not more rich, but poor.   Then I wept and hid my face, I filled the silence with my cries. For the blissfulness was only dreaming. All I wished had been a lie.  

It was late Thursday night before Spring Break when Sean drove me back from Pour Jons. Thursdays are always long, but this one was particularly draining, and cold besides. I had neglected to turn in a rough draft of the Music History final paper a week earlier, and was attempting to complete it before Spring Break. This involved hours of typing, highlighting, and analyzing alongisde all the regular homework I was doing. After an hour at Pour Jons with some friends, I left to try and rest before the chilly morning arrived. As Sean pulled into the parking lot, we discussed our current papers and future projects. "Honestly, I don't think I want to do all this for the rest of my life," he said. "Do what?" I asked. He had just finished animatedly explaining his idea for a History paper, and I could not see where the conversation was going. "All of this. In the History department the professors push becoming a teacher or getting adoctorate, but I really don

The Swan Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air - An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings: a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds - A white cross Streaming across the skyt, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life? Explication of Mary Oliver’s poem “The Swan” This poem dramatizes the speaker’s memory of seeing swan and being struck by its beauty. Using metaphors and similes, the author recreat

Dear Susan, Ever since my parents told me about your cancer, I have been meaning to write you. Also, last week, I read that wonderful Shakespearian sonnet that Emma Thompson put in Sense and Sensibility and immediately thought of you. Then again, I almost always end up thinking of you when I read Shakespeare, ever since that first day when I walked into your class, and you taught me how read the Bard properly. It's been years since I was your drama student, but the memories of drilling lines on that bare, black stage have stayed with me. Many of the best memories from that time are of you. I even find myself mimicking some of your "Susanisms." For example, whenever I lead a small group study in classes I almost always end with that line of yours, "Any comments, questions, or concerns?" Do you know, it's funny, I heard you say it so many times that now your inflection has become mine. Also, if ever my hair is being willful, my mind conjures up an image of

Nette did not tell me about her boyfriend until a month had passed. My heart and soul were pierced by the sword of bitterness and rejection. A new someone had taken my place, and the affection meant for me was passed on to a man. A man! Ah, the tragedy of it all. I shall not survive! "Stop being so dramatic," Nette says to me in the midst of my bemoaning. "It's not like we're never going to have sleepovers anymore." I roll my eyes at her, not wanting to admit that she is right. Still, now that she's engaged I can't help thinking back over our friendship. I still remember the night Nette and I met. It was literally one minute after my mother had pulled out of the Mayfield parking lot, leaving me on my own for the first time at college. I heard footsteps following me on the way back to Mayfield, turned around, and there she was, all gung-ho to say "Hello! Who are you!" to me. We were neighbors on the Up New hall. I remember greeting her

To live is to finally admit With trembling hands And quickened breath That what you thought Meant so much Matters little, if anything, And the sacrifice you scorned Is given now with open hands.

*Note: Each paragraph is a different woman and you are all very special to me. You seem so strong and beautiful, even in the heat. You are a lady, and I cannot imagine you having any hardship. Then I learn of the deaths in your childhood, how your mother raised you alone, and how you lost so many babies to miscarriage. You and I always have the nicest chats about life. We take turns telling stories, laughing and joking. Then you tell me quietly of how you watched your mother waste away with Alzheimer's and how you begged God to let her die. You tell me that frolicking is quite all right, and that to be single is to blessed. You teach me poetry when I am young, and we both love the word "crimson." You seem so carefree and happy. Years later, I learn of your losses. All along, when you were teaching me that orange and silver have no rhyme, you were mourning your family. We read the same books, write stories that are never published, and for a time actually believe

We will die soon. Not in years, or months, or even days. We have moments left in this cell where they keep us, the weak prisoners who managed to survive. The managing has worn us out at last. My dirty fingers find the  wall and I sink into a crouch on the floor. Even now, I cannot always bring myself to touch the filth, stained and tired as I am. We die in two ways here: shot or sick. The specifics ceased to matter after the first week. So many of us  were killed then, and when someone I knew went missing I stopped wanting to know the story because I feared the horror of it might weaken me. A part of me is secretly glad it is to be the shot. Those who die sick waste away, whereas the gun ends it quickly, like a strong wind from the north used to snuff out the windowsill candles at home. I look around me at the women in the cell, all waiting. The girl next to me trembles. She is slumped against the wall, barely human anymore, more like a very lean vegetable freshly plucked from th

Come away with me To the boardwalk by the sea. We'll make pictures with our footprints, Feed the seagulls and the dogs, Make believe we're mermaids And quote good books long out of print. Come away with me To the castle on the peak We'll drink hot chocolate by the fire, Frolic in the powdery snow, Write poetry in pine green ink, And whisper of times expired. Come away with me To the cottage in the field. We'll picnic in wet grass at daybreak, Giggle at elephants in the sky, Swim in the cold, gurgling creek And hold these moments, ours to make. Come away...