Palmtree Contemplations

There's a reason they call it "writer's block". For me, it means every good idea that I have suddenly seems so terribly cliche that all I want to do is rip it to shreds and watch all my silly words burn amber to black to grey. I hate this feeling with everything that is in me. The inability to express what is going on around me creates this strange, frustrating vortex of emotion. People might think I'm angry, but I really just want to be able to write something good and I can't think how to do it. Every sentence I begin seems ridiculous, even the one I am now finishing. I wish I had some easy answer to give. Why do I sound like a cynical old woman in my inner thoughts, criticizing the world and feeling that nothing is original. Yet, when the sparrows take flight and I am standing below watching their black-winged clusters flap against the gold-tinged azure sky of twilight, I remember what it is to wonder. I remember the little girl who used to stomp through...

The only freedom I ask is this: Give me a field to roam in, Flowers to pick, sunshine to bask in, A sky bursting with blue, and above all, The strength to lay all these "good" burdens at Your feet And the sense to kneel and listen to The only truth worth hearing: You are God and I am Yours.

The young man did not know what to think when he saw her coming. At first he thought she was a mirage, another hallucination to torment him in his inner struggle. Then, as the tattered edges of her clothes came into focus, he knew she was real. The confusing things about her were the lack of shoes and something else the young man did not at first identify. Coming out of the desert, people always looked worn-out and dirty. She was both of those, and yet something else as well. Glad was the word for it, the young man decided. He wanted to ask her how she had done it and why on earth was she glad? She was, after all, barefoot, sunburned, bruised, and dirty. Caught between his confusion and inner battling- should I go? should I stay?- the young man silently contemplated the ripples of the sand before him. "Hello," the young woman called out. He looked up, realizing that she had advanced and was determined to speak to him. He nodded. She stopped a few feet from him, her filthy...

So this is what it is to be held? This strange peace that settles So soft and still Like dust caught in sunbeams. So this is what it is to be held? The yielding to love that comes Quiet and clear Like stars sparkling in the black. So this is what it is to be held?  This contentment that seeps in Slow and tingling Like the fire's warmth in winter.  So this is what it is to be held: The sureness that buoys, Firm and freeing Like the ocean holds me now.

I have been to lyceums before, but nothing could ever top Alex McDonald's incredible performance earlier this month. From the moment he stepped out on the BPAC stage, Alex was one of the most accessible performers I have ever had the privilege of hearing. Even the faculty went crazy over him, which is saying a lot since our faculty is very picky. Behind me, the Wubbenas kept making approving whispers to one another, and I think I heard Mr. Smith give an "Amen" after Chopin's Nocturne in c minor. I could not see Mrs. Rollene or Dr. Whitley, but I imagine they were both smiling. After the intermission, Alex did a lecture on and performance of Liszt's Sonata in b minor. I settled in for the sonata, which is hard for any pianist to perform, no matter how talented or experienced. It lasts for half an hour, but it was one of the happiest half hours of my life. When I saw him reaching for the last note I wanted to say, "Oh, no, don't play it. Replay one of the...

I was dozing in the saddle when I felt Starlight come to a halt. I looked around, wondering where we were. Surrounding us were green hills, and mountains beyond. "This isn't Perin," I stated, confused. "No, it isn't," Starlight answered. "But I thought- "I said we were going to Perin without making the usual stops. I didn't say we wouldn't stop from time to time. I can't walk and carry you all the way there without resting, don't you know," she answered in her huffy, unicorn way. Her long white legs folded as she settled down in the billowing grass. The wind was strong now. I stared at the mountains, suddenly concerned. There were storm clouds on the horizon. What kind of storms existed in this strange world? "Don't be frightened, little one. It is a little wind and a bit of thunder. Come, it will be getting colder soon," she lifted her wing, and I crawled beneath it. There are no words to describe the ...

Is this all right? This lack of understanding. This yearning to know, And the inability to discover. Is this all right? This wishing I was free, Free from what? Does not the prison door stand open? Is this all right? This anger that I hold, So close, and oh so fiery, It hurts if water comes too near. Is this all right? This pounding frustration, It shakes the ground, And leaves me blank and numb. Is this all right? This silence that I give you. Though there's love in your eyes, I cower in fear.   This is wrong. This aching to yell and scream. This is wrong. This refusal to bow the knee. This is wrong. This burning, red-hot rage. This is wrong. This self-wrought, iron cage. These are the empty days When thoughts run wild and unwritten. These are the empty days When dark mem'ries won't stay hidden. Oh God, what a wretch I am!