tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-98433042011-04-21T17:58:57.122-04:00A blog of poetry from my creative writing class in college. few are revisedStaceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.comBlogger291100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1114283448849247752005-04-23T14:09:00.001-05:002005-04-23T14:10:48.853-05:00

I wrote a poem a day during spring break. They aren't the best, but they make me laugh. :)Sunday, March 13We were awake at 5.30 and out the door by 6Our drivers fell asleep at 9.30 the night before and woke up at 4.30That was the time I fell asleep. 4.30. In Alabama there was a Chinese buffet billboard.It had a baby on it.Do they serve babies?!?I fell asleep 3 times.The AC was broken.I went

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1114283348842631932005-04-23T14:09:00.000-05:002005-04-23T14:09:08.843-05:00

Crucial TransfusionWalking into AutoZone makes me break out in a cold sweat. I drop your hand.Everything is in code. Written in a languageI knew probably existed.It’s like reading Klingon. Looking to you, my guide and translator, I worrymy eyes look like those of a frightened horse. More white than color.I know they’re filled with confusion and anxietyAs if I’m about to leap out of an

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1114283328789047792005-04-23T14:07:00.000-05:002005-04-23T14:08:48.790-05:00

This was based on work by Mark Doty. i don't think my line indents will work as well on this, but i'll try.RottingI was early today and sat on cold concretewatching men, brown with dirt and too much sun,assemble the skeleton of a new building.I’ve watched it every week, rise and growthe way a bird builds a nestor ants create their colony.I sit and eat a sandwich that is soggyfrom sitting in a

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1114283257388511322005-04-23T14:06:00.000-05:002005-04-23T14:07:37.390-05:00

This was based on work by Elizabeth Alexander for class. she writes a lot about race and it's relationship with her. Apartment Complex1.The smell is invading my nostrils as I walk down the hallway.I cannot tell what is cooking--Stir fry dishes used to all smell the same.Now I’m at a loss.2. For the first time in my life, I’m the minority.Beautiful women with shiny black hair surround me.Men who

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1112307937813338812005-03-31T17:19:00.000-05:002005-03-31T17:25:37.813-05:00

My father and i sat on the back porch together.The metal chair left diagonal imprints on the backs of my legs.My dad slowly rocked the chair back and forth and i began to rock too.We said nothing in a comfortable silence, like a pillow that gives in with incredible intimacy and support.The sweet smell of tulips drifted towards me with the wind like the ocean tide.The mourning doves

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1112307493241225902005-03-31T17:18:00.000-05:002005-03-31T17:18:13.243-05:00

I am in joyful painsharp teeth brush my flesh but do notpunctureagain and again i reach to my sistermy n early perfect twinOur appendages touch and embraceas we wait for the next punch linethank goodness it wasn't that funny.i am now in a jungle of hairdancing with the few strands who cometo join me.i spin each around and arounduntil i cannot remember their namesfinally, i decend to the tableMy

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1112303329736037632005-03-31T15:58:00.000-05:002005-03-31T16:08:49.736-05:00

this was an in-cass assignment where we were all given descriptive quips about a character in one town and had to write about them. When i was 18, my best friend was the star quarterback. I was head cheerleader but quit after 3 seasons. Bill's girlfriend of four years, her name was sara, was a friend of mine too. Swimming star. She liked me well enough, but i always saw the looks she'd give

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1109862916124567892005-03-03T10:14:00.000-05:002005-03-03T10:15:16.126-05:00

(Prose poem) It Was Good In Theory The micro-waved leftovers make my teeth bounce like acorns on a trampoline. The candelabra is overpowering and creating empty holes where your eyes should be. The steak tips are tires in my mouth and the gravy is chalk stuck in the crevices of my teeth. The peas I control on my plate are lost BBs. Separated in battle from their general and now POWs on my

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1109862877705063782005-03-03T10:10:00.000-05:002005-03-03T10:14:37.706-05:00

(Imitation of Denise Duhamel's work...)Infectious Disease BarbieBarbie waits by the water cooler for Ken to appear.Her azure blouse matches her eyes perfectly.And as Ken walks up to her, his tie is the sameblue as her eyes.A quick glance the jumps from Barbie to her loveris as urgent as salmon jumping upstream.They return to saving the lives of the innocents in thecriminal world of rapes and

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1109862611569617212005-03-03T10:08:00.000-05:002005-03-03T10:10:11.570-05:00

(Imitaion poem of Nick Flynn..i suggest you check out his work)1994I found you reading your medicine labels.They were billboards of your life that only you were allowed to see.You swung me up into the sky at the park& white plumage attacked me and the bread in my hand.The man who came to help us is nice but he reminds me of Mr. Slugworth.Your hand in his is like a zipper.I watch you from behind

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1108696561162318742005-02-17T22:05:00.000-05:002005-02-17T22:16:01.166-05:00

In class exercise where Alison gave us instructions (write a metaphor...Use a proper name...Tell a lie...Etc) My heart is a bungee jumper plummeting down to the unknown. I wake to dog's breath.A flute solo. A warm kiss. Brown eyes with flecks of green...crinkles around them. A crisp apple. My laundry after it is done in the dryer.I saw before me a warm smile as i hugged my grandmother.her name

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1108695931614432172005-02-17T21:51:00.000-05:002005-02-17T22:05:31.620-05:00

Free write for 20 minutes based on a part of my body. i choose elbow. :) My elbow is bony. almost unbelievable for the rest of the fluff that is on me as i feel it kreek into my other apendages. Kreep with a "K"? And it often seems like it is flying out of my body with no one to guide it, as i hit people i dn't like because they have prettier blonde hair or bigger teeth.my weapon of choice.

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1108695033063940682005-02-17T21:37:00.001-05:002005-02-17T21:50:33.066-05:00

This was another writing exercise in class. We started to write a poem about a National Enquirer article, then we were given a secret from a classmate (random) and fuse that in with the story. Secrets Jimmy Swaggart's love for God is evident as he gives his hand to the woman on the floor who begs for her sins to be forgiven. He cries with her, prays with her, then leaves the stage.Cannot do it

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1108269050893242282005-02-12T23:27:00.000-05:002005-02-12T23:30:50.893-05:00

i saw an asian man waxing his car in the moonlihght tonight.i am a marshmellow in a microwave, expanding and expanding until i cannot take the self inflicted torture and wait for either final explosion or sweet release of the timer that is so loud it wakes me up inside and i can shrink back to my original size and be soft and warm.

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1108268383161311622005-02-12T23:19:00.000-05:002005-02-12T23:19:43.163-05:00

Another in-class assignment. Directions: make 2 lists then combine them into a poem. I used my room and my grandparent's pyramid house)The cold glow of the computer monitorilluminates the Buddha that calms me.Two blue wool scarves are out of place in the desert of Las Vegas.But it cools down at night andthe sphinx guards the dooragainst unwanted spirits.A jar of change in case of anemergencyrun

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We were lost going nowhereas the road took us awayfrom our mundane lives ofreading andwriting andworking andtowards the unknownwhich revealed treesin yoga positionsand grass dancingin such synchronicity that the Rockette's would be enviouswhen we found a winery,a secret vineyard made just for the two of us(the other 7 peoplewere figments of the owner's imaginationwe suspect),and we majestically

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(This was a free write done in class very soon after Chloe's funeral)The ancient house with six generations and I am one of the last. My 2 sisters whose youth I envied at a young age as my back went out at 12. My mother who baked chocolate chip cookies for my girl scout troupe that at met across the street as we screamed, played tag and harassed the old people who lived on my block. My dad who

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1107437970025104832005-02-03T08:37:00.000-05:002005-02-08T10:06:44.546-05:00

(these are in preparation for the poem/s due Tuesday) A bored expression At least the money is good God I hate it here. people wait for food their lips downturned in a frown not even "thank you" The bacon is done Lettuce so crisp in my mouth hating this sandwich Alarms going off Cookies are burnt to a crisp No milk anyway Incompetant boss overpriced slice of pizza glorious when starved Put

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1107437540758782082005-02-03T08:22:00.000-05:002005-02-03T08:40:00.300-05:00

Preface: This is an in class poem in which I had to write an elegy (ie, funeral poem) for one of Aesop's animals. Here is the fable: The Stag With One Eye A stag, blind of one eye, was grazing close to the sea shore and kept his sound eye turned towards the land, so as to be able to perceive the approach of the hounds, while the blond eye he turned towards the sea, never suspecting that any

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106945397239256872005-01-28T15:46:00.000-05:002005-01-28T15:52:03.240-05:00

The Power of My Pen I turned a man I do not like into an ox. I pushed him down a ravine and said he'd be better off in life as a belt. Low. Evil. Fantastic. I have the power of the gods at my hands. Zeus is powerless, unless he gets pissed and the lightning hurts more than my inky remark. But the "do me a favour" MUST be stopped! Though it is funny, my choice of an animal for this shell

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106945093702098322005-01-28T15:43:00.000-05:002005-01-28T16:01:22.160-05:00

how painful when you want to let go but can't. not because you should be strong not because of shame and not because your heart's made of stone. but because your nose just hurts too much. The funeral home of all place should have the best tissues. Moisture rich and full of lotion so when you see the angel lying on the satin pillow You can wipe your nose and eyes and not feel that it isn't

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106944960890958482005-01-28T15:37:00.000-05:002005-01-28T18:22:37.206-05:00

I am writing this on a roll of paper towels at my job. Hello, Jack Kerouac! The neverending glory of the stream of consciousness that will never stop.. I saw that manuscript. On the Road. It really was on the road. Travelling from library to library. Who would see it? Who would want to? Apparently, i would. And i did. It stretched from one end of the library to the other. A medieval

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106944509079405602005-01-28T15:31:00.000-05:002005-01-28T15:35:09.080-05:00

The Cashier He sites like The Thinker Rodin would be proud. His shoulders hunched foward in obnoxious agony. it is not the weight of the world on his shoulders. it is hell pulling him home. he is as far from noble as Ramen noodes are from smoked salmon and caviar. New clothes will not save you and Henry Higgins cannot cure you of your simple tongue and speech. If you were to find salvation in

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106944282255828032005-01-28T15:29:00.000-05:002005-01-28T15:31:22.256-05:00

Sensual swelling pulsing Love. rhythm beauty Love. pain pleasure Love. pounding gentle Love. Music.

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106943500535273332005-01-28T15:06:00.000-05:002005-01-28T15:25:29.673-05:00

Hometown What is it about Greenfield that makes people stay? Generations of people who move houses but they are only a few blocks away. Is it the idea of a family as being planted that strikes people? Giant Sequoias of families in this one town of green. Or white, if you get what I mean. Roots that are so deep that you get lost in the earth. You travel on the back of an ant, which is

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106942801530533262005-01-28T15:03:00.000-05:002005-01-28T15:06:41.530-05:00

The Different Stars & Suns The yellow orb in the sky, so familiar Now there were two as the neon yellow softball few into the air Already abused by the alluminum bats of others It sailed through the air as graceful as a rocket. The crash as it hit the tree was deafening The breathless anticipation of a homerun fulfilled. The first home run, and a momento now to excite, inspire, and remind.

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106942599720220682005-01-28T15:01:00.000-05:002005-01-28T15:03:19.720-05:00

ory The needles stick out reminding me of days when all were together and happy The needles beckon and i go to them pick them up and laugh. I twist my hands around them and wish all could see me. I turn the needles on myself Then gently put them back with the yarn.

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1106942191592390212005-01-28T14:55:00.000-05:002005-01-28T14:56:31.593-05:00

So i figure i'll at least use this blog for something. why not put the poetry i've been writing at work on this thing? it's all horrible, but i don't care. So here we go! an entry a poem!

Staceyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14548610089067882998noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9843304.post-1104357775144415422004-12-29T17:02:00.000-05:002004-12-29T17:02:55.143-05:00

not so much to really talk about. i got this more so i can comment on jess's site without telling her (twice) who i am. ;) more later i'm sure. i post way too often.

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