poetry
In this portion of the class, I wrote and revised some poems about things that I love to do. I wrote with a theme in mind: this mysterious sense of wonder and awe that I feel when I do certain things in life.
Soccer Flashes
Roughly sown grass caresses cleat studs in a tough-love embrace,
while the soft soil underneath swallows them like quicksand.
But they waltz, precariously
avoiding ankle-breaking holes on the ragged wasteland that was once
a pitch-perfect field.
Emotion in slow motion. Three perpendicular metal bars hold up meshed ropes
and my entire existence. Yet I am not nervous,
legs jaded but my mind a temple, filled,
overflowing with the sanctity of a gentle rain.
I need a temple. Where else can I hide from the
stench of sopping socks,
stomachaches and sticky fevers,
jeering from opponents but worse,
from teammates,
"You're the captain" after each
and
every mistake.
Legs dead from service and heart
dead from mud and rain.
Why do I feel this mysterious force
as I enter the field? As I
captain this team of young men I will probably never see again,
this false sense of importance fades into a befuddled reverence.
I pluck at the grass.
In the name of the Father. The team.
And of the Son. The fans.
And of the Holy Ghost. The beautiful game.
Sledding in The Forest
Leaving behind warm, chocolate memories,
my frost-bitten, lightly-gloved hands
press the sled into my side while feet struggle up the slick, overused path.
Bushes seem to reach out with crackling spider fingers.
They try to pull me back to the fire. I break free.
One final ascent and I'm up, the snow-dusted meadow grass
applauding my epic journey.
It's time.
I'm falling, but that cannot describe the
panicked precursor
to the exhilaration
of survival.
Clashing, scraping
rocks and gravel attack
the slick, scaly sled, burrowing
holes in hard plastic.
Airborne! for tantalizing seconds before
a jarring landing on unforgiving dirt and snow.
Speed goes and
time slows. The pines validate my journey and call me upward,
daring me to join them in their circle of wintry rituals.
The Church Piano
Oh, how I hate the stereotypical red carpet, when everybody
has eyes only for your wealth and your prosperity.
How strange is it, then, that I fall in love with these fuzzy red aisles
and these hardwood pews and I am the tiny, humble dot,
so wonderfully
alone.
Stained-glass windows, faintly lit up by distant streetlamps,
hauntingly echo shuffles and ruffles.
Clear and precise, a single tone pierces the hollow chamber like a raindrop...
drop...
drop and it is joined by others,
twisting and wriggling forth from hammer on string.
Christ, on his cross, orders forth sounds,
conducting his stained-glass disciples
before an empty congregation.
Roughly sown grass caresses cleat studs in a tough-love embrace,
while the soft soil underneath swallows them like quicksand.
But they waltz, precariously
avoiding ankle-breaking holes on the ragged wasteland that was once
a pitch-perfect field.
Emotion in slow motion. Three perpendicular metal bars hold up meshed ropes
and my entire existence. Yet I am not nervous,
legs jaded but my mind a temple, filled,
overflowing with the sanctity of a gentle rain.
I need a temple. Where else can I hide from the
stench of sopping socks,
stomachaches and sticky fevers,
jeering from opponents but worse,
from teammates,
"You're the captain" after each
and
every mistake.
Legs dead from service and heart
dead from mud and rain.
Why do I feel this mysterious force
as I enter the field? As I
captain this team of young men I will probably never see again,
this false sense of importance fades into a befuddled reverence.
I pluck at the grass.
In the name of the Father. The team.
And of the Son. The fans.
And of the Holy Ghost. The beautiful game.
Sledding in The Forest
Leaving behind warm, chocolate memories,
my frost-bitten, lightly-gloved hands
press the sled into my side while feet struggle up the slick, overused path.
Bushes seem to reach out with crackling spider fingers.
They try to pull me back to the fire. I break free.
One final ascent and I'm up, the snow-dusted meadow grass
applauding my epic journey.
It's time.
I'm falling, but that cannot describe the
panicked precursor
to the exhilaration
of survival.
Clashing, scraping
rocks and gravel attack
the slick, scaly sled, burrowing
holes in hard plastic.
Airborne! for tantalizing seconds before
a jarring landing on unforgiving dirt and snow.
Speed goes and
time slows. The pines validate my journey and call me upward,
daring me to join them in their circle of wintry rituals.
The Church Piano
Oh, how I hate the stereotypical red carpet, when everybody
has eyes only for your wealth and your prosperity.
How strange is it, then, that I fall in love with these fuzzy red aisles
and these hardwood pews and I am the tiny, humble dot,
so wonderfully
alone.
Stained-glass windows, faintly lit up by distant streetlamps,
hauntingly echo shuffles and ruffles.
Clear and precise, a single tone pierces the hollow chamber like a raindrop...
drop...
drop and it is joined by others,
twisting and wriggling forth from hammer on string.
Christ, on his cross, orders forth sounds,
conducting his stained-glass disciples
before an empty congregation.