Metaphors and Similies or Pharaohs?

It’s crunch time. Within the next two weeks I have to decide my fate for the coming semester. Capstone, internships, graduation-it’s graduation-it’s an entire blur. One intimidating blur. Am I scared? Shitless. Excited? Yes. Nervous? Extremely. Confident? Maybe. Hell, I’m a bundle of emotions and probably a walking billboard for the stereotypical scatter-brained writer. Oh, well. I carry my “labels” with pride.
So, the question is, WHAT do I want to do next year? What do I want to labor over for hours, pouring my blood, sweat, and most likely, tears into? I think, THINK, I’ve narrowed it down to two choices.

1.)Poetry. It’s in my soul, and I can’t escape it. I don’t even want to try. I hope (by studying my ass off this summer to make up for crucial moments I missed due to life bitch-slapping me again) to take Jim’s Advanced Poetry next year. I know I’ll have to create a manuscript for that class, and having to create two of them may be monotonous, but I love poetry, and I’d be up for the challenge. I’ve had to create a couple of anthologies now, and well, I enjoyed doing so. I enjoyed plowing through the works of my poetry-lipped brothers and sisters and discovering inked worlds out there I never knew existed. I’m a veteran at Po-Jazz now (after Jim’s relentless recruitment), and I can tell you that when I’m up there on stage, under the lights with the music behind me, it’s the best feeling in the world. Reading my original works, feeling my body sway in sync with the rhythm and hearing my voice ring out into the night, it’s…amazing. It’s such a rush. The most incredible feeling above all that was when I narrowed in on my mother in the audience, and saw tears in her eyes. Tears of joy, awe, and pride, because her youngest daughter was finally following her passion. She knew how much poetry means to me, she knew it was my solace and savior in a shitty life, and she could almost see the magic I feel when I’m up on stage, exposing my naked self to the world (no, don’t worry, not literally). Somehow, in the root of my bones and the darkest edges of my soul, I feel like this is what I’m meant to do.

2.) Egypt. I fell in love with it thirteen years ago, and the lure of it has haunted me ever since. Maybe it’s because I was a demented little child who found things gruesome, like mummies, to actually be cool, or maybe it’s because that’s when my fire for history sparked. I don’t know the exact answer, but I do know it’s one of the greatest sources of passion I have. Hell, I must have to love it enough to have symbol of it permanently inked on my body. I guess, in a silly child’s way, it was my saving grace growing up in a shitty home life when I never knew if my father was going to come home in one of his drunken rages. At that time, I believed in what most children did, magic and fairy tales, and something about the ancient culture drew me to it. Hell, who knows maybe magic does exist, spiritually or emotionally, and it chose me. I’ve always felt an unexplained connection to it all, but as I grow older, I find myself losing grasp because I have so many other things to worry about now. It’s not as simple as escaping life and studying an ancient culture anymore. It’s about being realistic and having priorities and sometimes putting passions on the back burner. Ha, it seems like I’ve had to do that a lot lately. But this is something I’d be in heaven writing about for three months. But the question is, based on suggestions by the wonderful Jaime Berry and lovely Alli Neal, do I write a poem, a play, a course, essays, what? Honestly I don’t think I’ll have the answer until I do it, or make an attempt. I think it’ll be like a lot of the things in my life, leap head first and thing about the consequences later, as I live it-and write it- with passion.

Courting Demons

You’re pretty good at hiding things.
I look at you, scathing laughter bubbling at the edges.
It comes easily now. You’d be too, if you had no choice.
Secrets and discretion have become a game, at which I am a master. I’ve learned to shield my eyes from those who seek to stare, and I’ve hardened myself to the emotions that once threatened too much. Sometimes I believe poison runs in my veins.
From you, I’ve hidden the worst truth of all.
I love you. Gut-wrenching, nauseating, consuming love.
How? You’ve managed to burrow beneath my skin.
I must tame this creature.
I look at you, and want to shrink back.
I hold my ground.
You know. How could you?
Your eyes say, “I do.”
Shock. Surrender. Fight. Armor. I must banish this demon.
Why?
Because it’s forbidden.
Why?
It’s dangerous.
So?
It could destroy you. Destroy me. Destroy us.
Is it worth the risk?
Could be.
It’d be delicious in its own right.
It’d cause a scandal.
Who gives a damn?
I feel your brown eyes searching me thoroughly, burning straight to my soul. Or the little I have left of it. My blue eyes oppose their own.
I have too many demons.
Who doesn’t?
You wouldn’t understand.
These eyes, these blue eyes that stare at you now? For months, they’ve shed blood tears.
I could help.
And what? Attempt to save me? No. I don’t need a savior. I never have.
Never will.
I can-
No. No, you can’t.
I’ll giv-
Give me what? A false sense of security?
No. An escape.
From what?
The world.
I stare at you in disbelief. Your hand twitches, itching to touch me. I close my eyes and force myself to let everything go.
That’s the last thing I need.
You turn to me, your eyes full of fire. Thick with ice.
You don’t believe me?
No. I’ve learned not to believe in fickle fairy tales.
I love you.
Well, that’s all well and done, but it’s not going to change things.
It’s a solice. You are heartless?
No. I had one, once. I had a soul too.
What happened to them?
They were ripped out long ago.
How?
Too much.
You are an Ice Queen.
Yes, I am.
You cup my weathered face in your palm, stroking the smooth pad of your thumb across my bottom lip.
I could try.
I close my eyes. This hurts too much.
No. Someday I hope to find peace. But I must do it on my own.
I love you.
And I you. But it’s not enough.
Isn’t it?
No. It never has been.
I kiss your palm. Fighting back tears, I break your gaze.
For the last time, I walked away.
From everything I once knew.
From you.

A Ginger's Devotion

I speak nothing
For secrets in
My silence
Have said much.

Our hands nuzzle
Worn ridges
Against fresh silk
Your thumb stroking symphonies
Against my cocoon flesh.

In the darkness
I burn and
Pledge you smolder too.

I drink your scent
As my lips skirmish the velvet
Of your neck,
When I burrow deep on
Hunt for fire against
Ice calculations
Of insomniac nights.

I blame you
For this brilliant inferno
Dancing merrily atop
Stone walls and supple flesh.

Ice Queen hearts feeble
Beside soldier prowess,
Aged in vain
For a ginger devotion
Blazed and weaved,

In silence, given.

Poetic Theories, Bubble-Wrap Suits, and Walking With Pharaohs (Or How I'd Like to Spend Senior Year)

I started writing poetry in eighth grade. Years prior, I absolutely hated it. Two weeks into eighth grade, I loved it. I’ve had several notebooks filled with my chicken scratch stanzas and line breaks ever since. Since I came to Champlain, I discovered that I had a passion, love, and appreciation for poetry that ran deeper beneath my flesh than I thought it could. Sometimes, I tend to think that poetic words run through my veins. Next year, I will be taking Advanced Poetry with Jim Ellefson, even though I have to study my ass off this summer before hand. I don’t care. I told Ellefson I would do whatever it took to be able to continue my study of poetry. For the past couple of years, I have dreamt of turning my chicken scratch into something more. I think for a capstone project, I’d like to consider putting together a collection of poems that I could send off for publication.

I’m Life’s plaything. She seems to get quite a thrill out of bitch slapping me. Everyone else seems to get a laugh too. Hell, I even get a laugh out of it…now. When I look back over the past four years, I realize I’ve been through a lot of shit that would probably make an amusing short collection of personal essays, especially with my most recent endeavor…falling down a flight of stairs. Ha, you should see the reactions I get when I tell people. Initial impression? Shock. No, I wasn’t drunk. No, I wasn’t pushed. And no, my boyfriend did not hit me. I promise. It was sheer clumsiness on my part and lead to quite a nasty tumble. Luckily for me I’m a veteran on crutches, eh? I’m becoming a regular at the hospital and doctor’s office now. I swear, they’re going to get to a point where they know me by face. Well, for a couple of weeks, Tim and I bantered through a serious of emails. I liked them. I feel they like they could possibly turn out to be an interesting piece…especially when I include bubble-wrap suits and giant hamster balls.

What would I love to spend the next three months learning and writing about? Come on, Tim, I think we all know the answer to that question. I’ve known it since I was seven. I would love to spend three months writing about Egypt, especially Ancient Egypt. I’ve lost touch with my inner Egyptian over the last couple of years, but I want to rekindle the spark I once felt when looking, touching, and reading about the culture that had become so dear to me. I want to renew the intense feelings of passion I have spending hours in a darkened room, pouring over the pages portraying papyrus sheets filled with ancient spells and tales of love, loss, power, triumph, courage, murder, sorrow, joy, mysterious, and wonder. I have never been able to explain the waves of emotions that run through me when I surround myself with whispering words of the ancient pharaohs, other than it feels like…pure magic. I think perhaps if I spend three months renewing my relationship with Egypt, perhaps I can find the long-sought answers to my many questions. Someday, I WILL end up questioning the sphinx, climbing the pyramids, and walking with the pharaohs.

Child's Eyes

The silence in the house was deafening. I was snuggled deep beneath the caves of my sheets and Beauty and the Beast comforter. My door was snugly secured before I entered the fields of my dreams.

I remember being shaken awake by my mother. She was trying to hide her frantic fear behind a mask of calm. But yet she still grasped my arm and dragged me out of bed.
Mommy? What’s going on? I asked, my fists wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“Just stand there. Hush now,” she’d said.

So I stood there, shivering in my blue pajamas, with teddy bears playing baseball all over them. The shirt had the teddy’s face on my tummy, a sideways ball cap perched on its head. These were my favorite. I huddled with my sister and little brother, unsure why Mommy was so upset. So angry.

The he came home, worn leather cowboy boots crunching on the gravel of the driveway. His face was a mask of anger, of pure hatred.
“Give me the fucking keys, Vanessa.”

I heard them arguing, their rising voices echoing the darkness. Why was Mommy crying?
Smash.

I remember the window shattering as steel fist connected with glass. Blood ran down his arm, and droplets decorated the grass. It painted a picture on the blue, wooden screen door.

“Go! Get the fuck out of here, you bastard.” Mommy tossed a patchwork kitchen towel at his snarling face.Fists snatched the keys roughly from her outstretched hands. Even at that age, I knew he would have liked to break her fingers.

“Fuck you,” were the last words he spoke. I knew then, even at four years old, that I would always be left standing on the edges, watching his retreating back.

He stalked down the driveway, cursing her and cursing us, the towel masking his bloodied hand.

Like it was our fault.

He left us standing there, shivering, and scared, on the edge of our lawn. Mommy was shaken up, her fists clenched, but she tried to pretend everything was okay.
To protect us.

My sister wailed into the night.
“Shhh, Baby, it’s not your fault. You’re okay,” Mommy silenced my sister.
She knelt then, her knees on the gravel, and wrapped the three of us in a bear hug.
Like her arms were the armor, the fortress against the evil of the world. She would do anything to shield us from the pain thereafter.

I stood there, my tiny fingers rubbing her back. I hugged her with everything I had. But still I stared over her shoulder at the driveway, where the blue Caddy should’ve been. My blue eyes searched the darkness for any sign that we was still there.
I was greeted by emptiness.

My heart broke then, a gouge larger than my murmer growing rapidly. I was already born with one hole in my heart, but he, he’d created another one. He would never kneel before me, as Mommy did, and wipe away the tears from my innocent blue eyes.

Battalion

To write “Love” on my arms
Is a self-declaration against
Everything I have suffered in the past.

Mutilation
Starvation
Depression
Sexation.

Do those four letters
Written in
Ink
Shout defiance
To the skies?

Love as protection?

A shield against the swarming tides
Of evil that dare to pry
Innocent eyes?

A solid stone through the raging
Storms.

Love, they say, protects all.

Love, the forbidden, whispered
In the dark.

Love, can it save someone like me?

Who cries silent tears,
Clawing through an invisible veil
Searching for salvation,
For an escape,

From the monster
within.

The monster with gnarled,
Scaly claws.
That uncurl from the hallowed
Caves of skin and bone
Beneath my fingernails.

They grow
Four inches
Five,
Then, six.
Until their steel coats
Glisten in the light.

Light?
When they are messengers of darkness?

How they tear and dig,
Burrow their cruel blades into
The plains of my skin,
Dragging their ruthless daggers
Through
The fields of my heart.

They gnaw away to
Skin
And
Bone.
A mangled corpse
Walking on iron legs.
They wash their ands
In throws of
Blood.

In the darkness they rule
Fearless
And
Strong.
But when light dare peak through
Like ancient scouts scoring the
Forests for hidden archers
Before a great battle.
Ignoring life’s predestined heeds.

Love’s battalion charges,
Ripping the veil,
Bringing the
sun to
These frozen fingers.

Slowly, carefully,
They crawl
Inch by inch
To rescue
A tattered shield of
Calloused eyes.

Can love save
Those innocent eyes
Held prisoner by
Hell’s Battle
Inside the mental prison
Of a
Soulless Devil Woman.

Can love save someone like me?

I Can't Love You

There are so many things it could be…
Broken hearts, false promises, whispered nothings
In the dark of the early morning hours
But could it be, simply, that…

I’m a city girl and you’re a country boy.

I saw you with her
Nestled under street lamp’s grinning glow
Hands laced like new running shoes.

You, in your size 11 work boots,
Mossy Oak hat cocked sideways,
Khaki Carharts smeared with grease
From monkey-wrenching the engine
In your ’95 extended cab Chevy.

She matched you perfectly
In a Fox Racing hoodie and gray thermal
Under a camo jacket.
Distressed denim boot cut jeans
And loggers on her feet.

I hibernate in coffee shops,
A black and white speckled journal at my side,
Face peered close to the cavernous pages of chicken scratch
Hands stained with ink kisses.

I dance about the streets
In the middle of the night,
steps carried by music wings,
playing tag with sweeping trees.

I sleep on sheets of tar
Waiting for Sunset’s call
And Midnight’s shouts close to my ear.
I can’t love you.

I’m a country girl and you’re a city boy.

I call a rickety old house,
Wearing a coat of peeling paint
Numbers scrawled in Sharpie
Sunken steps leading to a flapping door-
Home.

I’m enslaved daily by Midway Oil company
My fingers cramped and soles worn from
Thankless hours for shitty pay,
Floundering for paper satchels
Harboring bread, milk, and peanut butter.
Spare cents given to Mama Dukes
To help with the month’s rent.

My chariot’s a ’95 Mercury Tracer,
A white bundle of junk.
I call him Murphy.

I wear worn jeans, two sizes too big
Wife beaters, usually in black, purple, blue, or yellow
Underneath a Pac Sun hoodie I’d picked up for 20 bucks
And black DCed skate shoes or brown work boots,
Youth size seven.

I’m a ginger she-devil
You’ll hear my language of fists and
Elvis Presley lip curl
That’s how I do,
A country girl from Southern Vermahhhh.

You swagger the city streets
In your Abercrombie Jeans and $90 dollar kicks
Silver pin-striped button down slid underneath a jacket
Of jet-black leather and chrome zipper.

Tonight, under the parking cone orange and florescent yellow
Glow of Finnigan’s Pub
Against the circles of AC DC, Buckcherry, and Lynrd Skynrd wamping
Through the gold trimmed double doors and walls of brick,
You own the world.

You’re a motor-head in a 3000 GT
Sleek black and chrome racing stripes
To match the sexy leather armor you don
When you saunter your seductive steps.

You call a three story,
Red brick and gray shingled,
Cherry stained wrap around porch-
And French balcony doors that smirk
At the crumbling, sniveling wooden elders-
Home.

You rule Epic Records
Fourth level corner office,
Silver-gray walls
Black masses of steel and titanium
And mountains of comfy chrome,
20-inch monitor sharing
Your satisfied smirk as you play rock-band
With Bic pens against the cherry surface of your desk.

We’re worlds apart, you and I
I’m trouble and you’re the golden boy.
The future’s been handed to us
Though different paths we take.

We’re a pair of aces
In this secret web woven just for two
You and I.
You’re my sexy leather legend,
And I your ginger spitfire.

You’re my country boy
Counting the stars in the back of your Chevy
Snuggled under a thick fleece blanket,
Kissing the night away.
I’m your city muse,
Wistful lines of metaphor and simile
Rock wrapped words and leather armor
Poetry lips and ink kissed hands.

Most nights, I can’t love you.
You’re a country boy and I’m a city girl.
But for just one night, maybe I could love you,
Because I’m a country girl and you’re a city boy.

Shatters

My turquoise Chevy Cavalier swerved off the road, and suddenly I found myself trying to push the rubber of the brakes against the carpet of the floor as I tried desperately to stop. The tires refused to halt as I continued to skid at 30 miles an hour along the grass and packed dirt of the cornfield along the Hubbardton road. There was nothing I could do, except stare out the cracked windshield at the expanse of trees that approached faster and faster. Terrified, I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white from trying to regain control. CRUNCH. Steel met hard, solid bark as my Chevy collided headfirst into the trees. I didn’t even have time to scream.

I can’t remember much after that, other than a handful of jumbled images. I looked out the shattered windshield to see smoke rising out of the totaled car. I do remember my feelings, however. Though terrified, I had the sense enough to unbuckle my seat belt and know I had to get out of the car. I remember my door not being able to open, and there was no way I could get out the passenger side. Thankfully I had manual windows and could climb out the driver-side one. I remember intense pain all over my body, and feeling stiff. I remember struggling to walk on my left leg because the pain was agony, but I bit it back. I needed help.

I remember a couple pulling over, and seeing my car rammed in the tree, and ran over to help. I know I had them call my mother, and I heard them call the police. The next thing I remember is waking up, looking up at the people staring down on me. I was on a backboard and in so much pain I wanted to scream. But as always, I didn’t. I remained silent and calm. I looked over in the distance, far to my left, and saw my mother, brother, sister, aunt, and my sister’s boyfriend standing along the edge of the road with the police officers. I focused on my mother. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew her eyes shed tears. This was the second time she had to see me lying on the side of the road, not knowing if I was dead or alive. I hoped it would be the very last time she’d ever have too.

What I can tell you is that April 30, 2009 I brushed with death for the third time in my life. In a period of just nine short years, I’d had three car accidents. The first time I was hit by a car two weeks after my twelfth birthday. The second time was the previous December. I had worked a twelve-hour shift and then tried to bring a friend home at three in the morning. In exhaustion, I fell asleep behind the wheel and went off the road. They told me if I had gone an inch further, I would have flipped my car, totaled it, and died. The third time was the day I came home from college, much of which I can’t remember now unless I try very hard. I do know they told me I was lucky to be alive, let alone be able to walk away. I suffered a broken left hip socket and torn left knee tendon. I spent two months of my summer on crutches and reliving the aftermath of my now-full swing PTSD. I knew I was lucky to escape death a third time, but even then, they told me my hip would never heal completely. From past experience, I knew I would never completely heal both physically and mentally.

Since that day, and in my months of recovery, I turned towards my writing as a comfort and a solace. I was laid up for most of the summer, so I couldn’t enjoy everything I should’ve been able at a young age of 19. Experiencing the near-brush of death three times in my life, I consider myself lucky. I guess I’m meant to still be here and fate has bigger plans for me, whatever they may be. I did walk away with one thing: I don’t view this as a regret, I see it as a learning experience. I take each day as it comes and now I live life to the fullest because I never know when it could be taken away from me. I write about anything and everything I’m thinking, anything I wonder about, I am angry, sad, happy, etc, about. I write about what I want to do in the world, or I write about my past, or what I’m afraid of. I have always written from the heart, but within these months of recovery I learned to be fearless in my writing and write about things I’d considered Taboo before. I learned to write with my instinct, my voice, and with courage. What I noticed I wrote about the most was hope. Hope and the ability to dream of a future I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been so lucky.

Rock and Roll Therapy

Oh, Baby,
There’s nothing like
rock and roll in the morning.

The sun shatters
shuttered windows,
kissing me awake.

I roll out of the warmth
of the tangles of
my pink
Jungle Cave.

I fumble for the
magic switch that’ll
wreak havoc and
shred the system.

The tunes bulldoze
straight to my soul,
makes my hips shake
and
my booty sway.

Baby,
When those notes crank the air,
they’ve got the whole ground a shakin',
shivers down my spine,
smokin' loud beats,
I’ve got that rollin’ swagger.

The tunes rocket ship the walls,
I slither on the back beat,
booty shake and head-bang
My bare feet crush the
sobbing carpet.

Tousled, lions-mane hair,
baggy, red cotton tee
and
pink leopard Vicky’s panties,
my voice soars with the roar of
AC/DC serenading through
the black dotted speaker box.

For those morning moments,
I’m a self-declared
Super Nova.
I run New York. I run LA.

Baby,
When those notes crank the air,
they’ve got the whole ground
a shakin',
shivers down my spine,
smokin' loud beats,
I’ve got that rollin’ swagger.

I’m busy hips and quick fists
in denim and leather,
two tattoos and eleven piercings.
Show cased curves
and tight lines,
heeled boots and shine.
Fuck you,
I’ve got that rollin’ swagger.