Lawnmowing, Love, and Lilacs

Today was my last day of school before summer starts! It's about time, too. :P

Ah ha, another lawnmower poem. It's an inspirational thing, mowing the lawn, is it not? This poem's even about plants! Coincidence? I think not! I wrote this on Saturday and edited Sunday and Monday to make it the best it could be.

This is partly inspired by my boyfriend--yes, I said it: my boyfriend--who is a microbiology genius. Most the things he talks to me about go in one ear and out the other. He's working on curing cancer, and I think his team is close. Did I mention he's just about to graduate high school? Yes. And he's curing cancer.

Anyways, loosely inspired by him. He's very sweet, and he would never mistreat me in any way. The only similarity is the scientific-ness of this poem. What can I say? Relationships make for great poetry, even if it's a little exaggerated.

Are you in a relationship? Is it an... INSPIRING one? Do tell.

Summer Bloom

Suspend me, saint-like, from the ceiling,

Strung up beside garlic and spice.

I bet I'll look nice when you move from this shack to a lab,

And you can study me all you want, but I won't change.

It's strange how you said you wanted me,

Only to pluck me from my roots so I could die before your eyes.

But I'd rather be dried than condemned to formaldehyde,

Watching dandelions go to seed while you read medical journals

And observe my body decaying inside a jar.

I know where they are.

When their petals began to wilt, you pumped them full of preservatives,

Injected dyes so you wouldn't have to see them decompose,

A daisy;

A rose;

Locked in the dusty corners of your memory,

A sickening surprise for me to find as I search your mind,

Looking for the "Why's."

I only bloomed so you could tell me I was pretty,

And when you found me I told you I couldn't last forever.

You thought you were so clever,

Hanging me like Peter from the rafters,

Sealing letters, making charts,

Calling up forbidden arts.

And I know you're trying, but

I'm

still

dying,

And all your efforts just won't work.

By the time you find a cure to mortality,

I'll have gone to seed,

And I'll teach my posterity to laugh

At the silly charts and stupid graphs

You made to save your garden of hearts.

A summer flower made to bloom in spring,

I'll leave you to wonder if you did something

Wrong,

Because I can't bear to watch, with my dried-out eyes,

As the could-have-been seed

slowly

dies.

You'd Be Surprised Where You Get Inspired

You'd think mowing the lawn would inspire you to write about mowing the lawn, right? Nope. Not for me. Somehow mowing the lawn or walking to school stimulates my brain, I guess, because right after doing either one I have ideas for new stories or poems. I made up a joke the last time I walked to school. You wanna hear it? Of course you do.

What do you call a mob of brooms?

The mop-fia.

You're supposed to laugh now, just so you know.

Anyways, I was mowing the lawn on Saturday, contemplating stuff as always, when the lines for a poem came to mind. I'd already tried writing something with the same idea in mind, but it wasn't turning out quite right the way I was taking it. The title came about partly because of the poem's concept, and also because I was joking around with my sister and calling her names (we do that a lot, just to see who can come up with the best name). The first word out of my mouth was "Dummy." Isn't that a funny word? I had to use it somewhere.

Before I give you the poem, here's a question I'd like to know: What inspires you, and where (as in physical places) do you most often get inspiration?

Dummy

My ventriloquist moves my mouth to speak,

Though I swear it's not me talking.

My ventriloquist moves my limbs so weak,

But it's not me who's walking.

My ventriloquist makes my eyes to weep,

Though I swear it's not me crying.

My ventriloquist lays me down to sleep,

And now it's me who's dying.

Official Posting Schedule and a Poem That Is Apparently Worth Publishing

Because of some stuff and various other reasons, I will make blog posts on Tuesdays and Thursdays, except when I don't.

Aren't you glad to have something consistent in your life, except when I'm not consistent?

I know I am.

EDIT as of Saturday, 28 May, 2011: I'll probably post on Saturdays as well. Yay! :D

Today's poem is an interesting piece to be certain. An assignment in creative writing was to hold hands with a person we didn't know very well from the class and stare into their eyes for five minutes. We weren't to speak, look away, or let go of each other until the five minutes were up. Then we had to write a poem or prose piece about our experience.

I chose to "commune" with Ashley, a quiet girl (but an excellent writer). It felt odd at first, but eventually it became more comfortable and I was able to just think: what is she thinking about? What lies behind her eyes? And what is she seeing in me?

I sent in the resulting poem to a poetry contest a few months ago, and it is being published in a who's who sort of book. I'm not about to shell out $26 for a book with my name in it. The whole reason I entered was to get extra credit, anyways. But I'm in the running to win an actual prize, so I'm not complaining.

This is "Hazel."

Is it all right if we share?
Let’s take turns and chip away at the Walls we’ve built
Until we have nothing but ourselves,
But everything at once.

I never asked for anything before, so
Do you mind if I ask,
Where is your direction?

(Are you wandering like I do? Are you lost as I am?)

Let us be lost together
So someone can hold me through coming Disaster.

You’ve shown me flecks of gold, copper, bronze,
Rich soil rings around my reflection.
Let’s plant a garden in your eyes
And dandelions to choke out the Worry seeds.

Did you see my Ocean?

(It laps against my shivering soul)

Did you see the Embers?

(I Burned my heart for the sake of winter heat)

Did you see the Gardens rent with longing?
(Once there were forests filled with flames)

Please, come be lost with me. I feel so c o l d.

The Archives: Disgusting Sappy Love Poetry

I have to post these before I forget.

(sigh) And this is the embarrassing part of being a writer: love poetry.

Once upon a time I was not in love with boys, and then suddenly I was. It was kind of scary. I had this weird crush for some reason on this kid (he shall remain unnamed...), and I had this... shrine-like collection of things I made about him. Namely, two comic strips, a bunch of pictures, and two poems.

The only thing I can share without dying of embarrassment is the poetry.

And you know, the funny thing is that now I look back and can hardly believe I liked him. He was kind of... icky.

Anyways, these are two nursery-rhyme-type love poems of disgusting sickly sweetness. The first one is from me to him, and the second from him to me. And... I wrote them both. Can I say desperate?

Dear Moon,
You are the moon, and I'm just a star,
You don't know me, but I know who you are.
I wish to give you my deepest love,
For now I will simply gaze from above.
But you are the moon, and I'm just a star,
And all I can do is watch from afar.
I'm not near as pretty as others, it's true,
But someday I'll shine just as brightly as you.

Love,
A Star

Dear Star,

I am the moon, and you are a star,

You don't think I see, but I know who you are.

I know you are looking at me from up there,

Did you really think that I just didn't care?

I love you, I love you, I love you, my dear,

And with me around you have no need to fear.

You are one of many, but just watch and see,

You are the star who most matters to me

.I promise to cherish and to hold you tight,

Together our glory will surpass the night.

I love you, I love you, a thousand times more,

The heavens will sing with our ev'ning amor.

Come closer, my darling, my beautiful friend,

Come dance with me, and our joy will not end.

Love,

The Moon

Now I'm really a poet...

...because I have a beret, flown priority (with my parents) from France to my head. It's pretty French. ;) Yep.

Just thought I would share. Hopefully I will have something tomorrow. I wrote some good stuff in my English journals, but I had to turn them in before I could type them up. The first one involves my noisy head (it'll make sense).

Ta for now!