Paradise

You’re in my paradise.

“What do you mean?”

We were reading Walt Whitman, and the teacher asked us each to picture our own perfect paradise. I closed my eyes, and immediately found myself in a field, in the country, you know? I think it was St. Francisville.  I was wearing a white, flowing dress and I felt beautiful.

“You are beautiful.”

Hush. So I walking around in the field, and then I saw you.

“What was I doing?”

Talking to another girl.

“Really? I would be talking to you, of course!”

I know, I know. So anyway, there were a lot of people in the field

--“Oh, So I’m not the only person in your paradise.”

No, you weren’t. There were strangers and friends.  All just wondering around, perfectly happy.

“Sounds like a hippie commune.”

No, no, it was an actual paradise, though. And so I see you talking to this girl, and I simply float over to you and you leave her immediately.

“Good”

And then we were just together. Happy, no jealousy or…well no jealously. No pain. Just us in a field, holding hands.

“I think I like your paradise.”

I like it too. 

Exercise 12

     She stood a moment, admiring the ebony handle, adorned with twists and carved roses.  Taking a deep breath, she gave the door a few hard raps.  A few moments later, a little girl in a white dress answered the door.  She look, wide-eyed at the beautiful mess in front of her.  The girl standing outside the door looked wild, her expensive garments torn, somewhat wet, and twigs in her long, dark, flowing hair.  Still shocked at the sight in front of her, the little girl in the white dress remained silent, gaping.  Then the beautiful creature outside spoke.  “Can I see Henry, please?” the girl asked anxiously, looking over the little girl into the house.  “Wha..what’s your name,” asked the little girl, who was still shocked.  Most people who came to the house were terrified, but this girl showed an eagerness to be inside of it.  “Oh, I’m Anna. Sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m looking for Henry. I have something quite important to tell him.”  The little girl nodded, motioning for Anna to come inside.  Once she stepped in the house, the door banged suddenly behind her.  But Anna did not jump or appear squeamish, even as she looked around the dark foyer.  Candles glowed on the wall, giving the room an eerie feel.  The house was not especially dirty, but felt damp and smelled of must.  

Critique 12

Christmas Sonnet

The Christmas berries hang, a gentle case

of forgotten holiday memories 

that sway about amidst the frosty fog.

The smell of cinnamon baking rises, 

towers above the wilted Christmas tree

complete with faded ornaments swaying,

decoration for its browning branches

covered in last minute silver glitter. 

Cars arrive, escaping bitter chills despite,

Sleepless nights in crowded houses musty

with a hint of an old woman’s perfume; 

husbands hide in rooms smelling of tainted

cigar, and children run until they fall 

asleep waiting for the first drop of snow.  

Exercise 11

Part of a story 

The sound of faraway rain and muffled thunder rang in her ears.  The sharp gusts of wind cut through her black fleece jacket, causing a chill to enter her bones.  She silently looked behind her.  No one was there.  Sighing, she began to walk towards the opening to the forrest behind the house.  She ignored the incoming rain drops that dripped into her eyes, creating a blurred vision of the upcoming pathway.  She began to run.  Pushing branches out of the way, avoiding tree roots, she ran, despite the burning sensation growing in her legs.  It had been dark before; now the air turned black.  She could see it in the distance and it strengthened her drive to reach it before the height of the storm.  The building, notorious for its macabre demeanor, finally stood before her.  Tears threatened to join with the raindrops as she discovered she was near.  Giving her legs a final push, she sprinted up the hill, using the winding path to reach the door.  

Critique: ghazal

A ghazal of the meadow 

I want each blade of grass to sway with the passing sun. 

And the breeze to relive its movement again.  

I want the river behind the oak tree to be mine,

and the tree with the copper leaves only in the fall. 

If I lived where sun glitters in between branches,

a blue-feathered bird would hum my name. 

I want the crumbling wooden cabin to fall,

so I can rescue it, paint it white and yellow.

I can see the meadow’s future through a scope,

it browns and it yellows, but will remain the same. 

I run through the lengthy grasses, they itch against my legs.

And I am smiling too wide, a crazy person perhaps mad. 

But I won’t stop running until I hear your footsteps,

following behind me, trying to catch up. 

Don’t abandon a girl running free in the wild

or she might find a reason to never stop, never lie

Exercise 10

A country landscape lost 

Slightly burnt, the grass so green,

dewey with sunshine, subtle with rain,

shimmers in the pasture with a faraway gold.

So little to lose they say but so much to gain 

from the miniature forest awake in the rein

of twenty old horses roaming the land.

A brittle old farmhouse stands its ground;

paint chipped, its life ceasing to exist,

but the rust colored bird sits on the roof

singing a song so sweet, so uncouth;

a lullaby for the ancient wood creaking floors

sing the land to sleep, sweet bird.

The farmers are losing their will to survive;

hold on, hold on, to the riveting rhymes

of the solemn river holding your hand

across the acrobatic bridge and into Fall.

We’ll dance as the summer evenings slide

beyond our imperfect little countryside.

So dance, dance until the morning;

we will do away with all this sorrow.

Holding hands - tight - until tomorrow

when the leaves will fall and we will crawl

into the sparkling city standing tall. 

critique 10

That Night

The picture hangs on the beige wall
edges fraying
aging with time

no longer a clear memory
but foggy and far
a recent goodbye

we are laughing with anxious smiles
young and restless
happy and denied

wearing red dresses as we spin into the night
calm but ecstatic
as music glides

hanging onto our adolescent times
we dance away
avoiding goodbye

as we go back home, ears ringing, faces tingling
it's nonstop chatter
competitive smiles

and now the only reason to remember that night
is one photograph
hanging through time