Wow.

i don't think
i ever could have expected this
or even imagined it
in my craziest thoughts.

Who knew?

I guess I'm a little surprised that I kind of like this.

Eighty

I just wish I knew
that everything
was going
to work out
okay.

Update

I practiced
the past two days
sat there
and pounded the keys
and sang
because when you sing and you play
Scan through the score and put fingers on keys and you play
everything else can go away

I know I blushed
when talented people
walked by
er, namely one, anyway

but I played and sang anyway
from the comfort of a closet
that pretends devoidation
(which isn't a word, but I think it sounds nice and has a meaning
the noun form of "devoid"
a state or being completely lacking in anything else)
of sound.


~

That wasn't a poem. Not really. It didn't turn out like a poem, just like some funny sentences I broke up in pretty places and pronounced poetic of a sort. I need to write again, every day. But I did practice today and yesterday. Two days in a row, and isn't it twenty-one to form a habit? I worked out today, and I'd like to go tomorrow morning, or definitely tomorrow sometime at least. I'd like to learn to be disciplined. And I'd like to learn to love and enjoy God, others, and life. I prayed that I would last night, and again this morning and tonight during chapel.

It's raining outside. Again.

This year is turning out better than I expected it to turn out, so far. But I want to grow closer to God, and be more disciplined, and work out my show transportation. Prayer requests. Like fireflies flitting up through the night air into the sky.

Just because I might yell at God, "Aren't you there? Don't you care?" doesn't mean he isn't and doesn't, or isn't and hasn't.

Well. Hasn't this been a nice, random conglomeration of thoughts. Also too, I feel like using the phrase "thought puppets," even though my brain just put those two words together randomly, and I have no idea how they could go together or what such a phrase would mean.

Discipline and disciple seem like related words. Two things on which I need to work.

Thursday

Tears come more frequently lately. I don't write enough anymore. I'm kind of stressed about life, and I don't know how to control anything, or what to do about anything at all.

I'm very tired in several ways... more emotionally than anything? I did not intend to start the semester that way. I don't know what to do.

I wanted to write a poem, but I don't think it will come tonight.

Become

maybe
i've got to become comfortable
with not knowing
what to do

Wilderness

How does one become disciplined to do something every day? I miss writing. I miss having a sense of accomplishment, instead of discouragement and frustration and the constant running and running and running from one thing to the next, living moment by moment with hardly a moment to breathe in between. And yet it seems to be the things I want to do the most that seem the farthest away. The show in the fall: in a city forty-five minutes away when I don't have a way to get there of which I know, and required presence at some other rehearsals later on that I'd have to negotiate. And being at Cedarville: I wasn't supposed to be back this year. I didn't want to be. Why am I still going back?

Maybe I'll write a poem later. But right now, it's all I can do to form words into sentences on here, let alone be creative.

I'm sunburned. It hurts.

String

I found this playwright
who writes strings of sentences
and breaks them up
in pretty, tiny places
and calls it a play
made up of poemish things.
She puts in everyday jargon
all the ums and uhs and stuffs.
Like life.
Because that's how people talk.
See, hers were interviews.
But she broke them up
instead of blocking paragraphs out of words marching on and on and on and on until they stop with a period
.
. . .
and start
again.

And I thought,
hey.
I do that, too.
Except my plays
don't consist of my poetry.

But if sentences broken up
in pretty, tiny places
can be a play
then they can be a poem.
Like, a real poem.
Not just a midnight rambling
that makes it look like
I don't know how to write real poems
or work with pentameter
and alliteration and assonance
or write something like a sestina.
Because I can do that.
I just don't right now.
And neither did this author
when she wrote her play collection
of monologues and ums and uhs
and sentences broken
into pretty, tiny strings.
And it made me feel happy.

Gone

Why is time
slipping like sand
through my helpless fingers?
I want to hold on
or stop it from going through so quickly.
Wait!
Go just a little slower!
Wait! Stop! Wait!

Next to Normal

Make up your mind that you're strong enough
Make up your mind, let the truth be revealed
Admit what you've lost and live with the cost


Catch me, I'm falling
Catch me, I'm falling
Faster than anyone should
Catch me, I'm falling
Please hear me calling

Flying headfirst into fate

Catch me before it's too late...

depression. anxiety. one gives rise into the other. it's a cycle.

Catch me before it's too late--

Agh.

"there's nothing to writing
all you have to do
is sit down
and open up a vein"

so, i'm trying?
but the damn vein
doesn't seem to want to open.
come
on.
How long does it take?

Beast

I haven't written a poem in a while, and while I feel a desire to do so now, I guess that desire isn't strong enough to result in a few scattered lines of verse in this empty white box, some void I guess I'm trying to fill any way I know how.

But I've been thinking about writing. I've been working on a play. I wonder if the reason I write fiction when I'm home is because I so badly need to do so. I've always known that writing is an escape... but I've felt like it isn't lately. I mean, I don't consciously do it to escape anymore. Okay, I guess in high school it was relatively subconscious... but I suppose I always knew, somewhere inside of something, that it was an escape when I would go into the computer room, shut the tall wooden doors, and scroll up after every paragraph or page or whatever so that anyone who dared wander in wouldn't catch a single glimpse of the world I was creating on paper. That was my world. I didn't usually let people into it, and when I did let people see, they just saw pretty pictures I'd painted that showed them what they wanted to see, even if it wasn't quite the way life was. Real life is ugly sometimes, you know? It's not white and clean and pretty and pure. It's sweaty and dirty and grimy and bloody and sensual and oh-so-hot... but then you look at those faces and somehow they're beautiful even with sweat dragging lines into cheeks and foreheads, streaking the makeup, black mascara lines running like watercolors or maybe like tears into foundation and powder and blush.

Latch

Sometimes
it's so easy
to be open
to say
what's on my mind
and in my heart.
But
I need you
to want to hear.

Scream

I tried to escape you living vicariously through me
by doing the same thing you wanted me to do.
It was always such a secret escape for me,
and yet it was almost everything you ever wanted!
How does that work? How is that even fair?

And I never even realized until years after I stopped.

Clock

I still toss my glance to the bathroom wall
expecting to see the rainbow clock,
two minutes behind schedule (or something like that),
but this is a new time and place
and it isn't there.
It's funny the way my brain
flips the orientation of the room in looking.
But I wonder
how long it will be
before I stop.

Block

I wonder how you know
when you should listen to your head
and when you should pay attention
to what your heart's telling you?

Everytime, I tell myself I'll be all right.

Sometime
I'd like to take the time
to write real poetry
instead of these snippets of sentences
I pretend are some sort of art.


Tonight will be different.
How does one actually change?
Look at something
know it's wrong
and consciously work on changing?
How does one choose what to become
who to be
and turn into that?
I always wonder
about when people say
they want to change their heart
about something.
"Really?" I want to say.
"Really? How do you do that?
Because I've tried before."

Sentences

I miss my black sequined dress
the one I wear to dance in Chicago.

Bomont? Where the hell is Bomont?
(Donald always said fuck instead of hell.)

Somebody's eyes are watching
somebody's eyes will never close, never sleep
somebody's after the secrets that you keep.

I had a pink slippery suit when I was five
and now I wore one again for gym.
Funny, the way things come full circle like that.

My church dress
looked like Eric's beach towel.
So he said, anyway.

Amy did my hair every night.
She said it was exactly the same as her hair was in the 80s when she was a teenager.
I miss her already
and it's only been four hours since we hugged goodbye.

I need to learn to sing from my heart more.

I'm sad this is over. I'm going to miss it tremendously.
Even more than I miss my hot sequined dress and big hair and purple eyeshadow
I miss people.

Blink

I loved being six years old,
my thumb never leaving my mouth,
Felicity never leaving my arms,
and butterfly clips with sparkly wings on springs to the body
leaving my hair only when I slept,
just before which time I would place them
gently onto the bathroom counter
until I would wake around six o'clock in the morning
and could run to put them back in.

The interpreters all called me, "miss,"
and told me I had insects in my hair.

Night

Hi, God.
I don't know why I'm still here.
Yeah.
That's all.
Bye.

Movement Studio

Tears
Blood
Breaks
Sweat
Pain

Hugs
Friendship
Love
Laughter
Life.

Faith

Did I ever tell you
that I always looked
at the fourth window from the doors on the left
before I came in,
and I always loved
when yellow light glowed
from behind the shades
because then I knew that you were there?

Well
I did.

It was kind of like a funny sort of coming home.

Hands

"Good.

It's all settled,
then.

You will major in theatre
and be an amazing and talented artist

And have a blast
every
day
of
your
life.

The end!"

I think
I'm awfully glad
I have people
who tell me I'm not insane
and remind me
how much I want this.

Lessons learned, and things

The flowers divided prettily among four thin vases (really empty Jones Soda bottles) and sitting on my desk, computer cart, other desk, and dresser do a lovely job of brightening up my room.

I like performing in real roles in things, even if it's scary.

Margaritas are amazing things. They taste wonderful.

I want to learn to be more outgoing all the time... I don't like getting quiet. I don't like being insecure.

I want people to love me.

Water with lemon and lime is nice, too. I always take the lemon and lime slices off the side of the glass so they can flavor the water. It tastes good that way.

I don't like it when people talk about other people. And I wonder what people think of me... what they think of me.

I want to keep performing in musicals
and having flowers
and drinking margaritas.

Voice

I can't worry
what the world will say
I may fly or fall,
but either way
I'm free.

I need to exemplify this
in my solos Saturday
and stop worrying and worrying,
constantly worrying
about sucking or fucking them up.

DIE, VAMPIRE, DIE
DIE
DIE
DIE
DIE.

Right now, right here, making our breaks for heaven's sake!
We will be released--
Heaven helps the man,
heaven helps the man,
heaven helps the man--
I'M FREE!

Jumping

Remember how I decided
I was going to stay here
and make the best of it?
Well,
I question that decision
every single day
and wonder why the hell
I'm staying where I am.

Two plus zero equals
nothing in terms of a future.

To Do

It's been a while since I wrote a poem. That's kind of sad... I want to get back into the habit of writing poetry every day. I miss it desperately.

Try

Wherever you are, be all there.

Genuine

I like it
when you come up and hug me.
I like feeling like you're my friend
even though it's only been a few weeks since we met.
I like feeling like you care.

Dress

I feel pretty
when I'm wearing red high heels.
Don't you?

Wish

HELP.

Scream.

Urleen

"I wish I could find a guy who,
when he went to kiss me good night,
would take the toothpick
out of his mouth."
Ow.

Two poems

being alive
Breathing,
loving,
dying.
Pain,
hurt,
agony.
Death.
Despair.
Greasy stains on table clothing.
Bloody splashes stipple whitish sheet.
Darkness scratches me with talons fierce
and I relish red pulsing and flowing and beating.
Dance.
Death.
Eyes open
then widely shut.

new
This sliver of a moon
shines brightly from its cradle.
Tomorrow, it will be new
and it will be gone,
and the sky will be dark.
Maybe one of these days
it will forget to come back.

Ideal

Remember last year,
when I didn't make callbacks?
I went to dance in the movement studio
and put on Hairspray
and fell down.

Three tendons torn
and three chip fractures.

My ankle hurts sometimes, when I'm tired.
I limp on it
and I don't even notice
until someone asks me,
"Hey, are you limping? Is your ankle okay?"
And I look down
and shrug
and say I'm Fine, just tired.

But I would really like to be in a play.

Sign

"NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THE DESIGN LAB"

Clear thumbtacks hold it up in the corners.
Its bottom corners curl out a little,
like it's trying to get away
and escape the emptiness of the white, white wall
that can't help but blend into its white, white paper;
and that white paper is stippled with black, black dust
pinning the paper down to whisper sardonically into its ear,
"Not yet. Not ever. You're going to stay.
HA."

And it knows that if it tries to curl up and away
it won't work
and the dust and the tacks will push it back down again
straining it on that tumultuous trip down the mountain.
The only thing to do would be to start back up the mountain,
towing that boulder with heavy ropes,
to be pushed down again as soon as it reaches the top.

Such is life.

I thought about writing a poem
but then I decided
I'd rather go to sleep.

Circle

When I was twelve,
I wrote down
in the front of my brand-new Bible
(on the page that had a space
for how I was unique,
eye color and hair color
and when-i-grow-up sorts of things)
that I wanted
to be an Actress.

Sveta told me
that I should be in movies someday
because I looked right for it.
I laughed
but kind of thought it would be nice.

When we put on shows in our bedroom
(those were always the music revues -
the plays were downstairs,
so we could use the sliding doors
like a proscenium arch)
I balanced flashlights against the top bunk
to direct focus
with our sort of spotlight.

I would know that confidence
if I knew a way back to then.

Iamb

Maybe I should stick
to something like a structure
when I write my poetry
and this free verse of mine.

You have to play inside the fence
before you step outside its gate.
I've done a lot of playing here,
spent lots of time inside,
but maybe I have been outside
for much too long a time.

I think that I will play
in our backyard sandbox
for a little while, now.
The gate's remaining open;
I see it from my perch.
And if I get too scared of this
I can step outside and breathe.
But maybe there is air inside
and I should take some in.

Tuesday

Autumn stipples the leaves.
Orange and yellow and white lights
shine onto the scrim
through glass gobos
and colored gels.
Beam breaks dust,
and shadows dance behind the fog.

There is a blue bulb
naked behind a cage
and it looks kind of happy
in a sad sort of way.

I think it wishes it could see the tree.

Yacht

This is not really a poem. It's kind of a collection of questions that I thought of stream-of-consciousness. I think. I'm sorry.
~~~

content to life let pass him for a while

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE LIKE THAT.

and I might wish that I could,
like, that I knew how to stop.

But at the same time, I'm kind of scared of stopping.



You had a friend who died yesterday.
Sarah.
And I feel bad because you are in pain.

And I wonder if I would know how to grieve
if someone I loved died like that.
Do I even know how to love?
How can you grieve for someone
if you don't know how to care for them?
Am I emotionally grieving for you,
or is it just intellectual
and I am trying to make myself hurt inside, too?

How does one learn to love?

And how can I learn to live?

Blue

I was going
to write a poem
because I'm backstage
so could write some brilliant thing
about the miracle
of theatrical life

but I'm too tired
so I won't.

Songs for a new world

If I had to choose
between stars and the moon -
and the open highway
and the river beneath my feet
with nights full of passions
and days of adventure -
and this champagne
and a yacht -
a life that was scripted and planned,
the life like the movie stars led -
I wonder what I would want.

Die, vampire, die.

I haven't been writing very much lately.

It's been a while.

Can you love someone else
if you don't love yourself?

What does it even mean
to love yourself
or to love someone else?

The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love
and be loved in return.

Yes
I guess it is
something you have to learn.
But how do you learn
when there aren't
books
and lectures
and words,
or something
- anything -
besides this fallible body
I call my self?

Prose

The pond about half a mile behind the neighbors' house was Magic. We didn't understand how, or why, only that we had been blessed with it. Sometimes it was there, and sometimes it was not. We didn't realize that the days it was not there were also the days when we could not remember the last time it rained, or a time when the air had not been so humid and heavy. And we did not connect that the times the pond was the fullest and deepest were right after a thick, full, heavy downpour. We only knew that sometimes, the pond was there, and it was amazing, and sometimes, the pond disappeared, and then, it was magic. It had to be magic.

Our parents never came back to the pond. They didn't like it that we went there, either. Often, they didn't let us go back there. "No. There are snakes." "There's probably poison ivy." "Oh, come on. Can't you just stay here and play in our woods?" But our woods weren't the same. This... this was magical. It was a Realm of Faerie or a Narnia all our own. And sometimes, they did let us go.

We would zip up our boots and plead permission to go in the woods. Our feet squished down in the soggy grass.

Menagerie

Fingers open, reaching
toward diamond figures,
animals arranged just so
on the oaken bookshelf
rag-polished every day
(at three:thirty-five p.m.;
Amanda sees to that.).

Maybe far away,
or maybe real near by,
he may be pouring her coffee;
she may be straight'ning his tie.

I like the way the light
catches the glass of my statues
and shines and sparkles through them.

I don't want realism. I want magic!
Yes, yes, magic.
I try
to give that
to people.

"Oh, Laura, haven't you ever liked some boy?"

Face flushes
as crimson hue jumps instantly to cheek.
Eyes flit, unable to decide where to go.
And heart, heart has long ago given up
beating in time with the tickings of the clock.

Lashes brush.
Dark, thick, heavy lashes
framing eyes
that see a lot
and say very little.

I guess
I might have
liked one,
once.

Defense

"Oh,
Well, I know I'm not turquoise,"
(said the caterpillar
to the bumblebee)
"but it's okay
and I realize that
because, see, you do know
that I never wanted to be turquoise?
I never thought I could be?
I'd have to be, like, brilliant
and I know I'm not
because I'm just green
which is kind of close to turquoise"
(and then he's quick to say)
"but kind of not!
close, I mean.
But I have to understand turquoise
if I can do well being green
because they're kind of close
remember?"

and then the little caterpillar thinks to himself
that maybe he wouldn't mind being turquoise
and maybe he wonders if he can do it
except maybe he assumes that he can.

Point

Look at that face in the mirror,
see why in shadows I hide.

Antithesis

The red bricks here
warm my hands and heart
even when the wind
burns them with its ice.

Whisper

Ashes.

Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.

Remember
that you are but dust

Dirt and pain and sorrow and toil and tears
and life.

and to dust
you shall return.

~~~

(we sing this song at our red brick church, and i like it. the lines alternate with the leader and the people; for the last line, everyone joins together, their voices twisting and rising in humble offering up, up, up towards the sky and to God. those notes, they arpeggiate to create a chord. 1-b3-5-1. do, me, sol, do.
that do at the top? i like it.)

Glory to God, glory to God, glory in the highest.
Glory to God, glory to God, glory in the highest.
To God be the glory forever.
To God be the glory forever.
Allelujah, amen; allelujah, amen; allelujah, amen; allelujah, amen.

Sisyphus

So this brave new world
we call our own?
I don't think
I like it
much.


I like
to imagine
lines that curve.
This rigid rationality
leaves me to wander alone.

Dissipation

Whispering.
Spirits sing,
ghosts soar.
I hear your voice
and it sends shivers
down my spine
and tickles
the corners of my heart.

I want to feel
the warmth of your breath
on my cold, cold cheek.
Lashes brush
and eyelids close.

I wish you would look back
as you walk away.
but I blink
and you are gone
so quickly
that I would never have known
you even existed.

Strike

I hurt my finger
so you caught it up
in your hand
as you commiserated
and something inside of me
flickered
when you touched my hand.

Yawn

I
am
so tired
right
now.

Confrontation

Fears
Worries
so often ungrounded
but sometimes, not.

I wonder
if tomorrow will be like that
if my fears have roots
that are growing into the soil now
and tomorrow, I'll go to yank them out
but I'll pull and pull
but it won't matter
because they
won't
move.

and they'll grab down
and pull and hold
harder and deeper and stronger
than ever before

then I'll step back
defeated
and facing reality
and the weeds will look at me
as they feel their roots
groping in sheer lust,
in some deep, dark place,
and they will throw back
their scrawny little heads
and necks
and laugh.

Propositions

Oh
Thirsty, thirsty, so thirsty
Parched

"Here. Have some milk."

You pour water
and try to satisfy
and Oh, I want it to,
but I stretch
and groan
and break
without really holding
much water at all.
I am a vessel
too weak to carry
even this little bit
of water you pour
and unless you can find
someone to strengthen my leather,
make it pliable and relaxed
and attentive and free,
and patch my holes and tears
that let water out in tiny trickles,
I cannot hold any of this
so it means naught to provide.

Come What May

So I guess
we don't just have
to learn how to love
but we also have
to learn to be loved.
Being loved,
accepting love,
holding love:
evidently it's kind of hard
and evidently you have to learn how.
That's kind of a comfort,
you know?

View

You try to run, nowhere to hide;
You want to crumple up and close that door.

I wish it was possible
to crumble like that,
y'know?
close the door
and then the next time
I open it to go outside,
none of this will be there
It'll disappear
like little cat-feet fogginess
that you didn't realize
had come earlier
by the time
you wake up in the morning.
and then everything
would be okay.

Secret

You know what? I have a secret.
So I'm going to whisper now.
(Shhh!)

I think it would be fun
to make up a bunch of words
with which to write a poem
like Jabberwocky
except not
because that one's taken.

And I'd write my poem
and everyone would say
"That
is Arielle's.
and she made it up
and it is amazing."

Twas brillig
and the slithy toves.
It's just fun to say.

Shhh! Don't tell.
Well
just not yet.

Ascot

Lace
Black lace
over white silk
Cascades
Falls

down.

Play

Swirling colors
like fixtures with glass gobos
shining onto some stage
illuminating the actors,
revealing their presence.

Passionate pleas
entangled in dark crevices
reaching for a spot of sky
and singing to the moon above.

Reach out your hand
and let me hold you.

Cellophane

I feel
very ordinary
and very indecisive
very plain
entirely unremarkable
and just very blah.

Quote

Have you been inside the museum?
We should go
see the dinosaurs.

The ocean is cold sometimes.

Last time
I started to feel
like my semester was going pretty well
and life really wasn't all that bad,
things got a hell of a lot worse
and I couldn't remember
how the other part of this antithesis felt
until I began to doubt
that it had ever existed at all.

Now
I really
don't want that to happen again
but part of me
is afraid it will.

I wonder
if life just rolls in cycles
like the tide of an ocean
going in
and coming out,
in
and out
and in and out
andinandoutandinandout...?

Home and homily share a root, homou. Did you know that?

I absolutely love it
when I go to leave
from somewhere, wherever,
and someone interrupts my being unnoticed
to tell me goodbye,
or wave and smile,
or acknowledge somehow
whether verbally
or in a gesture
or by an expression,
that I am leaving
but they wish I could stay.

I wonder if people know
the magic in a simple word
from the lips
of a friend.

Belonging
is a wonderful feeling.

I don't know
that I've quite felt it like this before
even though this should be a place
where I'm supposed to feel it
more than anything.

Because now, I understand
how things are supposed to be
and what belonging truly is
and what it means
to be loved
and really live.

Turning

I reach
and still things feel
so far away.

I am sick of pretending
everything is all right
when I feel so lonely
and cry when no one sees.

And I wish
I weren't so good
at lying to myself,
ignoring problems and things
until it is as if
I could have forgotten
that they even exist.

Community

"How
I envy Phulan
the warm
circle of our women
for the rest
of her life,"
says Shabanu,
and I understand
what she means
when I am here.

My tear falls
and you catch it
in your outstretched hand
as we live as family
with one figurative blood.


*Shabanu, Daughter of the Wind, by Suzanne Fisher Staples

White slippers and tulle skirts, and lonely lullabies to the stars above

I wish sometimes
that I could be a little girl again:
Sipping cups of hot cocoa
by a warm fireplace;
Resting my head on my older sister's knee,
knowing I can simply sleep
and everything will be okay;
Cuddling in a chair
and reading chapter books
because they are big and important
and therefore so am I;
Wearing a ballerina skirt
with my cotton t-shirt
simply because it's pretty
and I want to.
Not looking at the camera lens
and just smiling up at the sun,
squinting my eyes so I can see
and not messing with the flowers
bobby-pinned into my messy hair.

Brick

I walk along
dancing in the shadows
as I approach the wall.
And I look up
and then I sit down
and Stop.

Reach

when we were writing
i kind of mentioned
that God feels very far away right now
and oftentimes i feel lonely,
but then i erased it
and pretended i didn't cry.

Animal

If I hold my hand
in front of the fire,
can I still be burned?
I'm kind of afraid
I will be,
now as I stand here,
holding my palms
so they face the fire.
Funny,
I can't tell
if this part of the fire
fades into the darkness
or brings a spot of light.
You tell me
my palms are going to blister
but I like the way they feel
as much as
I hate admitting that.


Fire
is hot.
Part of me
is afraid
of being burned
but i feel
so warm
right
now.