After the blazes of the smoky night
They wailed and bargained in the endless dark
When will they smile again with sheer delight?
The smoke rises from the forest at the breaking of daylight
I crave about home, but the roaring waves have left their mark
I ask, “is it over yet, that evil, daunting night?”
She relived the moment, when her heart shattered with fright
She could see it in her dreams, the instant that it sparked
When will she smile again with sheer delight?
He held onto his mother so tight
The difference now is utterly stark
He asks, “is it over yet, that evil, daunting night?”
You wonder when life will go back to being right
You remember the simple things, the songs of the larks
When will you smile again with sheer delight?
With a fire in our hearts, our fears take flight
Our bargaining ends, our unity is marked
When will we smile again with sheer delight?
We ask, “is it over yet, that evil, daunting night?”
In the darkness the children are screaming,
At the carnival of the masquerade.
With the grimaces and their color grayed,
Their appearances aren’t really pleasing.
Masked monsters all appear with a gleaming,
Then dim out into the night, thus they fade.
Leave us perplexed about the truth yet strayed,
Nothing persuades me that I’m not daydreaming.
I see your doubts about this fantasy,
But the fear in your eyes were plain and real,
The hands I held were frozen and trembled.
That turned the horrors into vanity,
I am only sure about how I feel,
Bet you feel the same for this, I gambled.
The summer’s fruits crumble in the shadows,*
Their life and flesh eaten away by the crows.
The bite of the air that once seemed so bold
Has faded into a constant, dreary cold.
The leaves are dying, turning brown,
Floating towards the cold, hard ground.
With colors so incredibly bland,
They form a bleak blanket over the land.
The sun and the flowers commence hibernation,
Hiding away, as if denying creation.
The world is cold and limp and pale,
The end approaching without fail.
The world feels like it has lost all its flare.
The leaves fall somberly through the air,
Descending towards their open grave,
As trees let go of what they can’t save.
The summer had been so alive,
The sun allowing the trees to thrive.
They sprouted flowers, grew and grew
Leaves holding on when the wind blew.
But all good things must come to an end,
Death a creature no being can fend.
Beautiful lives fade into the past,
Come and gone, gone so fast.
The black, bare branches all alone.
Gray and dark where the sun once shone.
The trees, mere skeletons of what they once were,
Shivering like dogs who’ve lost their fur.
It’s not hard to smell the scent of death
As it floats on the wind’s icy breath.
The memory of joy still remains,
But right now, there is only pain.
The asters, once blue,
Let go of their hue.
The Queen Ann’s Lace,
Has lost all its grace.
The core of their being no longer exists.
Life as they knew it cannot persist.
What happens in the end we might never know,
But when it comes time, we must let it go.**
The giant trees turn to gray
All their colors gone away.
A few still red, but losing the fight,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light***
But inevitably, they lose the war
The coming of winter always sure.
So they finally let go of all that is bright
And settle in for eternal night.
*Adapted from “Fall Song” (Oliver, 18).
**Adapted from “In Blackwater Woods”(Oliver, 83).
*** “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” Dylan Thomas.
I had created a new path through the forest that day,
Equipped with wooden outposts and all necessities,
Until my vision strayed away and struck my heart.
An object, with a fleeting shine caught my face,
And I, in reasonable disillusion, buried that evil sight which mocked me so.
I had created a new path through the forest that day.
Nevertheless, my curiosity revolted against me, I suppose,
And I, timid as the animals themselves, uncovered the strange mystery
Until my vision strayed away and struck my heart.
Dare I look at such a strange object, foreign to nature itself?
No, but yes. It was my trail before all else.
I had created a new path through the forest that day.
It was of nature, now that I recall, but not at the next moment.
My untrained hands examined the frigid copper
Until my vision strayed away and struck my heart.
However, I found the weathered coin unreadable, but the Moon’s Eagle hailed from another life,
When all the Star Scout required was the ground before him and the sky above,
had I created a new path through the forest that day,
Until my vision strayed away and struck my heart?
A forlorn stare, a hand full of butter
Unsure on whether there’s a top, he begins climbing
The one thing left of him is revenge
Although his poker face is impressive he knows he’s not up to grade
He never stays long, for he’s but a tourist
He continues the journey, heart pounding in his ribs
He remembers the children, their endless ribs
His confusion consuming all but the melting butter
His thoughts are scattered, even in his own mind he’s just a tourist
But no matter, for he keeps climbing
Despite the challenge being of the highest grade
He endures, thinking only of revenge
For what deed is he seeking revenge?
He knows not in his mind, but in his rib
He finds a small alcove upon reaching the latest grade
There’s nothing on his mind but Her
Tired and with chafed hands he ceases his climbing
Alone and in an unfamiliar place he once again becomes a tourist
He hates this, the uncertainty that seeps through every aspect of being a tourist
He stops for a moment, he ponders his revenge
He wonders why it subsides along with his climbing
He realizes that his heart is no longer trying to burst out of its cage of rib
Frightened by this, he clutches his chest with a hand soaked in lukewarm butter
If for nothing else but to distract himself, he resumes the climb up, and up the grade
With each endless step he traverses the grade
Scared of the uncertain fate that comes of being a tourist
He slides up the terrain with clammy appendages of melted butter
Every step brings him a small bit closer to his revenge
But his desire wavers within the small lump between his ribs,
And for the first time he questions his climbing
His purpose forgotten he stops climbing
But as he slides down the uneven grade
He notices that not moving at all equals moving backwards and
Something odd swells up in his rib
Another unfamiliar feeling, another moment as a tourist
But as he slides downward, his revenge all but forgotten, His head collapses into hands and in the
space between fingers flows a stream of tears and viscous butter
The Children create stories about him, about the climbing tourist
About his revenge and the grade he climbed
About the feeling in his ribs, and the hands inexplicably cloaked in butter
Like the rising of the sun in all hues,
In the morning people are born anew;
Beautiful violet, orange, yellow, red,
It’s the trade of life, living for the dead.
Yet there’s a sad fact about human life,
Full of love but they’re often filled with strife.
They come so quick but then die all too soon
As if it were the setting of the moon.
But don’t look down be on the bright side now,
The middle of life is a radiant plow.
Cutting straight and pure, defiant to faze,
It’s unfailed as its sun shines through the haze.
The life before you is dark and narrow,
Fear not my love, your sunlight is your arrow.
Hand in hand, steps in sync, we skipped towards the moss encrusted pond.
As Lily pads surfaced, frogs followed suit, springing effortlessly to and fro.
From the iridescent waters, we could glimpse at Nature’s Medusa,
Her marigold rays shooting out of her spherical edges.
And beneath the draped vines of Weeping Willows
Were an assortment of stones turned steps.
The three of us, with picnic baskets and checkered blankets,
Bounded towards the edge of the crystal pond.
Suddenly, I felt the weight of two stiff palms
Jolt my shoulder blades towards the shades of Aegean.
While desperate whispers emerged from behind,
My eyelid veins were engulfed by saline tears.
Between blurred pupils, I saw their smugly pursed lips.
Hands I had once held- plunging my face towards desolate depths.
I am going to my first college party.
You know, the kind with those men
Ogling and drooling over some girl’s dress,
Offering to buy her a drink,
Seduce her onto the dance floor,
Awkwardly jumping to the heavy beat of the music.
We enter, and take it all in: the deafening music,
The size of this crowded club party,
The flashing lights on the dance floor,
The gleam in the eyes of these men,
The counters cluttering with empty or abandoned drinks,
The number of sequins on just one attention-seeking dress.
I myself was wearing a sequined-dress,
Not really paying attention to the music,
When someone handed me a drink.
Here, at this pointless party,
I was offered a drink by one of those men,
And now I am being seduced to the dance floor.
It starts to feel warm, so I drop my coat on the floor,
And now of course he is only looking at my dress.
I tried not to think about stories involving these men
And focused on the blaring music,
The few people that I should probably know at this party,
And the bit of white powder on the rim of my untouched drink.
While he (rarely) isn’t looking, I secretly empty the drink
Onto the feet of those bouncing around on the cement floor;
Suddenly sick of this college party,
Of how this man seems to be doing a case study on my dress,
Of the incessant reverberation of the music,
And of my taste in college men.
I mean, I have friends that are men.
Relenting, I let my guard down and drink
Until I can’t anymore, leaning close and talking loudly over the music
I toss my shoes aside and feel a chill as I put my bare feet on the floor,
Only slightly giddy and wishing I had at least tried to dress
Daringly to fit in, trying to remember the last time I actually went to a party.
I looked around, wondering why we hadn’t been busted from this floor
Yet soon the streamers and sequins begin to merge with the dresses
That are jumping around to bass-heavy music at some silly college party.
So many people label everything.
Or try, at least because it can’t be done.
What good do categories really bring?
They’re shoving people in a box- or none!
What about those that don’t fit in these boxes?
Unreal, ignored by our society.
What are we to them but paradoxes;
They ask questions of our propriety
For some, their box is suitable to them;
For others, it is not all black and white.
Boxes forge hatred, differences condemned.
Although fractious, the boxless ones are right.
Why are there boxes? To enclose each other
is falling victim to your very brother.
