Christmas Fever

It's May and I've caught the Christmas fever! I started light pine candles and listen to holiday music, and don't even get me started on Pinterest...I felt embarrassed about this sudden outbreak of Christmas fever so I had to make a secret Christmas board...I simply cannot contain my excitement about the holiday season even though it's more than half a year away... Instead of embarrassing myself and talking about Christmas in front of relatives and friends I'll make this blog post sharing some of the thrill. All of these are things I've pinned. 

List of all things Christmas:

• The color red
• Tartan
• Cozy pillows & throws
• Pine trees
• Snowflakes
• Deer

I can't wait to have my own house one day and make it Christmassy for my family.

Poetry Month 1 & 2

It's National Poetry Month!! It's also April 2nd, which means I'm about to hit this blogpost with two poems!

Burning Home

Light licks straws sewn, flames flick time: bird's nest on fire! Fever flight, sweaty kite, birds in wind's hands, stringing through a smoker's sky. Home on fire: nest of twigs, slow burning cigarettes... Nature's nest left nature's mess. Casual lips the curtains of nicotine teeth. He walks away, as feathered bodies scream into the sky, where now, where now, and for now there is only up and up.

Young Society

Her breasts are sleeping birds, curled in a soft blanket of skin. Bra nest strings drape her shoulders. Covered in cloth. Taught to hide. But all trees can't be tamed. Some branches grow to despite all the order in the world. And grow, I tell them, grow. 

March 1st

Okay, so a couple things happened. On February 28th, 2015 I turned 18. I also got to see my poem "Harlem 1940's" performed in Douglas Anderson's Extravagazna. Here's a few pictures that I took recently:

Succulent plant from Zoe. 

Mojo acting cute.

Me on a very gray morning.

My extravaganza ticket!

It's officially March and I need to set some goals for myself.

1. Read four books this month (1 each week)

2. Stop going on social media. There's no point, really.

3.Save most of the money I get. In a few months I'm going to be a really poor college kid.

4.Get driver's license. How do I not have this by now??

5. Dedicate my time to my assignments in class. 

1-22-15

Apricot Fuzzies

I want to get lost
in lilac and apricot and pearl
and curl in the comfort
of a spring sweater,
for the warmth to rub off
like some machine fuzzy lint
sewn into the way I wear my attitude-
I want warm smiles
and cozy days
to hug me
like mama sometimes does
when it's been a long day
but there's still something
worth smiling for.

Inspiration: http://www.hm.com/us/product/78725?article=78725-G&variant=004

1-20-15

It's crazy to think this is the last weekend of my childhood. I'm turning 18 next Saturday. I just submitted photographs from Ireland to the Sun Magazine. It'd be cool if I got published for photography too. I just spent a lot of time doing my Art Editor Role for Èlan. I think the powerpoint for Spring voting and reviews is almost complete.

I'm extremely tired and it's 10:13. But I promised I would try to write daily. I think the easiest thing to do would be to pick an art submission and write an ekphrastic poem from it. I don't know about publishing rights and getting people's permission to have their art on my blog, so I might put this post on private.

This is called Danaus Liber by Sarah Dusek at Savannah Arts Academy.

Butterflies Spit

She walks the earth pale and small and scared. 

Frail child, cocoon.  

Cover nothing anymore. 

Expose life.  

Stretch to grasp streaks of stratus in the sky

Make all of the world listen,

 ears of stethoscopes to your first real breath, 

surge like monsoon, spit like lava, hiss like hail:

 I matter.  

No more hiding. 

You are not Ann Frank

or a woman behind sheer cloth. 

There is no more waiting to be alive

in textbooks or history

men will learn

the silent, graceful, "lady"

has two wings

(two hands)

one for middle fingers

and the other for flying bombs

shooting arrows

and pointing guns

the deadliest wound

comes from realizing 

an entire existence of wrong.  

Goals

I realize that I already made a blog post today but I feel like making another. Madisen Kuhn has inspired me so much. She's a writer that graduated high school last year. She didn't go to college. She's making her own book. She's flying to New York and having meet ups. She's getting social media famous with 25k instagram followers. Here's some pictures of her:

That's her in New York. And the pic below shows her trendy style, which I adore. 

 She has inspired me to make my own goals. 

1. Write a poem daily

2. Plan to have a chapbook out by January next year

3. Keep submitting to contests and publications

4.Grow my social media

5. Continue being me

6. Treat my writing as Career Plan A, not Career Plan B

You & Imagination Poems

So, I've got this assignment to experiment with sound. Other news today: I got a Publix sub and the lady making it hit on me. I had some jalapeño chips today. I sewed a hole in my friend Tre's Hawaiian shirt on the bus. My APES teacher is sick so I don't have to slave over completing my lab notebook tonight.

Anyways, I wanted to write something about flower and word metaphors. It ended up being a poem about how destructing love can be. I've only dated one person, and I don't think this speaks true for the relationship, but oh well, the poem became what it is. The second poem is about being bored in math class and my mind zoning out to someplace else.

You

The world ticks black and blind. Your lips outpour orchids. Words slip down the slope of your petal tongue. Your teeth are seeds settling in the roots of your gums; waiting to unfold into blossom. When you talk your mouth is a vase of wild flowers, the type that weed killer or fertilizer can’t tame. Some of the things you say flicker like flies, gone into a distance but with a buzz left beaming in the cavity of the ear. Being with you looks like lost foxes fumbling in ferns. I am the fox, red roses pinned to my toes and matches of fur lit with red fire. You are the gasoline and the sun that makes the ferns grow. The ferns encase my body like seaweed stealing the controls of my limbs, I swim sideways, gurgling and gasping for air in your presence because you are the jellyfish stinging in the skin’s salty wounds: forget me not when the sun streaks the sky and the night black dries white. And then I can see the wounds you’ve left: the damage, dear, of loving you.

Imagination

It is dangerous for a math teacher to wear that type of shirt: a shirt quite literally displaying blue waves of an ocean. Parabolas drool out my mind and I slip into something else: there is a boat and my two eyes are the passengers. The white sheet sail cries out in the fog for a direction.  My body belongs to the rusting floorboards; the boards dissolve, bleeding into the depths of the water. I boil down, hair fanning like anemone’s hundred arms, flowing from my scalp. I see the Earth in scales, shimmering like a sunshine I used to know where there was air. My body guilds into gills. Green seaweed floats besides me and I think of a memory, no a theory maybe: a marsh of hairy grasses that used to nuzzle to the ground with the breeze where I stood, looking over the Jacksonville marshes with my father, wishing I had binoculars to see into an existence I was too far away to reach.