This is one of my only poems that rhyme and is written in some sort of form.
This garden is rooted in love,
The planter, with laughter
Sows a seed undreamed of
The planter, in all his deeds
was, is, will always be
Knowingly sowing his seeds
This seed- the youngest of all
is sought with devoted attention
He doesn't care it's small
He tends, he waters the leaves
He guards it from the thieves
Hands delved deep in the soil
Dirt caught deep down his fingernails.
The sun's hot heat is his only toil
No longer works in progress
The tomatoes ripe, he seeps
his teeth into thick freshness
People come from all around
To see, to taste, to smell
fruits of the harvest abound
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
saturday ride
i wrote this in poetry class, last semester. it's not yet to my satisfaction.
I mount my green Raleigh
Whose life purpose not often
fulfilled, in rides
far too short
except this
instant of relocation
Mr. Green and I speed along
the lanes of swing sets, soccer balls
the acute smells of cut grass and wet dogs
I follow only intuit, detour signs-
the orange flashing more attention
than the green 5 mile bike post
to point a destination
I run into a hill - long and steep
I've tried it before, it's no use-
not then when I forgone bike rides-
fearing a tremulous fall
Not now, with college-girl sized hips
Can I work through it.
I leap off and I trudge Mr Green,
heavy in my arms, up the hill
Three cars speed by at once-
Dirty. Cool. Laughing like the gym
elite when they overlapped my mile.
Those sneering cars wonder why that
lazy wimpass is too small and weak
to keep up,
with their tough, flashy rims.
At last at the top, I jump back on
to reach my final stop.
Passing two flat-iron squirrels
I turn into the parking lot,
take off my helmet, lock Mr. Green
and pull the coffee shop door -
it's shut- who closes at 3?
I ride back past the kids
sing-songing joking taunts
to a slow, stuttering girl.
I find another retreat
in my escape to
the plastic trees.
I mount my green Raleigh
Whose life purpose not often
fulfilled, in rides
far too short
except this
instant of relocation
Mr. Green and I speed along
the lanes of swing sets, soccer balls
the acute smells of cut grass and wet dogs
I follow only intuit, detour signs-
the orange flashing more attention
than the green 5 mile bike post
to point a destination
I run into a hill - long and steep
I've tried it before, it's no use-
not then when I forgone bike rides-
fearing a tremulous fall
Not now, with college-girl sized hips
Can I work through it.
I leap off and I trudge Mr Green,
heavy in my arms, up the hill
Three cars speed by at once-
Dirty. Cool. Laughing like the gym
elite when they overlapped my mile.
Those sneering cars wonder why that
lazy wimpass is too small and weak
to keep up,
with their tough, flashy rims.
At last at the top, I jump back on
to reach my final stop.
Passing two flat-iron squirrels
I turn into the parking lot,
take off my helmet, lock Mr. Green
and pull the coffee shop door -
it's shut- who closes at 3?
I ride back past the kids
sing-songing joking taunts
to a slow, stuttering girl.
I find another retreat
in my escape to
the plastic trees.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The Slum Savior - creative non-fiction piece
“Sorry!” chirped Sister Marie Clementine as I picked myself up from the sticky mire I meant to cross over. My long, khaki skirt did not have enough give for me to fully extend my legs over that awaiting pit. One of my shoes was drenched in sewage, and only the fringe ends of my skirt got the rest of it. It’s almost needless to say that the sewage smelled like a gas stop bathroom multiplied by a hundred.
Sarah and I walked in between the two sisters. They were the barrier, the safe guard, between us and the world of Kibera- the largest slum in Africa and the second largest slum in the world. Impassioned by social justice and disgusted by poverty, I only dreamed of this day, when I could make one more step to save the world.
I managed to kick some of the slime off my shoe so I could carefully step down the boulder without slipping. I couldn’t believe such a path existed in a city in this contemporary world. It seemed very similar to the depiction I’ve seen in movies of Joseph leading Mary on a donkey, down a path, into Bethlehem. I was reminded of the Psalms where crooked and narrow paths with pits and muddy mires are often referenced. Now I had a slight idea what David was talking about. No wonder he asked God to make his paths straight.
I had to watch every single step as I treaded boulders, and crossed over hollow (or filled up) sewage creeks where the dogs and the hens made their home. Some of these “creeks” did have footbridges, which were hubcaps, sticks, broken banisters, thin sheets of metal. Every step I made mattered, and because of this, I seldom looked up around to observe the hot tin-roofed homes or the people. I didn’t take note of any advertising signs or activities. Nor did I notice anyone who begged for food or money. I only saw what my feet saw. As I passed by many people, I wanted to look up and acknowledge each person with my eyes. All I could do was glance quickly at a person, nod and say “habari yako[1]” and look back down before they had the chance to say “mzuri[2]!” I greeted children with an affectionate “Sasa[3]!” Sometimes they’d reply “Fite[4]!” Sometimes they’d run away. Sometimes, a child would spot us from down hill and cry “Wezungu[5]! Wezungu!” The other children playing around him, would share in his enthusiasm and join together in a “How are YOU!” chorus. We got about 100 How are YOU’s a day. Sarah and I would cry back, “Fine! I am Fine!” or “Good! How are you?” The sisters would laugh.
The sisters had absolutely no problem in their blue and white gowns to make it through our path. They had been completing this 30-minute hike (from the Missionaries of Charity compound) twice a day, everyday, with the exceptions of Thursdays and Sundays (those were their Rest days). They never seemed to grow tired or thirsty and had no problem looking up as they walked. Sr. Rose Marie looked each person in the eye as she greeted with a “Habari Yako!” and would hold that look until she got a reply. She would extend further into the initiated conversation in Kiswahili. I couldn’t follow the conversations having only etiquette knowledge of the East African language, but I imagined her to be asking them how their family was doing, how work was going for the day, etc. I loved watching the sisters interact with these people. There was nothing phony or pretentious about their interactions. I felt like such a fraud. But, no matter, they didn’t expect much of me. I wasn’t the only triumphing mzungu[6] they have brought through the slum.
We were just about to enter the bright blue gates of the school. A lady, doing her laundry, observed my wet foot. She said something, but I kept walking, looking straight ahead. Then I did a double take.
"Did she say something to me?" I asked Sister Marie Clementine.
“Yes. She asked if she could wash your shoe off.”
“Sho-should I say yes?”
“Ndiyo[7].”
I smiled, a little flustered. I knew we were late getting to the school. I shyly approached the lady and accepted her offer. She dunked her own, slightly clean rag into the soapy water and meticulously got all the mud off my shoe. She used her own water which was for her family’s clothes to wash my foot. I wondered how much water she actually had available for use. I wondered where her clean water came from. Most people don’t have running water in Kibera. She washed my shoe until the blackness of it shined, and then she went on to my other shoe, which was just a little dusty. I looked at her, into her black shining eyes and saw God. I thanked her.
“Asante Sana[8]! Mungu akubariki[9]!” My lips stuttered over this last word.
The Kenyans laughed. They get a kick out of Americans who learn their language.
She cried in excitement, “something something Kiswahili!?” I shook my head and laughed.
“I know only kidogo[10] Kiswahili!”
“Kidogo!!” The sisters and the lady had a good laugh over that one.
We were all laughing, as Sarah and I, armed with art supplies and our own inadequacy, marched through the gates of the school, to a hundred and something children playing jump rope, soccer, and the Kenyan “Down By the Banks” in their dusty, dirt-paved school yard.
[1]How are you?
[2] Good!
[3] Greeting to a child, less formal than “How are you?”
[4] Child’s response to "sasa", literally means “fit”
[5] White people
[6] White person
[7] Yes
[8] Thank you very much!
[9] God bless you!
[10] A little
Sarah and I walked in between the two sisters. They were the barrier, the safe guard, between us and the world of Kibera- the largest slum in Africa and the second largest slum in the world. Impassioned by social justice and disgusted by poverty, I only dreamed of this day, when I could make one more step to save the world.
I managed to kick some of the slime off my shoe so I could carefully step down the boulder without slipping. I couldn’t believe such a path existed in a city in this contemporary world. It seemed very similar to the depiction I’ve seen in movies of Joseph leading Mary on a donkey, down a path, into Bethlehem. I was reminded of the Psalms where crooked and narrow paths with pits and muddy mires are often referenced. Now I had a slight idea what David was talking about. No wonder he asked God to make his paths straight.
I had to watch every single step as I treaded boulders, and crossed over hollow (or filled up) sewage creeks where the dogs and the hens made their home. Some of these “creeks” did have footbridges, which were hubcaps, sticks, broken banisters, thin sheets of metal. Every step I made mattered, and because of this, I seldom looked up around to observe the hot tin-roofed homes or the people. I didn’t take note of any advertising signs or activities. Nor did I notice anyone who begged for food or money. I only saw what my feet saw. As I passed by many people, I wanted to look up and acknowledge each person with my eyes. All I could do was glance quickly at a person, nod and say “habari yako[1]” and look back down before they had the chance to say “mzuri[2]!” I greeted children with an affectionate “Sasa[3]!” Sometimes they’d reply “Fite[4]!” Sometimes they’d run away. Sometimes, a child would spot us from down hill and cry “Wezungu[5]! Wezungu!” The other children playing around him, would share in his enthusiasm and join together in a “How are YOU!” chorus. We got about 100 How are YOU’s a day. Sarah and I would cry back, “Fine! I am Fine!” or “Good! How are you?” The sisters would laugh.
The sisters had absolutely no problem in their blue and white gowns to make it through our path. They had been completing this 30-minute hike (from the Missionaries of Charity compound) twice a day, everyday, with the exceptions of Thursdays and Sundays (those were their Rest days). They never seemed to grow tired or thirsty and had no problem looking up as they walked. Sr. Rose Marie looked each person in the eye as she greeted with a “Habari Yako!” and would hold that look until she got a reply. She would extend further into the initiated conversation in Kiswahili. I couldn’t follow the conversations having only etiquette knowledge of the East African language, but I imagined her to be asking them how their family was doing, how work was going for the day, etc. I loved watching the sisters interact with these people. There was nothing phony or pretentious about their interactions. I felt like such a fraud. But, no matter, they didn’t expect much of me. I wasn’t the only triumphing mzungu[6] they have brought through the slum.
We were just about to enter the bright blue gates of the school. A lady, doing her laundry, observed my wet foot. She said something, but I kept walking, looking straight ahead. Then I did a double take.
"Did she say something to me?" I asked Sister Marie Clementine.
“Yes. She asked if she could wash your shoe off.”
“Sho-should I say yes?”
“Ndiyo[7].”
I smiled, a little flustered. I knew we were late getting to the school. I shyly approached the lady and accepted her offer. She dunked her own, slightly clean rag into the soapy water and meticulously got all the mud off my shoe. She used her own water which was for her family’s clothes to wash my foot. I wondered how much water she actually had available for use. I wondered where her clean water came from. Most people don’t have running water in Kibera. She washed my shoe until the blackness of it shined, and then she went on to my other shoe, which was just a little dusty. I looked at her, into her black shining eyes and saw God. I thanked her.
“Asante Sana[8]! Mungu akubariki[9]!” My lips stuttered over this last word.
The Kenyans laughed. They get a kick out of Americans who learn their language.
She cried in excitement, “something something Kiswahili!?” I shook my head and laughed.
“I know only kidogo[10] Kiswahili!”
“Kidogo!!” The sisters and the lady had a good laugh over that one.
We were all laughing, as Sarah and I, armed with art supplies and our own inadequacy, marched through the gates of the school, to a hundred and something children playing jump rope, soccer, and the Kenyan “Down By the Banks” in their dusty, dirt-paved school yard.
[1]How are you?
[2] Good!
[3] Greeting to a child, less formal than “How are you?”
[4] Child’s response to "sasa", literally means “fit”
[5] White people
[6] White person
[7] Yes
[8] Thank you very much!
[9] God bless you!
[10] A little
Monday, July 30, 2007
my take on Mark 5
A large crowd followed the man to Jairus' house, pressing around him. And a young woman was there who had been bleeding for 12 years. In a large crowd, she was isolated and deserted from everyone around her. She tried everything to heal her bleeding, but continued to suffer a great deal under the care of an assortment of churches, Christian literature, friends with good intentions, and attention to boys and the arts. She tried all these antidotes and instead of getting better, she grew worse. She knew about the man with her awareness of him and his scripture grew in each bible study she attended. She did not know him. She realized that even her pride in knowing things would not heal her.
And she traveled from a far-off place to find him and when she heard the man was in town she was resting in, she knew she found her chance to go see him. Anything to try to get to know him more intimately. But when she reached him, a large crowd was there- herds of people all pressing toward the same man. People from towns across the interstate and even different countries, people from all directions, swarmed the man, making it impossible for him to get to where he needed to go. Making it impossible for the girl, small and weak, and overwhelmed by the masses to even get a glimpse of this great man. Her bleeding began to grow worse in this foreign place. She knew about this man her entire life and now, it was life or death. She had to see him. She had to get to him.
The crowd was too dense for her to walk through. She got down on fours and started to crawl between peoples' legs, coughing up dust and collecting the dirt from the soles of peoples' feet which jabbed her in her face. People were too busy pressing forward to see her or help her. But she kept at it- towards her goal- to the feet of this man. Some people were merciless and had no heart. But the man had many disciples there, at least 48. Although they were strangers from her life back home, they could understand the pain of the place she left. Many were crawling on the dusty ground, just as she. In this vast crowd however, it was hard for this girl, who relied so much on herself to grow close to anyone. But a few stood alongside her, helping her get through the crows. And to her surprise, she was able to muster up some strength to help others forward. But with each foot she climbed, she could not avoid being kicked in the face, or coughing up dust, or sliding through puddles of mud. And she never saw herself bleed so much.
Then he was there. Right in front of her stood the back of the man. She knew she was unworthy to rise up and look into his face. From her low place, her eyes focused on the trim of his torn-up trench coat. "Even his dirtiest scrubs are clean enough to heal me," she thought. And she lunged forward, stretching her arm, to the best of her capability, with care not to get too close (out of fear of being seen). Her bleeding stopped and in her whole body she felt freed from her suffering.
But then the man turned around and asked who touched him. Everyone who heard exploded in laughter, or confusion as there were herds of people swarming the man, touching every part of his body. But the woman cringed and sunk back, knowing the curse she bared was upon him. She hoped he would give up. But he kept looking. When she glanced up, she saw his eyes. They were filled with compassion. With a deep breath, she came before him and fell at his feet, her head buried in the mud. She trembled with fear as she told him the complete truth. The dirty secret of her life: she was bleeding. He stepped down and joined her on the muddy pavement. He looked softly into her eyes and called her by her name. He spoke tenderly in the softest but strongest voice she ever heard:
"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."
And she traveled from a far-off place to find him and when she heard the man was in town she was resting in, she knew she found her chance to go see him. Anything to try to get to know him more intimately. But when she reached him, a large crowd was there- herds of people all pressing toward the same man. People from towns across the interstate and even different countries, people from all directions, swarmed the man, making it impossible for him to get to where he needed to go. Making it impossible for the girl, small and weak, and overwhelmed by the masses to even get a glimpse of this great man. Her bleeding began to grow worse in this foreign place. She knew about this man her entire life and now, it was life or death. She had to see him. She had to get to him.
The crowd was too dense for her to walk through. She got down on fours and started to crawl between peoples' legs, coughing up dust and collecting the dirt from the soles of peoples' feet which jabbed her in her face. People were too busy pressing forward to see her or help her. But she kept at it- towards her goal- to the feet of this man. Some people were merciless and had no heart. But the man had many disciples there, at least 48. Although they were strangers from her life back home, they could understand the pain of the place she left. Many were crawling on the dusty ground, just as she. In this vast crowd however, it was hard for this girl, who relied so much on herself to grow close to anyone. But a few stood alongside her, helping her get through the crows. And to her surprise, she was able to muster up some strength to help others forward. But with each foot she climbed, she could not avoid being kicked in the face, or coughing up dust, or sliding through puddles of mud. And she never saw herself bleed so much.
Then he was there. Right in front of her stood the back of the man. She knew she was unworthy to rise up and look into his face. From her low place, her eyes focused on the trim of his torn-up trench coat. "Even his dirtiest scrubs are clean enough to heal me," she thought. And she lunged forward, stretching her arm, to the best of her capability, with care not to get too close (out of fear of being seen). Her bleeding stopped and in her whole body she felt freed from her suffering.
But then the man turned around and asked who touched him. Everyone who heard exploded in laughter, or confusion as there were herds of people swarming the man, touching every part of his body. But the woman cringed and sunk back, knowing the curse she bared was upon him. She hoped he would give up. But he kept looking. When she glanced up, she saw his eyes. They were filled with compassion. With a deep breath, she came before him and fell at his feet, her head buried in the mud. She trembled with fear as she told him the complete truth. The dirty secret of her life: she was bleeding. He stepped down and joined her on the muddy pavement. He looked softly into her eyes and called her by her name. He spoke tenderly in the softest but strongest voice she ever heard:
"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."
Monday, May 21, 2007
blue dress
Furbished in a full blue dress,
according to scattered friends— radiantly
transformed from my tattered blue dress,
which did not cover my legs.
As though I did not matter then.
And by a whirl of some force, a boy
of curly hair, pulled my hand. Looking at me.
We weren’t friends. Why is he here,
looking at my with those eyes?
Why me, this mess?
I told him who I was.
Nonsense he replied.
It was when flowers sprung
from the laden snow
he told me I was beautiful.
I shook my head and picked up
my dress, revealing
whipped calves and feet –
Bruises, welts and wounds.
Oozing puss --
Purple and green.
Bleeding from my pencil-thin legs
I turned my face from his perfection.
It wasn’t so unexpected when he turned into another boy.
This one with a soothing stare.
who washed my feet. Tendering each
Bruise. Welt. Wound.
I thought he’d kiss them and I cringed;
On my bed I had nothing to offer.
another note: i have a few "lost" poems right now, meaning that the most updated versions have not been saved on my computer but are locked up in my house in Newport News. These poems are my newest creations and I am sad that they will not be posted until August.
according to scattered friends— radiantly
transformed from my tattered blue dress,
which did not cover my legs.
As though I did not matter then.
And by a whirl of some force, a boy
of curly hair, pulled my hand. Looking at me.
We weren’t friends. Why is he here,
looking at my with those eyes?
Why me, this mess?
I told him who I was.
Nonsense he replied.
It was when flowers sprung
from the laden snow
he told me I was beautiful.
I shook my head and picked up
my dress, revealing
whipped calves and feet –
Bruises, welts and wounds.
Oozing puss --
Purple and green.
Bleeding from my pencil-thin legs
I turned my face from his perfection.
It wasn’t so unexpected when he turned into another boy.
This one with a soothing stare.
who washed my feet. Tendering each
Bruise. Welt. Wound.
I thought he’d kiss them and I cringed;
On my bed I had nothing to offer.
another note: i have a few "lost" poems right now, meaning that the most updated versions have not been saved on my computer but are locked up in my house in Newport News. These poems are my newest creations and I am sad that they will not be posted until August.
crossing the bridge
In a high school lane
Aligned with yellow buses
The chosen bus was all wrong
The trip home ends in a glimpse
I am caught in a wide, green field
Reaching far as the clouds
Are to the ground
A chorus disrupts
Arriving, loud and bright
Girls and boys –
everyone I know
Beautifully adorned
In white gowns and tuxes
Crowned in jewels
And me—
My clothes dingy and unwashed
My pearls blackened by mud
Their splendor blinds me
They march with army vigor
Advancing, to assault me with
Their shiny, glowing smiles
I want to be one of them
Isolation keeps me stagnant
As a creek-like river
with Atlantic dimensions
blocks me off
The river uproots me
I shake violently on
The thin, black bridge
Gripping the rails tightly
It shakes. It cracks.
Breaking. Falling.
Caught on it.
Hanging loose by one twig
Here am I-
Kicking violently,
Grappling, losing my grip
Strenuously fighting
Can’t make it alone
The brides motion me.
A scrape of bridge
Cuts deep
I cry-
Remove! Remove! Remove!
Aligned with yellow buses
The chosen bus was all wrong
The trip home ends in a glimpse
I am caught in a wide, green field
Reaching far as the clouds
Are to the ground
A chorus disrupts
Arriving, loud and bright
Girls and boys –
everyone I know
Beautifully adorned
In white gowns and tuxes
Crowned in jewels
And me—
My clothes dingy and unwashed
My pearls blackened by mud
Their splendor blinds me
They march with army vigor
Advancing, to assault me with
Their shiny, glowing smiles
I want to be one of them
Isolation keeps me stagnant
As a creek-like river
with Atlantic dimensions
blocks me off
The river uproots me
I shake violently on
The thin, black bridge
Gripping the rails tightly
It shakes. It cracks.
Breaking. Falling.
Caught on it.
Hanging loose by one twig
Here am I-
Kicking violently,
Grappling, losing my grip
Strenuously fighting
Can’t make it alone
The brides motion me.
A scrape of bridge
Cuts deep
I cry-
Remove! Remove! Remove!
the living bypass
I loom my arms, long and bark
Over the breezy bypass
Spectating
colors race by, with
Use of my green eyes
I cough up dust, it
Darkens my flesh, but
All I can do is gawk, at
These creatures,
whatever you are –
A constant flow of color –
Gliding across
smooth black path
In an instant, gone
While I am who I am
Only moved
By winds and rain,
Confined to my home
Forever the colors bleed together
my lazy eyes start to drift
until I hear screeching cries,
a sudden smack startles me
You are revealed, and
Dent my brother Spruce,
He keels over at the punch
In focus, more distinct –
Not just a color—
You are a machine,
Unnatural, now unmoving
And fatal to my kin.
Your relatives slow down,
And stare. Then speed on.
Note: I have quite a number of poems to post here and apologize for my lack of attention to this blog. Now that my poetry class is over, this blog will help encourage me to continue to go back and revise my poetry as well as encourage new material. Always feel free to leave constructive criticism. That's what this blog is all about.
Over the breezy bypass
Spectating
colors race by, with
Use of my green eyes
I cough up dust, it
Darkens my flesh, but
All I can do is gawk, at
These creatures,
whatever you are –
A constant flow of color –
Gliding across
smooth black path
In an instant, gone
While I am who I am
Only moved
By winds and rain,
Confined to my home
Forever the colors bleed together
my lazy eyes start to drift
until I hear screeching cries,
a sudden smack startles me
You are revealed, and
Dent my brother Spruce,
He keels over at the punch
In focus, more distinct –
Not just a color—
You are a machine,
Unnatural, now unmoving
And fatal to my kin.
Your relatives slow down,
And stare. Then speed on.
Note: I have quite a number of poems to post here and apologize for my lack of attention to this blog. Now that my poetry class is over, this blog will help encourage me to continue to go back and revise my poetry as well as encourage new material. Always feel free to leave constructive criticism. That's what this blog is all about.
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