Tuesday, July 22, 2008

turn the page

we're the cool kids sitting up the back. razor sharp hair, we don't give a care. faded old tees, and ripped up jeans, we lean out the window and wave at strangers. we daydream of candy striped corner shops, mixed lollies like we used to get back in the day. we hum, slightly out of tune, even moreso out of time, and we've forgotten the words - long ago. we make daisy chains together in the park, after dark, and we ride down the slide when there's no kids around to make a sound. when we head home, we rest our weary pretty little heads on faded pillowcases. damn fool, we don't give a damn.
c h a l k talk

growth: lexi c

You’re swimming – learning at least
And while you’re paddle kicking,
Making splashy toes
There’s piped music,
It could be Beethoven, Mozart
I’m not sure, but it’s one of the greats
And it sounds sort of tinny
But at the same time, it’s great
- like a soundtrack for swooshing around
In all that water.

You occasionally glance at me
As though to elicit confidence,
I smile, I’m always smiling
It’s almost like a mask, my smile
Underneath this happiness,
I can’t believe that you’re paddling across
When once you were a babe in my arms
Floating with me,
Before that, you used to do laps with me
When you were in my belly.
All the while I’m dumbstruck at how fast time really does pass.
Lost in my thoughts, snapshots of memory -
Your class is over, you’re wet and shivering next to me,
I can see the pleasure at my praise in your
Sweet eyes, mine are damp.


futility: wilfred owen

Move him into the sun -

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,

-Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?

if you want to tear out our pages, tell us. if you wish our book went on and on, tell us that too.


one small hope is one big dream. i'm still sitting up the back, absorbed in somewhere else. i'm writing poems in my head, wishing i brought a book and a pencil. i'll etch them into my mind, but i know they'll soon be forgotten, those golden lines. i'll throw out a glance occasionally. but mostly, i keep staring at that blank wall, publishing my own poems.