Soul and Sea

Sands slip into the torrent sea
Washed, claimed by crashing wave
That beat the shore, itself to save
Rushing fire swells, salt curled
‘Round my soul, tangled on the shore
Mingling with shattered rocks and scattered hearts
Turning melody into broken parts
To all this splendor there is more—
Moon high hung in deepest sky
Diamonds clinging to the black turn by
With great mystery the world
Burns of twilight, moonlight, starlight
Holding nothing to the light
Of sight, majesty, and my
Consuming, waking passion felt
By the sudden seconds nature dealt
To the broad universe and lonely me.

The Girl in Sunday School

Stacy kept looking at me,
When our eyes caught
She swept her glance away
But blue windows stray
And though they ought not
Sought my face—what did she see?

The lesson droned on
The moments quickly gone
Returned many times again
What could it have been
That captured her eye
And her smiles so sly?

Twenty to and then ten
The lesson would not end
My puzzling only grew
How I wished I knew
What thoughts claimed her mind
And what treasures I might find.

With amen’s dismissed, I stood
As I knew that she would
She again caught my eye
And with a slight sigh,
Glanced at her ring
That a wedding should bring.

She half smiled at him
Then glanced back at me
A longing good-bye
With a look in her eye
Only I could see
My chances are better than slim…

Maggie

The man turned his head and died. It was to be expected, the doctors had given up on him weeks ago—they were surprised he lived that long. It wasn’t his first time in the hospital, a year ago he’d had the same problem; the family had gathered then and begun their mourning. But even before his first visit, his case was doomed—it was her fault really, she’d given up on him long before the doctors did. And when she gave up, he gave up.

Two years before, days before Christmas and he sat stunned, refusing to join in any festivities because of what she’d said. “I got the job in New York, Robbie,” she told him. “That’s great, Maggie! I’ll find a job out there too, when are we moving?” “You don’t understand. I’m going…alone.”

He stared at her. Her cool brown eyes were serene and certain. Their eyes locked and she turned, her long brown hair swept around her shoulder. “Why, Maggie?” he choked the question out. “I’m leaving tonight,” she said, smoothly, sweetly, and firmly. It was final and she was gone.

They’d met ten years before. It was late summer, nearly fall. The sun was burning leaves red and the breeze cooled the shade. A small pond was shimmering yellow and white ducks swam gently as the sun flittered through tree tips. She was sitting on a wooden bench tossing stale pieces of bread in the pond. He had a golden retriever, Jami. Her name was Maggie Lane; his was Robert Blight. She was thirty; he was twenty-six. Her divorce had been final for two weeks; he had a girlfriend, Hillary.

It was half past seven; the time Robert usually walked Jami. He knew every person in the park except Maggie. “Hello, stranger,” he called cheerily. Her eyes locked his and dropped down again, her fingers crumbling bread and feeling her empty left ring finger, the weight of invisible gold still pressing heavily upon it. “Mind if I sit here?” “Yes.” “Oh, I’ll be going then.” He walked away. Maggie smiled.

The next day at half past seven she was there again. “Can I sit here?” “No—yes, I mean—you really should ask better questions. Maggie laughed…nervously. They chatted as the buttercup sun shimmered lower, kissing tree tops and then horizon until it finally vanished, leaving only misty blue scattered with early stars. Midnight came and reluctantly they parted, exchanging numbers and forming plans to meet again.

Maggie and Robert fought for the first time two days after he broke up with Hillary. They fought about Jami; Maggie won. The next fight was about Robert’s job; Maggie won. It was an intoxicating kind of argument, an addiction that caught them everyday and promptly followed by an intense apology session.

Robert dedicated her life to Maggie. Robert changed his job, his apartment, and his life for her. She didn’t change anything. She enjoyed her time with him. After one year they returned to the park bench and had a picnic dinner at half past seven. “I love you,” he whispered in her left ear. She was silent. “I love you,” he whispered louder. Maggie smiled. He studied her lips. She laughed, kissing him gently.

She never said those three words he longed to hear. His every action begged for her love. His every movement was dedicated to her. “I love you,” he’d say, but Maggie only laughed. When she left, Robert’s only words were, “Maggie, I love you” scrawled on an empty envelope. He failed the first time. The note was the same the second time: “Maggie, I love you.” The third time the note read the same: “Maggie, I love you.” The third time he succeeded. They found him on the cold bathroom floor. Whispering, “Maggie, I love you,” he turned his head and died.

Enticement

There was a couple long boarding on Elaine’s street. She didn’t care, the swoosh of wheels on asphalt captured her attention for only a moment before she returned to blankly staring at her Spanish homework. She had books spread around her on the lawn, and she skimmed a page of one, reading and understanding nothing. This is the last time I cram, she thought.

The girl continued flying up and down the street, curving side to side and weaving around obstacles, but the boy stopped and called, “Hey, do you want to try?” “I’ve gotta study she called back.” It was an excuse, but not the real one, she had no desire to interrupt the couple with her clumsiness, and she hated being the odd one out. “Oh, come on, you can study later.” Elaine looked at him, studying he’s smile which ended in dimples and reflected in his brown eyes. “Oh, ok,” she stood up, leaving her scattered books.

The boy’s name was Henry. “Have you ever done this before?” “No, and I’m really bad at stuff like this, so I’ll probably fall.” “It’s easy, you’ll be fine. Stand like this,” he demonstrated. She tried, but wobbled. He steadied her and she grasped Henry’s arms firmly, fearing the fall that would certainly accompany the loosening of her fingers. Eventually she did let go, and though failing perfection, managed to roll down the street.

The girl glided by and watched them, but Elaine could not read her face. She came nearer and Henry said, “Elaine, this is my sister, Mary.” Both girls smiled, but Elaine’s was the broadest—it wasn’t a couple after all.

Gum (8.8)

I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. Half of the blood that runs through my veins is his, this nameless man’s. It’s not a proper photo; it’s a strip of $3 photo booth pictures taken on one of my mom’s few dates with this man.

Sometimes I think I have his eyes, but it’s hard to tell. They’re kinda blurry. Maybe his lips? I might have his laugh, ‘cause I don’t have Mom’s. Hers is bubbly and bright; mine crinkles deep and high.

I imagine the date, and their laughs mingling in the cramped, sweaty booth. There was likely dirt and gum stuck on the floor. Maybe she even dropped a piece and there it rests, stale and hard, the only remainder of that date—aside from the pictures and me.

Turn Left (Cat's Exercise)

Turning left, blinker set, steady stream of rain and cars, Amelia craned her neck, stretching her vision and striking the gray-brown car mat with her left foot rapidly. Her mother’s words echoed, “He’s not well, Amelia…hurray, please.” Amelia clutched the old beige phone, “What did the doctors say?” “Just hurray,” her slow, worried words increased the receiver’s weight.

Amelia turned to her younger brother, sitting in the passenger seat, “Dad’ll be fine.” Brent drew his lips tight; eyes burning with water and trained straight ahead, staring at nothing. “He’s strong Brent.” “Amelia…he’s…last time was too close.” “But he pulled through, he can do it again.” Brent leaned forward, flipping through radio static. An old song came on—Amelia knew every syllable, but she didn’t sing, instead she drifted to the kitchen of the house they’d lived in when she was five. She was dancing with Dad on the yellow linoleum floor, her feet on his. Mom hummed gently as she finished dinner and Brent knocked toys together in his play pen. It had been a nightly occurrence.

Tears fell from Amelia, matching the clouds drop for drop.

10 Lines: Butterfly

Ten Lines

Me: Butterfly confused flies ‘round the world

(and back)

Dream: Window, breeze of sea curtain blows you and me

Fear: Dark cold empty place, void of light, void of space,

Beauty: Quick curve, gentle lips, your smile, hands on hips—kiss

Truth: Light always conquers dark

Three words: I trust you.

Begins: But fear shadows hope,

…: Making me dizzy, making me sick, making me forget

They said: Love is constant, love is true,

Butterfly: Yet I fly, wings of blue and purple flirting with the sky.

I: Butterfly

Salty breeze curtains you and me,

Quick curve, gentle lips, your smile, hands on hips—

I need you!

Make me dizzy, make me free, make me forget

That I fly on wings of blue yearning for sky,

They claim: Love was constant, ever true;

Hope swallowed fear;

Light vanquished dark, and

From a cold dark empty point

I escape to fly ‘round the world

(and back into your arms).

Destroying Dark

Darkness complete and over whelming enters every part of me

My soul enshrouded with the blackness, I wander in despair

Void and nothing but my sin, my pride

Lucifer, a fallen star, a brother to my soul

I am lost, all hope is gone

I cry my anguished heart

And in this never ending sea of blackness the world echoes me.

 

The cry is lost in the consuming dark

It crushes any sound, destroys all but pain

My heart and soul plead silently

The empty cold that fills me, the ice with hollow sound

Begins to melt as my spirit burns with truth

The plea is heard by the heart of the Divine,

 

As I am filled with radiant feeling from the God of love

I look around the empty blackness and see,

I see the tiniest pin-prick, the farthest tear of light

My joy abounds, my hope is found

Redemption of my sins - humility

The dark is ripped and torn asunder by the purest white

The void is filled, the darkness vanquished, conquered

By never-ending light.

 

Fracture (Albert Paley 1996)

Scattered Thoughts:

At base: Broken pieces of a puzzle

Will not fit

Fallen shape

Gathered in a column’s mess

Weathered steel

Shaped

Crafted

Edges smoothed

Carved land by water

Worn

Wayward ways,

Gentle curves and

Breaks—

Alone.

At side: Out stretched eagles wings—soaring—no longer chained to earth

Piercing through thick air—emptiness—there is no sky

Sweeping wind—cloud—howling wolf

There is no moon—star—just this room

By the stairwell—hide—it and I

Alone.

At top: The shadow cast

makes a jagged

clock

ticking at the time

telling, tearing, touching

each moment passing

still

Alone.

Gathered thoughts: Soft brown steel

Hiding to reveal

In corner left,

Bereft,

It stays—

Cobweb plays

Dusts settle

Rusts mettle,

Shadows cast

At long last

Draws my appeal

Alone.

Jellyfish

My family visits aquariums frequently. I loved staying for hours and watching the sea creatures swim and wave in the water. I longed to be a mermaid and enter that world of color and salt--perhaps I would live in a seaweed forest or coral reef. My youngest brother, Will, did not share my awe, one could scarcely blame him, he was not yet walking and was confined to Mom's arms.

In one room, the dim glow of manufactured light emanated from large, salty tanks. Fish swam--not gold fish or carp, but gigantic sea dwellers brought to the aquarium for us to watch and wonder at. I stared at every tank in turn; Will squirmed in Mom's arms and fussed. "We'll have to go soon," Mom said. I glowered at Will. Dragging my feet I followed her.

Suddenly, Will was still and silent. I quickly saw what had captured him--a cylider tank filled with orange jellyfish. They were dancing and floating through the water; a spiral of orange touched with crimson. Will was enthralled. We didn't leave the aquarium for hours.

On Seeing Butterflies (On Seeing England)

I do not remember when my fascination began, it seems as though I was always enthralled by the smooth curves and vivid colors of butterfly wings. Their wings bear resemblance the first letter of my name 'B' so the same is familiar and friendly. Gently they glide in the air--bright spots of color on fields of green or skies of blue. The lines, curves, dots, and colors of butterfly wings mimic flowers and eyes in an attempt hide. Gently, beautifully, and delicately the hide, but always fail to stay hidden. Watching, I covet their elegance.

I try to claim butterflies by plastering my car and letters with stickers of these winged creatures. My friends even call me a social butterfly and tease, "If Brittney ever got a tattoo, it would be of a butterfly." But I cannot claim them, they are mysterious and free. They are beautiful, but their beauty is fleeting--they are frail and fall like autumn leaves when chilled wind kisses their wings.

The Stone Man

My imagination: Noble tall and proud he stands firm as wind buffets him, eroding and smoothing this rough man. Patriotism burning in his stone heart and he will not waver. Guardian of good and right he carries truth and justice through summer storm and winter heat, never faltering. His dominion is of sagebrush and unending sky.

He will never change, this warrior of a distant day. Unyielding he remains through all that changes.

My memory: Hiking with my two best friends. Laughter. Chatter. Stories. Exquisite views and interesting rock formations. Snapping many pictures, this is only one to commemorate that day.

Facts: sagebrush, dirt, trees, grass, and rocks.

Revision

My writing is part of me; it is a glimpse at my core.
It is far from perfect, as am I.
It is often far from good, but it is mine.
I know that I must revise because no line is right,
but it tears at my soul to change a point.
Yet in each change I make,
in every red mark and line erased,
I find...I find not heartache or despair,
but rather that in change
--in mending my sad ways--
something good comes from my wretched lines.
Revision, like repentance, lets this sinner mend mistakes
and give the gift of better things.

A time I was totally happy (Chap 7 Warm Up)

He called! Complete and utter bliss was mine--my wide grin would not vacate my face. I wanted to shout to the world--HE CALLED! All was right and all was well, my heart danced giving rhythm to my joy. I found joy in that rainy day, the dinner I burnt, and grumpy customers all because he called. His voice sent waves of happiness through all because he called.

Baking Soda and Vinegar

In Sally's cupboard there lived Baking Soda and Vinegar. Vinegar came first, but later Baking Soda joined and the two bickered like old cats. Sally took Baking Soda from the cupboard more frequently than Vinegar and this grieved Vinegar. "It's really not fair," she sniffed, I was here first, I have the prior claim." "Well, maybe if you weren't so bitter and mopey, Sally would like you better," retorted Baking Soda.

This continued for ages and the others got tired of their fighting. "You two really should stop," scolded Pepper. "I've never seen anyone act so childish," added Salt. "She started it," scowled Baking Soda. "Did not!" "Did too!" "Hush!!!" ordered Paprika.

But they wouldn't stop. "Did not!" "Did too!"
"Did not!" "Did too!"
"Did not!" "Did too!"
"Did not!" "Did too!"

This continued until Vinegar hit Baking Soda. They both exploded.

Sally was startled by the mess and kept Vinegar and Baking Soda apart so there was peace in the cupboard ever after.

Eng 218R Goals

My main goal for this class is simple: improve my creative writing. One of my "Things to Do Before I Die" goals is to write a complete novel--it doesn't have to be a published work, just something I'm happy with. In this class I want to stretch myself and improve the quality of my work. : )

Nevada Drives (7.8)

The sun beat upon my little blue Mazda loaded down with clothes, books, a bike, me, and Dad. The drive from Sacramento to Provo mainly consisted of Nevada. My over protective father would not let me make the trip alone. The sun blazed hotter as we crossed the Nevada/California line. The CD player died with a pitiful moan; the radio only found static intermixed with sounds that must have been music but resembled nothing pleasant. The sun reached its highest, hottest point and the A/C joined the CD player the afterlife. We rolled down the windows and the wind blew hot and heavy.
I was eager for the trip to end. Dad didn't say much; he never was a big talker. My whole family's really close, but Mom's the big talker. Maybe it's her Italian blood that causes her tongue to move with such animation and her hands to fly with every word. If it had been Mom and I driving silence would not have entered the car, but it wasn't, and silence was only briefly punctuated with conversation.
Staring at the empty landscape, I noticed little towers scatter here and there along the road. "It was in one of those towers I proposed to your mother," he said. I smiled. I'd heard the story so many times, it was one of Mom's favorites. I had the whole thing memorized, even the parts they disagreed on.
They had been dating for six weeks and I'm not sure why, but they decided to visit Dad's cousin in Utah. They made the same drive we were making, Sacramento to Provo (Maybe it was Ogden, but regardless, it was the same desert). The trip was uneventful, but then something happened in Utah. Dad's cousin took him aside and said something, not sure what exactly, but Dad started acting weird and Mom got mad.
When Mom's mad she doesn't talk--her silence is likely the most frightening thing on Earth. Also, Mom hates driving, but she insisted on driving on the trip home. Silently she clutched the steering wheel, focusing on the road ahead and refusing to glance at Dad. Dad didn't dare speak. It was dark out, possibly as dark as Mom's mood. Then there was a lightening storm with huge bolts illuminating the sky or it was a meteor shower: they always disagree on which.
Mom suddenly pulled off the road, jerking the car and parking at the base of a tower. Mom jumped out. "What are you doing?" he asked. "I'm going to look at the sky," she answered angrily. She climbed the tower and stood with arms stubbornly crossed. It's likely her eyebrows were creased and her eyes dark, I've seen that face before.
Dad approached the base of the ladder or stairs (I don't know which) and asked softly, "Can I come up?" "Sure." Carefully he climbed and softly he stepped nearer. When he dared move no closer, Dad felt to on one knee and said, "I wasn't going to do this now, but will you marry me?"
Her anger vanished instantly. She accepted. They kissed. Mom says there were fireworks; it was like they really kissed for the first time. And now, twenty plus years later, they're still talking about that kiss.
My smile broadened and Dad added, "I was a really good kiss." We kept driving. The Nevada heat and wind continued and the subject changed. We passed more empty towers and I thought how once, one of them was filled with two people completely in love. This is not a fairy tale. Life has been nothing like perfect for them, but they are still in love and in twenty more years they will still be in love.
That my point I guess--love lasts. Love is ineloquent, uneventful, and true. Nations rise and fall, times and people change, but love in simple purity lasts for eternity.

Mespelbrunn

Memories and dreams: a foggy haze with snippets of clarity forms my earliest memories. The spots of light include: Grandma’s house, playing doctor when Mom was pregnant with my baby brother, Daisy Girl Scouts, Kokomo (by the Beach Boys) playing in the background of my gymnastic class, flying, moving, and castles.

Mespelbrunn—I remember her with greater clarity than many things before I was seven, perhaps because I went there so often. Mespelbrunn is a castle in Germany (Dad was military and we lived in Germany for three years). I remember a worn dirt path leading to a wooden bridge that crossed the castle moat, but what I remember most is not the castle stones, exquisite stain glass, or the rich furnishings. What is most clearly illuminated in my mind is a dirty little bush at the bend of the dirt path nestled near the moat, or more specifically, what was in the bush.

The crest of Mespelbrunn is a noble swain which is prominently displayed throughout the castle. And that is what I found in that insignificant bush—a swain. She was sitting on a pile of sticks and feathers as her mate hovered protectively near.

The nest was vacant when I returned to Mespelbrunn and the swain couple was gliding across the moat followed by little grey puffs that swam with an eager awkwardness, trying to mimic their parents. I remember my delight with clarity even though other events of my life remain covered in impenetrable fog.