Journal 6

The first line of each stanza must include a color.

Downtown Fredericksburg

The red brick walls speak to me,                                                                         their beauty distracts me                                                                                         from the task at hand.

The bright yellow sun highlights                                                                           the face of the building                                                                                                   as a motorcycle roars past.

The sky, bluer than my jeans                                                                             inspires me to write something                                                                             just as classic.

Girls in hues of pink                                                                                                   walk past, gossiping                                                                                                   about a cute boy.

The metallic silver                                                                                                             of a truck catches my eye                                                                                               as it sits at the traffic light.

The invisible hands of the wind                                                                         ruffles my hair and brings a hope                                                                         only spring can inspire.

Journal 5

It was winter.                                                                                                                        It got dark early.                                                                                                                      Snow falls so hard                                                                                                                the neighbors’ windows seem to stare                                                                  at me through viscid cataracts,
                                                                              and so I feel like I’m watched                                                                                          but unseen.

The sky flashes,                                                                                                                       the great sea yearns,                                                                                                         we ourselves flash and yearn                                                                                         for something more than this                                                                                       dreary existence.  Life, friends,                                                                                     is boring. We must not say so.

 

Authors and Poems:

Elizabeth Bishop, In the Waiting Room                                                          Phillip Stephens, Hangman                                                                                      John Berryman, Dream Song 14                                                                            My own words

Journal 4

Version 1:

The cows stand under the trees in the wet grass,

lifting their necks to pull leaves down.

We slow down the truck,

pull over to the side of the road to watch them.

How graceful they look,

how unlike themselves.

We get out and lean on the fence.

The cows don’t seem to notice we are there.

 

Version 2:

The cows stand under the trees

in the wet grass, lifting their necks to pull

leaves down.  We slow down the truck, pull over

to the side of the road to watch them.

How graceful

they look, how unlike themselves.

We get out and lean

on the fence.  The cows don’t seem to notice

we are there.

 

Version 3:

The cows stand

under the trees in the wet

grass, lifting their necks to pull

leaves down.  We slow down

the truck, pull over

to the side of the road

to watch them.

How graceful they look,

how unlike

themselves.  We get out

and lean

on the fence.

The cows don’t seem

to notice

we are there.

 

In the first poem, I decided to break the lines at the natural pauses where punctuation occurred.  This version was boring because there were no inflections and no interesting tonal differences created by unusual line breaks.  In the second poem, the last line creates an emphasis on the people allows for a double meaning when using “we.”  It would mean the cows or people individually, or it could reference both.  The last version I created, I wanted to keep a forward momentum going in the poem.  The use of enjammed lines pulls the reader forward, and creates some unusual breaks in the poem that bring emphasis to words that weren’t highlighted in the other versions.

Journal 3

Summer (unified similes)

The sweet sensation of flying, zooming

down the streets of my neighborhood.  Zipping

fast enough, my bike stirring the humid August air.

Crash!

The terrible bush pounced

out in front of me like a predator attacking.

Gravel digging into my knees like moles

burying into the ground, the callus sun

unmoved by my pain.

Hydrogen peroxide stinging like angry bees.

Band-Aids meant to protect me

restricted my movement

like a boa constrictor.

 

 

Summer (non-unified similes)

The sweet sensation of flying, zooming

down the streets of my neighborhood.  Zipping

fast enough, my bike stirring the humid August air.

Crash!

The terrible bush pounced

out in front of me like a child found

during hide and go seek.  Gravel digging

into my knees like a shovel moving

the sand in a sandbox, the caring sun illuminating

my injury.  Hydrogen peroxide stinging like cruel words.

Band-Aids meant to protect me

restrict my movement like a cast.

The Next Thing Always Belongs

Teachers

 

Sitting across from Mrs. Nelson,

her nasal tone reminiscing last year’s escapades.

My body crashing into the doorframe, twenty-nine pairs of mocking eyes.

 

The influence of teachers inspires the next generation.

Her hands molded my mind like soft putty.

 

Bone crunching, the way she slams a door.

Who knew an object could deafen thirty people.

Two students trading secrets about a classmate.

 

I want to travel to a simpler time,

I wish for flying monkey to take me away.

How quickly I forget only avian creatures command the ability to soar high.

 

A plastic lobster stares me down

checking to see if I’m hip.

 

A multitude of living things participate in coitus.

Teachers leave no impact on their students.

Why do people have pinky toes?

 

The familiar walls plastered with old photographs.

Her volume is reminiscent of Aunt Lynne

loud enough to call out at passing ships in the night.

 

I can’t stop myself from returning,

my legs remember the way.

Passing cars, hard pavement, bright streetlights

all as familiar to me as Adichie’s novels.

 

Nelson, perched behind her desk, surveys her kingdom.

They hold so much knowledge just waiting to be shared.  Learn from them.

Journal 1

Taste:  Chlorine, strawberry, Nutella, alfredo, bubblegum liquid medicine, cranberry, lime, vanilla, banana, whipped, iron, plantains, chocolate, waffle, vodka

Touch:  Draft, wood, breeze, humid, chill, glass, seaweed, Kleenex, sand, gravel, fur, necklace, pencil, lotion, make-up

Smell:  Skunk, bulldog, mint, oregano, basil, lemon, lysol, rain, must, musk, mud, grass, plastic, leather, sweat

Hearing:  Sigh, cough, sniffle, creak, bark, vibration, thud, whistle, yell, licking, honk, beep, pots, sizzle, churning

Sight:  Bruise, swelling, stars, checklist, book, German Shorthaired Pointer, Tabby, cones, bed, soccer ball, calendar, pictures, cherry, oak, hyacinth

Action/Motion:  Walking, laughing, crying, playing, interrupting, teaching, listening, kicking, tackle, holding

Abstractions:  Joy, worry, helpless

Anything:  Belize, Jamaica, Endwell, Thursday, Saturday, Lila, sunrise

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