Eyes Closed: A Poem

Ok, sorry I haven't posted in a while, but every writer needs her own creative time, right? But before I share my newest creation, I would like to just clear something about the comments you guys give me. If you post a comment, you might observe how it doesn't appear under the post instantly. This is because it goes to my account so I can approve them before they are released. If, by any chance, a comment can upset a reader, the writer of the comment, or myself, it will not be shown to the public. NOTE: This does not mean that I don't read the comments. Almost every day, I go on and see who's commented, and every day your comments touch my heart. Please don't be offended if you don't see yours up there on the blog. Alright, this post's poem was actually inspired by a comment that I received (no, I'm not saying which one). So sit back, relax, and enjoy the.....writing (?)

Eyes Closed

There comes a time

when your heart beats.

Each roll of thunder

an echo of the past.

A light shines faintly

in the distance.

Guidance offered,

yet not accepted.

The urgency to fulfill,

to prove worth,

controls all thought.

Emptiness.

There is a place

if all else fails.

And nothing remains

except the memory of teardrops

on parched strands of space.

The whisper of silk

against the window pane.

A lipstick stain

on a piece of broken glass.

If nothing remains,

who shall follow?

Who? The echo asks, who?

Who, why, when.

The cycle turning

to the pulse of the heart,

to the soul of the teacher,

to the answers to what is yet to come.

Round and round,

like a carousel turning.

Until all that is left

is the sound

of labored breath, pulsing beat.

Growing,

Changing,

Turning.

Filling the nothingness

with the silence of heartsong.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Comments

Every budding poet's dream is to be discovered, to be understood. We stay up till dawn, flashlight and pen and notebook in hand, writing out our dreams, our thoughts, our desires. And then we show our work to the world, and all we get is "Nice work" or "Good job". Look, I don't think there is anything wrong with a good old pat on the back, but sometimes a pre-teen poet needs a little more. To those who have left all those sincere, thoughtful, and yes, sometimes opinionated comments on my blog-- thank you. You have enabled me to reach a broader output for my work than I ever could have dreamed. The great thing about poetry is that it has many meanings. Your comments have showed me how much a day in the life of a growing-up girl can connect to some people whom I barely know. You've discovered hidden messages and connections that a poet can only imagine others finding. I'll keep on writing, grant you, but it's your comments that keep my believing. Thank you.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

The Taste of Mangoes: A Poem

This poem was actually bases on a true story. I'm not going to say any names, so whoever it's about is safe, no worries!

The Taste of Mangoes

You don't like mangoes.

I know this because

you remind me each time

I bring them in.

Slices of sunshine neatly arranged

in the pale blue tupperware.

You say,

"The taste is too tart"

or sweet

or salty

or, well,

you get the picture.

You dislike,

no, you loath mangoes.

So each time I bring

that pale blue tupperware

into the room,

you beg for a taste.

Each time, of course,

I insist that you'll hate it,

you always do.

To which, of course,

you beg and plead and cajole

until I give you a piece.

NOTE: This is not because

I like you.

It's just that I would like

to pass the 7th grade.

You are not

the quietest person in the world

when you want something.

No offense.

After I relent

and grant you that first morsel,

you proceed to cleanse me

of my burden- the mango.

Reminding me all the while

how much you

"detest mangoes".

Nice try.

This goes on

almost every week.

Do you really "hate"

it so much?

Or is it that

you take pleasure

in my annoyance?

I'm guessing the latter.

In the future, however,

I do have one request:

Next time,

bring your own mango.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Glory: A Poem

I would just like to talk a little bit about the quote next to my blog title. You know, the one that says: "The job of the poet...Is to create and to capture... And to spirit and to script... The pulse of life." This is from a poem written by Mattie J.T. Stepanek, a boy who died at age thirteen from dysautonomic mitochondrial myopathy. He spent most of his time in the hospital writing beautiful "heart songs". I received one of his books when I turned 9 and I think that is what first really inspired me to write poetry. So, now that we've covered that, it's time to see this posting's poem. I'm warning you, it's a little different from the "dark and dangerous" stuff I posted last, but in a good way. Enjoy!

Glory

The thing about love

is that it's a mess:

Tangled, torn,

a mixed-up, misshapen

version of life.

It's hundreds of tears

lost on one

who paused to wink

at you in the hall,

then never answered

your heartfelt messages.

Love is thinking for hours in bed,

as dawn's fingers gently

brush the horizon.

It is our end.

And our beginning.

Love is like

dark chocolate melting

in the center of our heart.

A miniscule piece,

a small, unimportant

smile.

A deep voice asking your name

or your number

or if you like movies.

Delicious.

It is going to sleep

with the cool light of stars

streaming through your window,

content.

Yes, love is a mess.

A mess that,

although tangled

torn

mixed-up

misshapen

crumbling

and cruel,

is somehow right.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Quiet: A Poem

Don't you just hate it when you are trying to read or write, and someone just has to be reading over your shoulder while your doing whatever. For instance, right now I'm trying to write another post, but some annoying little snooper (Thanks Dad!) has to be looking at every word I type. Jeesh people!!! Give this poor, lonely writer a break! Anyway, this poem kind of just came to me when I was listening to those creepy ghost noises late one night. I'm not saying I can relate to it in any way, but.... here goes.

Quiet

Voices, loud and piercing,

creeping into the darkness of my room.

Rising, growing

louder and louder,

a never-ending crescendo.

Footsteps down the hall

echoing to my parents' room,

Urgent.

Breathless sobs as the bedroom door

slams shut.

Silence.

A new sound now.

Throwing clothes into bags,

movements rushed, unfeeling.

Military footsteps

back down the hall.

The front door opens,

then slams shut,

as I lay on my bed

no longer safe and warm.

Through the opening of

the fraying curtains

a car takes flight

into the dark.

Gasps and tears

compliment the

fading sound.

A final slam.

The final silence.

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Welcome To My World: A Poem

Okay people, I know some of you have been wondering why on earth I haven't made one single posting about poetry yet. So, I wrote this at around midnight a couple of nights ago. It makes absolutely no sense to me; see if you can make something out of it.

Welcome To My World

She dances around the room,

graceful as a sprite,

and just as mischievous.

Playful, a leaping tendril of fire.

Like fire, always fire.

I sit,

swinging around on my desk chair,

recording my observations.

Looking in at the world

from the outside of

a clear bubble of steel.

Always watching, never speaking.

I'm watching, always watching.

And the world turns.

The fire, the watcher

meet on either sides of

that impenetrable wall of steel.

Fingertips press

against the invisible metal.

Yet no one attempts to break free.

No one ever tries.

They just wait

for someone to free them.

No one ever bridges the gap

between black and white,

hot and cold,

love and hate.

And they never will.

They just wait,

always watching, always burning.

Until someone breaks down

that cruel wall of steel,

and their entire world

topples around them.

Peace, love, and happiness

-Becca

Hidden Safety Nets

What's a safety net? It's something you can have to fall back on, to lean on, when you need that little boost. A safety net could be a beloved toy, your old baby blanket, or (in my case) a favorite book. But author's have safety nets too-- things they use so often in their stories that it sort of becomes a trademark. Take Maria V. Snyder, acclaimed author of the Study series (Poison Study, Magic Study, and Fire Study, for example. In her books, she uses the French word "rendezvous" (pronounced "rahn-deh-voo"--I know, weird!) about every third page. For example, "rendezvous with the horses", "rendezvous with Valek at the Ixia border", you get the picture. Now don't get me wrong, I absolutely adore Snyder's work. She knows exactly how to write about heroines, romance, and adventure. I probably reread her books almost every week. I just think it's sort of cool how authors have habits when they write. Now, I wonder what my "safety net" is...

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca

Drum Roll Please...

Okay people, welcome to (insert trumpets) my blog!!! In this blog I will post info about my love of poetry and anything related to writing. So sit back, relax, and pretend to care about what I'll say in the next posting. ;o)

Peace, love, and happiness

- Becca