10 Minutes of Poetry (Live Reading on 2/4/15)

I had my first official live reading on Wednesday, February 4th at Cafe Lift titled “10 Minutes of Poetry” where I joined a group of talented performers for the night.

Here, you can get a glimpse of my reading =)

Please note that you may need to be a follower of Cafe Lift on Facebook to properly see some of the videos.

My introduction poem Like No Other was under the theme “The Body & The Senses” and seemed to be a favorite among the crowd.

My second poem Ominous was under the theme “Dark Poetry” and is always a fun, psychological poem to read.

My third poem 30 Days of Beard was a memory from work and written based on testimonials from my male colleagues.  The theme, of course, is “A Different Perspective.”

My fourth poem Forever Creating is a blank verse piece written in Creative Writing class.  It falls under the theme “Inspiration & Creativity.”

The fifth and last poem of the night was Flying, based on a childhood memory.  This poem falls under the theme of “Telling a Story.”

 

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Ominous (Audio Poem)

I decided to try something new and record my poetry.  This poem is called Ominous.  You can see the original post here.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t embed the files in here with my current WordPress plan, so please access it via the links below 🙂

Ominous (Quick Time Movie File)
Ominous (AVI File)

cropped-ominous.jpg

Battling Stress

Last week, I posted “A Poem for Your Thoughts: Experiment 1: Stress,” but since no one really commented on the post, I decided to use my own imagery to create a poem about stress.  Since stress is something that constantly nags at you and is hard to get away from, I thought that writing a villanelle would be a great fit due to its repetitive nature.  I actually haven’t heard of a villanelle until earlier this year when I attended the Willow Glen Poetry Series and one of the open mic readers read “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath and then shared a villanelle of his own.  The two poems were beautiful.  I was then curious and inspired to try out this poetic structure.  Anyhow, I hope you enjoy my first try at a villanelle and that it makes you feel “stressed.” 🙂

Puppet Master
image from Google

Battling Stress

He slobbers my mind and sucks my soul.
From inside out, Stress devours me.
He slurps my blood and bites my muscles.

My nerves, puppets under his control,
my eyes, confused, blinded, cloudy,
He slobbers my mind and sucks my soul.

Deep inside, I tug and pull, tug and pull,
looking for me, of who I used to be.
He slurps my blood and bites my muscles,

and in my heart, I see, a giant hole.
Missing are thoughts that made me happy.
He slobbers my mind and sucks my soul.

The more I lose, the more Stress grows.
I am frightened, alone, and very, very angry.
He slurps my blood and bites my muscles.

I reach out. I need help. Stress knows
I’m fighting, desperately, to be free.
He slobbers my mind and sucks my soul.
He slurps my blood and bites my muscles.

Nothing in Particular

This was originally a flash fiction assignment that I had in class, in which I utilized the same idea from a poem that I had written.  It’s supposed to be weird and ambiguous, so I hope you enjoy it!

Nothing in Particular

Rain falls in a diagonal motion, wetting ground, watering plants, falling into puddles, making ripples in the pond. Outside, little boys in blue raincoats are chasing paper ships down the waterway. The elderly Mrs. Chan dressed in white, burns paper houses in a black cauldron for her dead husband. It has been a long night. The crow watches a raindrop slip off the golden leaf and disappear with a “plop.”

A moment of silence, and then the rain pounds harder, like translucent daggers hammered into doors. The crow flies off into the night, passed the children, passed the wooden house, passed the naked slithering worms, into the cemetery with Gothic gates where people are engaged in a ritual dance. Singing, shouting, dancing around and around, arms in the air, with the beating of drums. Crosses, crosses everywhere, there are angels too, all over the tombstones. R.I.P.

The crow flies off, passed the lovers skinny-dipping in the lake with moonlight glistening on their skin, passed the restless, thrashing waves, passed the fallen tree, occasionally dodging the wire-like thunderbolts, only to land on the sill of a barred window at the insane asylum. With his dark little pupils, he watches, waiting, anticipating … the scream!

The woman has her back to him. Her long black hair falls down her thin nightgown in a tangled mess, until the tips touch the floor. She stares at the granite wall, as if mesmerized. She counts: 1, 2, 3, until she reaches 13, and turns around. She is pale with sunken eyes and high cheekbones. There are cracks in her red lips. Upon seeing the crow, she screams and screams and SCREAMS!

Her voice drowns out the “drip, drip, drip” of the leaking faucet in the corner of the room. Her face is contorted in pain. Her eyes reflect the flickering light of the candle that sits on the nightstand. The crow does not flinch, but simply stares back.

The screaming stops as the woman brings her index fingers to her lips and kisses it.

“Shh …,” she whispers, “breathe in, breathe out.” Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls. All over the world, awake or asleep, people are breathing a harmonious song of nature. She spreads out her arms, as if to fly, and twirls around in circles at a steady pace.

“This is our moment, a special moment in time,” she whispers. She throws back her head and cackles, jumps up, and lands sprawled on the floor. She slowly bites her finger until a trickle of blood appears.

“Shh…,” she whispers, gently putting down her bleeding finger on the cold cement. She writes in the flickering candlelight with the crow perched on the windowsill and the moon shining behind. There are no stars tonight, and she is no van Gogh. When her writing stops, she blows out the candle and the crow flies off. What does she write? Nothing, nothing in particular.

Mental Institution
– image taken from Google

The Bad Little Angel

In honor of Halloween, here’s a fun poem.

The Bad Little Angel

Dear Dracula,” wrote the little girl,
More than anything in the world,
I wish to meet you.
You don’t believe me, but it’s true.
The darkness within me
longs for your embrace.
I want to surrender to you,
body and soul.
I want to lose my mind
and lose control.
My heart aches for your touch.
I want to feel the power,
the adrenaline, and the rush.

I want to kiss
your luscious red lips.
I long to touch
your smooth, cold skin.
My body tingles
at your touch,
and I love
that very much.

I am hypnotized and mesmerized
by your fiery, red eyes.
I want to feel
your sharp, canine teeth
pierce through my skin.
I want to feel
the pain and power
from within.
I am thirsty for you unholy blood
being poured into my mouth.
I long to be
in complete ecstasy and oblivion…

The girl looked up, startled,
and said, “Oh, my God.”
For there he was.
“What are you writing?” asked God.
“Nothing,” muttered the girl.
“You better not write anything indecent,
or else you’ll lose your wings,” He warned.
The little angel looked around,
crumpled up the paper
and threw it away.
She started another letter
and wrote, “Dear Lucifer.”

 

Flashes of White

The comet hit the earth,
splintered into a million pieces,
shards of glass, of metal, and of flesh
in the midst of hazy smoke and flames.

A mirage, a hallucination,
it must be LSD,
but it was not;
it was a thousand degree heat.
A massive oven of radiation
burning flesh, melting flesh, like acid
pop, pop, pop.

Flames of madness
running through the street,
limb by limb
flying off
whimpering moans, crumbling walls,
a scream so shrill, it explodes in your ear
and pierces your heart,

a dagger of insanity,
the horror, the horror,
flashes of white
inside and outside your head
as they are thrown on walls,
crushed beneath buildings,
hands grabbing desperately
for you, for help, for life,

forever …
in the midst
of tears, of war, of people
losing lives,
forever

in your heart,
in your memory,
they cry.

Mother’s Children

Through the storm they ran,
slipping and sliding
on the muddy hills.
It was a race home,
to see who could be the first
to receive hot cocoa,
and Mother’s warm embrace.

They longed to see
the flicker of light
in her eyes,
and hear
the soothing music
of her voice
in the comfort
of their home.

Yet the storm raged on,
with strong, heavy rain
that slashed their cheeks,
thunder that cackled
liked monsters,
wind that cried
like banshees,
lightning that blinded
their eyes,
while fear
crossed their hearts.
They may never
see Mother
again.