Juniper Tree.
Alone in the desert.
Alone forever.
Strong and steady.
Wind comes often,
Sun comes hard,
Rain comes little.
Yet standing tall,
Bent more beautiful,
By the trials.
Photo Credit: Dave Drost, National Geographic
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/photo-contest/2012/entries/gallery/nature-week-1/#/15
Alone.
In a vast world.
White and blue.
White and blue.
Walking.
Searching.
Walking.
Looking.
Walking
Walking
Walking
For what?
For love?
For hope?
For mere survival?
Photo Credit: Wilfred Berthelsen, National Geographic
http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/photo-contest/2012/entries/gallery/nature-week-2/?source=photomaindl_ngpc2012#/1
The leaves are changing.
The air smells different.
School comes along.
Signs of fall.
Wishing for a never ending summer,
Sitting helplessly,
as time takes it’s course,
changing the scene.
Other scenes are changing,
People are different,
Yet I know not how.
Wishing for never changing friends,
Sitting helplessly,
as time takes it’s course,
changing the scene.
Math.
A right and a wrong.
The answer,
in the back of a textbook.
Two and two
will always be four.
Rules are set,
I know how things go,
but people.
People.
No right, all wrong.
The answers,
nowhere.
This and that
one day equal right,
the next day equal wrong.
People,
no answer at all.
Pointe shoes have almost always been made in exactly the same way. Often, the shoe is assembled inside out, and then turned to the outside. The box of the shoe, around the toe, is created from a paste of starch, among other ingredients. Burlap is layered with the paste to create the hard paste that can support the dancer’s weight. The dancer is standing on her toes, but the box of the shoe spreads the weight away from the tips of the toes and up towards the area near the ball of the foot.
Gaynor Minden’s are, I believe, the only pointe shoes that are made significantly differently from the traditional way. Instead of the paste box, they use something called “elastomerics.” These are much more durable than the traditional shoes, and they never need to be broken in.
Pink satin,
pink ribbon,
pretty and pink.
Holds me
on my toes.
Nothing,
Nothing but
the tips of my toes
and the shoe.
A pink satin shoe,
holding me,
on the tips of my toes.
In the past, I have hated having to write poetry. We had to write things that were supposed to be exactly like an example, except about a different subject. It had exactly the wrong kind of freedom. Any subject, but one sort of writing. I always wrote them, and they turned out fine, but I absolutely hated it.
I never really tried writing poetry that was mine and I wanted to write until I wrote the one about sailing. Now, although I’m not any good, I enjoyed writing these poems. I think I like poetry now because it really doesn’t have any rules. Ideas can be explained so much more easily without the restraints of grammar. I also want to let it be known that it took some daring to write and share these.
Waiting backstage,
Watching for the cues,
Listening to the music,
Holding my breath,
Ready to soar,
Across the stage.
There I go,
I leap,
Flying for my moment.
Right now, I just finished Prelude by Madeleine L’Engle. I loved it. I believe that it is also the first part of The Small Rain, so I’m going to read that next.
Five nouns about Prelude:
music
love
loss
recovery
death
Five adjectives about Prelude:
sorrowful
lonely
beautiful
hurt
loving
I feel the wind on my face and say,
A beautiful day for a sail.
Such a beautiful wind.
Pulling the sail up, up, up,
Catching the beautiful wind.
Hair blown back,
Into my face, then away once more.
Such a beautiful wind.
Leaning away from the sail,
Halyard firm in my left hand,
Rudder clutched in my right.
Flying across the lake,
Houses and beaches and playing children growing nearer,
Am I too close?
Ah, it would be a pity to come about with
Such a beautiful wind.
Closer and closer I come.
Gaining some speed,
wind on my face,
I shove the rudder away,
turning into the wind.
The sail comes over my head,
and I’m facing to the opposite way.
I have what I need to come about well,
but I yet get stuck in the mud.
Speed, wind, and a correct turn,
but I’m far too close to the shore.
I hear a clap and I see the daggerboard shoot up.
Behind me is a trail of dust in the water.
Yet around me,
the water is clear.
Ten inches below the surface,
I see the bristly weeds.
I knew the sandbar was there,
but yet the boat is stuck.
I feel the wind in my face,
My hair blown back,
The sail is caught by
Such a beautiful wind.
It does me no good.
I go nowhere.
It feels as if I’m moving, but
There’s nothing I can do,
but get out and pull.
I’m wet up past my waist,
and still it won’t move.
Am I stuck here for good?
My feet are covered with mud,
pricked by rocks,
scraped by weeds.
Silt is stuck on my feet,
I swish them in the nice cool water,
and they think about coming clean.
I look at my feet,
and am happy to see,
nothing pierced through the skin.
I see children laughing and playing,
and laughing at me.
Nay, maybe at their own little game,
but why not at me?
Yet there’s nowhere I can go.
I’ve got it! I think,
yet again, I can’t move.
Three times I get out of the boat and push,
not one is successful.
Then, then!
I catch
Such a beautiful wind.
Again I’m flying across the waves,
water lapping at the sides,
splashing me,
as I slice through the water.
I feel water swishing beneath the boat,
The swells of the water lift me up,
and drop me down again with the waves.
Flying across the lake,
I fly away from the laughing children.
Freedom with
Such a beautiful wind.
Wind in my face and hair,
Flying once again.
Tragically, it was not to be,
Perhaps I caught too much wind,
Perhaps the boat was too old,
The sail comes crashing down
Down from the mast.
I see it falling and reach
Reach, but it lands in the water.
I gather the now damp sail into the boat,
The boat that can no longer sail.
Nothing I can do, I think.
Nothing to be done, I believe.
Yet waves and wind toss the boat around,
And now I’ve lost control.
All I can do is float around.
Tormented by
Such a beautiful wind.
I see a dock looming nearer
Nearer and nearer.
Then I hit it.
With a jerk, I stop.
I grab hold of the dock,
and carefully climb from the deck of the boat,
to the wood of the dock.
My feet planted firmly on the boat,
I look at the rigging to find out what’s wrong.
Relief washes over me as I see,
all that’s wrong is so easy to fix.
Clicking two pieces together,
I’m confident I will be home soon.
I pull the sail up, and tie it tight,
but then climbing in,
I realize I didn’t pull enough.
Finally it reaches the top of the mast,
then I can fly away,
If ropes weren’t caught on the dock.
Finally freed,
No, I’m sent backward again.
The boat is yet out of control.
I weave through a dock, ski dock and parked jet skis,
hoping nothing will lead to disaster.
Then, then!
I catch
Such a beautiful wind.
Again I’m flying across the waves,
water lapping at the sides,
splashing me,
as I slice through the water.
I feel water swishing beneath the boat,
The swells of the water lift me up,
and drop me down again with the waves.
Flying across the lake,
I fly away from the obstacles.
The wind whispers a promise,
The boat may be gliding,
Am I flying?
Flying away?
I’m free of the dock,
Now I’m sailing away.
Wind all around.
Such a beautiful wind.
Wind in my face and hair,
Flying once again.
Sailing, Dancing, Writing 