Rhymes With, Writing

Ode to Boots

Mark Sebastian, Creative Commons

Mark Sebastian, Creative Commons

 

Ode to Boots

My grandma gave me a pair of boots

chosen by herself especially for me.

 

Two durable covers smooth

as saddles.

 

The mustard colored leather

keeps me a firm grip

on the ground.

 

They promise to carry me anywhere.

 

I showcased the gift the way

I imagine Cinderella modeled her

glass slippers.

 

My boots appoint me

a royal adventurist.

 

With wool socks,

my feet become two tough vehicles

 

with the power to bring me to

any destination my heart

so desires.

 

They smell of asphalt and dirt,

of course gravel and dark mulch.

Sweet grass and dust.

 

They have danced down empty

hallways and bustling stairwells.

Kicked dead leaves and hopped puddles.

 

Many steps are left in their lifetime.

All I know is where I have been,

not how far I will go.

 

The path ahead remains a mystery.

 

-Kayla

P.S. Do you have any adventures planned?

 

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Writing

A Paintbrush Is An Ordinary Object

 

For those of you who are unfamiliar with persona poems–as I was a couple of weeks ago– a persona poem is an attempt to tell a story or paint a landscape through the eyes of another person. The poet must lay aside their own biases and even voice in order to effectively do justice to the person they are attempting to essentially be. I chose to write about Mother Teresa to write about because I’ve always admired her ability to see the power in ordinary people doing extra-ordinary things. We can learn a lot from her story.


Mother Teresa

1946

Mother Teresa  1946

The streets of Calcutta perturb me.

Ditches, slums, and waste.

The busyness and disquiet

muffle the sounds of the poor and sick.

I see big dark eyes searching for light in dark alleyways.

The hungry cries of malnourished little ones pierce the air.

The noise reaches deaf ears.

Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely

and the unwanted.

They too, deserve our love.

I received a call from God.

Now I live with the poor, as a ghost, blending perfectly in. Alongside them,

in a position of authority I work like

a servant.

My only adornment is a blue-bordered sari.

Attention is not what I seek.

I consider myself a little pencil in His hand.

I am an artist. Drawing His picture.

I believe in doing small things with great love,

In helping one, rather than none.

Long ago I turned my back to worldly pleasures.

I turn my eyes upward to

my Creator and it was then

that he opened my eyes to what He sees.

The world is my canvas.

Revised on March 13, 2014

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Rhymes With, Writing

Some Days It Rains

IMG_0009

There are days when bus stops are no fun.

But still, you drag yourself  on and on.

Lectures are taught when the sun is  behind shrouds of clouds.

The coffee isn’t strong,

And your tea  is not hot, but nonetheless, you step out the door to whatever lies

Beyond.

Sweaters are too bulky, particularly around the cuff.

Parking lots are still empty,

Some students seem tipsy.

Your brain is still fogged–

It shows right there on your blog.

Words not coherent ‘n’ all that good stuff.

Socks aren’t quite long enough,

and rain-boots too squeaky,

You find yourself thinking of your trip to Waikiki.

It’s the first week of classes, don’t forget your school passes, bus passes, or glasses!

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Writing

Absent From the Replay

The following work is adapted from an in-class essay  I wrote based on The Vacation, a poem written by Wendell Berry.

The Vacation

by Wendell Berry

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
The Vacation, written by Wendell Berry, is an interesting poem. This piece ¬†introduces a whole new perspective about vacations. It is not your typical piece describing warm, sandy beaches and clear blue seas.”Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.” This introductory sentence stands out in a strange way. Most poems don’t start out like a story book. Instead of slowly revealing his purpose, the author lays it all out in the first sentence telling the reader everything he or she needs to know.¬†The main subjects in this poem are the man’s camera and his vacation. This video camera captures the sights he catches glimpses of while on vacation: the river, the trees, the sky, the light, and the bow of his boat. The man was always behind the camera. He was never able to experience his vacation firsthand.
The poem gradually becomes more and more impersonal. The man who filmed his own vacation referred to his vacation as “it,” nine times. He talks as if “it” were someone else’s vacation and he was just an outside viewer with the¬†privilege¬†of a sneak peek.
The man becomes melancholy when he comes to the realization that with a click of a button, his vacation would appear right before his eyes. However, he would forever be absent. Never would he have the privilege of watching himself enjoy his vacation.
In Front of the Lens
I thought this would be appropriate ¬†to post on the #Fourth #of #July<–see what I did there?! Summertime. It’s when so many of us struggle to capture those “perfect” pictures of those “perfect” moments via Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and whatnot. While I have nothing against beautiful pictures and other memorabilia, I do believe that some occasions are meant to savor in the moment. Don’t constantly be “the man who filmed his vacation.” As I sit here writing this, there appeared in the sky, a single floating lantern. Nothing, I repeat NOTHING, dared to perturb its glorious conquest. The floating lantern, resembles enviable boldness and bravery. This majestic vessel leaves in the dust a spray of fireworks, which we often interpret as the bigger and better show. The lantern however, slowly and silently, ¬†swims upstream. Leaving behind the noisy explosions which are soon over in a matter of minutes. For its is quest longer lasting. This thing of beauty is also meant for observation. Undergo a few strokes upstream, and move behind the lens. I understand that this action is a scary one; we live in an age of “follow the leader.” Every one of us wishes to be a leader and not a follower. ¬†Look at the lantern’s example and Don’t be Absent From the Replay!
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