Falling

The sun glowed behind the silver clouds
A light breeze swirled tiny crystalline flakes in little tizzies.

The goal was simple: getting comfortable.
I wanted to change into jeans before Sunday lunch.
The only difficulty: reaching the front door.
Steep, narrow stairs waited to trip and break me.
They succeeded and my world went spinning
As I skidded headfirst
With knees and shins bouncing off the concrete.

I slid to a crunching halt.
My large handbag protected my ribs
But my wrist and legs had hit every step.
My knees stung with dirt
My right hand would not move
My brain throbbed to my rapid pulse
And my voice was hiding.

Could I say anything?
My mouth tried and failed but
‘Help!’ would not come out.
All I could manage was a whimper

A leaden gloom suffused the sky
And a chill wind whipped the snow around in circles.

Homework on a Thursday Night

A mountain looms and threatens to bury
The coffee table that serves as my desk
Under enough homework to make me want
To pull out all my hair, a thing more lousy
Than getting bitten by the ancient Basilisk,
That serpent slain by warriors gallant.

My Latin book lies on the cluttered floor
Surrounded by my Lordship Calvin notes
And paper research books are cuddled with
My mathematics books and notes galore
That wait for me to learn their lines by rote
While I attempt to craft words like a smith.

Fairy Historians

I wrote a Shakespearean sonnet, but it had some problems. I let is sit for a while and then went back for revisions. Here is the side-by-side comparison of the new and then the old. Anything in italics is a change. I'll be using the new (first) version for Declamation.

Fairy Historians
I’ve never read a book that could surpass
The elven histories that have been told
By those historians who, with raised glass,
Pay homage to the troubadours of old.
I’ve never seen a film that could retell
In grandeur satisfactory the tale
Of Quasimodo and his ancient bell,
Or show the beauty of old Durin's dale.
I’ve never heard a song that could declare
Through all creation God’s fantastic works
Than Rimsky’s joyful Easter overture
With all its idiosyncratic quirks.
The likenesses of this grand, fallen world
Are sung by fairies who through Earth have twirled.

Creation's Troubadour
I never read a book that could surpass
The elven histories that have been told
By those historians who, in the grass,
Pay homage to the troubadours of old.
I never saw a film that could retell
In grandeur satisfactory the tale
Of Quasimodo and his glorious bell,
Or show the beauty of old Durin's dale.
I never heard a song that could impart
To all creation God's most wond'rous love
More fully than the highest French Horn part
that soars in celebration of each cove.
Creation is its own inspired Bard
More lovely, poignant than a greeting card.

Gathering Stars

In Cabresto Canyon all was quiet and dark except for the last sliver of Moon winking at the Sun. The breeze skipped across the forest floor bringing the tingly, earthy scent of pine needles to the star-watchers. It then left the floor to dance in the heights imitating rain in the aspen leaves. I layed on the half-rotted deck, ancient, rusty nails prodded my back and legs whenever I moved. While Mrs. Anderson on one side and Chloe on the other pointed to the different constellations, Mama and I watched as the older stars crept nearer as newer ones appeared behind. I felt like the stars were so close that I could reach up and gather them into my pocket. As the breeze left for greater and higher games I watched puffs of steam rise across the deck from every frozen nose.

In Cabresto Canyon all was quiet and dark while nine cold and tired people dragged themselves inside to curl up by the fire and toast s’mores.

Creation's Troubadour

One of our rhetoric assignments is to write an English or Shakespearean Sonnet. Fourteen lines of iambic pentameter, three quatrains and one couplet. The rhyme pattern is abab, cdcd, efef, gg. This is the first poem I have ever written and I'm rather excited with how it turned out.

I never read a book that could surpass
The elven histories that have been told
By those historians who, in the grass,
Pay homage to the troubadours of old.
I never saw a film that could retell
In grandeur satisfactory the tale
Of Quasimodo and his glorious bell,
Or show the beauty of old Durin's dale.
I never heard a song that could impart
To all creation God's most wond'rous love
More fully than the highest French Horn part
that soars in celebration of each cove.
Creation is its own inspired Bard
More lovely, poignant than a greeting card.

The Monster Food

Hearken to my tale and heed my warnings for there may come a time when you will be called upon to defend your family from monsters. This monster does not live in a closet or under the bed; it makes its home in the kitchen. It sits in the oven or refrigerator waiting for some unsuspecting victim to become curious enough to pull it from its hiding place. Tomatoes, zucchinis, breadcrumbs, and cheese make the substance of this hideous casserole. The tomatoes are sliced thickly so there is no chance of avoiding them and even the tiniest bits squirt hot juice down your throat when bitten into. The zucchinis are not much better. They have been cut into fat rounds that soak up the tomato juice and the cooking oil and transform those into a slime that they use as their only defense mechanism by coating your tongue and throat as they slip and slide around your mouth and down your throat. The breadcrumbs are the vilest members of this noisome dish. Spread thoroughly across the top they get the full brunt of the oven’s heat which transforms the finest crumb into a piece of sand-like grit that etches its existence on unsuspecting teeth. The cheese lies limply across the vegetables, it has no more ambition to make things taste good than the sloth has to work.

Beware the monster casserole that waits within your ‘fridge. Siren-like it will seduce you with bewitching scents but it will destroy your will to try new foods forever.