God is Green
That pew felt right-
comfortable-
the harsh, upright wood resisted
my disjointed curved back-
but that's right.
-reminiscent of an ugly orange
that was splattered against other pews-
other lectures-
I remember little me-
the tiny cabin that's been so cleverly tucked
behind a playground-
the street that grew narrow, curved and died-
and the dirt and world that met its end-
Shel Silverstein understood this-
then there were the steps and the largest clovers
I've ever seen-as though they took a bread
and grew into a Wonderland
-people move seamlessly here,
as a royal fabric-deep byzantium-
and voices trickle in-
skipping, dancing, bouncing-
off walls, each other, seamlessly.
If we are created in the image of a Creator,
Then I at least find myself in the element when creating
-and ants crawl over me as my body stills
like one stream of color in a plaid storybook-
other ants have tracked my pensivity...
and verde! Verily, veriteserum-
green is life and life is unable to lie-
verde, truth, God
Words
They were the red pencil sketch on my calf-
the leaking ink-the Hancock on the signature line
the individual pixels-
the primary colors-secondary-tertiary-
the fairy in a bottle-the antidote in a syringe-
(or a poison)-a leaf: grow-burst-fade-fall-decay
a lightning bug: sparking-moving-shadowing-ghost
a lum: find it-absorb it-catch 'em all-sideline some
It's faith that they mean what they mean-
that they cannot be stripped of their identity-
that it's more than a formulated glob of lines, sound-waves-
that we don't make it what it is, they what they are-
It's faith that we can let go and not know.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Look what I found:
once upon a time
i told the world to make up its mind
i was confused by its lies
i was tired of having to hide
i hid the blade under my bed
i hid the food in the garbage
i hid the matches in my drawer
i hid my Bible out of my sight
i hid my family behind my bedroom door
then i locked everything
i was set for an ending
didn’t expect a beginning
I was going through my writing to find the good stuff to take to this Californian writing conference. Then I stumbled upon this!
Can't for the life of me tell you when I wrote it. But it is just fascinating to see where I've come from that point.
This had to be written sometime my senior year... when all of that was still poignantly fresh.
Anyways. It's funny how many beginnings we get in life. I think I'm in one right now.
:)
Peace up and out,
Amanda MfreakingE
i told the world to make up its mind
i was confused by its lies
i was tired of having to hide
i hid the blade under my bed
i hid the food in the garbage
i hid the matches in my drawer
i hid my Bible out of my sight
i hid my family behind my bedroom door
then i locked everything
i was set for an ending
didn’t expect a beginning
I was going through my writing to find the good stuff to take to this Californian writing conference. Then I stumbled upon this!
Can't for the life of me tell you when I wrote it. But it is just fascinating to see where I've come from that point.
This had to be written sometime my senior year... when all of that was still poignantly fresh.
Anyways. It's funny how many beginnings we get in life. I think I'm in one right now.
:)
Peace up and out,
Amanda MfreakingE
Monday, March 22, 2010
Cigarette Field: A rant
Cigarettes litter these streets like grass and trash,
Dutch Pall Mall and Marlboro Lights.
Tobacco that fills the manufactured air-
wafting through my window.
Second-hand smoke-
as if I had a choice not to be addicted-
Walls that smell like shit-
and why not? We're all
human.
Born out of filth, into filth.
Pick up once in a while,
Or I'll Febreze you-douse the world in
perfume.
Is that a bin?
Oh, no, that's just my doorway.
Please. Leave your addiction.
Smoking like there's no personal control-
Forced, like a whale that spouts smoke.
(and to think-
this city could have been beautiful.)
Dutch Pall Mall and Marlboro Lights.
Tobacco that fills the manufactured air-
wafting through my window.
Second-hand smoke-
as if I had a choice not to be addicted-
Walls that smell like shit-
and why not? We're all
human.
Born out of filth, into filth.
Pick up once in a while,
Or I'll Febreze you-douse the world in
perfume.
Is that a bin?
Oh, no, that's just my doorway.
Please. Leave your addiction.
Smoking like there's no personal control-
Forced, like a whale that spouts smoke.
(and to think-
this city could have been beautiful.)
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Hollywood makes me evaluate my life
Once, there was a writer. She did typical writer things: pondered, daydreamed, felt, gave, took, drained, hurt, loved, and was always stuck being 100%.
She was a writer. But she loved music.
If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.
The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.
She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.
And she could write and write, forever.
And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.
But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.
But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.
So far gone.
She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.
If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.
She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.
She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.
So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.
Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.
And she would crush, because that's familiar.
They got her; knew her; understood her.
Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.
They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.
And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.
She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.
The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-
Realizing that they need melody to be complete.
And really, the melody needs them, too.
The melody needed her.
She was a writer. But she loved music.
If she were a pot of boiling water and noodles, then music would be the burner. If she were a dog, then music would be the car ride. If she were a parking meter, then music would be the coin. If she were a narcissist, then music would be the mirror.
The point is this: she lived in music, for music. But she was a writer.
She could only do one half of the music: the lyrics.
And she could write and write, forever.
And try to write melodies, and try to harmonize.
But couldn't escape that she was only really good at lyrics.
But, oh, how in love she was with the melody.
So far gone.
She romanticized it; crushed on it; daydreamed about it.
If melody was a black hole, then she was lost inside, furiously writing.
She was intimidated, transported back into childhood.
She was an awkward kid again; insecure; the naked dream.
So she kept quiet, and held back: awkward.
Every once in a while, she would meet other lyrics; writers.
And she would crush, because that's familiar.
They got her; knew her; understood her.
Somehow, she'd let herself fall for those other lyrics.
They'd talk over each other, overlap, and mean nothing.
And she'd remember how she dreampt of the melody, how she actually needed the melody.
She'd think of treble clef signs and stretch her fingers.
The lyrics would part ways, to achieve meaning-
Realizing that they need melody to be complete.
And really, the melody needs them, too.
The melody needed her.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Staring Contest with my Coffee
Little flecks pop up and under-
Like sloppy penguins.
My brain is leaking out, mingling with
the warm depths
and the rim that's been dyed musty
brown.
Sucks my face in and my brown eyes
match it's cream-
oh, escape.
Plopping neurons in like the floater grounds-
wonder:
what's wrong with my machine (it's obnoxiously orange)
I don't think these mugs are ever clean-
faint, caffeinated smell-
permeating the plastic-glass-porcelain-
substance.
My olfaction is calm-
in familiar proximity to my insanity-
Plain, plain, plain-
almost meaty, like life-
Vitamin D milk, sucrose-
that's first, like a stratum of rock-the flood-dissolving the world
(or maybe just sugar)
and then comes the black, melted shingles-
and morphs: light, medium, perfection.
I wait, I sip, I burn.
but, my tongue will regenerate-
the taste buds will be replaced-
It's all good.
Like sloppy penguins.
My brain is leaking out, mingling with
the warm depths
and the rim that's been dyed musty
brown.
Sucks my face in and my brown eyes
match it's cream-
oh, escape.
Plopping neurons in like the floater grounds-
wonder:
what's wrong with my machine (it's obnoxiously orange)
I don't think these mugs are ever clean-
faint, caffeinated smell-
permeating the plastic-glass-porcelain-
substance.
My olfaction is calm-
in familiar proximity to my insanity-
Plain, plain, plain-
almost meaty, like life-
Vitamin D milk, sucrose-
that's first, like a stratum of rock-the flood-dissolving the world
(or maybe just sugar)
and then comes the black, melted shingles-
and morphs: light, medium, perfection.
I wait, I sip, I burn.
but, my tongue will regenerate-
the taste buds will be replaced-
It's all good.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I was walking home from small group an hour ago. I was in a spring peace mode, breathing in the sensation of the night air against my skin: smiling, relaxed. There was an old man standing outside Chipotle, waving at everyone. Just waving, smiling. He kept waving at me, sweetly excited, with this quirky hat on his white head. "You look relaxed!" So, I stopped and talked to him. Just for a minute or two. He said he had jokes in some newspapers and told me one.. It went to the effect of this:
"What did the grass say to the football team?" "If you cut us we'll root for you!"
I really don't remember it. That was just the gist.
And then he started waving again, so I laughed and said thank-you.
It was so simplistic and sweet. I walked away with a glorious smile on my face, thinking about him. But then I started wondering how many people had ignored him, or walked away without treating him like a human being, or even treated him like he wasn't worth anything. Then it was one of those awkward smiling, but I'm kind of crying at the same time things.
Just wanted to write about it.
Peace,
Amanda
"What did the grass say to the football team?" "If you cut us we'll root for you!"
I really don't remember it. That was just the gist.
And then he started waving again, so I laughed and said thank-you.
It was so simplistic and sweet. I walked away with a glorious smile on my face, thinking about him. But then I started wondering how many people had ignored him, or walked away without treating him like a human being, or even treated him like he wasn't worth anything. Then it was one of those awkward smiling, but I'm kind of crying at the same time things.
Just wanted to write about it.
Peace,
Amanda
Monday, March 8, 2010
Catching On
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to be a little bit funny
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to get a half-forced laugh
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to be a little bit familiar
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to get a half-drunk friend
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
I know we are best as friends
You say you're here til the end
They say we are just a trend
You and I hate cultural conformity
You and I are naturally abnormally
They say we are just a phase
When fall comes around, will you still be in style?
When spring gets here, will I still be worth your while?
Just the lyrics to a song I wrote. Yeah, it's pretty silly. No, it's not about anyone I've met yet.
Peace,
Amanda
Okay, I just wrote this too. Yes, this is cheesy. And yes, it is about someone.
I'd kinda like to think
that it was me you were looking at
Maybe it's naive
to think that you've fallen for me
Is it narcissistic
to hope that you think about me?
Maybe it's naive
to believe in organic chemistry
Love could be like monopoly
(I definitely am in jail a lot)
You're Boardwalk, but I've passed through to go
200 dollars richer, but my heart's a little poorer
Love could be like Hungry Hippos
{My heart's definitely growling)
The big addicts, snatching up the unexpected
Hungry for anything, but spitting most back out
Love could be like solitaire
(I'm definitely flyin' solo)
Strategically placing self in the right spot
Hoping the next card brings possibility
Maybe love isn't a game
Maybe cliche's should be done with
Maybe love is an abstraction
But, if so, sign me up, Malevich.
Okay, enough with the cheese already.
Goodnight.
just to be a little bit funny
Some folks have to tell jokes
just to get a half-forced laugh
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to be a little bit familiar
Some peeps have to be creeps
just to get a half-drunk friend
but you and I are inanely, hilarious
you and I are plainly, mysterious
With a little bit of wit, and a dash of stupidity
Just a little bit smitten, with a dash of ingenuity
I know we are best as friends
You say you're here til the end
They say we are just a trend
You and I hate cultural conformity
You and I are naturally abnormally
They say we are just a phase
When fall comes around, will you still be in style?
When spring gets here, will I still be worth your while?
Just the lyrics to a song I wrote. Yeah, it's pretty silly. No, it's not about anyone I've met yet.
Peace,
Amanda
Okay, I just wrote this too. Yes, this is cheesy. And yes, it is about someone.
I'd kinda like to think
that it was me you were looking at
Maybe it's naive
to think that you've fallen for me
Is it narcissistic
to hope that you think about me?
Maybe it's naive
to believe in organic chemistry
Love could be like monopoly
(I definitely am in jail a lot)
You're Boardwalk, but I've passed through to go
200 dollars richer, but my heart's a little poorer
Love could be like Hungry Hippos
{My heart's definitely growling)
The big addicts, snatching up the unexpected
Hungry for anything, but spitting most back out
Love could be like solitaire
(I'm definitely flyin' solo)
Strategically placing self in the right spot
Hoping the next card brings possibility
Maybe love isn't a game
Maybe cliche's should be done with
Maybe love is an abstraction
But, if so, sign me up, Malevich.
Okay, enough with the cheese already.
Goodnight.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
40 days fast from boys
My weak heart floats
pushing against the taut cartilage
I swore I'd pray-
dreaming, not life-
I'm free. I'm chained.
That imagined pulse haunts me
as the thought of God, the image of empty
painted onto eyelids. I blink
my mind-a thought gets him in.
I say "Get out"-It's stuck-
the soapy, helium-filled bubbles-
stuck, filling up my trachea-
so, dislodging my heart.
Not sure how many people I've told about this, but basically I've been fasting from romance for Lent. I am one of those unfortunates who is so caught up in the idea of romance and love, that I dedicate way too much time thinking about it. So, I thought that for Lent I would give all of that up-thinking about romance, about falling in love, about some random guy. It's been difficult as anything, but worth it. It's caused me to think of God a lot in every day moments. (which was the plan-replace every romantic thought with thoughts of the Greatest Romance)
So, yeah. This just captures the struggle. It was a poetry assignment for 101-Modeled after "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa. It was an extremely difficult thing to do... I literally had to place my words into the original.
So, that is all.
Peace up, out, within,
Amanda
pushing against the taut cartilage
I swore I'd pray-
dreaming, not life-
I'm free. I'm chained.
That imagined pulse haunts me
as the thought of God, the image of empty
painted onto eyelids. I blink
my mind-a thought gets him in.
I say "Get out"-It's stuck-
the soapy, helium-filled bubbles-
stuck, filling up my trachea-
so, dislodging my heart.
Not sure how many people I've told about this, but basically I've been fasting from romance for Lent. I am one of those unfortunates who is so caught up in the idea of romance and love, that I dedicate way too much time thinking about it. So, I thought that for Lent I would give all of that up-thinking about romance, about falling in love, about some random guy. It's been difficult as anything, but worth it. It's caused me to think of God a lot in every day moments. (which was the plan-replace every romantic thought with thoughts of the Greatest Romance)
So, yeah. This just captures the struggle. It was a poetry assignment for 101-Modeled after "Facing It," by Yusef Komunyakaa. It was an extremely difficult thing to do... I literally had to place my words into the original.
So, that is all.
Peace up, out, within,
Amanda
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