Poetry (thank God, finally)

OK. Well, I've had some trouble with poetry this past two weeks or so. That sounds lame, I know. "Oh, two weeks of writer's block? Whatever, you're overreacting." I don't know if I'm overreacting but I've never gone this long without writing a poem. I mean, I've gone this long without attempting to write a poem, but this time I have attempted and failed.

A few friends, on blogs and off blogs, have given me encouragement and advice and I have to thank all of them: Thank you!!

I know a few posts down that there are poems. None of them are new. They are all poems that I wrote a while ago. Recently I've been lacking in inspiration. But I've found some - lacking inspiration has become my inspiration.

But enough of my rambling. Here's what I wrote.
Oh, um, don't be confused by the blue giraffe reference. When I started to write this, I had just given up on a poem about a blue giraffe. It - it wasn't my idea...

The name is rather odd, but that's the first thing I wrote for the poem and I didn't want to change it.

Alright, now enough of my rambling.

A Poem that I can’t write

I can’t write this poem

I just know it won’t work

I wanted to write an abcb

Except nothing rhymes but ‘clerk’

This is the second verse

of a poem that doesn’t exist

and to find a rhyme with the word above

I had to look at a list

There’s a dictionary on the web

for people who can’t rhyme

It’s like a digital clock

for those who can’t tell time

Three verses already

yet I haven’t written a thing

If poetry brings happiness

what will these words bring?

Confusion, I daresay

for the people who came to read

a poem about a blue giraffe

but instead they found this creed

An ode, of a sort,

to all those poets out there

who have put down their pen

and simply ceased to care

When the ‘Grey Months’ creep along

some give up their words

yet to leave behind your poetry

is to speak but not be heard

So pick up your pen,

all you people like me,

who suffer from writer’s block

Let your words be free!

Well, it seems I wrote a poem.

I’ve been trying to all week.

All I needed was a little help –

a reminder, so to speak.

Some helpful hints from different people,

yet they all reached the same end

and now I know that when in need,

simply look to a friend.

Lessons With Angels: Part 1

Lessons with Angels

The town where I live is full of mystery. People claim that amazing things happen in it. Me? Well, I was never a believer. Of course, I never believed a lot of things that I do now.

Last summer, my life took a sharp turn. In a lot of ways it was for the worse. In others, it may have been good - I'm not sure yet. But I do know that I will never be the same.

Some of you reading this may recognize what I’ve been through. I don’t really know. Am I the only person that this has ever happened to? Maybe. Is it likely? No.

I’m betting that quite a few people have had experiences like mine. They just aren’t willing to admit it.

If you have no clue what I’m talking about, have fun reading. Read it like it’s a great fiction story. To you, it is.

But if you’re one of those people who know what I’m talking about, well, I’d advise you to do what you’ve probably been doing for a while – keeping quiet about it. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that telling the truth can be dangerous.

A gentle tug on my sleeve pulled me out of my trance. I looked down to see my little sister, Gabrielle, her pale blue eyes wide. Her blonde hair fell in cascading ringlets down her back. One curl in back was tucked under the collar of her black velvet dress. I reached down and tugged it out. “Yes, Gabby?” I asked quietly.

“When are we going to get to leave?”

I looked at her, stricken by the way she barely even knew what we were here for. “Not until we bury Mommy.”

Her round face stared up at mine. “Why are we burying Mommy?” she asked, looking confused. “Mommy wouldn’t like to be buried. She doesn’t like dirt.”

I laughed, but it came out as half a sob. “Mommy doesn’t care anymore,” I said.

“But Mommy doesn’t like dirt, Lexi.”

The tears were back, hot in my eyes. I squeezed my eyelids down, trying to hold them in. “Gabby, none of that matters anymore.”

“Why?”

I knelt down, so my face was equal with my sister’s. “Mommy’s gone, Gabrielle.”

Gabby shook her head. “Mommy isn’t gone.”

I sighed. “Mommy died, honey. She crashed in the car. She’s dead, Gabby. She’s dead and she’s not coming back.” The tears started to roll down my face, burning wet tracks across my cheeks. Gabby put her arms around my shoulder and hugged me.

“Mommy is dead, Lexi,” she said quietly in my ear. “But she isn’t gone.”

I pulled back from her, stunned out of my tears. “What do you mean, Gabby?”

She looked away, and pointed to the priest. “I think he’s starting.” But I didn’t look at him. All I could do was stare at my sister… Mommy is dead, Lexi. But she isn’t gone.

After the funeral, the ride home was as silent as death – appropriate, considering our circumstances.

Uncle Benjamin drove us home. He’s our dad’s brother. Our dad stayed at the graveyard. He hadn’t cried yet, but he looked pale and shaky like he was about to bowl over any second.

Gabby still wouldn’t explain to me what she had meant. Maybe she was just being a weird little kid. But she had sounded so sure of herself when she’d said that… I glanced over at her, where she sat with a cheek resting on her fist, staring out at the cloudy sky. Her blue eyes looked like orbs, huge and shiny – like they could see everything. She had not cried during the funeral. She just stared off into the distance, looking fixated on a nearby tree. I don’t know why – maybe she didn’t want to believe Mom was actually dead.

Ben pulled up at our house – it loomed cold and unfriendly above us. We got out, and Gabby hurried over to my side. She took my hand and put the thumb of her other in her mouth. I sighed and we walked up the steps. Ben followed. As I took my key out of my pocket, my uncle put a hand on my shoulder. He looked worried. “Are you going to be okay, Lex?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. “We’ll be fine.”

I walked in the door, letting Gabby go in before me, and closed it, leaving my anxious uncle on the doorstep. Gabby climbed into the window seat near the door to watch him go. A little figurine was on the sill in front of her.

“Watch out for the statue, Gabby,” I warned.

She looked down and saw it. She picked it up, turning it around in her chubby little fingers. Then she held it up for me to see. “Look, Lexi,” she said.

I looked at it. “Yeah, I know, we’ve had that forever.”

“No, look closer. It looks like Mommy.”

"Gabby, it's just a statue. It's not of Mommy."

"But it changed, Lexi. Mommy changed it to look like her so we would never forget."

That was it. I snatched the figurine from her fingers and slammed it back onto the sill. Then I took Gabby and lifted her from the seat. “Gabby, I don’t know what you’re trying to do. Are you trying to creep me out? Or are you just really confused? Mommy is dead, Gabby. She is never coming back.”

The Forever Song

Hi, it's me Ruby! (no duh!)
This is a short poem I found recently, that I wrote in seventh grade when my friend and I did a report on blindness. I wrote a few poems about it, but this is really the only one that turned up readable. 

The Forever Song

Silent nights of darkness

coming into light.

Larks and cranes look up

and enter into flight.

Why is life so beautiful

if you can never see?

You rely on sounds of things,

your only eyes are me.

You’re brave, you know,

the way you hold your cane

as if it were a sword,

and not your lifelong bane.

I remember all those years ago,

when you and I were young.

You never got sad like me.

It’s a happy song you sung.

And today, within you,

it’s still there as ever.

You hum it in your throat.

You’ll sing that song forever.

Forgetting

Alzheimer's Disease (a type of dementia) is something a lot of elderly people have to deal with, and it affects their friends and family. Here's a poem I wrote. I've never personally experienced anyone with a bad case of Alzheimer's, but I know someone who has. It's a tough thing to go through, especially when you know the person well.

Memories escape you.

Words puzzle you.

Faces seem to fade.

You try to speak – words are empty.

You try to remember – nothing comes.

You try to sleep – darkness haunts you.

What’s in a name?

Everything, then.

But nothing now.

What’s in the darkness?

Your future.

When people come and go, you try.

Really try.

But you don’t recognize a single one.

Even the one who said she came yesterday.

Yesterday.


Yesterday is gone. Today is going. Tomorrow is your only hope.

House of Reflections

Here's a story I wrote... well, I wrote it a while ago. I'm not so sure when. It borders on the fantasy-like. It's really strange. I was planning on following it up with another short story, but I don't know how to start the second one. Here it is:

The House of Reflections

The bright eyes peered out of the closet, staring at Sarah as she stared back. She’d known it was in there. She’d known for a few weeks. What she didn’t know was what it wanted. It might be there for the same reason that its brother had come a month or so before. Maybe it wanted something. Maybe it just wanted to watch.

Whatever it wanted, it was there. It wasn’t going away, and it wasn’t going to come out any time soon without Sarah’s help.

She sighed and got up from the bed. The closet door slammed shut. Sarah wasn’t heading towards the closet, though. She went to her dresser, and opened the top drawer. She drew out the item on the far left, where she always left it, and began to unwrap the soft square of silk that surrounded it. When she had, she placed it on the floor in front of the closet and drew back.

Her closet door did not open. The thin silver spoon still lay on the floor where she had put it. Nothing moved, except the curtains as a warm and quiet breeze fluttered through, bringing a sweet perfume into her room.

She had hoped it would come. She had hoped that the spoon, polished carefully early that morning, would draw it out. It was shiny enough – she could see her reflection in it. What else did she need?

Sarah walked to her mother’s room and came back, carrying an ornate hand-mirror that her grandmother had once owned.

She placed that next to the spoon and stepped back once more.

The sun’s reflection in the two objects shown on her ceiling. She didn’t have anything shinier to give. It would come out now or never.

Slowly, as the old metal hinges squeaked in protest, the closet door opened. It was like watching spring come over winter – so slow you wanted to scream, but still beautiful.

It crept closer to the spoon, then saw the mirror and jumped upon that. Sarah stood, amazed, as it sat upon the mirror, probably admiring its appearance.

Yes, this is what it had come for. Sarah knew it had liked her house – conveniently placed next to the forest, quaint, small, yet gorgeous. Of course it had liked her house. They always did.

Then it zoomed away, and out the window into the sunny afternoon, leaving nothing but ten tiny fingerprints on her spoon and a sprinkle of golden dust upon her mirror.

It may have left, but they would be back soon. Fairies could never resist their own reflections.

First Post

Huh. This is really weird. A blog - my own blog. Sure, I've written things before, but never a blog.

I should probably start by introducing myself. I am Rubescent Sunshine - rubescent meaning reddening. I suppose it sounds better than "Blushing Sunshine," right? I chose the name because sunsets have always been dear to my heart. It's that time right before the dark comes, yet after the day has ended, when everything gets still and quiet and you can just see nature at its finest.

I am a young writer. I'll be posting some stories on here, whether they be chapters or short stories, or maybe even poems. For me, this is a creative outlet. For you readers, maybe you just want to read another young writer's works, compare what you are writing to what I am. Maybe you are an experienced writer, and want to laugh at what I write. Haha... go ahead. If you do, though... mind giving me some pointers?

Thank you to whoever is reading this. Creative outlets are hard to find out there. I hope this blog can be one spot for young writers like me to come and to read, or write, or just kind of talk with other inexperienced writers like me.