A Trace of Joy

Yesterday in my British Literature class, our professor had us write poems modeled after some of the modernist poets we read. This poem is loosely based on “Valentine” by Carol Ann Duffy. I wrote it on the fly with no revisions and I appreciate that unapologetic way of writing. Maybe it’s flawed, maybe the word choice could be improved, but it’s bold in its imperfections.

 

Not a giggle or a hug.

 

I give you a scraped knee.

Scab oozing over in blood

It echoes contentment

Like happy toes squirming through mud.

 

Here.

It will leave a foul stench,

But one that whispers

Like a butterfly wing

Of rapidly beating hearts

Playing make-believe.

 

I want you to remember the truth.

 

Not neat pews at church,

But raucous, rowdy adventures.

 

I give you a scraped knee

To soften your heart

That has confined itself

To cubicles

And tax forms.

 

Take it.

Feel the rough edges on your

Weathered, weary hands.

Find joy in simplicity again.

~Annah

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Tap-Dancing Veins

I wish you could see what I can. The pure yellow radiance of the tree. Its feathery, silky leaves tap-dance in the wind, illuminating the bright depths of its being. Apparently the leaves are passing away, but they have never shown so brightly throughout their numbered days until now, and it’s simply heart-stopping. It just is what it is without trying. Our friend Mr. Sun is only emphasizing what we already know to be true—joy and expectancy sit among the branches. This tree knows where it’s going, without knowing where each individual leaf will fall, yet the appendages tango together happily. It dances in the face of uncertainty. The branches breathe in, breathe out, sway up, sway down. They flutter, fly, and abide. As the sun looks on, the tree sits and waits, leaves steadily twirling to the floor. Eventually it will face a period of death, where the sun may seem to disappear from the tree’s presence maybe days, maybe weeks at a time. But the tree remains tall, adamant, and immovable in the face of its inevitable demise. It knows more than the leaves do—that some day soon more buds will grow, more leaves will bloom, and the yellow still courses within its veins. 

~Annah

Concert Chatter

It’s creative writing week, yay! This memoir was based off a dialogue prompt that asked us to write a couple pages of dialogue between a group of people, which also reveals bits of their character along the way. To enhance the memoir, I’ve included a picture from the evening!  Here’s to memorable sibling moments. Hopefully they don’t hate me after this, I hear that’s what happens when you write about family…

 

“Cassidy, you know how to hook up the Bluetooth, right?” Dilyn extended the phone cord in Cassidy’s direction from where she sat behind the steering wheel, not moving her eyes from the winding country road.

“Of course, I’m an engineer.”

“Play some Twenty One Pilots!” I insisted, as she grabbed the cord and started monkeying around with her Android.

“…And Mutemath.” Hitting the road for a concert means you listen to the bands’ music. “Do we have all the tickets?”

“Right here, Dil.” Charley held a stack of papers in his hand. Tyler Joseph’s voice began drifting steadily louder out of the speakers, singing the words to “House of Gold.”

“YES!” Dilyn and Cassidy high-fived.

I snorted unnecessarily. “Can I have mine now, Charley? Where are we sitting? How many rows from the front?” With a lunge, I grabbed a ticket from his hand and stared intently at the row and seat numbers in the top right-hand corner.

“Want to play MASH?” Cassidy leafed through a notebook. I grinned.

“Sure! Well, I have to pick Josh Dun since he’s in Twenty One Pilots… and then Niall Horan because he’s forever my one and only…”

“Eric’s still bitter he wasn’t invited to the sibling concert.” Dilyn looked at Charley. “He’s your sibling now; you should’ve bought him a ticket!”

“Seester, how about including realistic people too? I’m adding Nathan for you.”

“…Fine.”

“He could’ve still bought his own ticket and joined us.”

“Charley, that’s not the same.”

There was a pause as Cassidy sat writing the names down.

“Shit!

Dilyn!” Our unified voices rang out.

“Sorry, but I just realized I left parking cash at home!”

“I have some you can use,” Charley said, still giggling at the swear word.

***

            With a slam! of Camry doors, my siblings and I made our way through the parking lot toward the entrance to DTE Energy Theatre. It was an outdoor concert, and even though no sign of the stage could be seen from our parking spot, we heard a telltale Mutemath rumble.

Guys, they’ve already started their set, hurry!” Dilyn started running towards the entrance. “They put on such a good show; you don’t want to miss it!” I matched her pace eagerly.
“I’m going to the bathroom first.” We looked back to find Cassidy headed in the opposite direction, toward a long line of people who could only be awaiting the Porta-Potty.

“Cassidy, seriously?” Dilyn rolled her eyes.

“Cass, there are bathrooms inside!” Charley yelled, but she was already in line.

“Ugh… she’s just like Mom.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve seen Twenty One Pilots three times already and never told me! Or took me with you…” I huffed, stopping in my tracks next to my brother.

“Hey, missy, I bought your ticket so quit your crying.”

“Thanks for that, big brother,” I replied, sincerely.

Cassidy reappeared to Dilyn’s urgent “Come on”s. Once we reached our seating on the far right side, about thirty rows back, Mutemath left the stage to loud cheers.

“Dang it, we missed them! Are you kidding me?” Dilyn sat down, her shoulders slumping, while everyone in the crowd gradually returned to their seats.

“Oh, boo hoo.” Charley pulled his arm away from Dilyn, as she tried to smack him.

“I’m sorry; the line for the bathroom was just so long! I’m so sorry, Dilyn!”

“Just my luck.”

Meanwhile my eyes were fixed on the stage. “Do you think they’ll come out soon?”

 

 

~Annah

Dirt-Caked Feet

I’ve been in a Creative Nonfiction Writing class for a few weeks now. This piece, as titled above, required us to write about a quintessential childhood memory with over-the-top detail. Enjoy!

 

“I CALL THE MIDDLE SWING!” Nathan’s teensy brown bangs fluttered in the breeze while his red athletic shorts careened down the chipped, rust-colored paint. His porch had the kind of paint kids adore peeling off until their parents notice.

Nathan’s little sister, Kate, and I darted for the swing set in his wake. Slowly, the summer sun climbed the sky, adding dancing leaf shadows to the yard. Below our bony, breathless bodies, grass soothingly greeted the dirt-caked plains of happy feet, covered in bleeding or tender scrapes and scratches, which resulted from unforgiveable sticky, sharp pine needles, hot, gravelly asphalt, and deathly, six-pegged Legos. Our toes wiggled gleefully, knowing over 24 hours had passed since dog poop squelched and coated the smooth skin. Slightly slippery with the remnants of morning dew, the grass blades also echoed of tacky green-and-yellow Slip-n’-Slides covered in water and sprinklers with water claws. Running full speed and jumping through, we hit the jets, which almost stung, but tickled too, leaving grass and leaves clinging to chicken legs with scabbed knees. However, the number of times we laughed and screamed in delight totaled more than the amount of boo-boos on our bodies.

I hit the rubber swing fast, slamming my belly onto the seat and pushing off in the direction of our gunky pond. Coated in algae and likely filled with diseased, mutated fish, the pond glimmered with the memory of my sister’s old shovel stuck at the bottom under miles of thick black, gooey muck. Then I swung backwards on the swing, in the direction of Nathan and Kate’s family room, where a freshly-painted bar sat with brown, leftover stains from concocted drinks. Every pop imaginable fused together into the see-through shot glasses, often overflowing with bubbly fizz. Alongside the bar counter sat shelves upon shelves of CD albums and vinyl. Some glinted with the names of famous musicians and others glimmered with the neon pink, blue, and yellow color combinations only deemed recognizable by children who attended raucous, rowdy Vacation Bible Schools.

Just now the sun similarly glinted through the shivering, shaking trees above our heads, as we sat normally on our swings to pump our legs farther into the sky. Writhing, moon-colored maggots used to lie where I now sat. An old, rusting, purple and white, two-person swing set used to sit where the new, wooden, three-person set now sat. While Nathan and I flew higher, synchronizing our pumping rhythm and yelling, “We’re married!” I recalled chirping laughter between Mr. and Mrs. Scott upon asking Nathan who he wanted to marry. “Annah!” rang out with every ounce of certainty spread across the two syllables. A wiggly-toothed smile had appeared upon the baby-faced boy who often peered through my front window and shouted, “Hello?”

Kate, who had pumped higher than either of us through sheer determination and lunging backward and forward with her whole body, now flexed her legs upward. Her knees disappeared as the legs extended almost unnaturally and the toes lunged to graze the tree branches. Her tiny toes spread apart to grab hold of the wilting, weather-beaten, leaves and pull them away from their woody host. Bending downward until unable to fight anymore, the attacked branch snapped back with a rushing, fluttering, whooshing sound. Each leaf stubbornly clung to Kate’s toes before drifting single-file to the ground. When I tried for the leaves, I cupped the clump of tree appendages between my feet like a toy monkey, clanging its cymbals together abruptly. Unwillingly, the leaves admitted to the capture, while Kate cackled and screeched.

~Annah

Mended

Whether silently resigned

Or curtly unkind

I knew you had something to hide

And softly creaked open your heart’s door

 

I tentatively stepped inside

A timid whisper drew me across the threshold

A nervous flame began to grow in a dark corner

Overlooking a musty muddled mess

 

To the untrained eye

It held a chaotic quality

But my calm palm felt

The quaking pile of thread

And sensed the unraveled beauty

 

Weave convenient needle

Through weather-beaten thread

To pull ravishing features

Back together again

 

Words flesh out in blue

But held in caring hands

Begin to change and evolve

Color after color bursts forth

 

Uncertain but steady streams

Of an identity you used to be

Before sun rose over horizon

And you fell below the tide

 

I gaze at the sewn color wheel

Of letters I am blessed to hear

You mutter rapidly

Into my empathetic ear

Before withdrawing to your hushed corner

So easy to cling in the winter

 

I lovingly carry the new creation

With me to the doorway

Look back adoringly at your

Dark cavern

Outlined in silver

 

Every edge is visible from the doorway

Where you would grimace

But I simply beam

 

The door snaps closed in fright

I determinedly place the message

On the wood that

Inevitably absorbs the label

You let me delicately mend:

“Not fargone nor forgotten.”

 

~Annah