Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 12
November 21, 2011
Helliday
FauxPoWriMo #20
Helliday
We cling to twinkle lights
And strive to, in all things, be evergreen.
But when the bank breaks the bulbs
And time takes its daily due,
The strands fray to filament
And the prick of pine becomes more apparent.
Helliday
We cling to twinkle lights
And strive to, in all things, be evergreen.
But when the bank breaks the bulbs
And time takes its daily due,
The strands fray to filament
And the prick of pine becomes more apparent.
November 19, 2011
This Penny Dream
FauxPoWriMo #19
This Penny Dream
Wedge your thumb under my head
And flip me into the air.
This penny dream sails past all sense,
But I cling to the chance that you may catch me,
Slap my tales onto your palm,
And be richer.
This Penny Dream
Wedge your thumb under my head
And flip me into the air.
This penny dream sails past all sense,
But I cling to the chance that you may catch me,
Slap my tales onto your palm,
And be richer.
November 18, 2011
Give Thanks
FauxPoWriMo #18
Give Thanks
Polish up your phoney grin And your funeral heels.Buy Chablis for the others,But use rum to grease your wheels.Try to bake as well as fakePumpkin Pie contentment.Lay your napkin on your lapTo catch crumbles of resentment. Remember that you love them allAlthough you cannot say it.Hug the strangers, quake in fear,And hope the joint allays it.Curb the cursing, ditch the bitch,Pretend you're wholly sweet.If you can't think of a topic,Why not have some more to eat?Be thankful for the lives you touchEven if they skeeve you out.It's better to be welcomed inThan quickly ushered out. To hell with the apologiesFrom both sides, overdue.Give thanks for having familyTo give your thanks unto.
Give Thanks
Polish up your phoney grin And your funeral heels.Buy Chablis for the others,But use rum to grease your wheels.Try to bake as well as fakePumpkin Pie contentment.Lay your napkin on your lapTo catch crumbles of resentment. Remember that you love them allAlthough you cannot say it.Hug the strangers, quake in fear,And hope the joint allays it.Curb the cursing, ditch the bitch,Pretend you're wholly sweet.If you can't think of a topic,Why not have some more to eat?Be thankful for the lives you touchEven if they skeeve you out.It's better to be welcomed inThan quickly ushered out. To hell with the apologiesFrom both sides, overdue.Give thanks for having familyTo give your thanks unto.
November 17, 2011
Soul-Poor
FauxPoWriMo #17
Soul-Poor
You say you'll sell me pieces of your soul,
But I can't afford the best bits:
The oxygenated areas that keep me breathing you in,
Deep and slow,
Instead of these staccato gasps that never quite catch you.
"Grow up, girl," you say
As you shake your piggy bank.
The fullness mocks my hollow pockets,
The deepest one still begging to beat for you.
Beaten down, I scrounge for change
To afford your scraps.
Even if it's dogmeat or whisky-dick dreck,
I am sadly glad to pay for your pieces
With the best bits of me.
Soul-Poor
You say you'll sell me pieces of your soul,
But I can't afford the best bits:
The oxygenated areas that keep me breathing you in,
Deep and slow,
Instead of these staccato gasps that never quite catch you.
"Grow up, girl," you say
As you shake your piggy bank.
The fullness mocks my hollow pockets,
The deepest one still begging to beat for you.
Beaten down, I scrounge for change
To afford your scraps.
Even if it's dogmeat or whisky-dick dreck,
I am sadly glad to pay for your pieces
With the best bits of me.
November 16, 2011
He Spoke to Worlds
FauxPoWriMo #16
He Spoke to Worlds
The stranger on Double Tree
Used to speak in a language
We didn't understand till we were grown.
Set in worlds we'd never known,
The stories made us dream for the first time.
In tongue turned paint,
He spoke of ridges unclimbed and seas unsailed.
The gibberish rivers flowed in sleep
And made us feel the unveiled possibility
Beyond the language we embraced as "home".
We wanted to roam,
And the stranger knew.
His mythos grew from Double Tree to Earth:
A place we never saw until life let loose.
Through the dust and through the lawn
Encrusting his penny blazer,
We saw only silver,
And as we grew old,
Perfect Gold.
It was the only John Doe funeral we attended.
Through our lives, we remembered his tales
And always sought to set sail
To the worlds he had in mind.
It was strangely simple to leave real worlds behind.
I wish we had understood his language
And his anguish.
Now we know.
Now we are a strangers,
And Double Tree beckons for new ears.
Our lulling gibberish comes too easily.
He Spoke to Worlds
The stranger on Double Tree
Used to speak in a language
We didn't understand till we were grown.
Set in worlds we'd never known,
The stories made us dream for the first time.
In tongue turned paint,
He spoke of ridges unclimbed and seas unsailed.
The gibberish rivers flowed in sleep
And made us feel the unveiled possibility
Beyond the language we embraced as "home".
We wanted to roam,
And the stranger knew.
His mythos grew from Double Tree to Earth:
A place we never saw until life let loose.
Through the dust and through the lawn
Encrusting his penny blazer,
We saw only silver,
And as we grew old,
Perfect Gold.
It was the only John Doe funeral we attended.
Through our lives, we remembered his tales
And always sought to set sail
To the worlds he had in mind.
It was strangely simple to leave real worlds behind.
I wish we had understood his language
And his anguish.
Now we know.
Now we are a strangers,
And Double Tree beckons for new ears.
Our lulling gibberish comes too easily.
November 15, 2011
Under the Icy Heaps
FauxPoWriMo #15
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!! I'm 29, feelin' fine, and writin' rhyme. Dig it, Droogies. :)
Under the Icy Heaps
A leaf sees the world and changes with it,
But when the deep dissolve comes to conquer,
The veins remain
And carry stories through the snow.
Under the icy heaps,
It speaks to the earth
And the earth replies,
"What a delightful stranger."
The leaf is pleased
And allows the moisture to finally
Fray its veins.
It is gone then, but it will return.
The leaf never remembers its repeated fall,
Nor the great worlds it sees in Summer.
But the earth always remembers,
Anticipating Winter's gift of an old friend.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!! I'm 29, feelin' fine, and writin' rhyme. Dig it, Droogies. :)
Under the Icy Heaps
A leaf sees the world and changes with it,
But when the deep dissolve comes to conquer,
The veins remain
And carry stories through the snow.
Under the icy heaps,
It speaks to the earth
And the earth replies,
"What a delightful stranger."
The leaf is pleased
And allows the moisture to finally
Fray its veins.
It is gone then, but it will return.
The leaf never remembers its repeated fall,
Nor the great worlds it sees in Summer.
But the earth always remembers,
Anticipating Winter's gift of an old friend.
November 13, 2011
Fly Again
FauxPoWriMo #13
Fly Again
The bird's last flight
Is tasted for all time.
They say wingless is Springless,
But the Winter wears bright colors too,
And the journey through life
Is flight enough
For those willing to brave the air.
Fly Again
The bird's last flight
Is tasted for all time.
They say wingless is Springless,
But the Winter wears bright colors too,
And the journey through life
Is flight enough
For those willing to brave the air.
Duty over Love
FauxPoWriMo #12
Duty over Love
Your casual avoidance
is a chilly reply;With your back to my faceAnd eyes half closed,I suppose you don't love me. Your attention is better keptBy yourself,By the duty to which your race is adept. You choose it over me.Every time I see you start,
My heart hopes to be chosen instead.But it happens over and over again.
He ignores my whistles,My kisses and calls.Nothing hurts like the preoccupationOf a cat licking his balls.
Duty over Love
Your casual avoidance
is a chilly reply;With your back to my faceAnd eyes half closed,I suppose you don't love me. Your attention is better keptBy yourself,By the duty to which your race is adept. You choose it over me.Every time I see you start,
My heart hopes to be chosen instead.But it happens over and over again.
He ignores my whistles,My kisses and calls.Nothing hurts like the preoccupationOf a cat licking his balls.
November 12, 2011
Champ
FauxPoWriMo #11
Carelessly, I
Hold on
And the feeling goes on,
Meandering
Past all proper
Acts.
Giggles are groping me,
Nudging and roping me
Eagerly onto my back.
Carelessly, I
Hold on
And the feeling goes on,
Meandering
Past all proper
Acts.
Giggles are groping me,
Nudging and roping me
Eagerly onto my back.
November 10, 2011
Cheer Up, Charlie
FauxPoWriMo #10
Cheer Up, Charlie
Charlie didn't smile much.Smiles were for kidsWhose lives lacked real artistry And lived on perfect grids,Where breakfast comes with sunshineIn saucers made of gold.That wasn't Charlie's scene at all,Not even at nine years old.
Dressed in gray and grayer,He painted pictures of the sheep,Who bleated shallow drivelWhile he didn't make a peep.But his paintings spoke volumesAbout the world he saw:A dismal, dreary, dungeon,Ideal for him to draw.
He delighted in his darkness.He adored his sullen tones. He celebrated the things he lovedWith scores of scornful groans."Cheer up, Charlie," said his mom."Be jovial, light, and jolly."Though he loved her so, he barked,"I'd rather be melancholy."
"Your friends want to play with you.You used to be so close.Now you sit inside alone,Painting yourself morose.""I don't mean to be a bother,"Sarcastically, he spat. "But I do need more hoodies.Do they come blacker than black?"
She sighed and left him painting.How could his mother know?He couldn't go outside and playUntil he was ready to showThe dark world something pretty.Something innocent and pure.Someday the paint would speak to him. Till then, he would endure.
From crouched behind a thorny bush,The playground seemed so small.And though he was quite tucked away,Somehow, the big red ballStill found its way overAnd smacked him in the head. "Thanks," he yelled, sneezing blood,"My drawing needed red."
"Sorry about that, Charlie.It's my first time playing Dodge,"Valerie Grimm said, tilting her headAnd Charlie's focus dislodged.She was dressed just like a sunrise,Dipped in honey-golden cheer.She smiled, waiting for her fate,And Charlie forced a sneer.
"Watch it next time," he grumbledAnd Valerie rejoined the game.Looking back to his drawing,Charlie had lost all his aim. Growling and crumpling and tossing,He figured as much would transpire.Cynicism was a hungry muck,And there was no avoiding the mire.
But in his darkest hours,Painting an unconscious work,Charlie bordered on cheerful,Adding pink stripes to her skirt.Her braided hair followed them,And with ribbon laced throughout,Her curls rode her shoulder blades,Making it painful to pout.
Little by little, his sleep added onFreckles and polish and trim,Until the day he couldn't denyThe portrait of Valerie Grimm.The innocent girl was a beauty.He hadn't seen it before,But he had to see her again to knowIf the painting was honestly pure.
He approached her on the playground,Shaking but hiding it wellBehind a sour expression,So she wouldn't be able to tellHow much he admired her color,Her spirit, her beauty, her cheer.He couldn't confess that her sunrise dressEnthralled him as much as things drear.
"I made this for you," Charlie said,And the painting passed into her hands.Her eyes widened and jaw dropped,And just when all appeared grand,She grumbled and rolled her emerald eyes."Oh jeez," she said in distress."The first time someone paints me,And I'm wearing that horrible dress."
"You don't like it," Charlie whimpered,And Valerie shouted a "No!""I think it's beautiful, Charlie.I just hate my mom's taste in clothes.She makes me wear these bright things,Though I beg her to cut me some slack. All this purple and turquoise and orange,When I really just want to wear black."
"My mom's the same," Charlie explained,
Feeling ten times his height."Amazing!" she said and withdrew a pen."Wait, I have a poem to write.""You write?" he asked hopefully,But she didn't answer untilThe poem was inked onto her armAnd she tucked away her quill.
Valerie Grimm smiled at himAnd Charlie's smiled at her.She was the one he was waiting for:Something pretty and pure.And an artist to boot, what wonderful luckTo find her in sunlight near. So pretty she was in a dark, dark world:The Grimm girl who upped Charlie's cheer.
Cheer Up, Charlie
Charlie didn't smile much.Smiles were for kidsWhose lives lacked real artistry And lived on perfect grids,Where breakfast comes with sunshineIn saucers made of gold.That wasn't Charlie's scene at all,Not even at nine years old.
Dressed in gray and grayer,He painted pictures of the sheep,Who bleated shallow drivelWhile he didn't make a peep.But his paintings spoke volumesAbout the world he saw:A dismal, dreary, dungeon,Ideal for him to draw.
He delighted in his darkness.He adored his sullen tones. He celebrated the things he lovedWith scores of scornful groans."Cheer up, Charlie," said his mom."Be jovial, light, and jolly."Though he loved her so, he barked,"I'd rather be melancholy."
"Your friends want to play with you.You used to be so close.Now you sit inside alone,Painting yourself morose.""I don't mean to be a bother,"Sarcastically, he spat. "But I do need more hoodies.Do they come blacker than black?"
She sighed and left him painting.How could his mother know?He couldn't go outside and playUntil he was ready to showThe dark world something pretty.Something innocent and pure.Someday the paint would speak to him. Till then, he would endure.
From crouched behind a thorny bush,The playground seemed so small.And though he was quite tucked away,Somehow, the big red ballStill found its way overAnd smacked him in the head. "Thanks," he yelled, sneezing blood,"My drawing needed red."
"Sorry about that, Charlie.It's my first time playing Dodge,"Valerie Grimm said, tilting her headAnd Charlie's focus dislodged.She was dressed just like a sunrise,Dipped in honey-golden cheer.She smiled, waiting for her fate,And Charlie forced a sneer.
"Watch it next time," he grumbledAnd Valerie rejoined the game.Looking back to his drawing,Charlie had lost all his aim. Growling and crumpling and tossing,He figured as much would transpire.Cynicism was a hungry muck,And there was no avoiding the mire.
But in his darkest hours,Painting an unconscious work,Charlie bordered on cheerful,Adding pink stripes to her skirt.Her braided hair followed them,And with ribbon laced throughout,Her curls rode her shoulder blades,Making it painful to pout.
Little by little, his sleep added onFreckles and polish and trim,Until the day he couldn't denyThe portrait of Valerie Grimm.The innocent girl was a beauty.He hadn't seen it before,But he had to see her again to knowIf the painting was honestly pure.
He approached her on the playground,Shaking but hiding it wellBehind a sour expression,So she wouldn't be able to tellHow much he admired her color,Her spirit, her beauty, her cheer.He couldn't confess that her sunrise dressEnthralled him as much as things drear.
"I made this for you," Charlie said,And the painting passed into her hands.Her eyes widened and jaw dropped,And just when all appeared grand,She grumbled and rolled her emerald eyes."Oh jeez," she said in distress."The first time someone paints me,And I'm wearing that horrible dress."
"You don't like it," Charlie whimpered,And Valerie shouted a "No!""I think it's beautiful, Charlie.I just hate my mom's taste in clothes.She makes me wear these bright things,Though I beg her to cut me some slack. All this purple and turquoise and orange,When I really just want to wear black."
"My mom's the same," Charlie explained,
Feeling ten times his height."Amazing!" she said and withdrew a pen."Wait, I have a poem to write.""You write?" he asked hopefully,But she didn't answer untilThe poem was inked onto her armAnd she tucked away her quill.
Valerie Grimm smiled at himAnd Charlie's smiled at her.She was the one he was waiting for:Something pretty and pure.And an artist to boot, what wonderful luckTo find her in sunlight near. So pretty she was in a dark, dark world:The Grimm girl who upped Charlie's cheer.
