poetry & prose

Libby recently requested I share some of my writing. Most of what I've been doing lately is journally stuff that doesn't really sound good/make sense to anyone but me, but I have been able to pick out some poems & pieces of short stories, sort of vignettes. So knock yourself out (by that I mean, try not to fall asleep).

(This the less embarrassing stuff, trust me.)

I. Poetry (or something like it, anyway)

she was born in december

on a monday

in the wrong era

it was a starry night

and the moon shone bright

she grew to bea birthday candle-wisher

a cloud-watcher

a blackberry-picker

a sea-sailer

a word-weaver

and, on occasion,

when her heart felt up to it

a dream-chaser.

i'm all drained of words at the moment

(like pasta in a colander)

and I don't have anything to say to you except

"adieu, adieu, adieu"

the words slip off my tongue

like pearls off a necklace

ricocheting into the night

one last goodbye

sometimes, it feels like

my thoughts are not

my thoughts at all

but stolen fragments of

other people's existences.

I am stitched together

with the whole world's

thoughts and feelings

to make

a mosaic of me.

hmm.

II. Prose


(An excerpt from something I wrote in June, whilst craving wintertime. It was never finished past, oh, six paragraphs)

It was a cold, crisp morning in January. The windows that lined the little house were fogged up and if you looked out, all you would see was an endless white blur of snow. There was tons of snow, mountains of snow, too much snow. It seemed like it would never stop snowing that winter.

Adelaide stayed inside that morning, made a breakfast of hot oatmeal and coffee. She brought the mug up to her lips to take a sip and let the steam escape down her throat. It unfurled in tendrils, rising to the roof of her mouth. It felt nice, like a warm blanket. Comforting. She ate her meal in silence, alone save her cat. Whiskers would occasionally make her presence known by wrapping herself around her owner’s ankles.

After setting her dish in the sink, where she would attend to it later, she wandered over to window. She pressed her nose up against the glass, like a child peering at a toy store, and felt a numbing sense of cold. Immediately she withdrew, but kept her eyes focused on outside. Snowflakes were starting to fall again, little specks of vanilla plunging to the ground. White, white, white. It was the only color she could see.

III.  Just some words

It may not look like it but

I am made of stars

I am a constellation in the shape of a girl.

I have been to two funerals in my life.

At one it rained, at the other it snowed.

At both, I cried.

Funny how things change. Swiftly, overnight. And slower, so that you don't notice until one day when you look back and realize everything's different. It's not always good and it's not always bad, but it's just the way things are. 

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Oh, look, a post without any pictures! No one's going to read this, now, are they? I'm going to lose all my followers! Woe is me! Well, peace out, Girl Scouts (or something).

-Kendall