The Ashes

The ashes cinder to the ground

Only a lifeless body,

No emotion, no love, only selfless ignorance awaits

As if something was missing from this swollen reality

A dream within a dream that only one could understand

The sinful flesh left glowing in anguish

The smell of desire and hate fill the air

As the moments turn to reality

A shaking appears as if the ground is tumbling below

But the world does not follow

Time freezes, and I stand alone among a crowded room

I can touch, but it rebounds

Is my imagination faltering, or is this how regret feels?

The mind reverses to this moment time after time again

But its as though I scream to my motioned body through a vacuum

An unending spiral, I reach out to touch,

But it dissolves away, unfolds

And I wake

Back to where I was

Back to anger and relentless mercy

Back to the merry-go-round of my own decisions

To the person who I betrayed

And I fall to the ground, hands wide

I round up the ashes and try to piece together the fallen sands of time,

But the tears fall and ashes turn to mud

The liquid washes away

Lost in time, to be forever gone

What Happens Next?

I am going to use this opportunity to share with Mr. Dwyer my 

experiences of Ms. Mckenna and Mr. Good.  The yaa’s and the naa’s, the do and the don’ts, what did and did not work may help him interpret an even balance and spur a new productivity among us. First I will begin with my walk down McKenna Hall of Fame. This woman inspired me by pushing me to my full potential. When I handed something in that I slacked on and just did enough to get by, she would know. She knew what was sub par; she would turn around and put it right back into my hands and sometimes not say a word or sometimes tell me, “you know what to fix.” Of course, she was always right. I did know what to fix. I knew I could do better, and so did she. In this sense, she drove me.  She pushed me. Even when I put my soul into something, she just slightly poked me to reach out beyond the cliff. Her bag of props, lines of books, poetry flying across the room, and new opportunities were always enough to get me moving. We would not just write on our own, she would present writing exercises to get us moving. For example, we would pick a prop out of a bag and create a story from that item. But, by far my favorite was when she handed me an envelope, just a plain white envelope.  The mystery was enclosed inside, but was mainly in the mind. It was an envelope filled with random words, which we used to create a poem. This poem was one of my all time favorite pieces. I preferred creating “The Ego,” the JDHS school magazine, instead of blogging. It meant more to our school, our community, and ourselves. We got to publish our work for others to read and it became a community read magazine.  No one goes on the Internet and reads our blogs. Writing is so much more meaningful when we can share it with others. Also, the “trash n’ fashion show” must be reincarnated. Just because she is gone does not mean the traditions must disappear. Enough ranting on Mrs. Mckenna, I am going to move on to what Mr. Good brought to the classroom. He brought spirit, stories, and fun. He brought desire and motivation, and fast writes. This is how class should begin. We spend the first half hour either writing or reading on our own.  It is based on quality vs. quantity. If we are on task and working we keep our participation points. If we are goofing off then we loose them, and we get rid of the dreaded point system. I am very opposed to the point system because to me it takes away meaning. It takes away the joy of writing and the love of just doing it for the literature and for self. Having these excessive amounts of points lingering over my head took away from my emotional experience and instead created a sense of urgency. Everything was about how many points were going to come out of it, or what I had to do to bring my grade up instead of just being about writing. My favorite part of creative writing has always been the fact that it wasn’t about grades or points. It was about interpreting human life, creating soul, and learning to better ourselves. This is what I miss from the McKenna grading system, the push that school is not all about grades. It is about engaging ourselves and learning. Grades are just a torture device that we created to make ourselves look better on paper. They do not measure true knowledge or success. It is all about how much we grow from point A to point B and what our true potential is. Did we catch up with it? I hope someday I will push that potential right out the window. 

What I Learned (My Experiences)

Quite frankly, I was devastated by the loss of Ms. McKenna. In my eyes no one could even come close to beginning to replace such an inspiration, a light that shined on my notebook. Even though I still haven’t got over the loss of Ms. Mckenna, and I don’t think I ever will, when Mr. Good stepped into the room I knew that there was still hope left in the world. I miss the ways of Ms. Mckenna, but Mr. Good brought something fresh into the room, something new. Laughs filled the air around me, people were smiling, and teenagers were using their hands. Everyone was writing, they were engaging their brains. It was a shock for me; it was a challenge to pursue myself to write everyday. I had to push myself to put the pencil to the paper. Some days were easier than others, some days I was looking forward to putting out a new style, opening my mind, while other days I just wanted to lay my head on the desk and fall into a deep sleep. It taught me perseverance to not give up on myself so easily. I learned that I had skill; I have a knack for putting words together in a meaningful rhythm. I am by nature a writer. It will never be a career choice, but a way to express myself. A hobby for the soul, a flame of passion. I enjoyed getting my words out on paper and it taught me how to use my words. I created and destroyed, and got a feel for the flow of words. I attended the four hour-long writers retreat with Martin and I took away a feel for not just words on a sheet of paper but that they had a spoken meaning, it was a different dialect. I felt, realized what words flow and work together and which ones tangle and fall apart. It’s like I developed a sixth sense in the world of written language. In an overall summary of what I took away from the moments of second quarter as a whole is confidence in myself and my writing. I used to be wary to get up in front of the class and share my work, but now am I comfortable in my own skin and want to share what I see as beautiful to others. What use is poetry locked in a dusty notebook to the world? It means nothing to anyone when it is stored away, its beauty unfolds as it is read. Writing is a fruit to the mind and an inspiration to the soul and the human life. It is my most treasured talent that I will carry in my suitcase until the day my body gives out on me .

Sweet

I think some of the best poetry is most likely written in prison. You are in a place where you have deep emotion, either anger, sadness, fear, maybe to some even joy. A musician, Buddy Tabor would go into prisons and perform his music for the inmates. With the inmates approval, he collected and published some of the poetry they had been writing. Out of the works I have had the chance to read, this is by far my favorite and I wanted to share it with y'all. I love the spirit behind it, that even though it is a dreadful experience to be in the pit of a prison cell this person is not letting it ruin his life or his spirit. He is surviving, not letting the conditions crumble him, but yet using them to create.

The steel has not made me cold

Nor the stone made me hard

Nor the gray made me colorless.

The dopefiends have not made me scandalous

Nor the cops made me hateful

Nor the hateful made me heartless.

The food has not killed my appetite

Nor sexlessness killed my desire

Nor lifelessness killed my thirst

They gave me no water for my garden,

Gave me sand for seeds,

And I grew flowers

And low fruit,

Enough to color the walls

And make stale rice

Taste sweet.

Rite a Riff

I was in the slum, didn't really know what decisions to make in the time period of my life. I was frustrated, confused, and whenever I get in this state of mind, I write. I express these feelings through words, let the rhythm flow, open my eyes to my thoughts. I don't really know what my mind is truly thinking until I write it down, and then I understand. It clicks. I like this fast write because it has good imagery and wording, and it just flows. Hope you enjoy:

Photo Credit

The world spins around me 

unanswered questions 

thoughts left lingering 

my body aches as if there is no tomorrow 

life is a mystery to me

what will come next? 

and what should I do? 

choices, choices lay unattended 

as if they are laying across a table just waiting to be picked 

all the consequences, but all the rewards 

film across my vision 

as I contemplate what to do, 

I relax, I let all the stress fall away

every list, every chore, every practice, one by one 

I sit in the moment, my mind wanders to a happy place....

the birds chirp around me, the sun rests on my face and I daze...

I envision the life I want, what I want to be in 10, 20, 30 years

what will I regret? what will I remember? 

what do I wish to accomplish? 

these thoughts, visions float, wander 

to dream is the first step of success, 

but to get there is entirely different

first though, 

we must all, 

come into that realization 

of our dream, 

our future, 

OUR life, 

not others. 

Read a Riff

This is a poem I created with my own mind. It is a thinking poem, quite mind boggling to some. We all interpret poems differently, but I assure you that this is one that has many people wondering what is really meant by the language of the words. I love it because it makes your mind work hard to think outside the box. Read it, enjoy it, contemplate it, and leave me a comment as to what your mind is saying to YOU.

The Hidden Secrets

In the years of merciful authority,

When our thoughts are blinded by silent anguish

It’s the humble insanity that gets us through

Knowing that one-day our destiny will overcome us

The marbled floors that we call home

Will eventually become dissolved as if they were never there

Our memories soaked in a cloak of remembrance

As the authority once again prevails

In a bleak, relentless world of time

Remember the Life that Was

This is a poem I created to remember the joy and love for an inspirational teacher. She drove, and continues to drive my passion for creative writing. She helps me to remember what writing means, how to grab it from your soul, how to speak for yourself. Let your opinions flow and don't let anyone else stop you from what you want. Reach out and conquer your goals.

walking down the jumbled hallway

the first wing is where she waits

waiting for us, along the hall, beside the door 

the room in which she calls home

number 218 is where there stood, a heart of a warrior

a brave soldier daring to be different

the swirls and twirls of poetry whisper past my ear

a bag full of props

and music banging on the sidelines

a women who taught us to open up

open our ears, our hearts, our minds

to the world, to the lessons of the future

to not lay worried in the fears of tomorrow,

but to rise to today

to see everything as a chance to grow

a heart to heal

a person to inspire

she would remind us to not sit in our pity and cry

but learn to understand, to wake, to use that passion

that motive to drive forward

a woman who loved every soul she touched

the lessons floating in my brain of a person,

someone who will be a loss to all

her words, poems, lyrics embedded in my mind

the spirit of an artistic

the heart of a warrior

the soul of Ali McKenna

an inspirational flame always left burning

never to be blown out in the hearts of the people
you will never be forgotten