A few poems found wandering around

FREE SPIRIT

Our bodies are painted art.
Hands intertwined in signs of love
And circular signs of peace drawn in green on our rosy cheeks.
We are organic.
We are from the earth.
We are her ancient children.

Music is our sister.
Our hearts beat united in rhythm with her drums.
Our lungs’ song intertwines with her guitars.
We both consume electricity
Feeding off from the power in the wires and in the air.

Our cry is to stop death
Make love, not war!
Freedom from fear, freedom from government
Freedom from absolutes.
We are the earth; we must not kill our brothers and sisters.

Life is in us.
Life is in the earth, the trees, the flowers in our hair.
Stop the bleeding! Save our children!
We do not want them to see images of hate,
But of love.

We are young.
We are music, earth, and light!
We are free, dancing to the beating of our hearts.
With signs of peace painted on our faces.
And our bodies made into art.


REQUIRED TO WRITE ABOUT A RIVER

They say when you drown
you pass out
before you die.
Nothing hurts.
There is no pain.
Just water…
Water …
Water washing softly over your body.
Your lungs might burn for a little while
but not for long.
Then you’re done.
It’s over.
You are dead.
The river sings with lives
captive souls which cannot escape
from its murky,
lurking,
earthy tones.
Souls of those afraid of pain,
who wanted to feel nothing
but the ancient, wasted waters
coolly smoothing and softly soothing
their hardened skin
As emptiness fills their lungs
and their minds.

A hundred years since the intricate relationship between the river
and the bridge
was built.
The bridge to drop.
And the river to catch.
The water, the moss, the stones
to hold
the body,
wrap the soul,
to send it into forever
while darkness swiftly snags the breath
and stills the frantic heart.
The ancient river
its bloody veins stopped and slowed
by stones as old as the flood
delivers a method
a means
a cowardly way
to escape from pain


ESSENCE OF DORM ROOM

You would think it was tropical if you squeezed your eyes almost shut. The desk is almost a sandy hue surrounded by vibrant color and the air smells distinctly of juicy, artificial grapefruit. Leaning back in the chair and opening your eyes the rest of the way, you may realize that the island fantasy is actually a clever fallacy and the reality is that of a quirky eighteen year old girl. An overloaded bulletin board proclaims loudly that someone somewhere in the galaxy is “looking out for my stargirl”, the wall before you is plastered with even more loud messages such as “nice day for a revolution”, ”Recycling isn’t painful”, and “Omega 3 in fish is proven to fight heart disease”. Even more messages are conveyed in Japanese, through cartoons, photos, through facial expressions. The noise makes you dizzy but you cannot decide whether to cover your ears or your eyes in order to shut it out. A clean mug featuring the faces of John, Paul, George and Ringo, a framed needlepoint, a POM WONDERFUL glass, a ruby colored Nalgene bottle, crinkly tissue paper, and slim books all half filled with scrawling Tolkien-esque handwriting are all strewn over the surface of the desk. The sound quality depends on the depth of the desired concentration at hand. For a more serious meditative time the walnut colored clacking of a metronome hammering away somewhere in andagio is sufficient; and for less studious work, the essences of a jazz guitar, the roommate singing a Rihanna chorus, or an emotive screamo melody are present to entertain or enlighten.