My latest work of art....I admit, I was tempted to put "masterpiece" in place of "work of art," but found the words incorrect. I know, I'm not a fantastic artist. I've never had classes or any teaching on it, so I fumble with colors and lighting and texture and all of the other things that come with painting. But I enjoy it and that's what counts, right?
I got this picture out of a magazine and thought it was perfect!

New creations, subtle sensations

I did write a few new poems I thought I'd put on. I wrote this one last night around midnight. It's funny how inspiration comes at the most curious times, yet when it arrives you can't help but follow it.

Time

Sunsets come and sunrises go.

Rivers, one way, they flow.

One month it is blazing summer,

Then comes winter, like a runner.

One year fingers stumble over black and white keys,

The next they flow and glide free.

Children run home with rosy cheeks,

And move away in a matter of weeks.

Time brings progress and decay

Which one will come, one never can say.

It brings you to the prime of life,

But soon etches youth away with it's coarse knife.

With time progress can be built,

But only with effort can one sew this quilt.

It is an investment to help you advance,

Yet can ruin you if you take a chance.

Well, I had one other stanza, but I didn't feel it was going anywhere after that so I cut it off since it wasn't very good. I concentrate on rhyme alot in my poems, if you haven't noticed, not so much rhythm. I'll post the other one's some other time.

I watched this very heart rending video a few days ago. My mom got hold of it through an e-mail so she clicked on it and we gathered around to watch, anticipating the homemade, contest winning video.

The first thing that appeared was signs of fast food places. I thought, "What on earth is this about? McDonalds?" Then two girls came on screen, looking pretty normal. Nothing peculiar about them. They ordered some food in a fast food place. The menus were in another language (I couldn't read it so I don't know which one) therefore, it must have been set in a foreign country.

After showing them get their food and then finish eating, the camera stayed on their plates which were barely touched. Their chicken was only nibbled on.

"Okay," I'm thinking, "now what?" Suddenly they show a man riding to the restaurant with a garbage can attached to the back of his bike. He enters the restaurant's kitchen and the workers hand him all of the left over, stinky food in a garbage can. He then starts picking through a plastic bag filled with half-eaten chicken wings and legs, transferring the ones that are still edible into a different plastic bag and the bones into the trash. He then departs with the disgusting food-filled trashcan and the bag of half-eaten chicken parts. Leaving the city, he rides into a small village where he is met by a troop of young children dressed in grimy clothes with dirt-smudged faces. The man brings the garbage can and opens the lid, watching as the children dive head first into the bin, overjoyed and laughing by what seems to be a tremendous treat: the gross, thrown away, used food is, for them, a gift from heaven.

After leaving the children, the man goes home to his wife and children, the small bag of chicken still in his hand. His wife smiles, takes it from him, and as she begins rationing the half-eaten morsels among them his cute son is taken into a frenzy of delight upon viewing the meal. The man places himself at the table and, motioning his excited son to keep from diving into his plate, he and begins a prayer, piously thanking for for this special occasion.

Sad, isn't it? It's a true story, and is only one example of people who live in such drastic conditions.

The beginning and the end

What is poetry? Words that rhyme? No...I know many poems with absolutely no rhyming. Words set to rhythm? No...some poems have no beat whatsoever. An expression of feelings and thoughts through words? Well...I suppose we all have a different definition.
For myself, I can't say I even have one. Evangeline, a poem written by Henry Longfellow (it looks funny without Wadsworth in the middle, doesn't it?) is considered a poem, yet it is more like a book! So then why aren't short stories considered poems? I know a few "poetic" short stories, but they aren't poems...then again, I don't have a definition for poetry, so how can I know?
I wrote a few posts ago: I don't write poetry often. Or something like that. I can't say that I can deny this statement, because it is true, yet, hopefully, it won't be in a few months. Yup, that's right, I've adopted it as a new hobby. I can now call it: "a hobby"
However, I only have written three poems--I guess everyone starts somewhere. There was a time in Alfred Lord Tennyson's life when he only had written three poems...two poems...one poem...no poems...
I like to think of it in that light. There needs to be a beginning to have an end.

Here we go

I wrote a poem a few days ago...inspiratioin came to me after English class (Literature is mixed in with it). Anyways, I don't really write poetry, so it was a new thing, and later, when I read it to my mom, she said, "You should post it on your blog,"
Well, I didn't really want to, but later on she asked me again, and then again, and then again, so I realized that she really wanted me to. So now I'm doing it.
As I said before, I don't write poetry often! haha.


 

{via}

"Battle Cries" (just made that up right now, so it's not a very good title!)

A line of broad soldiers stand

As the fear that awaits me.

Once shot down the first band

There lies, at least, another three.

And casualties are oft taken

In this constant, restless war.

At times my foundations seems shaken,

When my wounds bleed blood-red sore.

Yet once I caught a glimpse of

The spirit-angles floating overhead,

And the promised one, The Dove,

Whose wounds had also once bled.

Though my battle rages on,

And reinforcements are constant sent,

My feet now stand stabably upon

A Foundation which cannot be bent.